Standard disclaimer: Not mine, i just play with them.
Summary: I saw this poem and thought of Dean, and it demanded that I write it. Basically a short oneshot on Dean and Death. But no character death, other than what is canon. Spoilers through Season Two finale.
My life closed twice before its close
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me.
So huge, so hopeless to conceive,
As these that twice befell
Parting is all we know of Heaven
And all we need of Hell
- Emily Dickinson
Everyone must face Death. Be it our own, or that of a loved one, we all must acknowledge our mortality. Most of us avoid the subject when possible, picturing a quiet passing at the end of a long life, surrounded by those we love.
But not all of us carry such a bittersweet image of the close of our journey. Baptized by fire at the age of four, Dean Winchester had learned about Death, and felt the pain of being a survivor. By the time he was sixteen, he had known in his heart that he would never be an old man, that his life would not draw to a peaceful close. The only thing he wondered was if he would see it coming, if he would recognize his time when it came.
Dean knew Death, he had seen it, smelled it, and even caused it. Would his own demise arrive with the heralding fanfare of a werewolf's growls? Or would it slip in, sideways and silent, in a moment of distraction and catch him unawares? There was no way of knowing. All he asked for was a chance to go down fighting, and if Death was feeling generous, to take his opponent out with him.
Death is a sneaky bitch though, and the first time she came for Dean, she granted his wish with a proviso. Scrambling through that basement, chasing his gun, and paying no heed to the deadly pool of water in which he lay, Dean was allowed to eliminate his adversary. The last laugh was not to be his, however, and as the doctors solemnly informed him of the gravity of his situation, and numbered his days, Dean recognized the irony of it all.
It had been Sam's stubbornness that saved Dean that time. That same determination and strong will that had led Sam to rip his brother's emotional heart out when he left for Stanford, had brought about the mending of Dean's physical heart. Sam's miracle had not come without a price, one that Dean paid involuntarily, both at the time, and through the months as guilt tugged at him, threatening to weigh him down.
Not only is Death a sneaky bitch, but she holds a grudge too, as Dean found out the hard way a few months after Layla's quiet offer of absolution in a dingy Nebraska hotel room.
In that tiny cabin, running on far too much adrenaline, and next to no sleep, Dean had not been surprised to find that Death had chosen that moment to come for him again. The manner in which she went about it was, however, unsettling to say the least. It was one thing for one of the creatures he hunted to bring about his downfall; he had expected that much.
What he hadn't expected, was his killer wearing his father's face. Dean hadn't anticipated seeing his dad's features so cold, so filled with bloodlust. He hadn't predicted the sulfurous yellow eyes that had stared at him impassively as he begged, begged, for his life, hadn't guessed that as his vision faded the last thing he would see was a sneer of satisfaction distorting John Winchester's face.
Of course, if you were compiling a list of things that had amazed Dean about that night, it would be neglectful of you to fail to include the moment when consciousness had returned in a blaze of agony as his body hit the dirty wooden floor. When his eyes had slipped closed and the darkness had claimed him, Dean had reluctantly given into it, torn between a need to escape the pain, and a refusal to leave Sam alone with the monster inhabiting their father's body. But he had not expected to open his eyes again.
As he lay on the unforgiving wooden planks, he realized that Death wasn't going to let him go that easily, not this time. She had been cheated once, and she was going to make him pay for that. Watching his father order Sam to shoot him, to end the battle, to obtain vengeance for their mother, for Jessica, at the expense of John's life, unable to take action himself, hearing his own whispered pleas to Sam, had been torture, plain and simple.
Oblivion had pulled him under again, not long after the noxious black cloud had streamed out of his father's mouth and disappeared between the floorboards. Reawaking in the backseat of the Impala, Dean had kept his eyes locked on Sam's reflection in the rearview mirror, that tenuous connection with his brother the only thing that had kept him from voicing the pain that threatened to steal his awareness away for a third time that night.
Of the accident itself, Dean later remembered little. He had viewed the scene through a filter of suffering, blood loss, and tears, rendering the final image hazy and uncertain. A brief impression of rending metal and exploding glass, and then silence.
