"Brother, I'm done. Grab a pen. It's time to say good-bye." Dean fights to keep his voice from cracking as he says those lines. Death is within earshot and if he's about to die, he'll make damn well sure to die with his pride intact.
He hears Death let out a soft breath at his choice of words, like a laugh. He's amused. Amused. Dean is about to offer up his brother's life and Death is amused. Dean doesn't feel amused. He doesn't feel anything. That's the Mark. The Mark has two settings: rage and nothing. Dean almost prefers rage. At least it's something. At least it's human.
Dean stands, hands loose at his sides, face stony, fighting to keep his mind blank as he hears tires struggle over the mud and the grass outside. Tires on grass. Dean closes his eyes. Tires on grass is Bobby coming home. Tires on grass is stopping for a picnic of shitty subs – him, Sam, Baby. Tires on grass is a break eight hours into a drive to look at stars and breathe. Tires on grass. Tires on grass is Sam walking to his death.
Sam enters the darkened restaurant.
Enters.
Face hopeful and red. Eyebrows high and pleading and hoping against hope and melting a little when he sees Dean safe inside. Eyes falling and dark when he spies Death in the corner.
"Hey-"
"Sam,"
"What is this?"
"We need to talk." Dean keeps his voice low and business-like. Business-like like his Dad taught him. It deters arguments. Reserved for when they were moving again or when John had to leave for a week or two. Reserved, apparently, for when Dean orders Sam to his death.
"Whatever you're thinking of doing, don't. There's another way. You don't need to go with him. You don't need to die!" Sam's voice is higher and breathy and desperate and it makes Sam into the little brother again and something inside Dean, something dusty and underused, screams and fights and cries because this is Sammy. This is Sammy.
"Funny you say that. Truth is, when I left I thought the only way out was my death. Well I was wrong, Sam. It's yours."
This is Sammy.
But Dean's brain and part of his heart, the selfless and self-loathing part, kicks all the other parts into submission and he forces himself blank and he teeters in and out of full consciousness. He doesn't hear all. He hears bits and pieces, and his mind is sitting on a dock, fishing rod in hand, sun low and birds quieting.
Death is talking. Always talking. Stupid British accents. Stupid Death. Always talking.
"Even if I remove Dean from the playing field, we're still left with you. Loyal, dogged Sam, who I suspect will never rest until he sets his brother free, will never rest until his brother is free from the Mark, which simply cannot happen, lest the Darkness be set free."
"You traded my life?"
Dean snaps back into reality. Because the look Sam's giving him makes him want to throw up. It's pain and fear and disbelief and raw hurt, but that's not what makes Dean sick. It's that while Sam is surprised, he understands. He was almost expecting it. Expecting Dean to betray him. Dean swallows thickly.
"I'm willing to live with this thing, forever, as long as I know that I, and it, will never hurt another living thing."
Lies. Dean does not want to live forever. He wants to sleep. Dear God, he wants to sleep. It's been years now – all he's wanted is sleep. So tired. Tired of life and of fighting and of losing over and over and over.
"This isn't you. This doesn't make any sense."
Sammy's right. But what is Dean Winchester, now? He is not what he was ten years ago. Or five. Or two. Dean Winchester barely exists. What is Dean Winchester?
Dean Winchesters is the monster.
"No, it makes perfect sense, if you stop thinking about yourself for one damn minute."
Lies.
This is Sammy.
"It's for the greater good. Once you consider that, it makes all the sense in the world." Death speaks again.
And again Dean is saying such ugly, ugly things that match all the ugliness crawling around inside of him and everything is just ugly and broken and Dean just wants sleep.
"… You were right, Sam. You knew that this world would be better without us in it."
Why is he saying this?
Because it's true.
Or maybe Dean just really, really wants it to be true. He just wants peace.
"… We are not evil."
God, Sam, just accept it. Winchesters are monsters. Dean is a monster. Sam is a monster. But does that mean that they're not human? No. Humans are monsters, too, and they're evil and they're corrupt and yet Dean and Sam try so hard to save them anyway.
"There is no other way, Sam."
But, fuck, does he wish there were.
Dean barely feels the fist land on his cheekbone but he likes it because it's something and Dean needs to feel something. Feeling is humanity. Dean craves humanity. So the Mark can eat it all up again.
Dean's words are a growl and he's not even aware he's saying them, because it's the Mark who's using his mouth. "Good. Fight."
Fists fly and land and stomachs and jaws are bruised and damaged and Dean loves it because it's something and it's satisfying and it's human.
"Okay. That's enough. That's enough." Sam cowers. His hands cover his face.
And then it's not satisfying or human because it's Sam. It's Sammy. And Dean breaks just the littlest bit more.
Sam's words are slow and deliberate and each one lands on Dean like a mosquito and it hurts because he doesn't believe. "You will never hear me say that you, the real you, is anything but good. But you're right. Before you hurt anyone else, you have to be stopped. At any cost. I understand. Do it."
Dean is the monster.
And Dean's not ready. He wants more fight. He wants more stalling and more talking and more time.
This is Sammy.
The scythe is in his hand and it's cold and heavy and Dean's heart is cold and heavy and he doesn't even know why he's doing this anymore, but he looks at Sam and it hurts too much. It will hurt too much to live with his disapproval and shame and it will hurt too much to be loved by him.
"Close your eyes. Sammy, close your eyes."
"Wait." Pictures, old and faded, are laid out on the dirty cement floor. They hurt like beestings and Dean thinks they're beautiful. "Take these. And one day, when you find your way back, let these be your guide. They can help you remember what it was to be good. What it was to love."
Dean doesn't want to remember what it was to be good. What it was to love. Love is humanity and humanity is pain. Endless pain and he's had enough pain and all he wants is sleep and peace and there's just no other way.
Death utters a few more words, some of which make it into Dean's head.
"Stain on their memory… do it. Or I will."
And the thought of Death, this dirty, unknowing creature killing Sam hurts more than Dean thought it could because Sammy is his. And at least Dean can kill him with a loving hand and his last view will be of the one person who loves him more than he loves himself. It doesn't even make any sense but Dean doesn't know what sense is anymore but he will not let Death kill Sam and Dean's already broken anyway.
Dean's voice doesn't want to work and that underused thing inside of him is screaming again and inside he's crying because the command to protect Sammy was literally beaten into him and this goes against every single action he's ever done and it hurts so much that Dean just has to put an end to it. "Forgive me."
Sam's eyes are beautiful and wet and soft and his mouth pulls into a pained smile because he understands and he loves Dean so much and it just hurts hurts hurts and it needs to stop.
Then wind is pulling over the scythe and it's swinging in a wide, beautiful arc and Sam's neck barely slows it down as it slices through and continues on until it buries itself in the stomach of its master. Death crumbles as Sam falls.
And then Dean's terrified because he feels nothing. He's absolutely empty. His reason to live is gone and living forever is therefore his ultimate punishment and by God, does he deserve it. Dean craves pain because pain is humanity and the Mark is hungry, so hungry, and Dean can't even weep over the body of his dead brother. The thing inside of him that was screaming dies and Dean is empty.
Then lightening comes from the ceiling and Dean's not surprised – he's not anything – and the blue light curls around his forearm, caresses the Mark, and burns it off and Dean stands there looking at it and tears are running over his cheeks as the Mark burns away and his skin is smooth and untainted and then Dean smells Sam's death and doubles over, vomiting on the floor and he is so, so alone.