Bleeding out.
Finally.
It was here...
No one near, no one to hear. The end had arrived and he welcomed it.
The tear in his side was deep and warm, the crimson stain expanding with every shallow breath out.
No pain though.
He smiles at this. Pain being relative after all. The pain of loss - that he carries like a sarcoma on his back. T-shirt, script and movie rights, baby! He'd have this wound a millions times over to give up the burden of constant grief and guilt.
Yeah, pain was relative.
So he would play it out like this. Alone, calm, no drama. No tormented tears and feelings of betrayal and failed responsibility. He could let go and slip away - long gone before his brother would find him. He wouldn't have to suffer seeing that.
Thankfully.
He noticed the blood as it formed pools on the wooden floorboards beneath him. So many gallons of the stuff had been shed by his hand over the years - all the species of demons and monsters you could imagine. And some you couldn't.
His life's work.
Now it's him who bleeds, thick and fast. A visceral mosaic spreading out before him, dancing in slow lanes through uneven grooves.
He reaches into his breast pocket and removes his phone. No signal. He presses record and places it down by his side. He knows this will hurt to hear but he feels like he has earned the right to his 'pity ditty'. This was him, raw and uninhibited.
Dean Winchester - son of John, Hunter, hunted, hated, feared.
The boy who tried. Who fought. Who gave and gave and struggled and cried. Who battled and lost and broke. Who did what he thought was expected, who failed and disappointed time and again. Others, but mostly himself.
The man who still fought and battled and failed and disappointed but carried the burden of guilt like a necrotic wound. Not the man he should be. Not the soldier he was trained to be. Not ever truly like his father.
Not good enough. Not even close.
Dean's eyes are closing further with each blink, slower, heavier. Not much longer. He clears his throat and starts to speak, stumbling over his brothers name.
"Sam. This is it man. Son of a bitch got me and I'm bleeding out. S' okay though - got him too...no need to go all Rambo on his ass. Sam...just listen to me, okay? You gotta get out. You hear me? I know we've said it like a thousand times, chewed over this fat again and again but...you gotta just get the hell out of this, man. For good. Please...just... Go anywhere, go work in a bar, go back to school, anywhere, Sam, just promise me you'll...you'll leave this shit, stop hunting..."
Dean breathes in sharply, a searing pain jarring his body, blood catching in his throat. He clears it, tears of frustration rolling down his cheek.
Lost count of how may times they had been over this. He smiles sadly. Knows this is all arbitrary anyway. Sam will do whatever Sam wants. Always been that way.
Sam who is strong, driven, focused. Sam is the better Hunter. Sam is just like John.
Ironic really.
"You told me once you'd let me die if it was time, that you were done with the deals and the crap we do. Cut me to the core, not going to lie. We've died and made deals with these sons of bitches, gone round and round with this shit but you were right. All along, Sam, you were right. There's a way of things, rules...we fight against them again and again and for what? Everyone we have ever loved is dead. Gone. Burnt fucking bones in a hole in the ground. Our dues are paid, Sam. We don't owe a God damn thing to anyone..."
He feels his heart quickening, body struggling in vain to pump what's left of his blood through his shattered body.
A gentle numbness spreads its fingers all around him, making it harder to speak. One last breath in.
"Just so you know? With all the shit we've been through - you're my brother, Sammy. And my friend. Gonna miss you."
Dean's green eyes, wet and glazed, close.
"Jerk..."
THE END