Summary: Dean finds a way to be together with Sam again. Tag to season 10: an imagined way how the case of the Mark of Cain and everything ends.
Warnings: Deathfic, SPOILERS from season 10, some swearing, little twisted mentally, tragic.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything but the plot.
Normal
Flashback
'Sam "talking"'
Hope you enjoy! Sorry for broken hearts and shed tears!
The evening is just beginning to fall when Dean stops the car, arriving to the place his mind has been wandering to the all day. He sighs as he turns off the engine of the Impala, his baby letting out a low growl before quieting totally down.
"See you," Dean smiles as he pats the dashboard of the car. Then he reaches to open the door gently, rising from his seat and stepping outside.
It's snowing again. Small snowflakes wander down from the sky as Dean shoves the car keys on his pocket, turning to get a shovel from the trunk. The tool feels as if it weighted more than usually, put Dean is sure it's just his imagination. It's his guts and the whole body that is trying to press him under the ground, not the shovel which has served him so faithfully during all these years. Served him so faithfully, as well as his own duffel bag, which now is resting in the corner of the truck as if being asleep.
Dean doesn't look at the other duffel bag when he slams the truck close.
Why didn't he dispose it with who it belonged to?
Because there was no one to dispose, to burn, to bury. Of course! How silly thought.
Snow gives up under his steps as he starts to walk forward, letting his mud-covered boots to sink in the white mass. Sink, drown exactly like Dean feels he's doing – or trying not to do. He struggles to keep his head above the white surface even if there's just about half a meter of it, tries to breathe as he rushes toward the place where everything happened. Where it happened. Dean can't bring himself to remember those events taking place here yesterday, can't bring himself to think about the person here yesterday.
He can't, he's not able, not gonna happen. Nope.
He finally arrives at the spot, pausing in middle of his step. Even though the snow has now covered all the tracks from yesterday, covered the memories, Dean is still able to see. He can see the blood spattered on the ground, vivid and strong crimson color against pure white – pure white, pure thing, that Dean once again has stained, once again has poisoned. He can see the dents in the snow where they aren't anymore, can see the all too familiar big footsteps; can see the shape the body has left in the white substance.
But when he tries to look closer, reach his bare hand to touch those traces, there's nothing there. Absolutely nothing, as if nothing ever even happened.
And Dean can't stop the sting in his heart, the pointless, stupid feeling of hope burning inside him. He can't stop all the options swimming around his head, everything he would be ready to do cancel everything that happened here yesterday.
But he can't take it back, he can't do anything, he can never do anything, so he swallows with a difficult and stands back up.
The sun is starting to go down, returning to shine its light on the other side of the planet. And Dean wasn't the geek one? For a second he feels senseless envy toward the cursed ball of yellow – he too wants to escape, run somewhere where he can change everything better, get a little light, return to the old. Somewhere, where he is able to see the familiar smile, hear the barking laugh, feel the push on his shoulder as he tells a stupid joke.
Then he notices how stupid stuff he is thinking, and gets back to work. He has to get things done before the dark arrives, and at this pace he will never be able to do that - the sun is still lingering in the horizon, but it too is disappearing quickly, different colors already filling the sky and the gloom creeping on the corners.
Dean glances one last time around him, deciding that the spot is right. The snow is soft and damp enough so he takes a better grip of the shovel, digging it through the perfectly smooth surface of snow. He digs and shovels, digs and shovels, not stopping to wipe the thin layer of sweat off his forehead even though it tickles his skin in the cooled air and threatens to drip into his eyes over his brows. It isn't the only thing threatening to fall, though.
As there finally is a suitable amount of snow in a large pile, Dean throws the shovel from his hands and gets to his knees. The snow is freezing as the snow usually is, but Dean can't feel the coldness even if creeps through his jeans onto his skin. The coldness is living inside him already now, so there is no way some cold snow pressing against his clothed knees and bare hands will get any reaction.
Dean hums as he pats the snow into a more tight form, ensuring that the figure won't break apart as soon as Dean gets it finished – Dean isn't ready to watch something like that happen ever again. Way too many times (one time is already too much) he has seen that to happen, and every time it has broken a piece from him too, every time it has made him almost break apart with the other.
The humming is the only voice at the snow-covered field as Dean continues his work. Some old Metallica songs filling the air and the legs are formed, couple of songs from Black Sabbath falling through the evening with the snowflakes and the figure has a torso, three or four songs from Kansas echoing across the lonely field and there are perfect hands.
