A/N: This was written for a horror comment-fic meme on sharp_teeth over at LJ, for mimblexwimble's prompt: "Dean needs Sam to hate him, as much as he hates himself. Needs it like air. But no matter what Dean does to him, no matter how far he goes, Sam just - won't." This is pretty much the first time I've written anything based on a prompt, and my mind kind of ran away with the whole thing. However, I hope the essence of it still remains. :)
Warnings: SPOILERS all the way up till 5.22: Swan Song, and some for Season 6 as well. An AU after 5.22. Aaangst, blood and gore, violence, character death, disturbing shit. Do let me know if I need to up the rating.
Disclaimer: I don't Supernatural or any of its characters.
Inside-Out
There was a failsafe.
In retrospect, Dean thinks that he should've known it was too easy; but he also knows that they - he and Sam and the combined weight of their several lifetimes - did nothing less than turn themselves out through acid and fire, kill and get killed, their souls strained through some kind of macabre filter, bits and pieces sticking behind as they passed through.
But then again, Dean thinks, for beings that span the existence of time and before and beyond, everything is easy.
Claws grind into his chest, and then he can't think at all.
The streetlight outside shorts out, and Dean knows it straightaway.
Lisa has barely called out his name before Dean is outside, and Sam's right there, face closed and eyes empty, but Dean says, "Sam" and he responds; he turns and smiles, a ready light shining in his eyes.
He's always responded to Dean.
Everything is different, now.
Sam is subdued - silent and withdrawn in a way that Dean can't take anymore. Even when they hunt, Sam is always a few steps back, unsure, hesitating, always second-guessing himself. And when Sam's asleep? It's even worse, because Sam won't stop crying, Sam won't stop screaming, Sam won't stop shaking and tossing and bleeding from his eyes and ears and nose. Sam won't stop suffering.
Dean stops wishing Sam wouldn't suffer, and starts wishing he could join in.
("I was, and I came back, Dean," Sam had said simply. "And now I am." A hesitant smile.)
They hunt because that's all they remember how to do now, but where there were monsters in the dark creeping from your worst nightmare, there are now monsters in broad daylight, spawning millions more and creating wide swathes of destruction. Sam and Dean are constantly chasing tales of bloody massacre - of rows of houses collapsing like dominoes under the combined assault of dozens of poltergeists; of shape-shifters and vampires and demons creeping into human society like a disease before ripping them from within; ancient mythological creatures long believed to be extinct materialising out of nowhere, killing and maiming and destroying.
After some time, standing with his brother in a town square that is littered with bodies - intestines hanging from roofs and window-sills like gnarled ropes; rubble, painted in blood both visible and invisible, everywhere - Dean thinks that maybe they didn't stop the Apocalypse at all.
They fought Heaven and Hell and gave everything they had and more - and the world is still ending.
Dean closes his eyes.
Maybe if he'd only said yes.
Maybe if he'd only not been so weak.
Maybe if he'd only saved his brother.
Maybe if he'd only stop waking to death and destruction that he'd caused, and love and acceptance he didn't deserve.
Dean pushes them as far and as fast as he can.
There's not much use to subterfuge and the goddamn cat-and-mouse they'd been playing their whole lives, these days - they ply their trade openly now, because people know them. People know hunters, know that they are their final hope and defence, and respect them. Maybe there was a time when Dean would've appreciated this, welcomed this, but now he just doesn't want to care. He's too afraid that he'll care, and slip up, and the rest of the world will know that he had killed their families just as surely as if he had stuck his knife between their ribs.
And so they keep moving, days blurring into one another, from hunt to hunt to another hunt. They barely stop for food, gas and rest - as scanty as the two are, these days - and there are moments when Sam sinks into himself in the front seat with an exasperated huff as Dean announces their next hunt, the narrowing of his eyes and a muscle jumping in his cheek, that Dean thinks his brother is going to reach over for the wheel, give him a piece of his mind, look at him with the loathing he deserves.
But Sam never does.
Sam half-collapses at one point, in between finishing up a wraith and starting on the bloody trail of a werewolf.
One moment he's standing next to Dean, ready to load their weapons into the trunk, and the next he's leaning against the Impala, exhaling a soft, "Stop." Dean does, if for nothing else than the suddenness of the request, and Sam slides down until he's sitting, head tilting back, squinting at Dean. "Dean," he says, "let's stop. Just for a while, alright? Just -" He swallows. "I'm worried about you, man."
Dean stares at his brother, at the weight he's lost, the rings under his eyes, the criss-cross of recently-acquired scars (too many, some part of him pipes up), and wants to laugh, but says instead, "We need to keep going."
A moment of silence stretches between them, heavy and infinite, before Sam nods and struggles to his feet. "Okay," he says.
