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Huh. He can't breathe. Weird. Somehow he thought it would be different. Worse. That he would claw panicked fingers at his throat. That he would reach out with flailing arms for help. That he would reach out for anything to help regain the ability to fill his lungs with precious air. But, now that he is in the throes of what normal people would consider their worst nightmare, it is not that bad. Or, maybe it's more that he doesn't really care if he ever takes in another breath.
He doesn't feel terror. Or panic. Hell, he doesn't seem to mind so much. It's calm. It's peaceful. It's quiet and dark. He strains to try and focus on something, to form some kind of concrete thought and can only come up with one. He snatches it up from somewhere in his mind and it tells him what he needs to know. That this is a better place to be. Cocooned in the tranquility of nothingness. He feels free. He feels relaxed. He feels perfectly fine. And he also begins to feel the tug of sleep wash over him in soft and gentle waves, lulling him into complete and utter calmness. The tendrils reach out to him, they wrap around his body and his mind and he feels serene. He hasn't felt like this in a very long time. He readies himself. He starts to drift his way into what he anticipates will be the best dream he has ever had. He smiles. And waits.
"DEAN!" The young hunter's body seems to transform itself into a piece of unyielding lead. Dead weight that makes Bobby grunt and groan with exertion to prevent the Winchester from once again becoming a fixture of this damn landscape. The weight seems to ease immediately off of the older man's aching bones as Castiel moves in to support more of Dean's form. Bobby looks up to the other man, to the angel, and feels slightly surprised that he can seem to carry the burden of Dean's body without straining one iota of one muscle. Huh. Angels. He watches Cas bend his head toward him and nod in Dean's direction.
"I can make him breathe. I can force air into his lungs."
God. The temptation is so strong. Bobby bites his tongue to prevent himself from caving in, from acquiescing to the angel's suggestion, to his offer immediately. It would be easy. It would be fast. But the truth is, Castiel will not always be right there, with his healing powers on stand by, ready to save Dean's ass at the drop of a hat. Bobby is glad Cas is there, will use him if he absolutely must but he needs to try. Needs to use his own Bobby-style tried and true persuasive techniques first. He needs to try and jump start Dean back into the world of the living the old fashioned way. The human way. Needs to at least try and break through to him without the use of heavenly intervention. Bobby sighs and slowly shakes his head.
"No Cas, not yet. Just hold him up, let me see if I can convince him in my own special stop being a damn idjit way." Bobby waits for the nod of understanding from the angel and allows for Cas to get a better grip on the young man. Once Dean is secure within the angel's grasp, the older hunter stands in front of the younger one and with a deep breath grabs hold of his shoulders and commences his attempt to get Dean to rejoin their party.
Dean feels himself shake. Or maybe the word is shudder. Either way, he feels himself shake or shudder again and again. It takes a moment for his oxygen deprived brain to register the fact. That it is not his body caught up in some kind of involuntary convulsion but rather it's a deliberate sensation, helped along quite aggressively by a pair of strong and determined arms. No. Dean is not ready to come back. He wants to be left here in the darkness, in the serenity. He wants to submit to his body's ever increasing longing for sleep. For rest. Wants to stay in the fog. Wants to be set adrift along in a sea of peace.
He is grateful when the shakes halt and the pressure on him withdraws. Finally. His moment of bliss ends its reign within milliseconds however as he feels the sting of a well placed slap tingle across his face and bring him back into the fray. Peachy. He opens his eyes a crack and feels the moisture of tears well up within them.
"DEAN! Breathe! Please, don't do this to me!"
Damn it. Dean automatically and by pure reflex gulps in a fraction of air because he recognizes the bellowing voice as Bobby's and the older man sounds scared. And then those good old Winchester instincts kick in to high gear. Dean has been so good at taking orders for so long that when someone screams at him and tells him to breathe he had better well listen and do it. And now, as his brain slowly starts to unmuddle itself, as the realization of where he is and why settles back into his mind, Dean wonders something. Why? It doesn't make any sense, he can not fathom the reason. Why would Bobby, or anyone else for that matter give two craps whether he lives or dies. Everyone would be so much better off if he would just go away. For good.
