This was inspired by a dream Jensen had of how Supernatural ends. It's not happy, it's not picture perfect, and though it made me sad to write I think there's a type of beautiful closure about it all the same. Please enjoy.
"This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper."
-T.S. Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
It was the middle of autumn, and the trees of the forest were at their peak. The golds and oranges and reds surrounded Dean on every side, accented by the deepening blue of the sky and the last sunlight of the day.
It should have been beautiful.
But to Dean, the trees might as well be dead stumps, the leaves brown dust, the sky a dull gray. It seemed wrong that anything could be so beautiful when he felt so dead inside. How dare the world be so full of life, when the only thing that mattered to him was gone?
It would have been beautiful, if not for the task he was there to do.
The pyre was made, the wood stacked and soaked in gasoline. The book of matches weighed heavy in Dean's pocket, ready to send the pyre up into flames colored like the falling leaves.
It could have been beautiful, if Sam had been standing there next to him. But Sam would never stand again. Sam was the one lying on the pyre, his eyes forever closed and his face pale and lifeless. Sam was dead, Sam was gone, and Dean couldn't bring him back this time.
He'd tried, oh God he'd tried. He'd prayed to every angel he could think of, he'd offered up his broken soul to any crossroads demon he could find, and he'd even begged God himself. And then, when none of that worked, he'd gone so far as to summon Death despite the risks.
And when Death told him that no one and nothing could bring Sam alive again because he had asked not to be, he'd nearly broken. The fact that Sam had asked for this, that Sam had wanted to stay dead, to be away from him… it hurt even more than the reality that he was gone for good this time.
He'd never wanted to do this. He'd never wanted to be the one to build his little brother's pyre, never wanted to be the one to light the match. Little brothers were not supposed to die before big brothers. It went against the natural order of things. Not that the natural order of things had ever mattered much to the Winchesters.
Dean lifted a hand that trembled ever so slightly, gently brushing a bit of hair from Sammy's still face. He was aware of Castiel standing just a few feet behind him and watching him intently, but he didn't care. He moved his hand to press against Sam's cheek, and a terrible swell of sadness filled him up inside. A few tears escaped his eyes and splashed down on Sam's face as he leaned down and lightly brushed his lips against his brother's forehead.
"I'm sorry, Sammy," he whispered huskily. "God, Sammy… I'm so, so sorry."
But the words felt empty and useless even to him. How could such small, insignificant words possibly express the aching in his heart? How could they make up for all the things that had gone unspoken between them? How could they justify everything that Dean had done wrong? There were no words for that. And if Dean tried to find any he would be here forever, wasting away under the falling leaves. Which maybe wouldn't be so bad, he thought.
"They will let him into Heaven," he heard Castiel say from behind him, trying in his own way to be comforting. "He will be happy. You don't have to worry about him anymore."
Dean didn't say anything. There was nothing to say. He simply straightened up, giving Sammy's face one final glance, trying to memorize every little detail: every wrinkle, every freckle, every angle, every curve. Then he covered him completely with the burial shroud and stepped back, removing the matches from his pocket.
He lit one, but could not bring himself to throw it onto the pyre. He stood there until the flame burnt down to the end of the matchstick and singed his fingers, but he still could not throw it. The match burnt itself out, and Dean let it fall to the forest floor before lighting another one. He took a deep, shuddering breath and hesitated for one more second, and then he tossed it.
The pyre went up in flame with a whoosh, sending out an explosion of heat. Dean stood so close that the heat was painful, evaporating his tears before they hit the ground. But he did not move, watching the flames move in their hungry, hypnotic dance as they devoured the only family he had left.
Castiel moved next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, staying silent but strong as Dean fell to pieces. Dean's breath came in short little gasps every few seconds as he let it all go, crying unashamedly. Had it been anyone else in that fire, he would have chastised himself for being so weak. But Sam was the only exception.
He remembered all those years ago, when Dad had died and he and Sam had burnt his body together. He hadn't been able to cry back then. He'd only felt numb, hearing Dad's voice in his head even as his body crumbled to ashes.
I need you to be strong, Dean. Don't ever show your fear. Stay strong for your brother.
He'd listened, like the good son he was. He'd kept his game face on, even when it meant bottling up the fear and the anger and pain. But now, it felt like his chest was filled with broken glass and his entire body was shaking. There was no way he could muscle his way through this. There was nothing to do but cry himself dry.
