Would if He Were Half the Man
Disclaimer: I claim no rights to Supernatural, or any of the characters you find here.
Spoilers: Spoilers up to 5-18. Coda-ish.
On the tenth day, Dean threw in the towel. Not a surrender, a resignation.
Ten days after he'd said no to Michael and killed Zachariah; ten days after Adam and Cas'd both disappeared to parts unknown, Dean threw in the towel. He packed his bags, climbed into the Impala (in the dead of night, like the overblown drama queen he was nowadays) and got the hell out of dodge. He left Sammy and Bobby and the whole Goddamned (capital "G", cause as far as Dean was concerned, this entire shit storm was as much the big man's fault as anyone's) apocalypse behind him, like that pair of ill-fitted jeans he'd forgotten at a motel once, and never missed. The damn things had never fit quite right anyway; no matter how much time he spent breaking them in.
He drove till the sun came up; stopped only to piss and fill the Impala's tank, and then he drove some more. When his phone started to ring, he switched it to vibrate, but didn't toss it. He wasn't running, after all, and he wouldn't stop them if they chose to track him down. This wasn't a hasty retreat, or a surrender. Not really. This was more like a resignation. No, Dean will not be participating in this year's apocalypse, but feel free to contact him next time around.
A few hours short of Denver, he stopped for a late lunch and checked his messages. His mailboxes were full, voice and text alike. He deleted every one, unheard and unread. It was cathartic and terrifying, like the first time he'd willfully disobeyed his father after Sam's one-man exodus to Stanford.
(He'd been ordered to wait in the car while dad scoped out a suspected haunting. He'd been ordered to sit tight, to watch for a signal if things got out of hand. But that moment Dean'd kicked the door in and ran to his father's side, unbidden, had felt like flying. Sure, he'd managed to get sliced up pretty bad for his trouble, 25 stitches, plus a knot on the back of his head, and maybe there was no trace of the scar from that little adventure on his resurrected body now, but the memory remained, independence and defiance and freedom.)
It felt like letting go.
He took another break in Del Norte, Colorado, had a late dinner and exercised another message dump. When he pulled back onto the highway, the sky was still pink and orange just over the horizon. Time was, he'd imagined himself much like those last colorful remnants of the sun, clinging to the edge of the earth, the dusty purples and blues of impending night pushing the brightness down, down, down. Time was he'd never been to hell, and damned if any part of him was brightness and light, now.
He celebrated crossing into Arizona with another fill up and a fresh cup of coffee. The attendant made eyes at him over the counter as he paid, bent forward to showcase her cleavage, with both elbows resting between a jar of Slim Jims (5 cents a piece, and wasn't that a hell of a deal) and the lighter display. He pocketed a black one, and asked for a pack of Reds to go with his gas. The attendant scoffed.
"I don't kiss smokers."
Dean laughed.
"I don't kiss gas station attendants."
He packed his cigarettes the entire walk back to the Impala, reined in his mirth till he was a good five miles down the road. Seemed his social niceties had gone the way of his sense of duty; another weight shed.
By the time his laughter died down, his coffee had gone cold. He drank it anyway, sipped it like a fine wine, swallowing the bitter liquid in small mouthfuls. Another hour and he pulled over to piss on the side of the road, tore open the pack of cigarettes, and lit one. The soft filter felt at home between his lips, each inhale blended the flavor of the nicotine with the coffee still lingering on his breath. They complimented one another nicely, he thought, like most vices. He finished his first cigarette, smoked two more, and got back on the road.
Dean found his way to the South Rim just before dawn. He pulled over at the first overlook he passed, parked the Impala, and reached the edge of the canyon just as the first light of the unrisen sun kissed the sky. His breath hitched at the sight.
He thought back to dusk the previous night, the slow suffocation of color and light he'd witnessed, 450 miles and a world behind him.
"It's bigger than I imagined."
"Most of my Father's wonders are."
"Right."
"You didn't say yes."
"No."
"…"
"You didn't believe in me."
"No."
"I needed you to believe in me."
"Your brother did."
"I needed you to believe in me."
"I know."
"You're too late now. I quit."
"You haven't."
"I have."
"You haven't. Ask me how I know."
"How?"
"Because my Father's wonders are bigger than we can imagine."
"Very funny."
"Is it?"
"…"
"You're a good man, Dean Winchester."
"You think?"
"I do."
"Thanks, Cas."
They sat side by side, and looked out over the canyon until the sun fully rose. Dean pictured himself as a bright ray of light, painting lines of pure white across the pale blue sky. The taint of death and hell seemed weaker in the daylight, and with Cas' presence a warm weight by his side.
He stood slowly, brushed off the back of his jeans, and offered Cas a hand. He took it.
They walked back to the Impala in silence. Dean motioned to the passenger door, an offer. Cas nodded and climbed into the car, waited patiently while Dean drew his phone out of his coat pocket and dialed.
Sam picked up on the first ring. Dean exhaled into the mouthpiece; another weight fell.
"I'm coming."
Dean coughed, cleared his throat.
"Sammy, I'm coming home."
I don't normally write Supernatural fic, but with the finale coming up, I figured Dean deserved a vacation. Feel free to review.