They keep running into dead people.
Not the kind of dead people you'd expect in an apocalyptic world, no - these are people pulled down from Heaven and raised from Hell, whole and intact and very confused. Dean's had enough of them either recoiling from him and Sam in remembered terror, or practically climbing onto his car, crying and screaming for the return of their personal paradise, when he spots a familiar face.
"Hello, boys," Samuel Campbell says when Dean stops, and it turns out that it was not just their grandfather who'd been raised, but the entire extended Campbell family - their mother's family.
They've jumped right back into hunting, and for the next few hours all of them sit down, knock back a few stale beers and discuss the shit that's been going down lately. Dean forgets about that silent pain in his chest, like a slow-burning ulcer (or maybe it is an ulcer; he has no idea), gives himself to the easy conversation, until he notices Samuel looking at him with something that resembles pity.
"What?" he challenges.
"I've heard things from Up Above," Samuel says, "about you, Dean. You and Sam."
Dean's hand clenches around his beer bottle, but he doesn't say anything.
"So, you know, if you know more about what's going on than you're telling us... you don't have to hold secrets. You can't hold secrets." He leans forward, dark eyes intense. "We know."
The pain's back, anger and self-loathing twisting in his belly. Before he can give voice to it, however, Sam says, "We don't know much more than you guys do. We don't know how or why all this happened."
Except maybe we do.
Dean gets to his feet. "Sam, we're leaving," he says shortly before he stalks back to the Impala without a backward glance. He knows Sam is stumbling after him, and barely a second after Sam's closed the passenger door, the car rumbles forward, tearing down mile after mile. When Dean finally stops, Sam's staring at him, wide-eyed and pale.
Dean gets out of the car and Sam follows him, trying to say something. "Dean," he says, reaching for him, "Dean, what's wrong -" Before he finishes, Dean's fist flashes out, catching Sam on the jaw. Even as Sam's reeling, Dean cocks his fist and punches him again, just because it feels good. "Wrong, Sam?" he says, his voice dangerously close to hysterical. "What isn't wrong?"
Sam sways on his feet, wiping the blood off his chin from his split lip. "Dean..."
"I should've done something, Sam!" he screams, and he hits his brother again. "Don't you get it? We didn't follow the script. I didn't." A punch to the gut, and then one more, and Sam's on his knees, curled forward, gasping for breath. Dean gets down next to him, threads a hand through his hair and pulls viciously. "I shouldn't have trusted you."
Sam's long neck bobs as Dean pulls his head back further, but he doesn't fight back. "Dean," he says instead, voice raspy, "it's okay. Whatever it is... we'll fix it. We will."
That stings worse than anything Dean has felt so far.
"Together," Sam says, his eyes rimmed in black and shot through with red but wide with a hope so bright it scalds Dean, "together."
Together. That's exactly what Dean is afraid of.
Sam should hate him. Sam should be leaving.
(we might as well pick a hemisphere)
Any moment now.
Any moment.
Dean's waiting.
Dean's pinned against a moist stone wall, held by the mental restraints of the demon in front of him. Behind the demon is a gigantic cage, full of people slipping, sliding all over each other, crying, screaming, killing, and the rancid smell of blood, sweat and urine is overpowering enough for Dean to want to throw up, then and there.
Sam's somewhere in there.
The demon approaches him languidly, one arm outstretched. "Dean," it says, and laughs. "Dean. How wonderful it is to get a chance to play with a Winchester again." It flicks its hand, and Dean's shirt falls apart, a long line of red tracing its way down his chest. Dean flinches.
The demon leans forward, licks the blood that seeps from the incision. "Mmm." Black eyes look up at him. "Welcome back, Dean."
"Go to hell," Dean snarls.
It cocks its head, smiling. "But we are in Hell, Dean, didn't you know?" When Dean stares, the demon throws its head back and laughs. "Oh, how precious. You really don't know!"
It looks at him again. "That ring-key you used to lock our master in hell? All it did... was turn everything inside-out." It smirks. "This ain't Kansas, any more, Dean. This... is Hell. Your world is long gone - there is only Heaven, and this." And it reaches out and splays its hand over his bare chest.
And, in that frozen moment, a moment in an Apocalypse that belongs neither to Hell nor Heaven but is of humanity's own making, Dean thinks.
There was a failsafe.
In retrospect, Dean thinks that he should've known it was too easy; but he also knows that they - he and Sam and the combined weight of their several lifetimes - did nothing less than turn themselves out through acid and fire, kill and get killed, their souls strained through some kind of macabre filter, bits and pieces sticking behind as they passed through.
But then again, Dean thinks, for beings that span the existence of time and before and beyond, everything is easy.
Claws grind into his chest, and then he can't think at all.
Finis