A/N: I changed the title of the story, sorry for any confusion but it just fits better.
Thank you for all who reviewed the previous chapter, I appreciate you taking the time to read my ramblings and send me your thoughts.
I hope that anyone who reads will enjoy the conclusion. Thanks as always for stopping by.
The pitch of the sound that rips from his throat is feral and he barely registers that it is coming from him. It diminishes slowly; keeps going until there is no air left and his burning lungs force him to inhale deeply.
Sporadic movements, an uncomfortable fire in his chest and fists that won't unfurl wind him into a ball of unfettered frenzy. He needs to punch something. Hit something. Do something to loosen the suffocating knot his body is tied in.
Eyes twinkle oddly as they scope out the surroundings only to shimmer brightly as they land on the prize; on the object that will satisfy his all-consuming need to inflict damage.
He barely feels the sting of the shards as they embed themselves into his flesh, a smirk curling its way onto his lips. The reddish tinge that envelops him sputters slightly as fragments of glass continue to shower the ground; as the window violently shatters and dissipates as if it never existed, without warning or mercy.
But it's over too fast, and the twisted euphoria of that act, in that moment; the adrenaline rush of it, the tenuous relief he felt as he balanced along the tightrope and kept himself from being consumed by the raging storm is gone, evaporating into the air as quickly as it came.
It's not nearly enough to quell the rumble or defeat the rage.
He needs more.
Turning slowly on his heel he finds his gaze linger and attach itself to the silent metal frame, the one he's been slaving under for weeks. The irony of it isn't lost on him; the car having been brought back from death, when it should have just been left to rot in a damn ditch on the side of road.
His chest tightens and he growls when his eyes fixate on the damn thing, his peripheral vision beginning to blur until all he can see is its ebony skin.
It's mocking him; calling him out on how, even though he will try to rebuild himself in the same way, he is no longer sturdy and sure beneath his own skin. It silently speaks to him; tells him he has been ruptured at his very core, that his foundation has begun to crumble and the dominoes have begun to fall; tells him it will take much more than straightening out some bumps and bruises to make him whole again.
He screams in his head for it to shut the hell up.
Hate for the object in his path oozes from blurry eyes and drenched pores. With a sarcastic scoff between clenched teeth, the decision is made; time to even the score.
A sense of eerie calm descends as he takes a deep breath in, eyes intensifying on the target now acquired and pausing only long enough to readjust his grip on the weapon he yields in his now bloodied hands.
The first blow reverberates in the air and fills the stillness with sweet music. It barely makes a mark, hardly a dent, but there is no surprise in that; it'll take a hell of a lot more than one swipe to crush its resolve; more than one brush with pain and carnage and loss until it folds in on itself and starts to give way.
By the third strike the metal starts to groan; it flexes and creaks under the strain and a pleased smile crosses his sweat stained features.
It is inevitable. There is no doubt that it will cave, eventually; its resilience and resistance will begin to falter. Once pristine and immune to the ravages of the world it finds itself in, it will inevitably crack and splinter; will succumb to the weight of constant punishment and the barrage of unending violence and damage, until its unable to sustain its fractured armor as the hits keep coming, over and over again.
Each vibration that travels up his arms, each twinge of pain in his hands and thud of his racing heart brings him closer to satisfaction; in the knowledge that nothing can survive intact if brutalized long enough; that even the strongest can and will, fall.
The crowbar weighs a hundred pounds in his grip as his stance begins to waver; his knees start to buckle in objection to the continuous, rolling fatigue that has permeated every fiber of his being. He tries to hold on but the weapon slowly slides out of his grasp to land beside him with an overly unimpressive thump. The instrument of his strength now taken from him, he reaches a shaking hand out and holds on to the victim of his fury for support.
Blinking away the surging pain in his extremities and the moisture from a combination of sweat and tears he didn't even realize he had shed, his mouth forms a grim line as he examines his handiwork.
Landing on his knees he peers quizzically at the gaping hole in the center, mesmerized by how each blow landed in almost exactly the same spot yet not remembering anything after the first. Not having the strength to lift himself from his new position in the dirt, he only has enough juice left to adjust his body until his back finds support against the bumper.
Closing his eyes he tries to catch hold of and tame his ragged breaths and wipes his face with his forearm. It seems like forever but the roar of his heart finally softens and his eyes open sluggishly when he hears the chirp of birds in the distance and the purr of a soft wind in his ears.
It isn't long until a pair of boots gain entry into his line of sight to stop directly in front of his outstretched limbs.
"Dean?"
He is suddenly too tired to look up, let alone respond. He just wants to be left alone.
"Damn it, Dean. What did you do to yourself?"
Sam's face comes into view and he can't help it, he feels sickened by the tears that reside in his eyes and the look on his features; the one that screams out sympathy and concern. He opens his mouth to tell his brother he isn't a baby and is dealing with things; that he's not broken and still tough as they come, but he only serves to let out a small hiss as a towel presses firmly against his throbbing hands.
"Dean? Hey, man. Just, please tell me how you're doing."
Intently he focuses on his brother's eyes while he blasts him with his signature grin.
"Hiya, Sammy. I'm fine. I'm good."
"Right."
He bites back the moan that wants to break through to shatter his facade as Sam guides him back to a standing position.
"Just take it easy, Dean, I got ya."
Trying to shrug off Sam's paws, they only grip him tighter when his first step has him listing suddenly to the side and a familiar sigh reaches his ears.
"You can't keep going like this, dude. If you don't let it out, in a healthy way, it'll break you apart."
The words make him flinch... and then he hears it.
There is a rumble in the distance.
The End.