This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a death.
But that's not for a few hours, or maybe a few days. That all depends on who you ask. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Now there is a hunt.
It is a monster, what kind, well that doesn't matter. What does matter is there is a sewer. There are two brothers running towards a monster in a sewer.
The brothers come across a fork. A loud roar comes from each end. The two look at each other, eyebrows knitted, stone cold faces.
"Take the right, I'll take the left," Dean says in that commanding voice he had learned from his father. He would never admit it but the demeanor that took over when they were on a hunt was his father incarnate and he knew it. He prided himself on the booming, strong and confident voice that gave orders; he was proud to leave something behind of his father. But he also despised the angry and stern voice that came out, seemingly without his control. He was disappointed to have become so much of the man who he had always deep down loathed.
Sam turns on his heels and runs down the right side of the sewer. Dean takes the left. The roaring continues, Dean could've sworn he was getting closer to the damn thing.
"Where are you, you ugly piece of shit?" He yells. "Shit" echoes through the damp and dirty walls; that voice reverberating through Dean's mind. He continues on, trying his hardest to keep his father's voice out of his head.
"Where are you?" Dean calls out again. Now he is angry at this thing. It better get out now so he can kill the damn creature and get this all over with. Kill it so he can go to the motel, drink whatever's left of the whiskey and fall asleep. Kill it so he can try and smooth things over with Sam. Tell him he's sorry for all the crap, all the lying, all the holding back. Sorry for being selfish. Sorry for everything he had put Sam through since he was practically a baby. They could just throw all that shit away and start over. They could have things be the way they had been. They could be brothers again.
That was really all that Dean wanted to do after they finished with this pain-in-the-ass-monster.
The two stop short right in front of each other. Dean gives Sam a once over. No clutching
his stomach, no limping, no blood as far as he can tell. Sam seems fine.
"I thought I saw it…damnit!" Sam continues, looking around, ashamed of his spotty
performance.
"Wait!" Dean puts his hand up to stop Sam from speaking.
"Where the fuck did it go?" He says, narrowing his eyes, looking around.
Sam follows suit and narrows his eyes as well, looking around for the boys' enemy.
Suddenly with the quietest of sounds, it appears right behind Sam.
"SAM!"
Dean, wide eyed and heart pounding runs to get between Sam and the monster. It grazes Dean's side with its claws and sticks them through Sam's abdomen. It rips through his skin and insides with the most sickening of sounds.
Sam begins to fall but Dean catches him although his own flesh is burning and he can feel the blood pour down his side, warming the skin below the gashes to the point of him throwing up. But he holds it in and instead leads Sam's head and shoulders to the ground. Sam shivers. He winces and then his face falls to a calm.
Dean gets up, rage in the creases of his forehead and stabs the monster right in the heart. For just a moment the two exchange glances, one sees a monster full of uncontrollable wrath, one a scared immobilized creature. For a second they see both. The creature falls, knife still in its insides. Dean swerves to Sam, now on the ground. He picks up Sam's head with light hands. Funny how he could always be so violent one minute and gentle the next.
Sam looks up at Dean, still calm, letting the cold drip from his stomach to his head.
It's over and the younger Winchester knows it. And he's ready. To tell the truth, he's been ready for a while now.
Sam was never one for the hunter life. He knew that, his father knew, Dean knew. They all knew but none could admit it. Not truly. Sam was brought up in it, he had no choice in the matter. No one asked the sweet, chubby baby if he wanted to have demon blood in his veins. No one asked the young, soft spoken boy if he wanted to be trained to tell a Rugaroo from a Wendingo. No one asked the long haired man if he wanted to dream of a life filled with love. The kind of love in the movies. Not the hard, tell it like it is, always have your back love.
No one ever asked Sam if he wanted a normal life.
But that is life isn't it? Life is about what's given, how a man plays his cards. And all things considered Sam played them the best he could. Sure there were hiccups here and there, but he fought and fought and fought right up until the days he couldn't. He did what was asked and he did his duty.
