Author's Note:
It all started with a bad dream. A really bad dream. I've seen a possible future and it's silver, blue and gold. And I had to write it down.
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ONE: A Bang And A Whimper
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The demon snarled and struggled. One hand squeezed at Dean's throat, one held his wrist from his own. Dean's eyes bulged. He spluttered desperately. He squeezed his own hand on the demon's throat as hard as he could. He knew it was not helping.
There was a scraping noise to his left. Sam! Get up! Get me the knife! his mind screamed. He wanted desperately to shout. He had no air. Purple dots were appearing before his eyes.
And then the demon hesitated. It registered alarm. It jerked.
Knifed him! About time!
But there was no light, no horrible death throes. The demon kept hold of him, shivering as if flicking something from his shoulders. But he jerked again. And then he coughed.
Horrible realisation dawned on Dean. But he was distracted; the demon's grip was loose. The elder Winchester tumbled to the floor, furiously panting some air back. He didn't want to turn his head, didn't want to look at Sam. But he did.
And there he was, as Dean had feared: one hand outstretched, concentration on his dark face. Dean looked back at the demon as he slid himself backwards across the boards to get some distance from it.
It coughed and hacked, desperately trying to hold onto its host. But it gradually came billowing out, forced out of the man by Sam's force of will.
Dean slid back a little further. He glanced back, saw the knife on the floor. He swept his repulsed eyes back to the demon. He slid back further. His fingers brushed the hilt of the knife. He snatched it up and scrambled to his feet. Still fighting for air himself, he lunged at the demon, knife ready.
"No!" Sam shouted angrily. He lifted a finger on his free hand. Just one.
Dean was lifted off his feet. The whole side of him slammed into the wooden panelling of the wall. Hard. He slid down and landed in a pained heap, jacket lapels and amulets in his face.
He did it to me. He friggin' did it to me, he realised. He threw me across the room with his mind: he finally did it to me.
He rolled and got to his knees slowly, swallowing hard and grabbing at the wall to help himself to his feet. He heard the nasty sounds of the demon struggling still to regain its host.
He's torturing it. He's doing this on purpose, Dean observed. He didn't want to look. But he did. "Sam," he said clearly. But his tone was a warning.
"Shut up, Dean," Sam hissed.
"Sam," he said again, much more firmly.
"I said shut up!"
"Sam!" Dean raged. "Just kill it!"
"I don't have to listen to you any more! I can do this!" he growled.
His intentions divided, Sam was struggling to hold onto the demon now. His face was red, his eyes squeezed almost shut so as to show only the small black pupils.
Dean hefted the knife in his hand. He marched forward, past his brother. He brought the knife up. His left hand pushed at Sam's arm, lowering it slightly. He was already launching himself at the demon as he felt himself yanked back from behind.
"Dean!" Sam accused. "You never listen, do you? You've never listened to me!"
Dean couldn't stop his backward momentum. His arms tried to pinwheel. It did no good.
"I've had enough of you and your orders!" Sam snarled.
Dean flew back faster and faster. He collided with the door frame. His head slammed into something hard and cold, presumably the floor.
He grunted with effort as he pushed his hands under him. Something grabbed at his shoulder and began to haul him up.
It was Sam.
But when Dean looked at him, he knew it wasn't Sam.
"You no longer tell me what to do," Sam seethed in his face. His grip left Dean's shoulder. It fastened on his throat.
Dean put his hands up quickly in horror. He grabbed at Sam's wrist. Sam's mask of rage and indignation drew back as he pushed his elder brother against the wall with one hand. Dean wrenched and struggled, but suddenly his baby brother had more strength than any normal man.
Any normal man.
He cowered away from that thought, struggling to speak. "S-Sammy--"
"I… am not… Sammy," he breathed in anger. Dean began to choke, blackness closing in on his vision. He felt his feet leaving the floorboards, the weight on his throat burning pins and needles of pain into his windpipe.
Sam watched his brother's eyes bulge and roll in panic. He tutted, disgusted. He raised his left fist, drew it back.
Dean's eyes shot down and latched onto his. He saw, very clearly, Sam sneer at him.
With eyes that didn't belong to him.
And then everything went black.
