Title: End of Days
Author: RoweenaC
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Lucifer
Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, action
Rating: M
Chapter: 1/?, The Morning Star
Warnings: death of minor character in first chapter, possible future deaths, SPoilers for current season so far up to 4.18
Summary: Set right after my theory how 4.22 will end ... if that doesn't make sense, go read my personal LJ... *shameless plugging*

***Spoilers for everything up to 4.18 and maybe beyond, dunno how the show will continue***

"Winchester luck. No rest, no peace just war. Endless war. His father's words wormed their way into his thoughts. It ends now. I'm ending it. Not happening. Never."

Lots of angst and graphic torment (mental and physical), therefore and for some future swearwords and gory action rated M.

Thanks to my beta for her patience and beta'ing.

End of Days

by RoweenaC

Chapter 1: The Morning Star

"I will ascend to heaven;
I will raise my throne above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
on the utmost heights of the sacred mountain.
I will ascend above the tops of the clouds;
I will make myself like the Most High."

~Isaiah, 14: 13-14~

His eyes hadn't changed. They were the same color, shape and size. No demonic opacity. Not anymore.

But Sam … Sammy was gone. Cold, calculating and victorious, those same eyes stared back at him. Dean swallowed against the sob constricting his airways. His fist tightened around the cool, reassuring hilt of the only weapon left to him. Ruby's knife.

Though he focused on Sam's form looming in front of him, he was oddly aware of his surroundings, how the gravel beneath his boots clicked with every step. How the soft nightly breeze smelled of salt and seaweed. How the waves rolled against the shore in a distance.

"So, you really think you could do it? Kill me? Kill Sammy?"

Sarcasm oozed from the words like pus from an infected, necrotic wound. A vicious leer contorted Sam's too familiar features, the sea breeze ruffling his unruly strands of brown hair even more. His posture portrayed alertness and mild curiosity. Not the faintest glimpse of fear noticeable, Sam's arms hung loosely to his sides.

Dean gagged. Tears stung in his events of the last hours threatened to overpower him. Lilith's host, a pretty red-head, limply dangling in his arms. Sam's insane laughter filling the sudden silence that had engulfed the beach afterwards. "I stopped it! Dean, I stopped it!" His heart had shattered there and then when he saw his sibling's eyes cloud with demonic opacity.

Witnessing his brother kill Lilith had felt utterly wrong. Instinct had told him so and he had been distraught to find out he had been right. How could he have known? Why the hell hadn't Castiel told him he had to stop Sam from killing Lilith in order to prevent Lucifer from rising?

Yet, rationally, he knew he wouldn't have been able to stop Sam. Determined and stubborn, Sam wouldn't have listened. He had been too sure. Anger welled up in Dean. Fate had again destroyed their lives; good intentions had again been twisted back on them. How were they ever supposed to win if destiny intervened each and every time? Were they supposed to win at all? Or was the war itself their only purpose? Winchester luck. No rest, no peace just war. Endless war. His father's words wormed their way into his thoughts. It ends now. I'm ending it. Not happening. Never.

Lifting his right hand holding the knife ready to strike, he moved forward hesitantly, searching for a lingering trace of his brother in the tall figure casting a blurred shadow over the bodies lying between them. He had to make sure that there was absolutely no trace left of his brother in the body standing and waiting idly a few feet away. Had to make sure in order to kill the empty shell now before it was too late. To kill the man waiting for him, smirking at him amused by a joke only he understood. To kill him and prevent the apocalypse.

However, at the same time every fiber in Dean's body screamed for the opposite, wishing for his brother to still be somewhere in there, incarcerated but there. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Sam again. Of a life without him. He had been forced to see his brother die in his arms, to live forty years without him, to find Sam had changed after his return, to witness his sibling use his demonic powers, to find out his brother was drinking that hell-bitch's tainted blood and finally, to see a demonic presence assuming control over Sam's body. Yet, after all this he was still incapable of giving up on Sam.

Pleasepleasepleaseplease. Sammy?

Closely observing the man in front of him, Dean felt a shiver running up and down his spine. There was definitely something odd about the familiar lanky figure. He appeared to be exactly the same man yet something seemed to flicker around him, like a mirage. Peering intently at him, Dean realized that Sam's shadow was weirdly misshapen. Too broad around his shoulders. Dean allowed his eyes to follow the gray line imprinted in the rubble and nearly stumbled when he recognized what it meant. Wings.