After a while the anger pushed itself to the surface. Anger at himself, anger at the world, anger at all the sons of bitches that had led him to this. He turned on his heel away from the fire, violently ripping from Castiel's grasp. He went over to the Impala and opened up the trunk, propping it open and gathering all his weapons in his arms. Guns, knives, wooden stakes, protective amulets, hex bags, axes, rosaries, bullets; it didn't matter. He took as much as he could carry and returned to the fire, throwing it all into the blaze. Back and forth he went from the trunk to the pyre, destroying all the weapons.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Castiel asked him.
"I'm done, Cas," he replied, his voice barely controlled. "I'm done with the hunting and the killing and the putting my life and everyone else's on the line. I'm done with the crappy motel rooms and the long car drives and the thankless jobs. I'm done with this life. I'm done with everything. I've gone down this road too many damn times, and I'm just done."
The gunpowder and the bullets reacted with the fire, going off with bangs and mini explosions. It sounded like chaos, like war. It sounded like screaming, the screaming that was going on inside Dean's mind. The pandemonium and the turmoil gave him some small bit of satisfaction.
A few bits of flaming shrapnel went flying with the explosions, landing in the dangerously dry leaves.
"Dean," Cas warned him. "You're going to burn the forest down."
"Let it burn," Dean growled, dumping another armful of weapons in the flames. "Let the whole damn WORLD burn!" he shouted.
Soon the trunk was nearly empty, all but for one gun with silver bullets, one silver knife, and one canteen of holy water that the small part of Dean's brain that was still rational demanded he keep. Dean returned to the fireside and listened to the popping of the guns and the hiss of melting metal and the crackle of burning wood. He stood there for hours, for so long that his legs went numb and his eyes dried red and the sky turned black as pitch. Only when the fire simmered down to coals and there was nothing left but ash and twisted lumps of melted metal did he bring himself to move. He turned back to the Impala in a sort of dream state, knowing this was all real but not being able to accept it.
"Where are you going?" Cas asked him.
"Anywhere," he said. "Nowhere."
"And… you're not hunting?"
"No."
"Are you sure about this, Dean?"
"There's nothing left to fight for," Dean answered, opening the trunk and taking out his bag, putting the last of his weapons inside. "I have nothing left."
There was a pause.
"You have me," Castiel said quietly.
Dean stopped. He set his bag back down in the trunk and turned back around to face Castiel, who was looking at him with that old, sad expression that was always in his eyes.
"Sam was my friend," Cas said. "I, too, feel much pain about his passing. I, too, am going to miss him greatly. You aren't alone, Dean. Not completely."
Dean paused. "I'm sorry, Cas. But I can't do this anymore. Not now that Sammy is- is dead. Please, you have to understand that."
Castiel nodded sadly, turning to look back at the ashes that were floating away on the wind, finally free.
"Do you... do you need a ride back?" Dean asked flatly, gesturing to the car.
Cas shook his head. "No… I believe I will stay here for a little while longer and pay my respects."
Dean nodded, trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat. Then, he crossed the short distance between him and Cas with a few strides and pulled him into a hug. Castiel seemed taken aback at first, but after a moment tentatively returned the gesture. It wasn't like one of Sam's hugs, when his powerful arms gripped Dean in a strong, warm embrace, but Dean found comfort in it all the same.
"Stay in touch, you hear?" he said, pulling back.
Cas offered him a little half smile and nodded, but part of Dean doubted that he would ever see him again.
He walked over to the Impala and slid into the driver's seat, turning the key in the ignition and pulling out onto the dirt road. He drove away, watching Castiel in the rearview mirror as he knelt in prayer before the ashes until the car turned a corner and he disappeared from view.
The whole drive down the mountain where Dean had chosen to have Sam's funeral and all the way into farming country that was nothing but flat plains, Dean found it difficult to ignore the emptiness of the passenger seat. He blasted AC/DC and Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and sang at the top of his lungs until his voice gave out, but the hollowness continued to lurk at the edges of his mind and eat away at his heart.
Soon he came to a little gas station along the side of the endless highway and pulled in. He reached for his wallet only to realize that it was in his bag in the trunk. He got out of the car and went back and opened the trunk, taking his wallet from his duffel. When he opened it, however, he realized he didn't have much money left. He glanced at the only other thing in the trunk: Sam's bag.
He swallowed. He had been trying to avoid going through Sam's things, but he knew Sam would have some money in there, and if he didn't buy some gas he was going to end up running dry in the middle of nowhere. He picked up the bag and unzipped it; unfortunately, Sam's wallet wasn't right on top as he had hoped. That meant he was going to have to dig through the bag.