Sam looks up at the ceiling. Wouldn't it have been nice to be right under the stars, sucking in his last breath looking up at the wonder of the sky? But no, there he was, under a damp and dirty sewer. Nothing but darkness. Sam's Romantic expectations were always so far from his realities. Reality was crap as far as he could tell.
Sam lets out a chuckle and lets his eyes close.
"Sam? Sam come on man!"
Dean is panicking. After all the times he's seen his brother go in front of his eyes, he still can barely breathe. Sam isn't panicking. Sam is calm, maybe the calmest he's ever been. He knows this is it. This is the end to it all.
There won't be anyone to call. There's no Bobby with all the knowledge of the world, no Castiel to pray to for help. There's no Pam to call on the spirits, no Crowley to conjure the
underworld. No Ellen, no Jo, no Ash, no Benny, no Lisa, no Meg, no Chuck, no Charlie, no Samuel or Deana. No mom or dad.
"Sam, hang in there buddy," Dean is trying to help Sam up, off the floor. Dean is still determined to get Sam to safety. Dean has always been the optimist. It's going to be okaySammy. Those words have been etched in Sam's memory. First in a high pitched child's, then a wanna-be-tough-kid's, then a tired adult's. The voice has changed, but the person behind never has. Big brother's going to make it alright.
"Not this time Dean," Sam whispers with a smile. He takes another look at Dean. This might be the last one kid.
"What? What are you talking about?" there's a hint of a laugh in Dean's voice. He truly doesn't believe this is the end.
Dean's always been naïve.
"No crossroads, straight shot," Sam says, his eyelids closing.
"Sam!"
"Sam!" Dean pulls on Sam's shirt collar. This can't be it. This isn't how it's supposed to end. This isn't how they go. Sam can't go first. He shouldn't have to watch his brother…his baby brother go. Sam can't die before him.
"Sam!" He's crying now. He can't stop himself.
Sam suddenly finds himself behind Dean. He can see Dean in a crumbled heap by his own limp body.
"Sam?" He would recognize that voice anywhere. He turns around and sees the one and only before him. Death stands there, his black coat swallowing his thin frame, his dark red tie trying to make an appearance, his cane less than a foot in front of him.
"I suppose you're ready now?" he says tilting his head ever so slightly and making firm eye contact. But there isn't anger or annoyance in the man's words, no sense of urgency. No, not for Sam Winchester. This one knows the drill. And Death knows Sam isn't as finicky as the older brother. No, Sam Winchester is good and ready. He just may need a moment to collect himself.
"Not just another reaper?"
Death smiles.
"You're not just another human."
Now it's Sam's turn to smile. He may not have enjoyed it but he couldn't deny he did save people. A lot of people. Children, elders, mothers, siblings. People who should have taken this very same trip were well and fine because of him. Because of the things he did, the things he sacrificed. And while Sam may have always wanted a life ignorant of the supernatural, his life was entwined with hundreds of families across the country. His life was written in the pages of family stories already being passed from one generation to the next. Although bumpy, Sam's life had great meaning to so many. And there was something poetic about that.
Sam takes a look back at Dean. He's still crying, his face buried in Sam's chest. It will take some time but the tears will dry. Dean will get angry and look for ways…
Sam turns back to Death.
"You won't let him find a way out of this one." He almost asks it. His eyebrows are knitted, his eyes sad. It's not that Sam wants Dean to bring him back, it's that he doesn't. Although Sam has a feeling that this truly is the last time, he wants more than anything to be promised by a true professional that there is nothing that can be done. He's just too tired. His warranty is finally up.
"It's not in my control."
Disappointed, he looks back at Dean. He feels as if he's going to cry himself but somehow he just can't. He's going to leave Dean all alone but Dean will be fine. He will have to find a way. He will have to lose yet another thing in his life and learn to live with it. The man has had plenty of practice over the years.
Sam places a hand on Dean's shoulder and whispers a goodbye that only he can hear.
It's going to be okay Dean.
Dean doesn't know how long he's stayed there, cradling Sam. It's probably been eternity.
How could he let this happen? How could he have let that thing do this? He puts Sam's head down, a scowl finding its way on his face. He twitches and wipes the tears from his eyes leaving blood stains across his cheeks. He ignores the burn in his sides and drags his brother to the car.
