'nother story, since I'm so bored. Enjoy it!
One the eve of the Apocalypse, Dean slides into the Impala and floors it all the way to the west coast. No real conscious thought accompanies his sudden decision; he just needs to be somewhere where he won't be able to hear the gutted roars of, "failure" ringing in his ears. He needs to be somewhere not here – anywhere will do – someplace away.
The Impala rumbles smoothly under his touch, the same constant murmur it has always been, all his life. It is meant to sooth and heal, pulling together the fabric of his soul when the weight of his existence becomes too much. This is his escape, a private paradise he retreats to in desperation. It should be enough – it had been enough in the days when everything was simple: family and the job – but the emptiness gouged into him is still there. The sing of the engine can't fill it today, and with the future looming ahead, Dean is sure the hollow within his chest will only grow until he is nothing more than a glazed shell. There are worse fates, surely; he's just too busy wasting energy on self pity to consider them. The way this bitter, screwed-to-hell fairy tale is turning out, that leaves him with plenty of other paths to choose from, none leading to the door marked "Happily-Ever-After".
A sticky end to a sticky life. Dean hasn't expected much else – Winchester curse and all that. Doesn't stop the sour bile from rising up his throat, daring him to choke. Sticky.
Dean screws his eyes against the yellow sun and tries to think of where he is headed. Location, location, location. That's all that matters, right?
The Grand Canyon certainly holds some kind of appeal – he's never been there on leisure time before, but then the tourists come to mind. The loud flocks of grinning tourists with their awed expressions and stupid, stupid naivety. Too happy and smiling, wrapped close in coffins of innocence, clueless. He has secrets they couldn't even begin to fathom. To be in a place, trapped with the sheer openness of their persons is something Dean doesn't think he can handle without managing not to implode. Or explode. Whichever is messier.
So safe, they think, those ignorant civilians. No idea of what is to come. It's just another day with the family, another photo for the vacation scrapbook. So many hopes, dreams, entire futures, all gathered together for the massacre. In his state of mind, Dean would be lucky to get past the state border unscathed.
This, ultimately, narrows his choices down to – a) public emotional breakdown, or b) calm, cool, and collected. If there is any question as to what he picks, you obviously don't know Dean Winchester.
Decision made; no Grand Canyon.
The sun is drooping wearily in the sky when clunky gravel gives way to a fast-cooling blanket of sand. His heavy boot sinks into the yielding grains and leaves a crooked dimple in the smooth dunes. He trudges across the shifting field, each crunching step weighty and heavier than the last, until the shock of icy foam soaks through the thick leather of his boots. His gaze draws to the burning halo shining like a beacon across the waves.
Dean has never been much of a nature-loving freak – save the whales, plant a flower, camp out in the middle of nowhere to keep a tree from being hauled out – that type of thing. He has more than enough on his plate without worrying over global warming or whatever other bull he won't live long enough to care about. It is always, save Sammy, and take care of the car, and keep an eye on the suspicious beefy dude eyeing him from across the bar. There is never time or energy available to spare on putting life on pause for just a second. He's never been offered the chance to take a quick breather between crises. Just boom, boom, boom, boom. Death would come like a well-deserved retirement from life, but Dean isn't the mopey, suicidal type. Leaving isn't ever an option.
Now that he's made the time to marvel, with the way the fading light glanced off the rippling water and sent dazzling colors through his retinas, Dean is beginning to think he's been missing out. Following that revelation comes an unexplainable sorrow that runs deep and mingles with old wounds he'd thought he's forgotten. An entire life's worth of simple wonders, never to be savored. Tomorrow will bring no reprieve, and he can't think of where to go from there.
A tiny spike of brightness is all that's left of the fiery sun, and with disappointingly little ceremony, that too winks out of existence, abandoning the clouds to their darkness. The strength suddenly seeps from his limbs with the fading of the tide, and he collapses into the wetness, splashing a bit in the damp mud. He can't bring himself to care about damaging the seat of his fraying jeans, but some part of him that is still John Winchester's son is grateful he'd thought to leave the leather jacket behind in the car. Dean reaches around his ragged knees to clasp his wrists, and rocks forward, squinting against the sea breeze and the salty air. It's quiet but for the soft rush of breaking waves and the crooning wind.
A lot has changed in a year. This spot is still the same, timeless postcard image it has always been, but a lot is different. He's different, the world is different. Life's game has been tweaked and the most Dean can hope for is one single turn of the die cast in his favor. The rest are determined to watch him fail.
Fail he has, and what a spectacular failure it is. So much had ridden on those wear, drooping shoulders for so long. There's only so much a person can handle without being the crutch of the fate of the world as well as big brother to the biggest trouble magnet in all of heaven, earth, and hell. Everyone's got their limit; Dean's found his and the extreme consequences that come with it.
He snorts bitterly.
So much for saving the world.
A low buzz tickles at the edge of his hearing, plaintive and uncertain, in worried tones that he can instantly pick out from a crowd of screaming civilians. It's a fact that used to make him glow with inner pride. Now it just leaves him with a sour taste.
Dean? Where are you?
He breathes out through his nose and stands stiffly. Wet sand drips muddy tracks down his thighs, cold.
Come on.
