Title: The Weakness In Me
Author: IndigoStarNight
Feedback: Yes please
Summary: Everyone has weaknesses. Dean hates them. But when he finds his own biggest weakness, will he be able to destroy it like he has all the others, or is the cost too high?
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters
Spoilers: Mild, in regards to John
Rating: PG-13 for somewhat graphic-ness
Warnings: Character death.
Author's Note #1: Hey all, so I got this idea after seeing Dean's reaction to Sam crying in "Heart" (Not that I blame him, I was crying too), and it just wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it. Please Review!
Author's Note #2: Yes, I am fully aware that Dean's anti-sappiness is overly exaggerated and that he is somewhat out of character, I apologize, that's just the way he had to be for the purpose of the fic
Author's Note #3: When I originally was planning this fic, the ending was COMPLETELY different, and involved incest. Well, as I was writing, I tried to write it the way I had planned. I wasn't really paying attention, listening to my music and just letting the words flow and everything, when I looked at what I'd written and I realized things had not gone as planed, I tried to go back and rewrite it several times and the same thing happened each time, therefore, this is just the way it had to be. So, in regards to that, if you, the reader, wishes to still read this as incest, go right on ahead, its open for interpretation.
Author's Note #4: Last one I promise. I just wanted to clarify that this is playing on the demon's "big plans" for Sam, in that he is basically destined to become a monster, literally. It is NOT just some demon possessing him; it is truly him, only not (which makes no sense). So, that probably will just confuse you more, but oh well, that's the best I can explain it.
Ok, I'm done. I'll shut up now and get on with the fic.
Enjoy!
Emotions are useless, only weaknesses, that was always my motto. I learned it early on, and it's served me well so far.
I hate weakness, and people who are weak. So I've spend pretty much my entire life seeking out and destroying every weakness I've found in myself. It worked well for me, until he came back. Before, when it was just me and dad, everything was fine, since he was the same way. We hunted, we killed, we didn't question or think. We felt no sorrow, no grief, no remorse. But everything is changing now; I've found the one weakness I can't destroy.
Sam, he never learned not to feel, he never detached from the world like we did. Why, I'll never understand. He's so full of crap, all sappy and angsty with his staring out of rainy windows and being all sensitive. Then he cries, he cries, and the worst part about that is, when I see it, it almost makes me feel like I can again, once I actually did, a little. Sometimes I really hate him, and I mean hate him, but only sometimes.
His eyes sparkle, over bright with the emotion I spend so much time trying to destroy, yet he embraces. They sparkle wet, overflowing, inches from my own, and I hate the way my own eyes begin to sting.
"Do it, Dean," he whispers. I feel the cold metal pressed between us, my hand trembles; I hate it. "Please," the tears streaming down his face might as well be blood for the way it burns my heart.
"Shut up," I hiss, not moving. His hand wraps over mine, closing over the trigger of the gun I hold to his chest.
"There's no other way, Dean," he wheedles, "It'll be back any time. I don't want to hurt anyone else, especially you."
"Stop it!" I yell, impulsively pushing him harder back against the wall, but careful not to trip the trigger on the gun. My eyes squeeze shut of their own accord; I can't look at him any more. His wide, soft eyes, the emotion welling in them. We're so close I could see every pore, every dimple, every tear track clearly defined on his face.
'Dean…" is all he says. I feel his hand tightening over mine, pressing the trigger a little. I can feel his heart pounding through the metal end of the barrel rubbing the fabric of his shirt.
"I can't do it, Sam," I hiss, hating myself and hating him. Once I had prided myself on being able to kill anything, or anyone. Hell, if it had been me, I would have shot dad when he was possessed by that demon, or at least, I tell myself I would have. But Sam, he ruined all of that, he came in with his nancy-boy, sentimental mushy-gushiness and turned me soft, and now I can't even kill him for it.
Dad used to tell me not to get cocky, because no matter how many metaphorical demons I fought and killed in myself, there is always another weakness rooted inside of us. I didn't used to believe him, but now I know; now I've found it. We were the weakness in dad, and Sam, you are the weakness in me.
"You have to," Why? Why does his voice have to be so soft, so gentle?
"I can't!" I try to relax my grip, to step away, admitting defeat, but Sam holds me where I am. His finger tightens, just a hair more over the trigger, but he won't pull it himself, I know that, this is my job to do.
"Dean," his voice starts out, saying the name in his soft, pleading tone, but by the time he closes the 'n' it has changed so completely that it hurts to ear to hear. "Yes," it hisses, cold, cruel, not Sam, "Yes, Deaan," it mimics Sam's pleading tone, mocking him, "Do, pull the trigger." It speaks with Sam's mouth, it is Sam's chest that moves when it draws breath, but it is not my brother, not my Sam.
I open my eyes and glare at it, the evil, foul, disgusting monster who is slowly, bit by bit taking over and destroying my brother. It leers at me; taking pleasure in the pain it knows it's tearing me apart. Its eyes are no longer over-bright, there is no more pain, no sorrow, sympathy, remorse, there is nothing, none of the things that usually make those eyes so uniquely Sam's. Dimly I wonder if my eyes ever held that terrifying power of emptiness. Once I would have been proud to know they did, but now the thought downright terrifies me.
It throws back its head, releasing a cruel mockery of a laugh that sends shivers down my spin. It's enjoying torturing me like this.
"Hahaha," it laughs, "Poor Dean, can't waste his own brother."
I tighten my grip again, pressing the barrel deeper into his chest, steeling myself, my mind ordering me to do it. It has to be done; he wants me to do it. Do it… do it… do it… reverberated through my mind until I think my head's going to explode. Then I close my eyes, I clench my teeth, and I pull the trigger.
There is a bang, deafening to my ears, a flash of light, blinding behind my eyelids. I feel blood, gushing sticky and hot, spread across both of our shirts. I hear a gasp, a choked sound; he is Sam again. But I don't open my eyes, I can't. I can't bear to see the pain that I know contorts his face, the pain that I caused.
It is not until I feel the entire force of his weight sagging against me, slowly sliding to the floor, that I open my eyes and stand back.
I stand immobile for a long time, how long I don't know, gazing at him. There is a vague smile on his face, his eyes are closed, his entire face relaxed in a look of utter peace and relief that nearly breaks my stone heart, or at least, melts it a little.
The sun sets, the moon rises, full tonight. The stars are out, all is calm, all is quiet. It is beautiful, and fits him perfectly.
The flames light, the blaze grows. Crackle… pop… hiss… I watch as the flames consume him filling the air with the acrid reek of burning flesh. Slowly a tear slides down my cheek as I say my final good-bye to him, the weakness in me.