The ride is quiet and chaotic. No music, no sounds. Dean sometimes forgets to breathe. But his mind is spinning.
All I asked was for you to look out for Sammy, boy!
Not this time Dean.
Honey, it was his time.
Dean, it was a simple hunt, you idjit.
It's going to be okay my little angel.
Can't even kill em right!
Move on son.
It's okay Dean.
He brings the body inside, lays it on a table. A sharp pain shoots up his side and he remembers he's hurt. He wants to leave it alone, let is fester. That's what he deserves. But he doesn't. He has to patch it up or he'll lose consciousness. He needs to find a way to make this right.
No one listens to him. No one cares. No one wants to give the Winchester another chance, he's had plenty. This game can't keep going on, they can't keep running in circles. Too much has happened, lessons have been learned.
Dean doesn't sleep. He doesn't eat. He drinks. He drinks from a bottle, then another, then another. He screams, yells, curses. He breaks a lamp and rips a thousand-year-old book to shreds.
He ends up on the floor, sobbing. He can't remember the last time he sobbed. He's not sure if he ever did. He shakes from the unfamiliar feeling. His chest hurts, his head is light, his side still burns. He knows he was born a failure and this is whoever is up there's last joke. Love. Love Dean. Love with all your heart and then watch that one thing get ripped from you, leaving you alone and useless forever.
Dean cries until he can't.
He does not make a pyre. He digs a hole. That way there's still hope. Maybe he can't bring him back but maybe someone, someday can. It's that hope that lets him even dig. He doesn't shake now as he digs although he hasn't eaten or slept in days. Chemicals and anger fuel him now. He doesn't dig deep enough. Give Sammy a break if he needs to get out.
How many times has he dug? How many times has he burned a body, bones? Hundreds, maybe more. How many times was he this angry? Ten? Maybe. He sweats so much that he can't tell if there are tears anymore or if it's just from the dig. Maybe that's how he wants it.
He tries to lower the body as gently as he can. It isn't pretty. He struggles. The box wasn't meant to be handled by just one man. It hits the dirt walls, the body rolls. Dean tells himself not to hear Sam hit the wooden case but he does. He hears it the more he wishes he couldn't.
Fill it up Dean.
He wants to start pouring dirt but he can't. He just stands there staring at the box finally in its place. Decades and he never had to do this. Not once. He's burned them, sure. Dug them up, sure. Watched from afar, sure. But he has never laid a body in the ground. Why people do this, he doesn't know. Heard it's for closure. But Sam is still in there. He can always come back, where's the closure in that?
Finish it Dean. Get the job done.
If only he could pretend this is just another job. Just another hunter being laid to rest. It isn't. There are no other hunters. None that matter. None that held the world. He needs to cover the box with dirt. He needs to cover Sammy. He wishes someone was there to do it for him. He's happy to be alone.
This is what Sammy would want. He knows that. But it's not what Dean wants. It's the last thing he wants. But Sam.
Take care of Sammy boy.
He starts filling up the hole. He's still sweating. He doesn't take breaks. His hands cramp up. His fingers bleed. His back throbs. The alcohol wears off and his stomach grumbles.
It's over.
He walks to the car and opens the back door. The hinges croak and he holds on to the metal top as he reaches for something. Two branches nailed together, a slightly crooked cross. Oak. Sammy would have wanted oak. Like the tree in front of their home in Lawrence. Poetic, meaningful. Sam always did try to find the meaning in things. Sure he lapsed and got angry from time to time but deep down, he was a sucker for things like that. Things like using an oak cross, like using a cross at all. Dean doesn't care much for things like that. He doesn't want a cross signifying his resting place. No, Dean would want a tree. He'd want to use the last of himself helping something else grow. He'd want to make life from his death.
Sammy would never know that about Dean.
Dean places the cross where Sam's head should be. It goes in half a foot. He keeps his hand on the top, eyes closed.
When he thinks he couldn't cry again, a tear finds its way out. He doesn't have the energy nor does he care anymore to keep it in. No more fall. Just one.
He walks away without giving the grave another look.