He pulled out a few flannel shirts and some jeans, searching. He came across Sam's favorite shirt and, after a moment's hesitation, pressed it to his face and breathed in. It smelled like soap and sweat and Sam, and Dean felt his chest tighten and his eyes prickle. He put the shirt aside and pulled out more of Sam's things; his beloved laptop, his sweatpants that he slept in, his hairbrush. To his surprise, he also found a pocket sized Bible, with a particular page marked and a certain section highlighted.
There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every affair under the heavens.
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.
A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away.
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak.
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Dean bit hard on the inside of his cheek. It was too soon, too soon for him to be doing this. Too soon for him to be going through all this. Too soon for him to be remembering.
He set the Bible aside and unzipped one of the smaller pockets. The wallet was in there, containing a few hundred dollars but nothing else. He took the money and put the wallet back, noticing something else glinting in the bottom of the pocket. He reached in and pulled it out, and caught his breath when he realized what it was.
It was the amulet. The one that Sam had given him for Christmas all those hundreds of years ago. The one that he had thrown away in a moment of despair. The one that he had so often wished he could have back, regretting ever having let it go. He slipped it over his head and impatiently brushed away the wetness in his eyes. One thing was for sure; he was never letting go of this again.
Dean took a few of Sam's things and put them in his own bag, including the Bible, the laptop, and Sam's favorite jacket. Then he started to fill up the tank of the Impala. As he was doing so, a young guy, in his twenties or so, pulled into the gas station on a black motorcycle. Dean noticed that he kept glancing over at Dean and the Impala surreptitiously as he filled up. Then after a moment's hesitation, he meandered casually over to Dean.
"Nice car," he said. "'67 Impala, right? She is a beauty."
Dean offered him a half-hearted smile. "Yeah, she sure is."
"In great condition, too."
"I make sure of it."
The guy gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry for bothering you, it's just that ever since my wife and I started looking for a car after she realized she was pregnant, I've been noticing other people's rides more often."
"Well, I can't blame her for being eye-catching." Dean said.
"Yeah," the guy murmured distractedly, his eyes sweeping over the car.
Dean looked at him for a second. "So you've got a family?"
The guy looked surprised at the question for a moment. "Yes, a beautiful wife and a baby boy on the way."
His smile was so happy he seemed to be glowing. It was the kind of smile that Dean remembered from his earliest memories, when Mom and Dad would dance around the room while holding him in between them, smiling like fools with Dad's hand covering Mom's where it rested protectively over her slightly bulging middle.
Dean remembered what it was like to be that happy. He remembered when the passenger seat wasn't so empty it was like a black hole that was sucking in his soul. He remembered when the Impala had been filled instead with music and stupid car games and the sounds of two little boys' laughter.
In a split second decision, he tossed the keys at the guy, who caught them on reflex. "Here. I'll trade you."
The guy's eyes widened. "Are you serious?"
Dean chuckled a little. "Yeah, I am. Take it. Go be happy with your family."
The guy's agape mouth curled into an amazed smile. "Thanks, man! I'll take care of her, I swear."
"You better," Dean said in a mock-threatening tone. "Me and Baby, we've been through a lot together, you know. Just promise me you'll go make some memories of your own."
"I promise," the guy said. Then he laughed. "Dude, this is awesome! Thank you so much!"
Laughing at his good fortune, he tossed Dean the keys to the motorcycle and got into the Impala. He revved the engine, and with one last grateful wave pulled out of the gas station and drove the way Dean had come. Dean watched him go for as long as he could, until his beloved Baby had become nothing more than a smudge that blended in with the distant shape of the mountains. The mountains where Dean imagined he could almost see a curling wisp of smoke still burning.
Dean turned away and walked over to the motorcycle, shifting his bag on his back. He got on the bike and started it, pulling Dad's leather jacket closer around him and straightening Sammy's amulet around his neck before pulling out and riding the opposite way the Impala had gone. There was nothing but empty fields on either side of him and nothing but endless road and slowly lightening sky ahead. Dean didn't have the faintest idea where he was going, but he suspected he would know when he got there.
With the wind nipping at his face Dean drove down the eternal highway, leaving behind almost everything he had ever loved. It hurt like hell, yeah, but there was something… almost purifying about it. It was the end of Sam, it was the end of hunting; it was the end of all that his world had always been made of. But it was the beginning of something else… and though Dean didn't know what that something else was, exactly, he wasn't one to shy away from the unknown.
Dean let one last teardrop escape before it was whipped away to join the dance of the ashes on the wind.
How did Sam die? I'll leave that up to your imagination.
So what do you think? Please review!