Character(s): Dean & Sam Winchester (with hints of Lucifer).
Disclaimer: As always, I own nothing. The TV show Supernatural belongs solely to its rightful owner(s).
I don't know if this kinda fic has been done before, but I wanted to try something new. Constructive criticism is, as always, welcome. No flames, if you please. And don't forget to review!
In The End
oOoOo
It happened. Just like they said it would.
Detroit. Camp Chitaqua. Michael. Bobby. Cas.
Exactly like they said it would.
Hell, I even met myself. My past self, anyway. I hadn't realized how idealistic I was back then, how perfectly annoying. Filled with a false sense of hope, my past self seemed ready to take on the Devil himself. The decisions I'd made were necessary. So, I took the first opportunity I had and left him behind.
I can do this, I'd thought. Hope. There's still hope.
But I was wrong. About so many things.
It feels like a hundred years have passed since I last stood in this cemetery. Since I last saw that lanky frame, familiar face, brown puppy-dog eyes, and all.
Maybe it has been a hundred years. I don't know. But I'm wearing the clothes I've always worn, and I'm dirty. Haggard. Weariness has seeped into my bones, my very being, and somehow come to define me. I feel like I could sleep forever. My first impression of Him is that He's well-dressed and worldly. His white suit is crisp, new, and everything I'm not.
I think it's this realization that hits me the hardest: We don't even look like brothers anymore.
Call me sentimental, but it's the eyes that affect me most. The clothes may be different, the face a shade or two paler, but the eyes — they're Sammy's. I'd know them anywhere, and with good reason. They're the eyes I've grown used to, that have been watching me, idolizing me, longer than I care to remember. And I might just know them better than I know my own in the mirror.
But they're not Sammy's anymore . . . are they?
Seeing them . . . I knew then what I had always known, on some level or another. I could not kill my brother, even if he was the Devil. Not Sammy.
Oh, God. Not Sammy.
I would rather die.
The revolver slipped through my fingers easily, like sand, and landed in the dewy grass with a dull thunk.
He began to walk towards me, His expression grim and almost apologetic.
"It didn't have to be this way," He said, softly.
"I know," I whispered, mesmerized. His eyes were suffocating. Looking into them, I thought that it would not be so bad to die after all.
I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry.
And in the end . . . In the throes of remorse, I finally knew the death of love.