Not like the feathery, graceful wings of Castiel or the other angels. Leathery, fierce and ragged, like dragon wings. Holes and fissures drew a maniacal pattern on their surface. Distracted, Dean wondered how he was able to see them at all. The sky was still clad in nightly satin, even though the morning star announced the break of a new day in the chill of the waning night.

But just then, the moonlight glinted off the blade in his hand. His eyes rose to the full, pallid orb hanging in the nightly sky and he tightened his grip around the hilt determinedly, head lowered again. He had to do it. Come on, Dean. It's not him anymore. Trying to steel himself for the dreadful task appointed to him by unfathomable fate, he headed closer to Sam.

Tried and failed. Again.

How could he kill that thing when he wasn't even sure that his sibling was really gone? There was no way to be sure. He faltered and nearly lost his footing, gazed up toward Sam and noticed he was still too far out of reach. Lowering his chin, he deliberately straightened and stepped ahead again.

It was a torturous trip. Only a few feet but they felt like light years. He knew he could kill anything but the act of plunging the knife into Sam seemed undo-able. After all the atrocities in hell, after the indifference born from them, he still wasn't sure he could do this.

He noticed that he had started to pant as if he had been running for miles. Yet at the same time Dean felt like he was walking through molasses, time expanded and the internal battle tore him apart. He stumbled again.

"Hm. You seem tired, Dean. Maybe you should go back to the motel and sleep, gather your strength and try again another time? Not that you'd have a chance then. It's too late anyway. The End of Days has come. My time." Sam's tall frame silhouetted by the moon behind him, seemed to pulsate and grow.

Dean tensed, eyes blazing contempt and resolution; yet, his hand trembled when he readied himself for the lethal blow. The moonlight softened Sam's merciless eyes, renewing the spark of doubt in Dean's heart. Was it possible that Sam was still in there? He shivered at the idea of Sam being trapped inside his body while the demon made the calls. Condemned to stand by and watch. He had to free Sammy from this fate. However, it would mean he'd had to kill Sam alongside with the thing. Kill his baby bro'.

Do it! You promised!

John. It was always John's voice in the end, when all resolve was dwindling, when hope and strength seemed to wilt away. Obedience was the usual response to his father's commanding tone. This time however, Dean's arm fell weakly to his side, his fist opened and the knife tumbled harmlessly to the pebbled ground. Dean watched it come to rest on a white large stone, the runes reflected on his face in a pale moonbeam. I can't do it. Rather die than kill Sam.

His senses picked up on nature's life signs around him, taking them in in a last good-bye. Waves rolled in, indifferently crashing against the bigger rocks, breaking the surf. Birds began to twitter. In the east, the horizon grayed pushing the darkness slowly away. How could it be the end of the world when everything seemed so normal, peaceful? No brimstone and sulfuric fumes staining the air, no fires flaring up, no earthquakes or stars falling from the sky. Just a peaceful, early summer morning.

Apart from the corpses going into rigor all around him. Soon, the carrion birds would swoop down and feast on them; eyes first, highly nourishing and easy to reach. Dean's remorseful gaze gently flowed over some of their faces.

A woman in her mid thirties, a friend of Bobby's, her dark brown eyes an eternal accusation, her curly black hair plastered to her skull by the slowly drying blood. The right hand still held her sword.

A random teenager, his face frozen in a look of surprise, his head at an odd, limp angle. His football, lying mere ten feet from him, was sprinkled with blood from other victims.

A small child seeming to be asleep, yet the ghostly pallor of her face and the blue, anemic heart shaped lips betrayed the peaceful appearance. The crimson gash in her chest clashed horribly with her white dress. Her mother still reached out for her, even in death, eyes wide in shock. The blade that had run her through stuck out of her back like a flagpole and nailed her eternally to the ground.

Two fierce male hunters, battle proven and once menacing, their shotguns ready to fire, fingers still locked around the triggers, their faces masks of forceful determination. They lay back to back, like statues tipped sideways, frozen in battle.

Ellen.

Dean averted his eyes. Tears welled up but refused to spill over. Blissful numbness spread through his limbs and crept into his heart.

Out of nowhere, using Dean's distraction to his own gain, Sam (was it still?) advanced on Dean crossing the few feet between them in two long strides. The younger man picked up the neglected blade and ran it upwards, through Dean's belly in one swift and powerful motion and buried it into the soft tissue to the hilt. Immediately, a gush of warm, red blood stained the worn out fabric of Dean's gray T-shirt, spread down his front to darken the waistband of his jeans with sticky moisture.