He takes whatever he can out of the fridge and eats. He doesn't make anything though. Just eats bits and pieces of food. Some slices of bread, two bananas, half a bag of potato chips, four slices of cheese and three water bottles. He takes what little food is left and throws it in a garbage bag.
He cleans the bunker. First the kitchen, making sure everything was where they had found it when they had first found the place. He cleans the metal counter tops, sweeps the floor. The library is next. There's only one book on the table. Ancient Mythological Beings Volume Four. He puts it away and turns all the lamps off. Then he moves to Sammy's room. Fairly clean. Years of discipline will do that to a kid. The bed's made, two guns on the desk. He unloads them, puts the bullets in the drawer and places the guns on the shelf above the bed. Sammy didn't leave much of a mess for him. Not a physical mess at least. Dean doesn't see the box Sam kept under his bed for years. He just turns the light off and moves on.
Next is Dean's room. Nothing is out of place. He knows better than to have a single thing where it shouldn't belong. All John's work. He needs only two things. He sits down at the desk and writes something on a small piece of paper. He folds it up and takes the picture of his mom and him when he was three that's sitting right next to him. He turns off the lights and leaves.
He's back to the car and opens the trunk. He pulls out a box, it's old, tin, what was blue paint chipped off in most places. Inside are a few pictures salvaged from the wreckage of their Lawrence home, a picture of Lisa and Ben, a note Bobby had scribbled, one of Kevin's chewed up pencils, a Moondoor brochure, a ticket stub to an Ozzy concert, a lanyard bracelet Jo had made for him, Missouri Moseley's card with "be good" written on the back and his first fake FBI ID. He places the picture of him and Mary on top of it all and closes the rusting box, keeping the note he had written in his right hand.
He gets in the car and starts it up. He picks an open road that eventually leads to Route 281. It's quiet enough that he won't cause much traffic but busy enough that someone will see the car. It takes about fifteen minutes to get to it.
He always wanted it to be in the impala. Somehow he knew it was always meant to be. Maybe it was when John first gave her to Dean and told him to care for her with his life. Maybe the angels had whispered it in Dean's ear, maybe the demons. Maybe it was just a strong willed man's wish. Maybe it was after the demon smashed the sixteen wheeler into her and Dean thought that was the end. Maybe it was meant to happen all those years ago. Maybe it was God's plan. God's poetry. Maybe this was the meaning Sam found in life that Dean rarely could.
Dean takes out the Smith & Wesson 9mm from the glove compartment. He's ready now. He's never been more ready in his life. He thinks of times it could have happened. Times it didn't happen. This is going to be it.
A bang, the skidding of tires, the thump of a car stopping, the last beat of a heart.
This is the way the world ends.
One world ends but hundreds of others carry on. Years pass and stories are told. Rumors spread about monsters, demons, angels. A young girl bitten by a werewolf, a bank's hostage situation led by a shapeshifter, the vengeful spirit of a nun, young girls being taken by vampires, a reaper who killed for a righteous woman, a big time leviathan businessman, a girl whose blood was nearly sucked dry by a Djinn.
There were two men, part of a covert FBI faction, or was it the CDC. Plaid, a black Mustang, or a Chevy, leather jackets, salt, oil, fire. Two men with all the knowledge of what goes bump in the night. With the guns, the wits, and the talent to get jobs done. Two men who saved.
A young man with wavy red hair follows the directions the man at the center of town gave him to a small patch of land. He's not sure he can trust the directions but he follows them anyway. The others in town seemed to agree that this was the place.
He remembers the water, the fear. He remembers the sadness that his father's death brought, the images in his head. He remembers the leather clad man with the toy soldiers, the drawings, the kind words. He remembers finding the courage to speak again, to be brave for his mother. He remembers that Zeppelin rules and that he owes his love of rock to those two in the black car. He owes them his life.
He finds the place and almost gasps. This has to be it. There are flowers, CD cases, teddy bears, flasks, salt shakers. There are letters. Letters everywhere. He smiles and pulls out a worn and crumpled picture of a stick figure family. He places it on the ground and puts a rock on it.
He walks away from a crooked cross and a young tree.