Title: Treading Water 3/3
Author: alakewood
Warnings: Slight spoilers for AHBL (both parts). Character death?
Characters: Dean, mentions of Sam
Rating: PG
Summary: He'd be damned if he'd let the hellhounds come for him. Well, he'd be damned either way.
XOXOX
May 2, 2008
Dean wasn't sure what it was that brought him back to Lawrence during those last days. He'd left Sam at some seedy motel in Michigan.
He'd gone for coffee and a newspaper, Sam still asleep. Two days later, he found himself in Kansas, the drive a total blur, Lawrence on the horizon.
It was a warm, rather pleasant afternoon. He glanced over his shoulder, squinting into the sunlight, looking at the impala. He entertained the thought of calling Sam for the briefest of moments. His phone wasn't off, just on silent – he knew Sam could use some nerdy, GPS tracking system to find him – he just didn't really want to talk to him. What was he supposed to say?
Dean continued down the gently sloping hill towards the river's edge. Wandering off the narrow path, he stooped to pluck a marigold from a haphazard patch amongst tall weeds. The plant was completely out of place – it was hearty enough to grow just about anywhere, but he didn't think they bloomed until later in the summer.
Sand was cool and gritty between his toes as he walked along the bank, finding a small outcropping of limestone to sit on.
Pulling the yellow petals from the offending flower, he recalled the first time he'd seen one.
Mary was pregnant with Sam, her belly swollen. She couldn't stay still, was constantly moving. Dean remembered that it drove John crazy. He just wanted her to rest, but she wanted to clean the house and rearrange the nursery. And rearrange the nursery again. Then she wanted to start planting a garden.
It had started with marigolds.
Dean had liked the tulips – with all the different colors; and they smelled better. But marigolds were Mary's favorite, John had insisted.
Named for Mary, mother of Jesus. Interesting, that. But, Mary was their mother, too. And Sam, apparently, was the antichrist.
The yellow petals swirled in a gust of wind that strewed them across the water.
Dean stood, moved closer to the river. Sand gave way to mud that squelched between his toes. Kept walking.
Ankle-deep, the mud began to turn into clay.
Knee-deep, felt the slightest pull of the current.
Creeping up his thighs, the water was cold.
He stepped off a ledge, suddenly completely submerged. The water was murky, but he could see his exhaled breath float to the surface in a series of bubbles, could see the way the sunlight refracted and danced about them.
His pulse thudded like a timpani in his ears, a low, reverberating and hollow sound of a war drum. His lungs burned, stretched tight like the head of that drum.
There was something there, behind the pounding, but the current was stronger now, started to pull him downstream. He didn't fight it.
x
In the beginning, the feeling was just a dull ache that, over time, became a bone-deep exhaustion. Made him feel like Atlas with the world – his world, Sam - on his shoulders.
At some point, his body could no longer bear the weight. He simply gave up, gave in.
You can only tread water for so long.
Besides that, your past always has a way of catching up with you – Dean had been running from it for too long, but he'd be damned if he'd let the hellhounds come for him. Well, he'd be damned either way.
He opened his mouth, breathed deep of the silt-filled water. Coughed, the gasping-for-air reflex causing him to suck in more riverwater.
He felt his lungs fill. Could hear his named being called frantically. "Dean! Dean!"
Sam.
Felt panic and fear, and the sudden urge to live.
But the darkness was creeping closer, pulling him deeper. His arms and legs were heavy, like lead weights were pulling him down.
Sinking; the sunlight was getting fainter and fainter, then nothing but darkness.
x
You can only tread water for so long.