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He opened an eye and looked around. He appeared to be on his side on the floor, splayed out across the bottom of the door frame, blocking the only exit. His head throbbed and his throat felt raw and bruised. It hurt to swallow.
He saw Sam's back as he crouched, touching at the floor gingerly and checking the black marks left behind by a burnt demon. He ignored the dead human on the floor next to him. He straightened again, turning with purpose to the bag on the table. He zipped it up, looking around sadly.
Then he put his hand up behind him and pulled out his Taurus handgun. He checked the load quietly.
Dean realised he knew what was coming. I shoulda seen it. I shoulda stopped him.
He watched his brother turn around and look straight at him.
"Dean?" he asked warily. He walked over, noticing Dean's gaze squint up at him with chary disapproval. "Dean, look. We both knew it would come to this," he said easily.
"Come to whut?" he croaked, eyeing the loaded gun that Sam was cocking slowly. Say it, then. Just say it.
"It was last week, wasn't it?" he mused quietly. "Last week when I stabbed that guy I thought was a demon. You said you had doubts, remember? And I said there was one way to make sure." He smiled slowly. It made Dean's skin crawl. "I stabbed him. He wasn't a demon. You were… upset. I didn't give a rat's ass. Remember? You just looked at me weird. And you've never looked at me properly since." He paused, his face turning sad. "Why can't you look at me like you used to, Dean?" he asked, but it appeared to be more for his own ears than anyone else's.
Cos after you stabbed that guy and he obviously wasn't a demon - I looked at you and all I saw was Yellow Eyes. What you said, how you said it - it was more him than you. Dean just sniffed at him, keeping his mouth firmly shut. That's whut I thought - till I knew it was you. New Sam. Half you, half somethin' else. That's whut I don't wanna look at.
Sam crouched in front of him. "I shouldn't have stopped you, Dean. I shouldn't have thrown you like that. I shouldn't have… I've done a lot of things I shouldn't have. I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Dean did actually see genuine regret in his eyes.
His eyes. That, just for a tiny moment, looked less hazel-green and more a light, shiny reflective yellow. Dean wanted to blame it on his smack to the head. But he knew better.
"But… times have changed," Sam said suddenly, with grim confidence. "I've outgrown you. It's not your fault - you're still the same human you always were, despite everything." Sam bit his lip in reluctance. "But I'm not. I'm probably not even all human any more. You've seen it. I've seen it."
He studied his older brother's face for a long moment, but Dean flicked his gaze to the side, unable to meet his searing look of repulsion.
"So whut happens now?" he dared.
"You're hoping I'm going to leave you behind? To carry on working for these angels, do their bidding, the whole good-boy soldier thing?" he accused. "You really are as stupid as you look," he snapped, disgusted. "As for me, I'm getting out of all this - before Uriel decides to try and desiccate me. Let him try." Now he looked damning, churlish. "You kept me stomped into line for so many years, man. How did you ever let these angels turn you into their lapdog?"
"I'm not lettin' you leave, Sam," he managed.
"Why? Cos I'll go Dark Side if you're not watching me?" he smiled. It was not a nice one. "Like you said, Dean, it's already gone too far. I'm more Dark Side than you can pull back. I'm not meant to be pulled back. Kinda like you were meant to sell your soul for me, like you were meant to go to Hell, like you were meant to get yanked out. They're right - everything happens for a reason. I don't know what that reason is yet, but I know it's all about you and me. It's all starting to come together, and the more I think about it, the more I can see why we--" He stopped himself. "Anyway, you can't keep me from the Dark Side - you're too late. You know why?" he added, suddenly angry. "Cos you never had the balls just to kill me. Just to set me free."
"Maybe I wasn't meant to do it just yet," Dean managed sarcastically.
Sam actually paused, thinking this through. Then he looked down at him again, his face a study in accusation and resentment.
"You should have done it by now, Dean. You should have. But you never did what Dad told you to do - ironic, considering how you followed every other one of his orders."
