It's the End of the World As We Know It

Author's Note: Uh, so... this was an idea I had been toying around with for a while. It kind of follows the main plot of the show, but there will be a lot of changes and differences in between. Also, I switch tenses a lot and I apologize in advanced for that... U-um... I hope you enjoy!

Prologue

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

The Hollow Man; TS Elliot

Dean awoke suddenly, startled and acutely aware of every minor thing in his little hole of a room. It's too quiet on the floor tonight, the kind of quiet that made a man think too much, and he shuddered as he feels a cold sweat drip down his back. His can feel the flimsy material of his standardized stark white shirt sticking to his skin and he quickly took it off without a second thought, wiping off the thin, cool film of sweat that covered his body. He hadn't remembered a time where he had woke up from a dream with such an alarming sense of panic and it kind of scared him, though he wasn't really sure why.

Then again, he couldn't even remember a time where he had a dream so dark, so rich and vivid in detail. It was as if he had actually been there while it was happening - he could smell the death and the decay, the bloated and rotting bodies. He gagged at the phantom sickly sweet smell and buried his face in his hands, wondering vaguely how long that dream - nightmare - would have went on if he hadn't tongued his sleeping medication. He didn't even want to consider the idea.

Or, maybe, the pills would lull his brain and body into a chemical sleep. One of those long, heavy, dreamless sort of sleeps where he woke up either feeling refreshed or stiff and sore because, damn, he does not move when he took those sleeping meds.

Standing up, Dean crossed his tiny little piss hole room to the heavy blue door, the one that locked not from the inside but the outside. More for the safety of the nurses than for the patients because who knew what silly shenanigans the crazies could get into if they were free to prowl the hallways at night. He pressed his forehead against the cool, unbreakable glass, and looked out into the dimly lit corridor. Back when he had first arrived in the hospital, when he wasn't busy with his shakes or being strapped to the bed, he would often gaze out the little window pane to the alien outside world. He once found it creepy, the way the hallway would seem to stretch on forever and how, on some nights when only a few lights were on, it would appear as if it were fading away into the shadows. He was sure that the paranoid kiddos on his block had a field day with wondering what was lurking in the darkness, waiting to eat them up, insides and all.

Now, however, it just seemed comforting in that boring, same old every day bullshit sort of way. This entire hospital was boring with it's same old every day bullshit. One would think that all sorts of new and exciting things would happen when you were locked up in a mental hospital, but Dean, as always, was proven wrong. He thought that maybe it's because he had gotten so used to the loons that most of the things they did anymore didn't even surprise him, just amused him on a good day. Other days, he would barely even notice, and he felt like, maybe, it was a bad thing that he was getting used to all the crazies and their antics. Like, maybe, that was making him crazy himself.

He realized that he's listening for the familiar whimpers and cries from the few patients on the ward who did that, but he was greeted with that eery quiet. It's too quiet - there was not even the hush of the heater or the soft squeaks of the nurses shoes against the ugly tile or anything and that bothered Dean. It truly bothered him for some reason he could not place, but a part of him felt like this just was not right.

He felt his heart jolt painfully against his chest when he noticed the silhouette hovering just nearly out of his range of vision at the end of the hall. He stared at it warily, putting his hands against the cool door, as if pressing himself closer was going to get him a better glance at the shadow. It doesn't move for a time, remaining just barely out of eye sight, before, slowly, it began moving down the hall. He just watched it, a sense of dread filling him, as if he really didn't want to see who that person was. As if that person was the bearer of inevitable and bad news.

The face of his mother appeared in front of the window and he sucked in a sharp, startled breath. She was younger, much younger, than when she had died, young like in those old pictures his dad had of her in his wallet, the ones that were yellowing and crinkled from being folded too much. He can't help but stare at her with wonder and awe, wishing the door would open so he could just wrap his arms around her and apologize to her for everything. But, even though he was happy to see her, a part of his mind was screaming at him that this wasn't right. That she was dead and people don't just come back from the dead. Unless... this was a dream.

He was really beginning to hope that this was just another dream. It had to be. If it wasn't, then the orderlies and nurses would be all over his mother and he would hear the babbling from the other patients and he'd feel comfortable and at ease. Listing excuses just made him feel better and he was just going to continue to firmly believe that this was a dream.

She smiled softly at him, a trace of pity on her face, as she stared at him through the little window. Dean just stared right back, offering a small, uneasy smile of his own, unsure of what else to do except just stand and stare at her. He doesn't have many dreams about Mary, his mother, but when he does... well... they're definitely not like this. He was always in his old house, never in the hospital. And she was always older, like how he remembered her - healthy and older and alive like she should have been so she could see her children grow.

The door opened and Dean took a few hesitant steps back, watching Mary warily as she moved over the threshold of the door and into the room in a leisurely fashion. There's an air of dignity about her, of a grace and power far beyond Dean's understanding. She was watching him watching her with calculating eyes, though there was a mocking sort of smile on her lips. Like she was enjoying a good private joke that Dean was not allowed in on.

"Not even going to hug your mother hello?" she asked, her girlish voice cold, hard, and teasing. Nothing at all like his mother's.