Choking on a damn plastic tube. Waking up sore and tired, but not nearly as broken as he should have been. That was the next thing he remembered. Sam told him about the Reaper, that Dean had been hunting a representative of Death herself within the walls of the hospital. The flippant part of his mind hoped that this one had been more attractive than the Reaper in Nebraska; that dude was fugly.
The cost of deceiving Death a second time was much higher than the first. If he had had a choice, Dean would have never have allowed this price to be paid. Standing there in that doorway, his father's devastating words ringing in his ears, the pit of unease that had been present in his stomach since he awoke trebled in size. This was wrong, too pat, too…his mind shied away from labeling anything about this situation as easy, but that was the truth. There was a bigger view of the picture at hand, and Dean wasn't sure he could handle seeing it right now.
Dean had never expected to escape Death's grasp, much less to do so twice in one lifetime. He wasn't deluding himself though, he knew that the next time it was going to stick. The odds had never been in his favor, and now they were skewed so heavily against him that he wasn't sure he even wanted to think about how screwed he was. Saving Sam, that was his focus, his purpose, his mission, and the only thing he could think about. Because the alternative was not viable. It seemed that the tighter he held on to what little he had, the faster it slipped through his fingers. Sam had always been the center of Dean's universe, and now he was the only star left in the sky.
Not enough time passed between the loss of his father and that night in the god-forsaken ghost town in South Dakota. Not enough days, not enough hours, not enough minutes; it was never long enough. Dean had struggled, shed blood, sweat and tears, and fought tooth and nail to save Sam, only to be forced to watch his brother's murder unfold before his eyes.
The mud and the rain and the tears and the crimson stain on his fingers, his own voice rending the night, screaming his brother's name as he cradled Sam's impossibly large, sickeningly limp form against his chest. Arguing with Bobby, sitting beside the bed Sam's broken body lay on, all overlaid by a whiskey induced fog that never grew quite thick enough, no matter how much he drank. A rambling confession, tear-filled and delivered in a rough, shattered voice to a beloved brother who could no longer hear him. Those were the memories that stayed with Dean, haunting him long after that searing kiss with the demon at the crossroads had sealed his fate.
All of it was worth that moment, the moment when he stumbled through the doorway, and found Sam, Sammy, his Sam, alive.
Wyoming, and the tiny graveyard where Samuel Colt had denied the Devil access to the Earth, that wasn't where Dean had pictured the final showdown with the Demon taking place. He had always thought to take the bastard out as he stood over an innocent baby's crib, in the process of destroying someone else's family. But by now Dean had given up being surprised by the way things in his life turned out. Lying there against that headstone, drawing aim on the body the Demon was possessing, Dean had allowed himself a fleeting moment of satisfaction before he pulled the trigger. It was done.
That one night had lifted so many heavy loads off of Dean's shoulders that he thought he might just float away. Seeing his father again, knowing that he was no longer suffering, killing the Demon, and finally, finally having nothing to do but hunt evil; it was almost inconceivable. The Demon's threats about Sam were disconcerting, but Dean knew all too well that demons lie, and he was holding to that thought.
This time, Death had an appointment with Dean. She was coming to him on his terms, her presence announced by a hellhounds baying. She wasn't coming alone though, and this time his eternal suffering was guaranteed.
Dean knew what Death should have learned by now. That when the chips are down, and in that darkest hour before dawn, no one comes out fighting harder than a Winchester. That bitch at the crossroads may have qualified the deal, and tied Dean's hands in regards to it. But she had neglected to account for Sam's burning determination to save his brother, she had failed to factor in the best, worst, strongest trait in the Winchester family, the one that ran true through the entire bloodline; stubbornness. And that would be her undoing.
A/N: So that's it. This was one of those gut wrenching ones, the kind that leave you shaken and slightly ill, the kind that come out whole. Please review! Praise and constructive criticism are always welcome. It will only take a second, and it will make my day. Just press the pretty periwinkle button.
I might make this a series of oneshots, based off of quotes that make me think of the Winchesters. So if you like this one, let me know, and it will motivate me to work on the next one.