The beginning of the end was one day ago. Then it started raining hell fire, creating horror and chaos of biblical proportions. The increasing speed toward earth devastating, friction creating a flaming projectile, colliding with human flesh that was orbiting the earth, that flies at Dean so fast, he barely has time to duck, dart, run, faster faster, don't trip, don't fall, slide behind the cement wall of the building and—.
Stop.
Dean closes his eyes and breathes. Just breathes. There were smatterings of sweat, blood and tears covering his body, his t-shirt and jeans not having been washed for three days, of distant importance in his mind. The duffle thrown over his shoulders that contains only necessities; army rations, bottles of water, aspirin, and as many weapons he could think of that wouldn't weigh him down too much.
The only thought is find Sam. Must find Sam. After taking all of five seconds to compose himself, trying to get through the throngs of people who are desperate to get somewhere, anywhere, anywhere but here, this Hell on Earth. Dean's trained eyes scan the area for any possibility of his Impala still sitting around the corner. The possibility that it is still intact, and if not, at least driveable, and if not that, at least the weapons cache remained undiscovered.
However much good it will do, he isn't sure.
Dean thinks he starts screaming, pushing people out of the way. He finally reaches where he parked the car. The windows have been smashed, including the windshield, so, adrenaline pumping, Dean slid out a switchblade, cutting mercilessly at the fiberglass, tearing off enough so he will be able to see from the driver's seat. He does the same for the rearview glass window.
He gives the car a once over, desperate to get it going, moving, somewhere, anywhere but here, before it gets worse. There's damage, but mostly to the frame, but it should hold for a while. It's a Chevy Impala. And it's tough. Resilient against all odds. It means more to Dean than anything ever could. He spent months after his father's death rebuilding her, putting love into every nut and bolt he screwed together. He trusted her. And all Dean needs is a little while. Fury is in his eyes and in his heart that his brother was somewhere out in this chaotic demonic mess, bunkered down in Bobby's safe room or in a well stocked, safe-house-appropriate shelter of some sort.
Dean goes back around to his engine propping up the cover, giving a good long look, well trained eyes scanning every screw and pipe and lever in it, whether something is wrong or could go wrong later. After a brief, yet thorough examination, Dean closes the hatch and pops the trunk, taking out a few weapons he could fit in his jacket and shoving them in, slamming the hatch and then the trunk itself shut, then goes and gets into his car. Digs into his pocket, the only thing in there, the only thing worth keeping, were the keys to that car. And all the cash he could drum up so he could get as much survival materials as possible. But really, what did money matter anymore?
Dean was 100 miles from Bobby's safe room, and even that, Dean isn't sure they can be protected there from all this, and even if they were protected, how long could they survive? And he had no way to reach him. No way but to get there.
Dean took a deep breath, blocking out all else but him and his car, which barely managed to even hint at the possibility of reducing the adrenaline and panic in his system. He put the key in the ignition. Turned it. Once. Twice. And at the third time, it turned over.
As Dean had assumed, as soon as he started moving, other frantic parents with their children, mob mentality taking over, and Dean gnashed his teeth together, pushing the gas down.
"Get out of my way," he rasps loudly, through the hot, smoky air.
Dean takes out his gun and fires it through his non-existent windshield. It causes an immediate, instinctive reaction, and everyone jumps away from the car. Dean gnashed his teeth together. What he wouldn't have given for some bullet-proof glass. He shot off another bullet, causing everyone to wince and back up farther.
Dean hit it.
His gas tank was ¾ full. A blessing, since it usually wobbled around 1/8, then he'd need to refill it. Should last him a while. And Dean was driving past clueless, helpless people that were unsure of how to begin to protect their children. Protect themselves.
Dean rocketed down the deserted road, taking out a map and finding the easiest way to get to Bobby's house. If Sam is there, Dean's mission is complete. Then a new one begins. One which they have to create once the current one is complete. Dean quickly maps out a route through side roads and such, cringing every time some hot crispy rock cracked the top of his car. Bobby. Bobby will have plenty of choices of what they could use.
Right now it is survival.
"Dean?" asks a small voice from the back.
Dean swerves at the stunning interruption and slams on the breaks, getting an 'oaf' from the young boy in the back seat. Dean reached back and pulled the young boy over to the front, shoving him in shotgun. "What the hell are you—?" Dean's eyes widen and he pushes the child back against the door. It's Sam. Except he is five years old.