The world spun. Dean's breathing became ragged and labored, sweat beaded his forehead, coherent thought was banned from his consciousness. Unable to find the strength to remain standing, Dean sagged forward, sinking to his knees, his right hand clutched at the knife protruding from his abdomen, eyes never leaving his brother's face a mere ten inches from his own. His left hand crawled up along Sam's arm to reach for his tall brother's shoulder for physical support as well as for comfort. Dean slowly pulled himself back to his feet, trembling from exertion and gasping in pain.

Sam's mouth was pulled into a vicious grin, baring his teeth, as one over-sized hand reached for the knife's hilt again. Indifferent of Dean's obvious agony, he allowed the older man to find his balance. Curious and waiting for his next chance to inflict more suffering.

Both men held their gazes, desperate green eyes staring into hazel. Sam's warm and understanding eyes had been replaced by beacons of cold fire looking back intrigued yet detached as Dean peered into Sam's face to search for remnants of his brother.

The injured hunter grabbed Sam's collar and pulled the taller man closer to him while fighting to remain upright. His lips parted but Dean only heard a hitching breath escape his own mouth. The words appeared to be stuck in his throat. Speechless, his eyes dove into Sam's, desperately trying to reach out for the man he knew was still deep inside. Had to be.

The silent plea for Sam to resurface, to fight the Devil, went unanswered. Finally, defeat born from acceptance washed over Dean and heavy eyelids began to droop. His face contorted in a tortured spasm when his brother (Sammy wouldn't...) turned the knife half way and pulled it out. Still, no sound escaped Dean. A shallow, hissing, quivering breath stole its way out between his pale lips as Dean's knees buckled and finally gave way. The rubble buried itself deep into his legs, the thick denim barely softening the sharp edges. The harsh stinging sensation however, caused a rush of adrenaline and heightened Dean's consciousness a little.

Sam (Sam's gone...) bent down and grabbed hold of Dean's shirt, bringing the half-conscious hunter close to his face once more. Strong and powerful, Sam's fist closed around Dean's throat, obstructing his windpipe and making it even harder to breathe. Dean choked and wriggled limply in the vice-like grip. His eyes bulged in their sockets and his Adam's apple worked hard against the hand hindering the flow of desperately needed oxygen.

"Ugh," a guttural sound escaped him. Sam loosened his grip a fraction, if only to provoke false hope for survival.

"You could've stopped it, Dean. You were the only one. Hilarious, if you think of it. A self-hating, pathetic failure like you was supposed to be my downfall."

Mockery and contempt were undeniable but they served as a fountain of strength for Dean. He opened his eyes fully with an effort, trying to ignore the moisture soaking his clothes to the skin, chilling him. To ignore the stabbing, throbbing heat in his belly and the fire burning in his lungs. To ignore how much he wanted to rest, to sleep.

"I am NOT … a failure. I WILL … stop you!" A hoarse whisper but audible in the morning silence. Strength he maybe didn't possess anymore, laced his words. Dean gasped and swallowed, a shudder ran through his moribund body.

"Oh really? I'm intrigued! Tell me, how're you gonna do that? You're dead meat. Like all the others. Look around you!" Dean was relieved beyond knowledge when the hand clutched around his neck suddenly vanished completely. The demon's (not Sammy, no more) free arm moved in a half-circle, a gesture indicating familiar faces along with complete strangers. Lifeless bodies lying piled up in a tangle of arms and legs or strewn carelessly along the beach like discarded dolls.

Hazel eyes found their weary green counterparts again. Megalomaniac self-confidence blazed in them. As if talking to a child, Sam's voice explained, "No-one can stop me now. Don't you understand? You failed. The minute Sam killed Lilith, the last seal was broken. There is no going back. It's over."

"'S not … over. I can still..." So Lilith's death was the last seal. Oh Sammy, what've you done! It's HIM! The sudden revelation was interrupted by Lucifer's arrogant taunts.

"You can still what? Kill Sammy? Sorry bro', you had your chance. Let's face it, even that witch's blade wouldn't leave a mark on me. You've got no weapon that could kill me. I am stronger than the others, y'know?"

The knife... Ruby! Where the heck is that hell-bitch when I need her? Trying to look at the piles of bodies to his left and right, Dean searched for the hateful dark haired demon. But either his vision was too impaired by his injuries or she had fled the scene. Cowardly little slut.

Sam's voice paused and his head turned away from Dean, glancing sideways, contemplative. "Honestly, I don't get the angels. How could they delude themselves into putting all their hopes in you? Especially, if it meant you'd have to kill Sam? They must've known you'd never be able to pull that off... John would have been capable of doing it. But then again, he was always stronger than you. In life and in hell. I should thank you for being such a wuss. Your failure brought on my reign. Thanks to you, I will rule the world and even God can't stop me now."

