"You want to know your future? I know your future. It's covered in thick, black ooze!"
Before turning off the light, Sam looked over at Dean, who lay on his side, his back to Sam. The younger Winchester shook his head as he pulled the lamp string and stole under the covers. Sam listened in the dark to Dean's even breathing and he sighed. How could Dean do that? The man could sleep even if the world were coming down around him. Heck, he had—and it was! As Sam closed his eyes, he felt a small sense of reassurance at the thought. No matter what happened, Dean would never change. Dean could take anything—sure, he was affected, he bottled things up to the boiling point—but he never did explode. He just kept going. No matter what happened, Dean was there, as steady and constant as his breathing.
Dean waited until he heard Sam fall into sleep's rhythmic breathing pattern, and sat up—ending his own faked illusion of sleep. There had been a time when Sam's thoughts were true. There had been a time when he could shut off the stream of horrific consciousness in his mind and simply fall into bed, a comatose lump of thoughtlessness. That was then. This is now.
He got up and threw his jeans on, preparing for yet another sleepless night. Stepping outside, he deeply inhaled the frigid October night air. Carried on the wind was the warning of winter, of cold—of dark, short days. Shoulders hunched and head bowed against the wind and the scent of foreboding carried on it, Dean made his way to the Impala. He turned the ignition over, ready to drive…where? Dean realized he had no desire to occasion his usual haunts. The bars, clubs, liquor stores…nothing held the promise of relief. Over the years he'd tried filling the growing hole inside of him with these things, and they usually worked temporarily or at least alleviated the emptiness a little. Desire had died in Dean. He wanted nothing more than to just stop—for it all to end. He'd been going through the motions for too long, and the hole could not be ignored. It had grown and grown so large that it had taken over him. He was himself a gaping void. He thought of Frank's words:
"Decide to be fine 'til the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you're alive and that's your job… Do it right, with a smile, or don't do it."
He'd taken Frank's advice. He did it 'cause he had to. It was his job. There was nothing else to it—just killing that "Dick" Roman and ending this—that was all he felt, all he desired. Meanwhile, he had to carry on as if he were alive, put on a show of normalcy for Sam, for his own sanity.
Trying again to shut off his brain, he flicked on the radio, not even caring what came on, and pushed his seat back into reclining position and wearily closed his blood-shot eyes as music filled his ears:
Have you ever felt like giving in
Tried for hours but just can't win
Tell yourself you're not good enough
The struggle alone is just too much
No one's there to hear you scream
You gasp for air but cannot breathe…
you feel the current pull you in
Try to keep your head above water
Cause it's never been harder…it feels hopeless…
Head above water, gotta fight from going under
Dean flitted between waking and sleeping as the song seeped into his subconscious.
He thrashed about, trying to bring his head above the surface - to breath. He sank down again, mouth still open, struggling for air, but only succeeding in swallowing the thick, black ooze surrounding him. It covered him. It was in his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his lungs, his stomach. Finally, he stopped thrashing, and he slipped one last time beneath the surface; the black ooze sucking him down whole.
Author's Note: I know, dark, but this season is just that. I was thinking about the god of time's words and couldn't get them out of my head, so I just started typing and this is the outcome. What do you think?
The song is Theory of a Deadman's "Head Above Water"