He turns from the water, the image of the last sunset branded as a painful memory into his mind. There would be much chaos and spilled blood in the years to come. Life will be difficult, but he's pretty sure he can make it. Assuming he lasts that long. Dean just wants to rest.
Dean, let's go.
It's his job to follow, to come when called, no questions asked or orders challenged. Dean is the epitome of obedience. Couple that with the fact that he's never been able to deny Sammy a thing, and, well… he's beginning to see his unhealthy eagerness to please as somewhat of a curse. Doomed to failure, was that the phrase?
But, Dean, let's go. An order, a request, a question, a plea. He can't ignore that; it goes against all his instincts, his very blood. (you happy now, dad?) Wherever Sam goes, Dean will follow, not matter the path. And the path is a dark one. The road is unending and no light beckons at the end of the tunnel. Doomed, but not necessarily limited to merely failure. Plain old and simple doomed will do just fine.
You ready, Dean?
No. Never. But what choice does he have?
With a deft twist of keys, his girl roars to life, loyal as ever (the only one left who deserves the title), and together they rumble on their lone way as the end-of-days swarms the dark skies behind them.
The angels were waiting for him when he got back to the motel. Dean should have been used to them barging in unannounced, they'd both done it enough times. Why bother with knocking or respecting privacy when you were a warrior of the Lord? Doors were for mortals, anyway.
Castiel stood at the foot of the nearest bed, face set in its habitually solemn contemplation. Uriel languished by the coffee table, heavy features arranged in the vaguely disgusted sneer that Dean had long since decided was his default expression. Both hosts looked slightly worse for wear and there was tenseness about their shoulders and eyes Dean recognized; it was something he saw every morning in the mirror. He might have described them as haggard if not for the otherworldly grace with which the angels carried their skins. He didn't need to wonder at the reason behind their less-than-orderly appearances – he suspected, and their mutual presence came as no surprise. Rather, it confirmed the sick sense of foreboding roiling inside him.
"So," Dean began hoarsely, skipping the ritualistic greeting that had come to define their sporadic meetings. "Come to give me a head start on my 'goodbyes'?"
Neither angel made any attempt at eye contact, choosing, instead, to study the headboard and carpeting, respectively. Again, nothing new, but Dean was sick of these games.
"Look. If this is about Sam and his 'powers', then you already know –"
"Dean," Castiel interrupted softly. Dean caught a flicker of anguished gray as the angel glanced sideways at him. He knew then, that it was over. Resistance would be pointless this far in the game.
"We gave you your chance," The stone dropped.
"But you failed to uphold your end of the bargain," It clunked hollowly in the empty hole between his ribs. Even a heaven-sent guardian had admitted it – he was a failure.
"Now we must follow through with ours." The ominous statement was swallowed by the tension thick in the stale motel air. Silence screamed loud. His ears rang with it. Ice rolled down his neck, past his shoulders, and left his fingers shaking. His face tingled and his mind was struck numb.
He should argue. Fight harder. Somehow block their path. This – this was unacceptable. Failure was not an option he could settle for. This was still fixable. He could still make it right.
(how many more people would be let down before He was satisfied?)
"Sam's powers have become great," Uriel spoke at last. "But great or not, they're on the wrong side of the war. His heart may be set, but human will can be swayed. That is a risk we can't afford to take."
Dean's knees trembled and something in him shattered. Millions of fragile shards of glass fell to join the broken pieces left over, unswept, from Sam's death. But he couldn't move and he couldn't say anything. No hot defense sprang forth. He felt cold and devoid of everything. Frozen.
"I warned you of this, Dean," Castiel said, almost as was of some sort of apology. As far as apologies went, Dean found this one lacking. It fell short, if only because his head was so set against what was happening. But he still couldn't seem to make himself move.
Castiel lifted his ancient gaze to Dean's shell-shocked one. They shone with sincere sorrow, but Dean closed his eyes against them and their inhuman calmness. No amount of sympathy, whether granted from a higher power or not, would change a thing. It couldn't count for anything, besides; compassion was a human emotion, and the angels had proven themselves, several times over, aliens to most things regarding His supposed children.
"I'm truly sorry,"
Dean kept his eyes closed, a shield to false pretenses. He heard a musical flutter and something soft brushed past his cheek, asking for forgiveness. He turned away from the touch and remained stiff, hands clenched at his sides. Another, stronger wave, resigned, and a brush of wind, then silence.
Apologies didn't matter. It was over. Everything was over. He couldn't fight anymore. Not even for Sam, the brother he'd died and gone to hell for.
Dean Winchester would have rushed after them, screaming and raging at them to stay the hell away from his brother. He would have told them that as long as he was around, Sam would remain untainted, and their fears were all unfounded. He would have argued until they'd given in. Or, he would have warned Sam, at least. He would have gone to any lengths to stop his world from crumbling around him for the fourth time in his short life.
Dean Winchester wouldn't have given up.
He wasn't that guy anymore.
He sat in that empty motel room and waited.
Orginally, this was just going to be a one-shot, but it just kept going and going and going... so i'm gonna try my hand at a multi-chap.
bwt: At the moment, i'm only up to ch 5 with my prewriting. So... this is gonna take a while ('specially with the way i update... and that's assuming the story gets enough reviews to satisfy my ego - hint hint)