AN: So this is my first Supernatural fic and I'm not sure how it turned out. I wanted to do kind of the post-apocalyptic thing, but I don't know quite how I feel about it. The title is a (purposeful) reference to the quote (by Jack Kerouac) along with the book (The Road by Cormac McCarthy). By the way, props if you get the reference to Crime and Punishment!
Summary: All the time in the world is his, and suddenly he can't breathe until he throws back his head and laughs. [post-apocalyptic Dean-centric]
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural, that's Kripke's. The Jack Kerouac quote obviously belongs to Jack Kerouac. Crime and Punishment is Dostoyevsky's and the novel The Road is Cormac McCarthy's.
Rating: K
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Spoilers: A couple for the first few seasons, but nothing major (or recent).
NOTE: I've only seen about four complete episodes of the show (and they were from seasons 1 and 2). So if certain information is off, first, blame Wikipedia, and two, PM me and I'll get around to changing it. Caipirinha is the national drink of Brazil – it's a cocktail made with sugar, lime, and cachaça. Also, to be honest, the story is a little cliché and sappy.
The Road
It's been two years.
Two years since Lucifer was destroyed. Two years since God returned. Two years since Castiel died (or did whatever angels do when they simply cease to exist). Two years since Bobby was shot in the chest. Two years since he's seen Sam.
He can't remember much of the final battle. Just blood, last rites (go with God, ashes to ashes, to dust you will return), the smell of Sam's shampoo, and the overwhelming feeling that no matter how things turned out it would all be alright.
What he does remember though, is waking up two days later, in serious pain, and with one missing little brother. Sam left a note, some hastily scribbled thing about needing time and space and air (air air air! what every man needs) and a resurrection.
(Sam would make it sound like we're frigging breaking up, Dean thinks)
He's not sure where Sam is. He knows Sam is out there, safe, being the little do-gooder Mr. Rogers that he is, and forever seeking absolution.
Sam doesn't need Dean anymore. And god, Dean won't ever stop loving Sam, won't ever stop looking out for him, and won't ever stop searching. But, for all his desperation, a kind of peace, falling like dust (worlds in little shards of glass), has settled. He's accepted that sometimes, their roads will diverge and he's okay. Because in the end, he knows that they're brothers and no distance (from the sun to Pluto to Andromeda to the edge of the freaking universe) will ever change that. He can only pray that Sam finds his own liberty and that his ghosts (Mom, Dad, Jess, Bobby, Jo, the list goes on and on and on) will forever hold their peace.
But he's finally, finally, finally done and Dean's never felt so free in his life. It's kind of ironic that he hates flying, because freedom tastes like airplane fuel and turbulence.
He's living from hotel room to hotel room, never settling, but never feeling hurried. He didn't give up hunting; he simply put an indefinite hiatus on it. The shotguns, the salt, the silver bullets, and the Glock – they're all still in the back of the Impala, just untouched.
As cliché as it is, it's a blue duffel bag, a man, and his car, doing 80 down an interstate, wind in his hair.
For the first time in 32 years, he looks towards the future and hopes.
Rio de Janeiro, he thinks. I'll head to Rio.
He wants sand and sun and white beaches and redemption (O Cristo Redentor) and hot girls that don't speak much English. Hedonism, a favela, and brutal honesty will do him some good.
The ocean is electric blue, the city is green (lifelifelife), and the world has never felt so beautifully alive. There are storm clouds on the horizon, a breeze in the air, and the entire beach is littered with people laughing, dancing, fighting, breathing. A gorgeous Brazilian girl with blue eyes (steal the sky) and soft brown hair is eyeing him from across the volleyball net.
He flashes her a grin and a raised eyebrow and the twenty different Portuguese pick-up lines he looked up on Google run through his head. All the time in the world is his, and suddenly he can't breathe until he throws back his head and laughs.
He raises his caipirinha in a mock salute and drinks to never looking back.
Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.
Jack Kerouac