A/N: That finale! Oh my goodness, the feels! ARGH!
This was something that my friend, ToTheOnionCaves pointed out when we were freaking out over the finale together. This is chapter one of that exciting idea. Yes, there will be more than this, this is literally just being uploaded because Dean!feels and Demon!Dean.
Disclaimer: I am not Erik Kripke, nor do I own or work for Supernatural. If I did, there sure would be a lot more Destiel.
Note: I tried to be as accurate as I could, but the transcript isn't up yet and I had rely mostly on ear for the dialogue.
The first time Metatron's fist landed in his stomach, Dean took it with easy grace. The Mark and the Blade still fuelled him, and he was still reeling from that high as he swung his own fist back and struck out at the elderly-looking angel.
His fist collided easily, and Metatron laughed, seemingly delighted. His mouth opened, and words spilled out, but Dean couldn't focus on the words. Just getting the Blade in a position where he could kill the son of a bitch and then get rid of the Blade forever. No wonder Cain had hidden it so well.
He found an opening and swung it at Metatron's head, but Metatron caught his arm and shoved him back into the wall. Dean flew up and backwards, striking the wall with a painful thump. He grunted, then shoved himself onto a kneeling position just in time to receive a heavy boot to the ribs and stomach. He hissed, and Metatron threw him against another wall, relishing the pained grunt that escaped from Dean's lips.
Dean leaned against the wall and tried to stand, to plunge the Blade into Metatron's chest, but Metatron pushed him to ground. Voice grating against Dean's ears, Metatron talked and hit Dean in the face repeatedly. His wrist had been broken when Metatron stepped on it, and the Blade was farther away than he could reach.
Metatron's fist collided with his face. Again. And Again. Dean had been focusing on getting his Blade, but now his attention wavered. He was losing consciousness, he was losing. Metatron smirked, then hit him again, watching with glee as Dean took much longer to revive from the hit than he normally did. When Dean's tired, bloodshot eyes lifted, Metatron's silent glee turned into a louder chuckle.
Dean used the brief moment of distraction he was offered. His hand curled into a fist, and the First Blade flew into his waiting palm. He allowed himself a brief moment of triumph before everything went to shit.
Metatron was still an angel, and he still had an angel blade, which Dean seemed to have forgotten. He certainly remembered that useful bit of trivia when Metatron shoved the sharp tip into his chest.
He gasped, looking up at Metatron with an almost pleading expression. Metatron laughed and twisted the blade inside Dean's chest, ripping open wider the entry wound and puncturing his lung as he did so.
He couldn't breath, was his first thought, as the angel pulled the blade free and Dean collapsed to the ground, too weak to hold his position. He couldn't breath and he was dying and shit, where was Sammy? Dean forced his battered eyes open, and, lo and behold, there was Sammy, staring at Dean with a heartbroken, grief-stricken face. Oh, God.
Dean swallowed tightly. There was no reason to give Sam false hope. Dean was dying, he could already feel the strength leaving him along with the blood leaking out of his mouth, face, and chest.
"Sammmy," he groaned, and was a little surprised to hear how sluggish and weak his voice sounded. He could barely breathe, too, and his voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. "We gotta get outta here… before he comes back." He took a deep breath, wincing and letting out a tiny moan as a slow burning sensation spread through his chest. He was dying, he knew it, there was no way around it.
"Shut up, just shut up." Sam ordered desperately, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it tightly against the gaping hole in Dean's chest. The effort was laughable, but Dean went along with it, holding the red cloth in place with a trembling, shaky hand. "Save your energy, alright?"
Dean tried to say something, but it was drowned in a cry of pain as Sam's fingers touched his chest. The fire grew hotter in his chest, and he was surprised the short cry was enough. But he'd always silenced himself around Sammy, maybe he hadn't changed.
Sam, in turn, spoke even quicker and "We're going to get you to a doctor, or find a spell, you're going to be okay." Dean moaned, and Sam was there in an instant, touching his shoulder, his head, his knee, everywhere, really, that wasn't bleeding.
