Lay your head down, child,
I won't let the boogeyman come.
Countin' bodies like sheep,
To the rhythm of the war drums.
Pay no mind to the rabble,
Pay no mind to the rabble.
Head down,
Go to sleep,
To the rhythm of the war drums.
-A Perfect Circle, Pet
Judgment Day
Dean heaves a chest rattling breath as his lungs, irritated with sulfur, pushes air out of his worn body. It's been a tough year and that's saying something, because Dean has a long history of tough years. In the end he never thought he'd be standing here, literally on the line between good and evil. It's kind of funny in an apocalyptic sort of way. The ending battle winds up being like an ancient Greek war re-enactment, 300 style. If it wasn't for the ultimatum he's facing (win or let the world end), Dean would almost see this as fun. Almost.
But it's been a really tough year. His heart and body are sporting new scars that run as deep as hell itself, and he's not the only one. Dean glances at his little brother, who's standing tall and proud beside him, and let's his gaze slide down to Sam's left hand. The ring finger is missing, cut off right below the second knuckle. Dean stares at the nub and winces, forcibly beating back the infinite rage that surfaces as he thinks about the events that led to Sam's missing appendage. War had come back with a vengeance (and with his siblings) a few months ago and took from Sam what Sam took from him. Sammy had been stolen right out from under his nose and had been gone for almost two days before Dean had finally tracked him down. Sam was a mess when he bust into the abandoned orphanage that War had them holed up in, all bloody and beat, but he still had his finger. In true demon fashion they had been waiting for Dean to get there to watch before they made the cut to Sam's hand. Dean had walked right into their plan and he hadn't been quick enough to stop it.
That moment had been the first time in a long time that Dean had felt responsible for Sam's pain, had felt guilt, and had felt like Sam's big brother again. But it had been too little, too late and Dean didn't miss or appreciate the irony in that.
He and Sam had been through a lot because like he said, it's been a tough year. In the beginning Dean had been so pissed and hurt, and letting Sam walk away had been a relief. It wasn't necessarily easy, letting Sam go was never easy, but it didn't hold the weight that it once did. Sam was gone for eight weeks with a total of three phone calls to confirm that he was alive. It had been needed and it had been liberating, but Dean still worried about the kid, especially since Lucifer had been skulking around. When Sam finally came back, he was more 'Sammy' than 'Sam' but there were still pieces missing, pieces Dean doesn't think his brother will ever get back. But whole or not, Sam's head was finally back on straight and after two weeks, Dean felt comfortable enough to fall back into a reserved but familiar rhythm with him.
That had been almost seven months ago and they've come a long way since then.
Dean steals another look at his brother and feels this rush of gratefulness for being able to get back to being brothers after everything that had happened. It isn't perfect but he wouldn't want to be here, at the end of days on the battle line, without Sam standing next to him. Dean wouldn't be able to do this without him. He would never want to even try.
Sam can probably feel his stare because he takes his eyes off the looming enemy, and looks at Dean. He stares for a second before breaking out into a soft smile, one that says a million things. Things like 'I'm glad I'm here', 'don't give up now', 'make sure to give em' hell', and 'please don't die'.
Dean smiles back, a quirk in his lips, 'Right back atchya, Sammy.'
Of course they both know there's a very real chance that neither of them are going to walk away from this battle. Fortunately they have perfected the idea of hopeless situations and escaping them, and they have no intentions of letting that change now.
"You ready for this?" Dean asks, his gaze turned back out in front of him, trying to see through the hot haze of smoke and heat.
Sam swallows, his jaw tightening a little, "Yeah."
"It's going to be ok, Sam."
"You don't know that."
And no, Dean doesn't, but he believes it. He's terrified all the way down to his bones that either he or his brother aren't going to walk away from this, but he also believes down to his very soul that they will find a way to survive. Either that or they both go down fighting, together.
"I believe it," Dean replies. There's no reason to hold back now. Death might be just around the bend and he and Sam stopped keeping secrets from each other a long, long time ago.
Sam pauses and Dean can see him taking in the enemy line, watching the demons smirk with confidence. Lucifer's leading them all, calm and elegant, dressed in white. The pure suit is a stark contrast against the black, red, and brown landscape.
"This is kinda going to trump everything, huh?" Sam finally says, surprising Dean.
"What do you mean?" Dean asks, frowning and secretly wondering if Sam is losing it to the pressure.
Sam shrugs, "Battle against all of hell, end of the world. Every other hunt is going to feel like child's play after this."
Dean smiles and takes it for what it is. Sam's not giving up and Dean's not about to either.
"Yeah, Sammy. Hunting a pack of werewolves sounds exactly like playing Candy Land to me," Dean replies easily.
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
An earth shattering howl from the other side cuts through the moment, snapping the brothers' attention back to the situation at hand, the war.
"It's starting," Castiel says, his voice hard with the preparation of battle.
"Right," Dean replies. He pushes down his nerves and lets the hunter, the leader, take over. But he needs to do one last thing, just in case.
He looks back at Sam. Dean can see the hunter surfacing in his younger brother. It's the hunter that had been permanently visible for the whole year that Sam had been under Ruby's thumb. It makes Dean want to shudder but he holds it off, knowing that this is just a mode that Sam has to revert to in order to survive, to keep the fear at bay.
Dean reaches over and squeezes the back of Sam's neck, "We're making it outta this, Sammy."
He says it in a way that doesn't leave question but also in a way that is meant to comfort Sam. It's the voice he's used a million times over and he hopes it doesn't fail him now.
Dean feels Sam relax a bit under his hand and sees the hunter facade melt a bit.
"I know, Dean," Sam says softly and then looks at his brother.
They lock gazes and Dean sees what he hopes he wasn't going to see, goodbye. Even though they both believe and hope they'll survive this, there's still that doubt, that possibility that they won't. And right now Sam is looking at Dean like he's never going to see him again. Dean can see Sam cataloging, taking in every detail, remembering it, storing it with his other memories just in case this is the last time.
Dean tightens his grip a bit and reiterates, "We will."
Sam smiles shakily and nods before turning back to face the enemy, the hunter completely back in control. They have a war to win.
Swayin' to the rhythm of the new world order and,
Count the bodies like sheep,
To the rhythm of the war drums.
The boogeymen are coming,
The boogeymen are coming.
Keep your head down,
Go to sleep,
To the rhythm of the war drums.