Dean couldn't quite remember the events that led up to him walking to that highway bridge. Perhaps a few too many beers at The Roadhouse, whose previous owners had long since passed on, assisted in the past half hour of stumbling through a blurred town. Maybe his mind, cloudy with images that he would rather forget, is what drove him toward the side of the bridge.
He doesn't recognize his actions until he feels the cold metal of the handrail against his hand, causing him to stop all movement.
He blinks down at the bar that blocks him from a drop that could surely take his life, considering all options before he planned to move again.
Thoughts continued to run through his head. Bobby would be pissed. He can't even imagine what his dad would say. Though it isn't as if any of that matters anymore. They're both gone now. The only one left is Sam.
But would his little brother even notice his absence? After this mess that dragged him back into demon hunting, Sam hasn't been the same. When Azazel killed their father, Bobby, Ellen, and Jo; the two Winchester brothers worked to hunt him down and kill him with the colt, a gun specifically made to kill demons. Afterwards, Dean had expected his brother to stay in the family business, but instead Sam decided to go back to Stanford.
Sam has only visited Dean once since then, at last year's Christmas, but besides the occasional phone call, the older sibling doesn't hear from his brother much at all.
Dean now stands on the thin strip of concrete on the outer side of the bridge, feet shoulder width apart, and calves pressed against the railing. His arms are out to his sides and twisted backwards at an awkward position so he can hold onto the rails.
For a moment he considers if anyone besides Sam would attend his funeral. He didn't necessarily have friends, or anyone else that he was very close to, but surely there would be someone else there?
The ex-hunter pushes those thoughts from his head, looking down at the city road far below him. It's smooth, cold, monochrome streets seem so surreal from this high up. The street lights shine down onto the road and reflect light as if the streets were a black river. The stretch of dark concrete goes on forever, trailing off into the distance and becoming less recognizable as it goes.
The fall has to be at least fifty feet straight down. Maybe more. A jump like this should kill him instantly, though its less than he deserves. He deserves the pain, every last bit that he had brought upon his friends and loved ones, to be brought back tenfold onto himself. He deserves to pay for the deaths of each comrade that he lost. It was all his fault anyway. He needed to make it right. He was the one who should have died. Or so he believed.
A quiet, shaky breath escapes his lips as he tilts his head back a bit, letting his eyes slide shut. The cool wind rushes smoothly across his face and causes his hair to dance, tickling the back of his neck. The sound of the evening air mixed with an occasional car going by plays hollowly into Dean's ears. For once, in a long time, he is at peace, ready to accept his end with open arms. He's ready to rest at last.
He takes one last breath of chilly night before letting go of the handrails and plummeting off of the side of the bridge.
Dean falls through the air, watching the concrete below rapidly approach. He feels his eyes water up and sting from the pressure of air rushing against his face.
It isn't quite like he imagined. Its not slow or dramatized, like you'd read about in a book. Instead he is greeted by not even two seconds of falling, and before he knew it he had reached the bottom.
The pain is unbearable.
A grotesque cracking noise can be heard as he hits the ground. Why wasn't he dead? A scream rips through his throat at the pain that ripples through his limbs and sides. Throughout his years as a hunter he had acquired far too many injuries, fractured ribs, broken bones, bruises and cuts. Nothing could compare to what he's feeling now. There's no way of telling what part of him hurts the most. Its as if every bone in his body has been crushed by the fall.
The pain slowly starts to feel more numb as he becomes light headed. It's still agonizing, but now it seems to be further away.
He feels as if the earth is gone from beneath him. He has no sense of the state that he's in. All that run's through his foggy mind is "This isn't what I wanted."
He tries to move but his body won't obey him. It's as if he is being pushed from all sides in an attempt to hold him still.
In one last effort, he manages to open his eyes a bit. The first thing he notices is the shiny bright red liquid that pools around him onto of the dark concrete. He has to give all of his effort into making his eyes focus more.
When they do, he sees the shape of his right arm. The site is almost enough to make him throw up, and surely if he was able to move then he would. It's bent at an unnatural angle, elbow completely out of place. A blood covered bone has ripped through the muscle and skin of his forearm and is protruding outwards.
"This isn't what I wanted."
The pain fades as his senses are numbed and his vision becomes cloudy. He's losing too much blood to survive. Soon. He will be able to sleep. He lets his eyes drift shut and holds still, and even with his eyes closed, his vision goes white.
Then he feels a burning on his upper left arm. It starts off dull and warm but slowly starts to burn. It gets hotter and hotter until Dean is sure that his arm is on fire. His eyes squeeze shut tighter, still blinding by a white nothingness. His other injuries aren't even recognizable through the pain in his arm. The burning continues for a bit longer, spreading through him like a wild fire until he slowly loses consciousness.