His eyes narrowed and his jaw clamped shut tightly. He didn't like that, whoever this was, was using his mother as a guise just to speak with him. That was like a hit below the belt. And, for Dean, it definitely hurt a lot more than that. His mother was one of his rare soft spots and many of the patients knew it after he bashed some kid's face in for insulting Mary.

His anger is evident in his tone, "You're not my mom."

"Bingo!" she perched on the edge of his bed, looking up at him and patting the spot next to her, an invitation for him to sit. He did not accept it. Instead, he stood stiffly with his fists clenched tightly at his sides as he glared down at the thing.

"Who are you...?" he was not quite sure if he wanted to know the answer - just looking at his mother (no, not his mom... the thing pretending to be his mom) made goosebumps break out along his skin and the hairs rise on the back of his neck. Her smile widened when she looked at him, as if she could see right through his little tough act, and Dean really felt like she could. But, that didn't mean he was going to stop it.

She threw one leg over the other lazily, cupping her knee with both hands and sighing as she glanced about the room.

"Not much of a place you have here, kiddo," she clucked her tongue. "I thought private hospitals would be..." she tilted her head, lips pursed, groping for the right word, "nice."

"It's a state hospital," he corrected through gritted teeth.

"It's quaint." There was laughter in her voice.

"Who are you?" he tried again, growing more impatient, more anxious. His stomach was knotted up so tight and he was so tense that he was beginning to ache from it. She sighed, like it was all so troublesome to have to explain this, and rolled her head back toward him.

"I... go by many names," there was that elusive, sly smile that touched her lips again. "Old Scratch, Beelzebub, Father of Lies..." she trailed off, yawning ostentatiously.

Dean was silent and he just stared at Mary, seemingly unable to settle on the correct emotion he should be wearing or feeling, even. There was bewilderment and anger that touched his face and his insides, and then dark amusement and then, finally, he decided on a hard, skeptical look. A thin, sarcastic sort of smile was pulling at his lips and Mary - Lucifer - just looks back at him calmly.

"The devil?" he sneered, he can't help it. It just seemed so freaking ridiculous that Satan was making a pit stop at some measly hospital in the Midwest just to speak to him of all people. Yeah, this most definitely had to be a dream. A ridiculous dream that he would wake up from and forget it ever happened.

"I know, I know," she held up her hands, as if trying to make peace, "you don't believe in me. But..." her thin fingers curled and she pointed at him, chuckling lightly, "I believe in you, Dean Winchester."

His blood ran cold at those words. He did not like the sound of that. But, it was all a dream, wasn't? It had to be. It was all just some stupid ridiculous dream and he'd wake up in the morning and go to his morning session with his therapist and they'd talk about this dream and his doctor would give Dean some reason as to why he was having a conversation with the fucking devil. He'd probably say that it had to do with Dean's subconscious trying to speak to him or maybe that he felt guilty or something dumb like that and Dean would take small comfort in the explanation and go on his merry way.

"Now that we have the introductions out of the way," she stood, dusting off her jeans lazily, so nonchalant and calm about this entire thing, "aren't you going to ask why I'm here?" she said it in a way a kindergarten teacher would try to coax her students to finish her sentence as she taught her lesson then award them with a sunny look and a cheerful, "Very good!"

Scowling, he asked stiffly, "Why are you here?"

"Aah," she crossed her arms loosely over her chest, lower lip pursing just a bit, "now that's a little harder to explain. Are you sure you don't want to sit down?" she gestured toward the bed again, studying Dean with those pretty blue eyes that belonged to his mother. It hurt to look into them, it brought on too many memories, so instead he just looked away and shook his head.

"Uh, no. I'll have to pass." there was no way he was going to sit down next to Lucifer and just chat it up with him like they were at some freaking Sunday brunch tea party. This whole entire dream was just getting a little too absurd for his liking.

"Suit yourself," she heaved a sigh before gazing at him, all of her focus directed entirely on Dean, leaving him feeling overwhelmed. He felt his chest tighten with fear and his stomach flip with sudden anxiety. He definitely did not the way he was being looked at.

"The world is about to end, Dean Winchester," she told him this calmly, as if they were talking about the weather or maybe the final score of some sports game. "There is nothing you can do to stop it, it would be a foolhardy idea to try." there was something dark and sinister to her words that made Dean's skin crawl.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"In a few months time, you will see," she reached out, caressing his cheek and he jerked back from her as if her touch burned him, flinging up an arm to shove her hand away. She chuckled and dropped her hand away, not even fazed by his reaction. "You may not remember it, but soon you will." her voice was soft, thoughtful.

"It? What are you talking about?" although he could have assumed that she was talking about this whole crazy dream, a part of him felt like she was eluding to something else. Some sort of secret that Dean should have known about.

She flashed a light, bemused smile and her lips were moving, but no words came out. His vision was beginning to grow fuzzy, the edges blackening, like a bad t.v. set flickering in and out of static. He wanted to yell something, like maybe what was going to happen when the big come down happened or when it was going to happen, but his voice caught in his throat.

The last he saw was of the devil staring at him solemnly through the eyes of his mother.