Mexican Summer

xxxxx

Disclaimer: Do not own and am not affiliated with Supernatural in any way (and what a shame). Title is taken from a song of the same name by Marissa Nadler.

A/N 1: Most of this was written before the S4 finale; any similarities to the finale are purely coincidental and there could be spoilers for anything up to that episode. Anything else is, by this point, wildly AU.

A/N 2: Foul, unbetaed language ahead!

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Seeing the world as it was, it was difficult to believe that the end had been so narrowly averted. The devastation that the Apocalypse had threatened to bring was echoed only in the heat of the sun beating down on the scorched earth. The flawless, bleached-blue sky stretched silently over the desert, meeting the land in a blurry seam that was bisected by a sinuous black line. A lonely traveler raced down the highway, the roar of its engine the only indication of life across the quiet plain. The powerful, sleek black car collected a fine layer of dust as it sped from one horizon to the other, following the sun as it made its daily trek to the west.

As the sky slowly darkened into a dusky violet-blue, the Impala approached two small, low-lying buildings that sprawled on opposite sides of the road. A flashing neon sign on the right proclaimed one building to be a motel with vacancies, while a faded, painted sign named the other a diner. The classic car slowed and turned away from its relentless journey, choosing to slide into the empty gravel parking lot that lay in front of the motel. The rumble under the hood abruptly cut off and after a few beats, the driver side door opened and a man slowly climbed out. The door slammed shut and the lean figure leaned back against the solid frame of his car – his home – and paused to look out into the distance. The bleak majesty of the desert at twilight lay before him, but it went unnoticed.

The clerk sitting behind the check-in desk watched as the young man shuffled towards her door, his head down and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. She didn't bother turning down the volume of the TV that was blaring behind her. There was no point; this wouldn't take more than a few minutes anyway. The clerk watched with a bored face as her potential customer entered and approached the desk, head still down and hands still in his pockets. She cleared her throat noisily.

"Can I help you?" Her voice came out raspy from disuse and a forty-year, three-pack-a-day habit.

The young man came to a halt and looked up, startled, as if he hadn't been expecting anyone to be there. He covered up his surprise with a brief smile that clerk suspected was even wearier and more fake than the one that stretched her own lips. It did nothing, however, to detract from the strikingly beautiful face.

"Yes ma'am," he replied, his voice deep and gravelly as her own. "Single room for the night."

The woman behind the desk frowned. She hated being called 'ma'am', even by good-looking young men. Especially by good-looking young men. "How you payin'?"

The young man pulled a slim wallet out of his back pocket. "Cash," he replied.

"It's fifty for the night. Check-out is 11 AM."

The clerk studied the young man as he counted out some crumpled bills. Gorgeous or not, it was clear he'd been through some rough times. He was oddly thin, as if his frame had once been powerful but had wasted over time. He swam in his t-shirt and jeans, and he huddled into his worn leather jacket against the rapidly cooling night. Addict, the clerk idly mused as she accepted his money. But he didn't have the wild-eyed look about him. He just looked…dazed.

"You okay, hon? You don't look so good," she said, surprising herself. Where did that come from?

Something ghosted across the young man's eyes, something so starkly, almost inhumanely anguished that the clerk recoiled. Never mind, she screeched silently, immediately wishing she could take the words back. She didn't want to know, didn't really care, didn't want to get caught up in this guy's problems. But it was gone just like that, swallowed up by a mask of neutrality. He didn't reply, just silently accepted his keys, nodded his thanks and left. She watched him pull the door open and disappear into the darkness. Shrugging, she turned back to her regularly scheduled TV program. That Howie Mandell, he made her laugh so hard…

xxxxx

Dean trudged outside, the keys clutched absentmindedly in one fist, and made his way to room 113. He fumbled with the lock, his shaking hands incapable of the motor control necessary for inserting the key into the keyhole. Clenching his jaw, Dean finally forced his way in, angrily slamming the offending door behind him. He didn't bother with the lights, stumbling his way to the bed by the moonlight filtering in through the flimsy curtains, stripping off his coat and tossing to the side. He dropped down on the edge of the mattress, fighting the urge to just sink back and let his eyes drift shut. He had been so close, so close this time. Goddammit Sammy, would it kill you to stay in one place for a bit? He couldn't blame his little brother, though. Kid was probably lost and confused. Dean imagined that perhaps they were both dancing around in a giant, cosmically screwed circle, one brother chasing the other like a dog hopelessly chasing its own tail. Yeah, well fuck you, he offered to whoever was listening. If I'd known this was gonna be my grand prize, I'd have never agreed to be your goddamn errand boy. Which wasn't really fair, but at this point, Dean Winchester didn't give a flying shit about fair. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, the hunter sighed. He just wanted…actually, he wasn't really sure what he wanted. Or maybe there were just too many things he wanted. Rest. Peace. Forgetfulness. Sam. And not necessarily in that order.