Sam's (no, not Sam, Lucifer, oh, my god... Lucifer) mouth twisted disgustedly around the mention of God as if the word tasted like bile. Dean felt his awareness ebbing away and he considered giving in. Lucifer's eyes brightened when he recognized his victim's weakness.

"That's it, Dean. Rest, sleep. Why fight when there is no chance of winning? You should give up. It's the logical thing to do." The familiar voice lulled the injured Winchester into a semi-somnolent state, reality slipped through his mind's grasp and he was tempted to succumb to indifference completely. Exhaustion enveloped Dean with its suffocating web, however, he struggled to stay awake, unwilling to give in to the promise of painless and comforting oblivion just yet. His hand on Sam's collar slackened and threatened to fall to his side. Forcefully, he concentrated on regaining his grip. He wasn't prepared to let go yet, to let go of Sam.

"Find... a way. Kill... you!" Through clenched teeth, agony audible in each syllable, Dean spat his challenge into Lucifer's face. His eyelids began to flutter from the strain and a cough ran spasms through his limp body.

Sam's right eyebrow quirked upward, coldly amused. An expression so un-Sam it nearly forced a pitiful whimper from Dean's lips. He caught himself just in time, gasping out his breath tonelessly instead.

"Y'know, Dean. You don't know when to give up, do you? I think you need a little persuading..." Sam's hand dropped the knife carelessly and reached for the violent gash in Dean's belly. Fingers prodded and poked, softly at first but growing in force constantly. Cold hazel eyes observed the results of their hands actions closely. Not fearful. Not angry or mean. Simply interested, like a scientist observing a rat in mortal agony poisoned by a drug overdose. Detached and curious.

Dean clamped his jaws shut, lips pressed tightly together to keep in the scream building up inside him. Hot bolts of pain fired up along his spine, congregating at the base of his skull where they burst in an agonizing explosion. He never heard his own tormented scream, oblivion was too sudden.

***

He had waited too long. Surely, there was no way the hunter could still be alive, now. Remorse and worry washed over him. Emotions. Very disturbing yet he felt them! During his hurried descent, he marveled at the novelty of emotions. They terrified him but they flushed his whole existence with a new purpose, a new strength he would have never thought possible. So that's what made Anna do it.

Castiel alighted right behind the lifeless body of his charge and snatched Dean from Lucifer's careless hands. The adversary's grip had loosened just after Dean had lost consciousness and he had been watching the slack face with contentment, oblivious to the angel's approach. Wordlessly, Castiel rose, Dean cradled in his arms and narrowly avoiding Lucifer's wrath, he hastened to safety.

A roar of anger burst out of Sam's lungs when he registered his negligence. Straightening up to his full height he bellowed "NO! He is mine! Mine to destroy!" and made a step into Castiel's direction only to find the angel had melted into nothingness in front of him.

Furious at having his prize snatched from his grasp, Lucifer flicked one hand in a gesture encompassing the bodies around him, choosing the corpses as scapegoats for his wrath. Flames immediately licked hungrily at hair and skin, smoldering. And finally hell's inferno broke loose. The wind gained in strength growing into a gale, sulfuric smoke filled the air. The stench of roasting human flesh lured the carrion birds toward the place sooner than expected and they descended in graceful circles downwards to feast.

Sam's tall figure stood in the middle of the swirling flames and smoke and watched. A sneer cut his soft features in half when Lucifer listened to Sam's tormented screams echoing inside his mind. The imprisoned owner of his meat suit howled in mental agony. The atrocities committed by Lucifer using his body and the grave mistake concerning his revenge on Lilith were the ultimate punishment, ultimate torture.

Lucifer rejoiced. Sam was on the brink of insanity. Good.

End notes:

Morning Star and Lucifer/Satan

Lucifer means Light Bringer or Light Bearer and was initially used to characterize persons of immense power and influence in the Bible (even Christ is labeled as Morning Star on more than one occasion).

Both meanings are originally associated with the Morning Star (Venus), the brightest "star" in the sky, outshining all the others. The fact that Venuses light vanishes during the night was one of the reasons to link Venus to the legend about Satan'el falling from the Heavens. Satan'el, being the brightest and fairest of all the angels, refused to bow to humanity and thus was cast down to fly over the abyss for all times. The fact that Venus is not visible at night, only in the morning and evening, symbolized Satan'el's downfall. Thus, the term Lucifer became a synonym for Satan.

Additional information can be found on wikipedia.