A/N: This is kind of a missing scene from a previous fic 'All These Things That I've Done II' that I chose to leave out for one reason or another. I decided to post this some time after I heard some spoilers for season 4, not that this fic is in any way spoilery. (unless you haven't seen season 3 in which case - catch up!) It's been changed and padded out a little and maybe I should have left alone but due to anticipation of season 4 and serious withdrawal I couldn't resist. Also contains quotes from 'All These Things That I've Done' (part 1) which are in italics. It should still make sense though, if you haven't read either of those fics.
Summary:
It hadn't helped him, hadn't given him a sense of peace only left him feeling even more lost, alone, abandoned, rejected. And forsaken. Missing scene from 'All These Things That I've Done II'
Warnings: Angsty and probably depressing.
Last Act of a Desperate Man
Sometimes Dean wakes up in the middle of the night and feels as if the walls and ceiling are closing in around him, stealing the air from his lungs and threatening to swallow him whole. It had started during his last six months when reality had finally hit him. He doesn't sleep too well anymore. It's rare he makes it through the night without waking up, skin soaked in his own sweat, heart punching a hole through his chest, the fear almost tearing him apart. Sam never stirs and he's grateful for that although sometimes a hidden part of him suspects - or maybe even hopes - that Sam is faking sleep because his posture or breathing isn't quite what it should be, but he tries not to think about that and tells himself that he's keeping what needs to be hidden, hidden.
Sometimes he wakes filled with the urge to scream his throat raw, throw things, smash everything within a ten foot radius into little pieces and then fall to the floor and cry himself dry. Sometimes he just wants to curl into a ball and sob in the hope that his father would miraculously appear before him and hold him and tell him that everything will be alright but he knows that won't ever happen because everything won't be alright. Not ever. And anyway his father's long dead and can't help him and he thinks that after everything that's happened to him, this is the time when he's truly been most alone.
Sometimes a drive helps. Sometimes he'll grab a jacket and pull on some socks and his boots and take off into the night and when he returns Sam's usually still sleeping oblivious to his brief disappearance and he tells himself that he's glad that he hasn't disturbed him, although a tiny part of him always aches for Sam to stir and give him that look which says that he understands.
Tonight he has to get out of the room because the walls are doing that thing again and if he stays in there he's afraid he might lose his sanity. He takes off as usual, out of the town away from the main streets and shops and bars, towards the fields, into the dark where there is no one and the world sleeps. It's nearly a full moon, but not quite, but it's big enough to illuminate the sky and it's light falls on the crooked and wind battered spire of an old disused church in the distance.
It isn't long before he finds himself in it's grounds stood amongst the graves, now overgrown and unkempt, the engraving faded, illegible so he can't even tell who's buried there, or when they died or if anyone is still alive to miss them. If anyone ever missed them. Some of the windows of the church are smashed and there's graffiti on one of the walls and he thinks that this place must have stood alone for a long time. He starts to think about the last time someone visited here; looked up to the spire and reached out to something they could neither hear nor see. He wonders if maybe they found peace here, if they felt comforted by the silence, felt something else within it or if they felt nothing at all and it only compounded their misery, the rejection adding to their desperation.
Like it did him.
"I'll take whatever's comin' to me without complaint or a fight but you gotta help me out here...just...you just have to let him be ok..."
It hadn't helped him, hadn't given him a sense of peace only left him feeling even more lost, alone, abandoned, rejected. And forsaken.
"That's all I'm askin'...please...I don't care what happens to me you can do what you want with me or let them do what they want but just...just let my little brother be ok. Please."
He knows that he would be long gone before his prayers could be answered and that he'll never know if they have been. He'll never know if he was heard that night, never know if someone had been listening. He wonders to himself why people do this; why when in the worst times they turn to the unknown, searching, reaching for something out of desperation, why they think it will make a difference, why he thinks it will make a difference. Why he hopes that he will be heard.
He wonders maybe if it's some glitch in the brain's chemistry, a spark or short circuit or if maybe some part of the being, the soul has some pre-existing knowledge, like programming, an inherited memory of something else, something bigger, something beyond the physical and maybe that's why he's here, that he's been brought here, summoned, drawn close, called home and he wants more than anything to believe that. The boy inside who remembers his mother's words needs to believe that, but the hunter in him, the man who had been taught logic, sense, to trust what you know, to trust fact, knowledge not hope, the man who had been corrupted and twisted by the constant presence of evil in his life, by loss and grief and abandonment dismisses it, refuses to allow himself that comfort, refuses to allow himself to be fooled.