"Sammy--"
"It's Sam!" he shouted. He got to his feet quickly, taking one step back and staring with hate at the brother on the floor. "It's Sam! The younger one, the stronger one, the useful one, the clever one! And yeah - the compassionate one. I'm going to help you one more time, Dean," he snapped. "You want out of this whole gig the same as I do. You want to be free of angels who threaten to drop-kick you back in the Bad Fire. Well here we go - I'm giving you your resolution. Now you'll find out whether you go back or you've served your time down there. It's the least I could do for my bullying, spineless, idiot older brother."
He took one more step back and lifted the gun. He aimed it carefully at his brother's head. "Well?" he asked suddenly.
"Well whut?" Dean snapped with sudden fire.
"Any last words? And please, take the time to actually think about it and come up with something original," he smiled maliciously. "I'd hate to have to tell Bobby you begged like a girl."
Dean's face set into a grim affirmation of anger, one Sam had seen many times before. But he hadn't seen the strangely quiet warning behind the eyes before. Never directed at him. It made him wonder for just a second.
"How about," Dean said slowly, putting his hands to the floorboards and pushing himself to his knees. "How about 'see you in Hell'?" he offered on a dangerous growl, climbing to his feet.
"Oh, that's a good one," Sam smiled. It was not a happy one. "And what do we do in Hell, Dean? Share the carving knife? Enjoy fighting with each other for eternity?"
"You can waste your time like that if you want," Dean warned.
Sam's evil intent hesitated. Something about the green fire in Dean's eyes, wholly directed at him, was making him ponder dark thoughts.
"Well, as much as I'd love to stand here and trade pleasantries, I do have places to be, Dark Side crap to practise." He squared his shoulders and sniffed, aiming again. He concentrated on a fresh aim over Dean's heart.
"You know where I'll be," Dean breathed. "And you won't be far behind."
"Shut up," Sam managed, squinting to concentrate only on his aim.
"Whut's the matter, you can't look at me while you do it?" Dean accused.
Sam's gaze shifted up and caught the look on Dean's face. "You think I'll look at you and fold like some little girl?" he sneered.
"No. I want you to look into my eyes and tell me I give two shits about you sending me back to the Pit."
Sam hesitated. "What?"
"Go on," Dean breathed, "oh, and remember to tell me how much I wasted my time looking out for you. How I pretended to be the brave one, the good one trying to help you. Tell me how I could never understand you being stuck with demon blood. Tell me how I'm such a huge disappointment since I ain't the stand-up guy you thought I was, once push came to shove down there. Do it."
Sam stared into the jade orbs of rage and accusation. Dean stared back, unafraid and more perfectly angry than Sam had ever seen.
"You're gonna shoot me? Really? Then do it. What does it matter? What does it matter if by some miracle I don't die?" Dean snarled. "This world would be over for me anyway. Cos I let you live, I let you turn into the one thing you never were, I let it all slide to shit cos I didn't do the one important thing Dad told me."
"Right," Sam nodded, lifting the gun more accurately. "It's all your fault."
"Yeah, it's all my fault," Dean growled. "All of it. So go ahead, send me back. Do it."
Sam felt his mouth excessively dry. His lips too. He swallowed, sending a thoughtful tongue across them slowly as he and Dean stared at each other. He felt his finger tightening on the trigger, felt it ready to go as he looked at Dean, really looked at him.
He saw Dean. He saw Dean lifting him up to grab cookie jars. He saw Dean reaching down and picking him up from the icy pavement. He saw Dean barging into a group of baying, bullying twelve years olds and scattering them with a word and a fist. He saw him refusing to shoot his own possessed brother. He saw him arguing back at midnight, telling him he was going to Hell and it was for everyone's own good, himself be damned.
"Do it!" Dean raged.
Sam let his gun-hand fall lamely. "Looks like you get your miracle. I can't do it. Not today. But there will come a day when…" He stopped himself, and Dean had never seen him look more piteous. But the flash of old Sam submarined just as abruptly as it had appeared. "Looks like you get to spend Hell on Earth," he said pleasantly.
"I'll contain my excitement," Dean snapped.
"But I'm going now," he said quietly. "I'm going to carry on my stellar work - killing demons the easy way until I get to Lilith. And you're not going to stop me," he said firmly. "I'd like to shoot you, I really would. But I just can't get past the years and years of patient self-sacrifice you went through for me. With all that on your scorecard and your name in Anna's sweetheart book you'd probably end up in Heaven this time. And then when I finally get down there to the Bad Fire, I'd be lonely without a big cat to kick," he sneered.