To Dean's utter shock, a smile slowly surfaced on the boy's face. And right before Dean's eyes, the boy shifted. He grew. He grew taller and more muscular, aging years in seconds, slowly taking on the form of his brother. Dean stared wide-eyed at the man in his car speechlessly before he managed to cough out, "Sam?"
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Sam whispered, looking around at the civilians in hysteria, fire everywhere. When he looked back to Dean, his eyes were white.
Dean's eyes widened. "You son of a bitch, you get the hell out of my brother!" Dean cried, struggling to unbuckle his seat belt and then leapt on him, holding him up against the Impala's door around his throat.
"Dean, Dean, Dean," Sam whispered. He reached up and carefully pulled his brother's rigid fingers from squeezing his throat away by his wrists. Dean's eyes widened, this time in fear of the power of the demon holding his brother hostage. His upper lip quivered angrily. "You misunderstand."
The white faded from Sam's eyes. "It's still me. It's just a better me."
Dean blinked, honestly confused, dreading that he would understand soon. "What?" he croaked.
"We did it, Dean," Sam said with a smile that was meant for Christmas presents. "I am all powerful. Lucifer is free. And I serve…as his right-hand man."
Dean's heart seemed to stop, just long enough for him to clutch at his chest in shock and throw himself backwards away from his brother. "No, Sam, please," Dean whispered.
"You can have it too, Dean," he whispered, temptation laced in the words. "You can have everything. All the power. All the influence. You can help me lead an army."
"No, this is not you, Sam. Sammy. Please."
"It's not Sam or Sammy. It is Samael," Sam whispered. "I serve now with Lilith for Lucifer himself. You failed me, Dean. Now join me."
Dean could barely breathe. The smoke that had been a mist before was choking him. "No," he rasped desperately. "Sammy, please, listen to me—."
"I'm done listening, Dean," Sam replied. "Will you join me?"
Sweat pouring down his face, exhausted from all the running, all the fighting, all the war, Dean was honestly not that surprised when he spoke up, low but clearly, "No."
"Then…I'll see you in Hell," Sam whispered. At that, he whipped out what Dean barely had a chance to recognize as Ruby's knife before it swung forward and sliced viciously through skin and cartilage into his heart.
Dean felt all-encompassing, blinding pain.
And then nothing. He feels nothing. His body is floating, not here, nor there.
And then a voice. Too far away to know what they're saying. It comes closer. He tries to reach it.
Dean!
There it is again.
Dean, come on man, hold on!
Clear!
His teeth grind together achingly and the all-encompassing, blinding pain comes again, and then finally he opens his eyes to a bright, blurry world. "Eyes are open, he's conscious," spoke a voice.
Everything else blurred except Dean's gaze on his brother, who paced back and forth outside the hospital room, looking in regularly every five seconds, until the room was empty enough for him to enter and rush over to Dean's bed. "Hey, I'm here. Don't worry, I'm here."
Dean's heavy eyelids drooped, but he forced them up. As Sam took his brother's hand, Dean pulled back instinctively. Immediately covered with, "Du'e, shove it. 'eport."
Sam swallowed, then nodded. Leaned forward to talk softly in Dean's ear because of the doctors close by. "Tried to take out the spirit. When we torched the remains in the basement, it took so long for the supernatural lockdown to give us up, we had some bad smoke inhalation. But we got out. Fire trucks got there like three minutes later. You got the worst of it. Were having hallucinations of still being in the fire, they said."
Dean blinked slowly, reopening his eyes to Sam. "Wa'nt no halluc'nations, bro," he grumbled. "Mem'ries 'n poss'bilties." Dean pursed his lips together, as if it could help with the pain meds that was making him loose-lipped.
Sam's guarded face slipped slightly into despair, but then went right back up. "Look, just stay on the oxygen. There's no reason we can't be out of here in an hour. I convinced the doctor I'm getting you to stay overnight, but we'll wait half an hour and then blow this popsicle stand."
Dean stared at his brother. Blinked lazily. "Y'r not evil," he mumbled absently.
Sam's stomach clenched and he swallowed hard. "No. I'm Sam. I'm a good guy."
"'M not 'n y'r side…. Y'r 'n mine," Dean slurred. And at that, he drifted off to unconsciousness, leaving Sam staring at his older brother, desperate to know what Dean was thinking. Desperate to know if he was collapsing on the inside, as much as he put up a steady front on the outside. Desperate to help carry whatever load Dean had on his shoulders. But he couldn't. Dean had told him he couldn't. It was his load to bear. So Sam just had to keep going. Like Dean said.
Keep fighting…. Remember what Dad taught you…. Remember what I taught you….