"Carry on my wayward son, there'll be peace when you are done…" Dean stops suddenly as his hand comes to touch the figure's chest, his own body suddenly freezing on its place and breathing getting stuck on his throat.
...
"Dean, I can't let you to do this," his brother says, both eyes and voice pleading.
"You have to!" Dean shouts. Anger boils in his stomach and he feels the Mark of Cain pulsating in his hand once again, making his head dizzy and eyesight to dim a degree. He especially has made this plan so that everything will end here and now, so that no one will suffer because of him anymore, so that he will never ever again see that scared and sad look in his brother's eyes. He is ready to go, he knows there is no other way; they both know there is no other way anymore. So why isn't his brother letting him go?
"You know that I can't," his brother says, cheeks reddened in the freezing air, shoes sinking on the snow. "You say that there's no way out, but that's not even what I'm asking for! What I'm asking for is my brother beside me, whatever he is doing, whatever way he is acting."
Dean can't hold back the guilty piercing through him, can't prevent himself from hearing his brother's sob. But he has no other chance, how can his brother not to understand that? His brother has always been the one to understand him. "You know I can't do this anymore," he says, his own voice cracking. "You know that I can't stop, you can't stop my nightmares where blood splatters onto my face as I embed the First Blade into someone; you know that I can't stop this damn rage streaming through me! You know that I don't want to be a killer!"
His brother's eyes are pained as he looks at him. "I know," comes the whisper. "But I also know that I can't live in the world where there is no you, not anymore."
"But if I'm here with my mark, you won't be!" Dean shouts desperately, willing to make his brother understand. "If I'm here… If I'm here, the mark will make me kill you some day!"
His brother looks taken back for a second. There it finally is, the truth, the reason Dean wants so hard to leave this world behind. To protect his brother, protect him from Dean.
Protect him, like he has always done.
"It was what Cain who told me," Dean says silently. "And I've felt it myself, felt the Mark just thirsting to kill someone, to make me feel that power, hate, everything. I've let it slip so long that there's absolutely no choice anymore."
"Why haven't you told me?" his brother asks, his face full of suffering. "Because it simply is me either you, someone dies, someone lives? And you're once again willing to sacrifice yourself?"
Dean doesn't know what to say – that is exactly how it was, there is no way in Hell (and trust him, he has been there) that Dean will be the one to live. It is either Dean or Dean. His brother living, Dean dying. The only reason why Dean has brought his brother here today is to explain the situation, make him to understand, not to leave him so suddenly. Dean knows that if he had left without note, his brother would've definitely come and killed him all over again - just because he would've been so angry at Dean for not telling him. That's how it had always been, and how it will be for these last moments too.
"Dean, put the blade down," his brother pleads, takes a couple of steps towards Dean.
"Don't come any closer," Dean whispers, still holding the blade pointed on his own chest. "Just let me do this, protect you one last time."
"Why can't you let me be the one protecting, just for once? Be the one who helps, not always the one who is helped." His brother's eyes are gleaming now, threating to let the tears fall. And Dean is exactly the same, even if he will never admit it.
"I'm the big brother," Dean smiles sadly. "Big brother's privilege, sorry." Then he suddenly straightens his right hand in front of him, makes sure that the blade will sink into his chest forcibly enough to kill. There's no fear as he swings the blade, this time not because of the mark but because this is his duty - there's only sadness as his brother's shout echoes through the air, and Dean grieves for the fact that this brother will be all alone.
But he will survive, that's the decision that Dean is making as he closes his eyes, the blade finally hitting its target. But there's no any pain.
Why isn't there any pain?
Oh, there is pain, when Dean finally opens his eyes. Suddenly the world is full of pain; it is swallowing his heart whole, poking through him like thousand needles.
Because the blade is not in his chest. It's in the chest that doesn't belong to him, it's on the chest of the person that Dean fucking loves the most in the whole world. And he didn't even say that before the end. Didn't say that truth to the person whose chest the blade is now sticking out from.
In the chest of his brother, who lets out a struggling breath, chuckling even though there's blood dripping down his jaw; red crimson streaming from the wound on his chest, like tears on a wrong color.
"Sorry, D'n. Littl' brothe's priv'lege."
...
"Lay your weary head to rest, don't you cry no more," Dean continues his humming as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn't stood there on his knees for good five minutes without moving at all. The snow figure has a neck now, and Dean begins to mold the head.
