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Blood. Thick and satiny, gorgeous and crimson, the color of life itself. The sight of it can be hypnotic, shocking yet thrilling. Even the taste of it, salt and copper, is strangely addictive. There's a reason that a cut finger migrates directly to the mouth. There's something primal to it.
Dean had always found a rather obscene, secret pleasure in seeing his own blood beading and rolling from a wound. It was a thrilling, potent reminder that he was, indeed, still alive, despite all the odds against it. Not to mention the possibility of another badass scar.
But now, Dean found nothing comforting at all about what was pouring out of him. He gave a panicked little gurgle as his breath was cut off by a mouthful of blood, and he sputtered it out, feeling the hot droplets spatter his face and run down his cheeks in little trails, like war paint.
Please God, let it be worth it. Let Sam live a long life; let him be safe and happy. Don't let him throw it away by looking for revenge like I haveā¦
That's what it had all been about, after all. Dean had spent his whole life trying to avenge his mother. Then his father needed to be revenged. Every hellish being that Dean blasted was one step closer to making that evil, yellow-eyed sumbitch pay for spilling Winchester blood, for making Dean's little brother grow up without a mom. And now that his reason for hunting was dead, you'd think that the game would be over, that the mission was fulfilled. But no. Now Sam needed saving. Would it ever end?
Dean had always thought that when he finally died, there would be an end. An end to the watchfulness, to the pricking nerves, to the sleepless nights. An end to that terrible knowledge of what lurked in the dark. He would finally be able to rest.
But now. Now he would spend his eternity in the Pit, no doubt facing horrors he'd never imagined. No rest. Only torment.
Not that he would have done anything differently. He didn't want to die, of course, not when there was wine, women and song to be had. But Sammy needed saving, and as always, Dean did what he had to do. No regrets there. He'd do it again in a flash. Even knowing what would come.
Another wet cough sent a geyser of blood splashing across his chin, and Dean couldn't suppress a small moan as pain blazed across his abdomen. Of course that crimson-eyed bitch couldn't take him easy, take him in his sleep. She was going to make him suffer, the whore.
No, it wasn't her. Sam had splashed her brains over an asphalt crossroad. It wasn't her; it was someone bigger, someone meaner, someone that Dean had hurt over and over again. It was big evil, bigger than anything any Winchester had ever seen, and it wanted to hear him scream before the end.
Dean stared up at the sky, his eyes suddenly hot and wet. How many nights like this had he seen, with clouds scudding across an orange moon, with the sound of the fall wind, the leaves scrabbling in the trees? Twin tears broke free and traced over his cheekbones to tickle his ears, feeling for all the world like more blood.
Sam thought that Dean didn't give a crap about dying, that Dean was going go softly. Sam wanted him to rage, rage against the dying of the light, or however that fruity poem went. And Dean wanted to fight, he did. But he was so fucking tired. And if this was the only way to save Sam, who he loved more than he ever loved anyone (though he'd tongue-kiss Ash before he'd ever admit it), then so be it.
Another flame of pain seared Dean's gut and he choked out another gout of blood.
Another tear teetered on his lashes and he blinked it away.
His last harvest moon's warm light filled his vision and he caught a shaky breath.
Please, one more minute. One more glimpse of the night, one more breath of air before I go.
But there were no more.
