Title: Yes
Summary: It's five years later and Dean's saying yes.
Word Count: 902
Characters: Dean, mentions of Sam and other characters
Rating: K
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Notes: My first SPN fic! I got inspired by Future!Dean's speech in "The End"
He wishes he could take it all back; the infernal regrets that burrow through his mind like living creatures living selfishly inside his skull, taunting him, reminding him of all that time he wasted, all that time he spent pushing his brother further and further away towards evil and insecurity. Shunning him was not the answer, turning away from him when he needed his help more than ever was most certainly not the answer. To think, the precious time they wasted apart when he should've been protecting him from Lucifer instead of forcing him to answer that inevitable answer. Yes. Now he was gone and there was nothing left but pain and torture wherever you looked. There was no bringing him back. He was Lucifer's vessel and no one could beat Lucifer. Not yet, not without the Colt. And it's whereabouts was currently a mystery. Dammit, Sammy, if only you knew how badly I wish I could change this - how much I miss you, regardless of what you've done. It's been two years since the man he knew and loved as his brother became…became something else. Two long, exhausting years. Now he sits here wishing, wishing he could take it all back.
He doesn't even glance down as he loads his weapon, then unloads it, then loads it again. Fresh bullets. It's only a matter of time until they find their way in to some poor bastards flesh. He cocks the gun and loads it for the fifth time. Nothing better to do? Today, he killed nearly twenty people: twenty men, women and children. Twenty targets, and he killed them all in cold blood. So he sits there, reloads the gun for a sixth time knowing he'll only have to use the bullets inside to murder someone else tomorrow.
He's supposed to be saving the world; it sounds so uncertain. Supposed to be. As if he's not even trying. Hell, he's the only one who knows just how damn hard he's trying. He wants to win. The good guy always kills the bad guy, no matter what. Except he's been killing so much he can hardly tell the difference anymore, and so the trying becomes meaningless. It's a vicious circle. No one wins. Not yet.
He almost misses the untimely intrusions from Zachariah and his merry Angel pals. At least the persistent urges for him to say Yes to Michael were a reminder that the worst could be prevented. But when the worst happened, they didn't waste time salvaging what was left of the human race. No, they fled like the cowards they were. Maybe it was clear to see who God's favourites were now. So much for God, or angels, or salvation. To Hell with it all! Perhaps there is no God after all. Perhaps He really is dead, and the Angels left of their own, selfish accord. He really isn't sure which scenario he prefers.
He finally places the gun down on the wooden table, stares blankly at the gap in the window as he reflects on his mistakes. He had one chance and he blew it. Maybe it was selfishness, or maybe it was selflessness. He isn't sure anymore and he's tired of thinking about it - because it's all he thinks about. The apocalypse, the virus, Michael. Sammy. The answer is clear now; he wishes he had said yes.
The world had shaped this way because he refused to save it when he had the chance. What's the use in fighting Evil when the Good in the world isn't enough to defeat it? The End was here and it was all his fault. It sickened him to the point where he couldn't even look at himself in the mirror.
But there were only so many times he could be sick, or cry, or swear vengeance and war against his enemies, only to end up right back where he started. He should've said yes before Sammy did.
He should've said yes.
"YES," he cries, "YOU HEAR ME YOU SONS OF BITCHES?! I'M SAYING YES!"
He's outside now. It's cold and it's dark and he has no jacket. But he doesn't care. He strains his lungs, throat, muscles - he must be heard. It can't be too late. It can't be too late to fix this. But he feels it deep inside. He knows it; they're not here. They've been gone for while now.
"I WANT TO CHANGE THIS! YOU WANTED ME TO SAY YES, SO HERE IT IS. YES, DAMMIT! YES!"
The full moon is a painful contrast to the hideous condition the Earth now lies in. It gleams beautifully, like crystal, the silver more royal then any gold jewels made by man. He watches it, high above, thinks about its observations of Earth - how it's remained untouched, the same, as it watches its neighbour burn and cinder and become Hell on Earth.
Damn this world, damn this reality filled with terror and sickness, damn Lucifer and damn God. The dark sky echoes a scream as he slams his fist in to the wooden wall of the hut and feels the splinters pierce his skin. He wishes things could be different, because wishing is all he has left. Through the agony of it all, he stifles a sarcastic snigger. It's ridiculous, isn't it? That it could have all changed at the sound of one simple word?