"My heart bleeds," came the malicious sarcasm.
"Can't have you stopping me though," Sam added thoughtfully.
He shifted the gun and fired. Dean felt something smash into him with the speed and force of an ice hockey stick. His left leg registered pain and weakness. It gave abruptly. He collapsed on the floor, gasping in pain and shock.
"That should do it," Sam mused faintly, tilting his head to look at him. "At least it's wiped that look off your face."
He turned back to pick up his bag. He pulled the safety on the gun, looked at it for a long moment, and then unzipped the bag. He slid it inside, rolled a t-shirt around it to stop any noise as it touched any other harder items, and zipped the bag up again. He patted it slowly.
"So this is it then," he said to himself sadly. "The end of the Winchesters. Y'know, if I'd known it was gonna end up like this, I wouldn't have bothered with Stanford."
He remembered the door was behind his wounded brother. He sighed, his shoulders sagging, knowing he'd have to look at his brother one last time. Sam turned around.
Dean was right behind him. On his feet. His face flushed with pain and anger.
"Aw, you want a goodbye hug?" Sam cooed maliciously.
Dean just put a hand on his right arm securely. Sam looked at him, puzzled.
"I want you to know," Dean said slowly, with difficulty, and Sam tilted his head, confused. "I want you to know I ain't sorry."
His other hand came up. So did the demon knife. Dean put his weight behind it.
He plunged it straight into Sam's chest.
He staggered, more from shock than pain. He felt Dean's grip try to hold him but he was too heavy. He slid over backwards, struggling for breath as he hit the floor. He put a hand up blindly as he sagged back to sit against the side of the bed.
Dean crouched on his one good knee in pain, putting his hand out and pushing him back against the bed gently. Sam's hand lifted again and Dean looked at it.
"Oh, so now we're brothers again? Now I'm supposed to be there for you?" he protested with scorn. "I always was, man. I always was." He watched Sam's pained face turn toward him, the patent look of terror, of anguish written so deeply. Dean lifted a hand, wiping at his nose casually. "And believe it or not, this is me, being here for you. I can't stop you, I can't turn you away from this. We both knew there was only one way this was ever gonna go, and I can't let that happen. Not to you."
Sam blinked, a tiny tear escaping the side of his eye as he stared at Dean in surprise. Dean's expression of resolute reason melted as Sam's eyes sagged at the corners. The bridge of his nose pinched up, his large green-brown eyes blinked in a tacit plea. Dean suddenly saw Sam for what he once was, and what he was again: the three year old wanting his missing father, the six year old needing a story read to him to sleep, the ten year old needing his brother's faster fists against bullies, the gangly sixteen year old needing reassurance that Dad was coming home, the stubborn young man needing help making sense of his girlfriend's death.
"I could never stay mad at you though, right?" Dean sighed in anguish. "You know something?" he added, putting his palm out and taking Sam's firmly. "I woulda given anything to change places with you, Sammy. Anything. Cos I hated being the oldest. I hated having to look out for you. But I could never stop doing it, could never trust anyone else with the job. It was like… like Dad put you in my arms and you were so tiny and I just kinda… I heard this voice saying: 'Here, see this small kid? He's gonna look up to you so you'd better be worth it'. But I never was," he managed, knowing his eyes were filling with salty water.
Sam shook his head slightly, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps. Dean squeezed his hand.
"So… I'm trying to do the right thing. I'm trying to set you free. I'm only sorry it took so long," he urged, his voice beginning to thicken. He swallowed, seeing Sam's breathing slow. "I am sorry. I am sorry I wasn't the brother you wanted. I'm sorry I failed you. And Dad. And Mom," he added gruffly.
Sam's head wobbled from side to side. He pulled on Dean's hand. Dean leaned the side of his face close to Sam's quickly.
"Me," Sam whispered. "All me."
"Yeah?" Dean managed, pulling his head back to look at him. He smiled, but it made water break from his eye. "I'll remember you said that when we're fighting in Hell."