And it's the hunter who always wins.
He sneers in disgust at the battered old building in front of him, unsure where the anger comes from and who it is for and a small voice in his head chides him, mocks him, asks him how he can hate something he doesn't even believe exists. How can he hate something he doesn't believe in? He tells the voice to shut the hell up and for a micro second wonders if the voice was even his.
"I dunno what you want from me; I said all I got to say."
The voice rebukes him again, laughs at him.
"What? You want me to beg is that it? Well you're gonna be waiting a hell of a long time."
He turns his back suddenly feeling self-conscious and foolish, rests his arms on the wall surrounding the church, the wall that is missing in places, covered in moss, eaten away by the elements and by time - falling apart. He sighs wearily and feels his stomach clench forcing the ache upwards.
"I don't want to die."
It's only a whisper and he turns back around almost afraid that he may not have been heard as if he needs to make sure he is.
"I don't want to die alright? There I said it, you happy now?"
He chews at some dry skin on his lip, the throbbing inside his chest rising higher. The voice falls silent, no answer, no response, no laughter.
"I don't wanna go to hell."
The silence screams at him and the dull throb forces it's way upwards, bringing a burning sensation to his eyes, tears forming without his consent. His voice rises involuntarily, releasing the anger he still doesn't understand.
"So it's up to you. You think I'm worth saving? Well then do somethin' dammit. I can't...I don't..."
Voice breaking, he wipes at the tears before they leak out of his eyes unable to prevent more from appearing.
"Is a second chance too much to ask for huh? Am I really that much of an asshole? All I ever did was look after my family...I just...I don't deserve this. I don't."
Another tear breaks free and he leaves it alone, unable to summon the energy to lift a hand to wipe it away. It trickles slowly down his cheek, falters for a moment then finally falls to it's end, seeping away into the dry soil by his feet.
"I don't."
He breathes out slowly, the air burning his throat and suddenly he wants to scream because it hurts too much, the terror, the shame of not being able to keep his soul hidden, of being unable to keep hold of whatever it is that allows him to get through each and every day without falling to pieces. It's melting away and he can't stop it, can't keep his grip and he's losing the will, the strength and a part of him doesn't even care any more.
"You can stop this. If you're real then you can stop this from happening. Please."
They're not his words anymore. He wouldn't say this, not him, not Dean Winchester, but he doesn't know who he is anymore, doesn't know how to be himself anymore, doesn't know how to deal with this fear.
"Please. I'm so scared."
He releases a sharp bitter laugh, stops just short of a sob, feels his self control return to him, reality reminding him of the futility of wanting something you cannot have, of wishing for something you know isn't real, of believing in something that is nothing but a lie. He nods to himself, accepting the inevitability; swallows back the tears that hadn't been allowed to surface and exhales, the action bringing him to a place of calm acceptance.
When he returns to the motel he's grateful for the dark so that even if Sam were to wake he wouldn't see the redness around his eyes or the tear tracks on his face. He removes his boots and jacket and falls on to his bed drained and exhausted and empty and wonders what the point is in prayer if no one answers, if no one hears. He stares up at the ceiling relieved that it's staying where it is, relieved that the urge to cry has eased until he hears movement in the neighbouring bed and doesn't need to turn his head to know that Sam is staring right at him.
"Dean?"
Just one word from his brother sends him back where he was, a rush of panic, skin flushing at the fear of being seen, really seen. He says nothing, not trusting his voice, not trusting his ability to cover himself, his ability to lie, to fake, to pretend.
"You know...if you..."
Sam breathes a heavy sigh and Dean finds that he's too scared to move.
"I'm here ok? I'm always here. You know that right?"
And tonight that's all it takes, tonight the walls aren't doing what they should do, not keeping the flood at bay and everything rushes back to the surface. A breath forces it's way from his lungs, he hopes that Sam doesn't hear it catch in his throat but knows that he has so he does the only thing he can do and turns away, buries his face into his pillow, hating himself for his inability to keep his brother safe from his misery but when he feels the bed dip and a warm, strong hand on his shoulder he's unsure what he should feel, unsure if he should feel grateful, irritated, ashamed, but what he does feel is miserable and that doesn't change, it never changes it's just sometimes easier to keep hidden. For not the first time he silently cries himself to sleep, his brother's hand on his shoulder only reminding him of everything he's going to lose.
End