His mouth suddenly dry, Dean pushed himself off the bed and staggered to the door that he assumed led to the bathroom. The world started to tilt again (and that was getting really fucking old, already), so he gripped the edge of the stained ceramic sink, his knuckles white from strain. The insides of his eyelids felt gritty and dry, painful as they clamped down over eyes that hadn't seen proper rest in weeks. When he was certain that the earth wouldn't try to heave him off its surface, Dean reached up and pulled wearily at the chain that hung from the bare light fixture that was bolted into the ceiling. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, he thought, imagining himself tossed off the bucking planet and spiraling out into space, exchanging life for cold, black emptiness. It'd be peaceful, anyway. It was so damn tempting, if Dean was honest with himself. But he couldn't, not yet – it wasn't his due. He had some family business to take care of first.

Tilting his head back, Dean warily eyed the stranger staring out at him from behind the mirror. Dim green eyes were rimmed with red, sunken into sockets that were bruised by deep purple-grey shadows. The sprinkle of freckles that would normally be hidden by a healthy tan stood out against the chalky pallor of his skin, despite the fact that he'd been wandering through a sun-baked village for the past few days. His cheeks were hollowed, evidence of hunger and the frantic desperation that had been slowly burning him away since… Dean gasped as the memories assaulted him. There was fire – always fire. It defined his very existence.

"Sammy!" He could see his brother's tall, lanky, painfully familiar form in the shadows, lurking, waiting –

Lilith –

Demons poured out by the hundreds, black miasma surrounding the two brothers as they faced each other –

That fucking demon bitch standing behind his little brother, at his back, where he should have been –

No, dammit! Dean's hands clamped back around the sink, his teeth clicking shut as he forced the bile back down his throat.

Fire erupted, the flames licking at his baby brother's skin and his own, the stench of charred flesh and burning hair suffocating him –

Sam's warm hazel eyes turning to obsidian –

There was so much regret, and so much realization, but Sammy was so determined, he'd always been too goddamn stubborn for his own good, just like their Dad –

He sank down onto the filthy tile floor, his shaking legs no longer capable of bearing his weight. His eyes widened, seeing something that was no longer there.

There was pain – holy Christ, it came from everywhere –

He could hear Sammy screaming, his voice raw and wild, joining his own in an agonized chorus –

"Stop, stop it…"

The agony drove him to his knees, and he could feel his body failing, his heart stuttering –

A warm, familiar hand clamped onto his shoulder, Bobby's voice yelling in his ear, pulling him back when all he wanted to do was to go forward, go to Sam –

"Sammy, STOP! DON'T!"

No, not this, not like this, he couldn't live with this –

"I'm sorry."

And there was only light, carrying him away from everything, blinding him to the horrors that he didn't want to see and yet desperately needed to –

"Stop!" His voice was barely more than a whisper, but there was still more willpower left in the whittled down wreckage of his body than most people carried their entire lives. He forcibly shook the images away. Things were pretty fuzzy after that point, anyway. He'd woken up alone in an unfamiliar hospital room and had set out soon after, medical advice be damned. Sam was out there, alone. Communication was cut off and he imagined that his brother was probably wondering where the hell Dean was. He needed to find Sam before anyone else could get their evil bitch claws into him, although he clung to the dear, sunshiny hope that the demon whore had been destroyed in the showdown. It was the little things that kept him going.

And so here he was, chasing down another lead that had once again turned into nothing more than a sprinkle of dust on the wind. Sam kept slipping out of his grasp, so elusive and enticing, but no easier to reach than a mirage. Dean had criss-crossed the country after he'd checked himself out, tirelessly following the remaining pockets of demonic activity and supernatural omens that popped up in random towns. Durham, Pikeville, Thibodaux, Rocksprings, Elkhart and now here, somewhere between Dulce and the middle of nowhere. Sammy was heading west again. His brother was a slippery little bastard, Dean would give him that.

Dean groaned as he pushed himself up, nursing the lingering pains that kept him company on this wild goose chase. There were times when he idly wondered if he was getting too old for this shit. Scratch that, he knew he was too old for this shit. And then he decided that was impossible, since his dad hunted until he was what, forty-three? Forty-four? Although, Dad hadn't started until he was almost thirty. So Dean had a head start in terms of hunting years. Anyway, he was tired, that was for fucking sure. The elder Winchester shook his head as his brain started to slide sideways. Focus, he told himself. One thing at a time. Find Sam. Set things right. Let Sammy know that he hadn't meant those things, that those words had been released by fear, not truth. This was a hunt – not a hunt, I'm not hunting you down, Sammy, I don't think you're a monster, I just want to find you – that that he would finish no matter what.