"De-" he gasped. Dean bent closer again. "Best brother," Sam whispered. "Forgive - 'give you. And thank - thank--"
His words stopped. Dean pulled his head back and found Sam's lifeless eyes staring past his shoulder. He searched his face for an eternity.
Eventually he let go of Sam's hand. He shifted his bleeding leg to sit, pulling Sam's shoulder into him. He held onto him tightly, closing his eyes and resting his head against the side of his baby brother's in silence.
It was some time before he lifted his head. He raised a hand, wiping his face dry. He sniffed and looked round the room, not really wanting to move any time soon.
So he didn't.
He sat still and held his dead brother tightly in his arms. He knew that while the blood spilling from Sam had trickled to a stop, it was still leaking urgently from his own leg. He simply bent all his attention to letting the world go by.
There was a noise but he couldn't raise his eyes. He looked at the floorboards, expecting the motel owner or perhaps even police.
What he saw were two scuffed black shoes. And a beige mac.
"Leave us alone," he grunted.
Castiel crouched down, assessing Dean's face carefully. "What did you do?" he asked, either awed or close to speechless, Dean couldn't tell.
"I saved him. That was my job from the moment I carried him out of a burning home, wasn't it?" he said sourly. "Now go."
"Dean. I'm really sorr--"
"Go!" Dean raged. "I don't want you here! Go!"
Castiel got to his feet slowly, backing away. He paused. "What will you do now?" he asked quietly, his head bowed.
Dean's head lolled back on his neck before he looked over at the angel. "You're gonna do me a favour," he said clearly.
"What favour?" Castiel asked slowly, looking at him.
"You're gonna make sure Sam doesn't go down there. You're gonna check he gets in up there. With your crowd."
"I can't--"
"Yes you can! You owe me, you sanctimonious bastard! He saved people! He saved people! You make it happen!"
"Or what?" Castiel ventured curiously. He didn't take to the vengeful emerald stare.
"Or I'll hunt every one of you sorry-ass angels down till one of you does it for me."
"That would make you the enemy. And we'll already be busy with Lilith in your absence."
"Do I look like I care!" Dean bellowed.
Castiel threw his hands out in apparent resignation. "You're upset. In a few days, when you hear yourself--"
"I ain't gonna be here in a few days," Dean interrupted harshly.
"Why?"
Dean turned his head and looked at him again. "Cos you're gonna do me one more favour."
"And that is?"
"Throw me back in the Pit."
Castiel stared at him. He walked back over, crouching next to him and making sure he stared right into his soul.
"Why?" he breathed, lost.
"Cos I killed my brother."
Castiel opened his mouth but Dean looked down at Sam abruptly.
"Oh God… I killed him," he whispered. Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks and he leaned his head against the unruly brown hair. "I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."
Castiel got to his feet, backing away. He didn't stop until he was by the far wall. He watched the hot, angry tears drip from Dean's face to the jacket on his baby brother. He heard the harshness of someone trying to stem the sounds of pain, of pure emotional torture. The angel couldn't stop himself from staring.
"What do you think?" said a quiet voice from behind him. He didn't dare turn.
"Respectfully, I think he's given enough," Castiel breathed. "This is the limit."
"He certainly has," came the reply. Castiel felt a hand on his shoulder. "It is time."
"It is time," Castiel agreed quietly, hanging his head.
"The Endgame is upon us."
"I understand," he whispered. He looked up at the two men in the room, one starting to cool, the other heating up with remorse and anguish.
"Offer it to him. Tell him it's the only thing that will ease his suffering."
"In my humble opinion, he won't take it," Castiel observed.
"It is the final move. You must offer it to him." Another pat on his shoulder. "He must take it, or all of this was for nothing."
The touch was gone, as if it had never been.
Castiel stepped forward. He walked over to the pair, crouching again. "Dean?" he asked quietly. The only surviving Winchester looked up. The red eyes and face awash with misery and loathing caught the angel by surprise. "Dean. I can help you. Sam will not go to Hell."
"You sure?" he demanded roughly. "If I find out you're lying--"
"I'm an angel. I've done many things, but have you ever known me to lie?"
Dean raised a hand, dashing water from his face. "So toss me back already. I'm not waiting around here."