"Jaw, cheeks, eyes... And we can't forget your gorgeous hair, now can we?" Dean smiles to himself. The other always threw a bitch-face at him if Dean said something bad about his hair. So Dean shapes every strand of the hair carefully, his now blue-tinted fingers moving little clumsily but managing in the mission all the same.
Dean exhales and sits stiffly on his heels, watching the figure through his own vaporized breath dancing in the dusky air. He hums once last time some song that the person now in front of him used to love and what Dean used to hate. It doesn't matter now, and so Dean tilts his head, watching his work from a little distance for a moment. Then he reaches to fix some badly molded wrinkles on the snow-white clothes, finishing his work.
The one burning into the air yesterday didn't have white clothes. But then again, why would've he had? He was all fake, he was someone Dean never knew or lived with, not part of his family – just some stranger that they claimed to be his family, claimed that Dean didn't realize the situation.
"Sammy?" Dean calls, and he knows that he was right all along. The one yesterday wasn't his Sammy even though he looked a little like his little brother, he even had same kind of clothes that Sammy wears. But that wasn't Dean's Sammy, Dean's Sammy is right there, right beside him and breathing, alive!
"Hi, Sammy," Dean grins, not noticing the tears running down his own cheeks. "It's good to see you again! There were some strange people yesterday, they claimed that you were dead," Dean says in an upbraiding voice. "How stupid! You're right there, with me, right Sammy?"
And inside Dean's head the snow figure nods, grin growing wild in the white snow-skin. 'That's so stupid. Why would they even say something like that?'
"Yea', I wondered about that too!" Dean sits beside his brother, side against side. There are shivers running through his body, bluish color spreading across his skin, snowflakes all over his body and eyelashes – but he doesn't notice, his heart is now full of joy, his insides full of warmth, all his worries gone.
'Dude, what are you sitting so close for?' Sammy's laugh echoes in Dean's ears, inside his head. And Dean laughs too, laughs so much that his stomach hurts.
"Big brother's privilege, right?" Dean grins, knowing that Sammy hates that specific privilege. "I can spend some chick-flick moments if I want."
Dean laughs again as Sammy throws a bitch-face at him, his twitching smile betraying him, though. But it's a bitch-face all the same, and it makes Dean remember many funny moments from years ago.
'Look.' Dean follows Sammy's finger as it points straight to the sky – follows the white hand, which for him is all bone and flesh and clothes.
"Wow," Dean breathes. The snow has stopped for now and the night finally fallen, the sun disappeared before Dean even noticed and the thousand stars lighting the sky. The moon is just a sickle, but it still brings a little light to the glade, to the brothers. Dean is now really glad that they came to this town following a hunt. He doesn't even remember when he last time has seen the sky this beautiful.
'Aren't you cold?' Sammy's voice suddenly seems to ask, and Dean can't help but smirk.
"Who's the mother hen now, Sammy?"
Sammy, his Sammy rolls his eyes, that too being one of his most immemorial features. 'No, but really, Dean. It's really cold in here.'
Dean smiles, brushing a strand of hair off from Sammy's eyes. "I'm not cold at all," Dean says, not noticing the color of his own skin or the frost creeping into his body. Not willing to notice.
"I'm good, really," he says and so the night rolls on, his body freezing little by little as he leans on his brother formed from the snow; leans on the form which doesn't move at all, totally lifeless and cold. When the morning breaks, he will be as lifeless as the figure beside him, full of frost.
"I'm good, as long as I'm beside you, Sammy."
Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading, please review, fav, whatever, tell me what you think! :3 I'd love to hear.
Sorry if there's any grammar mistakes or anything, please tell me about those too if you notice any!
I came up with this story after building a snowman on our yard (yes, I'm an adult, hah - but hey, I made it look like a real human) and reading someone else's tragic fanfic. Just wanted to write one of my own, even though I don't usually even read deathfics... So I practically ended up bawling my eyes out because of my own story. ;_; Even though the bigger reason to cry in this case would maybe be the fact that I have to wake up 9 am and it's already 4 am. Whatever... I'm pretty proud about this story, the first fanfic I've ever finished and in addition wrote at once! :'D Did you also notice the tasteless reference to Supernatural's theme song? XD
(Those waiting for my other stories: SORRY I haven't wrote them. I don't really like them anymore, they just didn't go the way I wanted. But I'm considering updating and re-writing them, trying to make it even!)