He staggered back out into the room and set himself back down on the bed, rubbing his knuckles into his chest as his heart stuttered with fatigue. His body wanted to rest so badly, but his mind refused to stop racing. And the dreams…God, the fucking dreams. His dreams – nightmares – were torturing him, painfully and relentlessly. He kept dreaming about Sammy, about before, when Sam was a happy grumpy pouty jokey bitchy smiley smarty-pants. When he was just Sam. They were killing him, bit-by-bit, more cruel than anything he'd suffered in Hell. Dean was certain the next time he went to bed, he wouldn't have the courage to wake up.

"Dean."

He had to bite back a surprised cry at the voice that filled the darkness of the motel room. "No fucking way," he hissed, reaching over and angrily flipping on one of the lamps. He pointed one furious finger at his visitor. "You. You don't get to pull this shit on me anymore."

Castiel stood before him, looking as rumpled and blank as ever. The angel's head tilted to the side, his expression inquisitive as his imperturbable blue eyes assessed the hunter before him.

"Don't look at me like that," Dean snapped. "You know what the hell I'm talking about, so get the fuck out of my sight and don't ever, ever, pop in like you've got some God-given right to." His voice was no more than a grating whisper, but Castiel could hear the rage that shook the words.

"Dean," he tried again. "What is done is done. This was your destiny; you had no choice but to fulfill it."

If Castiel had thought Dean Winchester looked angry before, he looked as if he would explode now. He did not understand the look of incredulous fury that passed over Dean's face, but he did understand that the hunter looked as if he would pass out at any moment. "My destiny?" Dean choked out. "No choice? I had no choice because you sons of bitches rigged everything to fall just the way you wanted it to. That wasn't the fucking hand of destiny. That was you selfish bastards pulling the strings and jerking us around. Keeping me from Sam, letting him go, making me – " Dean cut himself off, eyes slipping shut as the fire in them suddenly extinguished. Pain was coming off of him in palpable waves before he reigned in it, tucking it behind what remained of his once impenetrable wall. "Screw destiny. It wasn't worth it," he whispered. "None of this was worth it."

Castiel frowned. "You don't mean that." This was not going the way he had imagined it would.

"Wanna bet?"

"You did your part to avert the End. A part only you could play. Do you not find peace in that?"

"Peace? Do I look like I'm at peace?"

The angel decided it would be better not to answer. He changed track, focusing on his own mission. "I wanted to thank you, for your part. You did well," he offered as solace.

Dean snorted. "You came to thank me now, after almost two months have gone by? Why even bother? You can take your thanks and shove it up your ass. I don't want it."

Castiel pursed his lips. Perhaps he should have checked up on Dean sooner. But it was no longer a part of his duties. "There were things that remained to be done, after the final battle. Cleanup, I suppose you could call it." But Dean wasn't listening. He was bent over his knees, his breath coming in gasps as he fought to remain conscious. Castiel could see the knobs of Dean's spine and the outline of his ribs through the thin material of his t-shirt. Yes, perhaps sooner might have been better. He stepped forward to offer aid, but Dean held his hand up.

"Stay…away…from me."

"You are unwell."

"Well gee, I fucking…wonder why," Dean growled.

"You must rest."

The hunter grimaced and shook his head. "No," he mumbled. "No. I can't. Not yet. Gotta find Sammy first."

Castiel sighed. It was worse than he had thought, then. The angel stared down at the broken man before him, and wondered again whether it was right that such loss should be a part of someone's fate. It seemed wrong that someone who had given so much would be left with so little in the end. Of course, Dean Winchester had not just given. God and the Heavenly Host had taken as well, taken everything they needed and wanted and when it was all used up, they were content to leave an empty husk behind. Uncomfortable with the direction his thoughts were taking, Castiel gave himself a little shake. That was the way it had be, he thought firmly to himself. That was God's will.

"Dean, Sam is – "

Dean cut him off. "No. You don't get to say his name. You don't ever get to say his name. You don't have the right."

"Sam – "

"I said don't!" The hunter looked up at him, anguish written plainly on his face. "Don't. Just leave. Leave me alone."

Castiel held his hands up in defeat. "If that is what you wish." The angel stepped forward suddenly and laid a gentle hand on Dean's forehead before he could react. The hunter's eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped forward bonelessly. Castiel caught him before he could hit the stained motel carpet and wasn't surprised to feel the dry heat that was burning Dean from the inside out. With great care, the angel laid Dean back on the bed, arranging his limbs and placing a blanket over his body. He then stepped back, taking a long look at his charge. Had he failed Dean? Heaven would say not, but Castiel wasn't so sure.

"Good-bye, Dean," he whispered. "Rest now. I will pray that you will find what you are looking for one day."

And with that he disappeared, leaving nothing but the rustle of blankets in his wake.

It is what it is. God's will be done.

xxxxx

A/N 3: Please let me say that this may be interpreted in any way. It is not necessarily a death fic. I just wanted to say this because I know some readers are sensitive to the issue, which I understand completely.

A/N 4: It's been a while since I've written anything, so I apologize if anything is super-OOC. Thanks so much for reading!