"There's a problem," he said slowly.
"Toss me back."
"Listen to me, Dean. If you go back down there who knows what you'll become. And who knows what would happen if you got out. But we do know there'd be no-one to stop you. Not with Sam gone."
"So turn me to dust then. That's your thing, right?"
"Dean." Castiel looked at Sam slowly, putting his hand up and touching at his lifeless shoulder gently. "That's not how it works."
"Get your hand off him."
Castiel lifted his hand, looking at Dean squarely. "How do you feel, Dean? Right now?"
Dean's mouth opened but nothing came out. He turned his head and looked back at Sam forlornly. Castiel nodded to himself.
"I can make it all go away, Dean. I can make it so you never have to feel this again."
It was silent for a long minute.
"How?" he whispered.
"Believe me when I say I wish I could, but I can't lift you up and make you an angel, even though that would be the best for all concerned."
"Whut?" Dean blurted, shocked. "An angel? Me?"
"You'd make an exemplary warrior for God," Castiel smiled. Dean looked at him and saw it was a sad smile, a shrewd smile, a weary smile. Castiel leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice to barely above a knowing whisper. "You never asked how I got started, did you?"
Dean's eyes ranged over his face for a long moment, and Castiel saw the first flicker of clarity, the first tiny sign that the human in front of him abruptly realised that the world he knew - even encompassing demons and angels - was a great deal smaller and narrower than he had ever thought possible.
"But…" Dean wet parched lips quickly. "But you can't. There's absolutely no reason in the world why the big guy - if he even exists - would let that happen after everything I've done, dead or alive."
Castiel's gaze slid sideways slightly, a small, uncomfortable sigh released as he did so. "As with your world, Dean, everything is negotiable. And… others have put in a good word for you," he allowed, still not meeting his gaze.
"Anna?"
"She was… very… insistent we help you."
"But you're screwed. You can't make me an angel, you can't make me forget, and you can't make me not feel anything. You're scared to throw me back in the Pit and you're scared to leave me down here," he managed hoarsely. He paused. "Looks like turning me to dust is the way to go."
"We don't destroy souls, Dean. That's wrong," he tutted.
"Right now I don't think there is a right or wrong. Everything's right. From a certain point of view."
Castiel shook his head. "I said we couldn't make you an angel. It wasn't meant to be," he mused quietly, making Dean turn his head and stare at him. Castiel noticed, looking back at him with sad innocence. "But I didn't say we couldn't help you. Put it this way - do you want to see Sam again?"
"I--." He paused, looking down at the dead form in his arms. "I--."
"The only way to see him, ever again, the only way to stop feeling like this, ever again, is to take my offer. Take my offer for you and him."
"Just whut is it?" But he knew he was part caring.
"You'll see," Castiel smiled.
"Wait," Dean snapped. "Bobby. Whut about Bobby? He's gonna lose it when he finds us both gone this time."
"I know," Castiel sighed. "I know. But I'll look out for him."
"Well then… looks like I'm all outta excuses," Dean said lamely.
He knew he was using a poor attempt at a smile he used to know, a tiny shrug he used to use every day, an effort to keep his back straight just as he had done so many hundreds of times after so many hundreds of exhausting hunts. He suddenly saw how these few things, so familiar and so indicative of his very soul, would very soon cease to be. He had a moment to wonder if he really wanted to throw everything into the hands of a waiting angel. He looked down at Sam in his arms and closed his eyes hastily.
"Do what you do, man. I really don't want to be here," he breathed with guilty conviction, pain spreading his voice thickly.
Castiel nodded, getting to his feet. He looked down at Sam and Dean, so broken and so small, where two larger-than-life warriors had once been.
"If I could feel, I'd be crushed that you two have come to this," he offered.
Dean opened his eyes, looking up at him slowly. "Thanks," he managed. "C'mon, get it over with already."
Castiel sighed and looked round at the room as if it, too, would suddenly cease to be. He looked back down at the Winchesters for the last time.
"Hold tight to your brother, Dean," he advised. "You two still have work to do."
He spread his wings.
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What work would this be? Wait for part two: all is revealed.
P.S.: I'm sorry - I'm so sorry. Don't shoot me just yet, though.
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