Dislcaimer: The Winchesters, no-ot mine, neither is this lovely poem, "Jabberwocky", by Lewis Carroll, nor the title that I borrowed from Red.
A/N: This is my little contribution to the in between time of season 7 and upcoming season 8. I hope you enjoy this little two part story with parts of the poem sprinkled in here and there. As always, be on the lookout for those pesky typos that always seem to sneak by my editing-foo skills.
Nothing and Everything
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
He had been here, in this place, this nightmarish dreamscape that was too much of everything and not near enough of anything he needed; he had been here for an eternity and a day, and another day besides that. He and Cas had fallen into this dark, dank other world and before Dean could even catch his breath Cas had somehow abandoned ship, leaving him all alone confused and more afraid than he would ever admit, even to himself.
He had been surrounded by glowing eyes and shadows of evil that had began in that moment and continued still to this moment; to stalk him, to follow him, even to threaten him with growls, and inhuman moans, and feral hisses. This served to keep Dean on the very edge of sanity, clinging fiercely to the jittering, shaky cliff that stood above the abyss of utter madness.
He was running, always running. How was it possible to run for what felt like years without ceasing? How was he able to go on for eons and miles and never see any new scenery was a mystery Dean had decided would never be solved but must only be endured. Staying on guard, he remained on the lookout watching and waiting for an attack that never came.
He wore weariness like an oversized cloak, heavy and cumbersome and he had forgotten what sleep was. The comfort of restful slumber was not even a distant memory anymore. The idea of sleep was only a persistent niggle of something important that he felt should know but was unable to recall.
There was no color here, just muddy shades of gray like twilight after a storm, when all things are hazily blended into one another awaiting nightfall. But neither night , nor daybreak ever arrived. Dean is alone so very alone in this never ending dim, dismal world. Yet, he trudges on, ever vigilant, ever wandering, but gaining no ground, no ending, just more of the same... not a thing, nothing at all, complete nothingness. He wonders if at some point he might finally disappear. Dean has decided that he would be okay with that scenario...
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
There it was again, that sound, a new sound. It was a snuffling, humming that rode his nerves like a stinging electric current. Dean kept on, looking over his shoulder often and peering into the gloaming landscape of skeletal shapes looming, always looming, suffocatingly so… He could hear the clacking of teeth snapping together, jaws opening and closing in constant greedy want of something to gnaw on , something to catch.
Dean's pace did not slow when the sound became a living thing causing the hairs on his nape to stand at attention. When the jagged branches snagged his clothing and caught at his tangled hair, pulling and tugging at it sharply, even when he trembled from head to toe with the unrelenting constantness of it, Dean's pace remained unchanged. Maybe this time he would be overtaken. Maybe this time the suspense of the attack would be broken. Maybe the end was nigh. Dean, at times, longed for that, the relief of finally having something solid to confront and fight instead of this foreverness of running and running, like a hamster on a wheel surrounded by the shadowy threat of hungry, yowling cats…
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
Tightly Dean clutched the jagged stone he had stumbled on. He wasn't sure how long ago he had picked it up but he kept it like a treasured thing, as Golum kept his precious, Dean clung to his rock. It was flat and sharp and he was tempted to use it on himself. He yearned for anything tangible, even suffering pain would be welcomed, instead of this phantom ache of what might come to pass…
This yearning grew until Dean's frenetic steps slowed and finally, after an eternity of movement, he was still. For the first time since Cas had left him, Dean stood completely motionless and he dared something, anything to show itself.
His breath was loud in the absence of his stumbling steps, the other sounds, that the creatures hunting him made, had long ceased to make an impact on him, becoming only static in the background. Innured by constant fear, fear had ceased to mean anything to the weary hunter. So now Dean stood like a statue, the rock cutting into his hand as he clutched it tighter and tighter. He stood and he waited for confrontation, for attack, for anything, for something to happen….