"Lis'n t'me," Dean moaned. His voice was getting harder to control, he could feel every spec of energy it took to move his offending tongue and mouth, but still, he needed to get some things out, and he knew he had at least a couple minutes. "It's better this way," he hissed, breathing hard where he could and trying to ignore the giant black spots forming in his vision.
"What?" Sam sounded shocked, disbelieved. Dean didn't understand; Sam knew better than anyone what the Mark was doing to him. Couldn't Sam see that it was better for Dean to die than become nothing better than a demon?
"The Mark-" he gasped, trying to keep awake. With every passing second, his eyelids got heavier and heavier. He knew what that meant. Come on, Sammy! "It's makin' me into somethin' I don' wanna be." His chest heaved with the effort, and suddenly, he was afraid.
He didn't want to die. Not really. He didn't wanna leave Cas, or Sam, or Gadreel, goddamnit. He didn't want to be that useless, to have been their only chance and then died before getting the damned job done. That was pathetic, and Dean's breath hitched as a small surge of adrenaline kicked in, allowing him to use more of his own strength and look Sammy in the eyes.
Soon later, however, his eyes drifted to the First Blade in his hand and the Mark of Cain. He didn't want to deal with this anymore. None of it. Dean Winchester was tired, and it was about time he went to sleep.
"Don't worry about the Mark. We'll figure out the Mark later," Sam begged, hands fisting in Dean's plaid shirt. "Just hold on, okay?"
Sam pulled Dean's arm over his shoulder, and tried to pull the older hunter to his feet. Dean cried out, and Sam almost faltered. He sounded so vulnerable, so pained. But he bit lip and continued, even though Dean's legs faltered underneath him and couldn't support his own weight as Sam half carried, half dragged him away toward the Impala.
"What 'appened to you bein' okay with this?" Dean breathed softly, unable to speak any stronger or louder. The stumbling along was taking too much of a toll on him.
"I lied," Sam told him, glancing quickly at his older brother's face to see what their chances were.
"Ain't that a bitch," Dean whispered with the ghost of a smile curving his lips as he stumbled forward. Blood dripped from his head into his eyes, his mouth, onto his shirt, into his hair. He could feel it drying on his skin, and figured that, at the moment, there was probably just as much blood on the floor and on his skin as there was inside his actual body, where it should be. He blinked, hard, and continued walking.
Dean tried to go with it, he really did. But his chest hurt too much, his head was swimming, and Dean knew that at this rate, he would be dead before they reached his car. He abruptly stopped grunting in exertion and pain, pulling Sam off to the side as he rested against a metal box and tried to get enough air into his failing system for one last goodbye.
He panted for breath, no longer able to keep it silent. Sam was desperately hyperventilating next to him, but he was twice as slow and twice as loud, gasping for every breathful of oxygen. Oh, god, it hurt.
"I gotta say something," Dean whispered, so quietly and with so little strength that Sam had to lean in close to hear it. Dean felt blood dripping from his mouth, and felt the life leaking out of his chest as he took his final gasping breaths. He smiled, lifted one arm up to Sam's face, which was a herculean effort. He let his fingers rest against Sam's hot cheek, and felt himself growing limp and he leaned more and more heavily on what support Sam was offering. "'M proud…. of… ussss…" he finished, suddenly aware of how heavy and stiff his tongue was. He let loose one last, lingering sigh, then tipped forward, only dimly aware of what was going on.
The last sensations of Earth he felt was Sam cradling his head in his arms and whispering, in a heart wrenchingly devastated voice, "No, no, hey hey hey hey hey. Wake up, buddy! Hey! Dean…. Dean!" He heard Sam's breathing hitch as he tried not to cry, and felt Sam tip Dean's head back and check for a pulse. Right before he did so, his heart stopped beating and his failing lungs stopped breathing, his consciousness slipped away, and at last, Dean Winchester was at peace.