Blood, warm and coppery began to run in winding rivlets down his quivering, fisted hand, down, down onto his bony wrist, finally spilling onto the thirsty ground. Dean stared, mesmerized as the dark, porous dirt drank the bright, crimson offering. His blood was the first real color he had seen in a long while…. And it was beautiful in its terribleness.
-And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
As Dean stood, dazed, watching the ground greedily take every drop that fell, the world awoke. What once had been vague shapes and shadowy forms morphed and writhed into solidness. The hazy indistinctness became monsters of which Dean knew he would never be able to describe, literally the very visage of the beasts were that horrendous in their awfulness. The ground beneath his feet began to tremble, Dean's breathing hitched.
Suddenly, eyes, red like flame, red like blood, appeared in front of him. The stench of decay, sweet and cloying surrounded him, overwhelmed him. The confrontation, he believed he wanted, seemed to be upon him and all he could think was how much he wanted his brother.
Dean had worked to put Sammy far away from him. He did not even want the memories of his little brother to be tainted with the rot of this place. But at this moment, Dean longed for Sammy with every molecule of his being. He longed to hear his voice, his laugh, to feel his solid form beside him…
Dean breathed deep through the sound and the stench and he pulled in the Winchester gumption, the core that John had honed through harshness and tough love to diamond hardness, then he carefully wrapped everything that was Sam, all the goodness, all the love, even the mistakes of good intentions gone bad, he pulled that bond around his heart like a shield and ran roaring. Bellowing out unrestrained at the unfairness of his life. Dean Winchester did not deserve all the badness that had been dumped into his life! Dean used all of this and ran headlong towards the creature, the monster, perhaps it was even himself he saw in its hideous visage as he ran to meet it in battle.
He lunged at the fire-eyed monster like a wild thing, like a berserker of old. No care for his well being, only desiring the rush of the brawl. Dean ran, sharp, bloodied stone extended as a knight's trusted sword before him. He met evil and he fought. He fought to die or to live. Dean wasn't particular in that regard, he only wanted an ending.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
The screeching shrillness was horrible. The smell was nearly unbearable as it burned his nose and throat. Dean's raging screams joined the cacophony and chaos of the creature as it howled in delighted fury to face such a worthy opponent. They were surrounded by other crazed monsters, barking and groaning maniacally as they watched the melee unfold before them.
Dean wasn't sure how much time had passed when he gained the upper hand in the fierce battle. He wielded the stone in graceful deadly arcs as if his hand grasped the hilt of his machete instead of the pitiful weapon he held. Using hands and feet, even his head a few times, Dean grappled with everything he had, giving all, emptying all that he had left, keeping nothing back for later, because he hoped there might not be a later.
The thing fell at last. It struck the ground, causing what felt like a minor earthquake when it hit. It lay unmoving as Dean stood swaying in shock at his apparent victory. The malevolent audience groaned and squealed louder, startling him out of his stupor. He hurriedly staggered forward to finish the job, just as his dad had taught him long ago: you don't quit halfway, you keep at it until you have finished your task. So that's what Dean did. He kept at it until his task was finished. That meant using the last of his flagging strength and his only weapon the bloody rock, as Dean attacked the mishapen head. He hacked and sawed until he had the scaly thing separated from the body. It was a despicable task. The odor of death intensified until Dean felt as if he and the monster shared a tomb and Dean's whole body trembled with hurt and fatigue but he forged on to the end.
When the last leathery sinew snapped, silence reigned. The suddeness of the quiet, as if all the noise had been sucked into a void, caused Dean's ears to pop. Dizzily, he took two limping steps away from the bloody mess before collapsing in an awkward heap. His breath sawed in and out in wheezing, syncopated pants and his battered body ached sharply. He lay there watching in numbed detachment as the other creatures began to slink away, dissloving back into the shadowy vagueness of before until Dean was alone, but for the fallen foe. He was alone, again... Alone with his pain and a hollow, unsatisfactory victory, which did not feel like an ending. It felt like nothing, nothing at all...
.~ Not Quite The End. Thank you for reading and reviewing if you're so inclined.