Dean wants so badly to go back into the blanket. Back into the warmth and comfort, the pain free existence that has now far too soon been ripped away from. He just wants to sleep already, and never wake up. Doesn't anyone besides him understand? Does he have to actually spell it out to them? Don't they get it? He is the one. The ass who started this whole damn thing. He broke the first seal and, well, they all know the rest of the tale, and at it's conclusion the truth is known. It consists of Dean being the cause of it all. The catalyst. The one who in the end doomed his own flesh and blood. His own brother. So, really, why exactly would Bobby give one flying...
Dean's train of thought is interrupted as he feels his hand be grabbed roughly and placed on the other man's chest. Okay. Awkward. "C'mon son, just follow me, you are still not getting enough air. Follow the rhythm of my breathing. Now breathe!" Dean gasps and tries to follow along, tries to concentrate on the rise and fall of Bobby's chest. Double damn it. He doesn't want to but guilt and obligation to the older hunter motivates him. His body itself decides to sell him out as if it is set on some kind of freaky auto pilot. One breath. Then another. And another. "That's it Dean, in and out. Slow and steady. In and out. Good, you are doing great. You're okay, you're gonna be okay son."
The veil over his eyes seems to lift, to clear a bit and once again he is forced to face the look. Of Bobby. The look which sports an array of emotions. Pain and fear and loss and sympathy are embedded in his mentor's face and he hates it. How many times is he going to be the cause of torment for all those he cares about? Why should Bobby stay? Why should he care? Shit. As his eyes leave the focus of Bobby's face, they scan beyond him and as his eyes blink, as they focus more and more, as shapes and objects begin to regain their clarity, he now stares in horror once again at the Impala. And he is forced to contend for what seems like the hundredth time a wave of crushing nausea and dizziness. Crap. He can not go in that car.
"Dean? What's going on with you boy?" The younger man peers into Bobby's eyes and silently wills his friend to be able to tell just by the look he conveys to him what the issue is. But the other man's searching eyes remind him yet again of the sheer magnitude of his loss. It is not his brother's face he stares into. And, for that reason, because no other person could ever read him the way that Sam could, he is made to verbalize the pain he feels. The one that his once beloved Impala has evoked.
He reaches out and clutches Bobby's arm like it is a life preserver, like he is the only thing that will anchor him and keep the young man from drowning. "Not...not the car Bobby...can't...not the car...too much Sam...just...can't..." Dean lets his eyes drop to the ground and lets his words hang in the air.
Bobby wonders how many times in one day he is going to feel a lump form in his throat. He looks to the vehicle parked just beyond where they stand. The Impala. An extension of Dean. Of Sam. Of their brotherly bond. Dean's pride and joy is currently the cause of the distress he finds himself in. Bobby sighs long and deep and places a comforting touch on the other man's shoulder. "Listen son, don't worry, the car can stay here for now. We'll get in the truck and head back to my place okay? You can rest on the way."
Rest? Dean actually laughs out loud at that. But it's not a joyful laugh. It's a sarcastic, bitter, I better laugh so I don't cry kind of laugh and it seems like an incredibly strange noise as it escapes his lips. That's a good one. He will never be able to rest again. How ironic that at the exact moment the thought enters his mind he is overcome by the weight of everything, feels it descend upon him, the mental and physical fatigue settles in and he feels incredibly tired. But it's different now. Not like the peace and warmth he experienced a short time ago. This feeling? It sucks. He feels depleted. His tank on empty. He will be damned if he will allow himself the respite of sleep. He can't. He won't. No sleep. No relaxation. Not when he knows that Sam will never be able t rest, will never know the luxury of closing his eyes. Not ever. For all eternity he will suffer.
The older Winchester shivers at the thought. He thinks maybe a side effect of his failure to save his brother is that he will be cold for the rest of his life. Huh. Bloody typical. Not so long ago he was burning in the pit of Hell. And now, now he is cold, frozen to the core. Maybe that is just what happens when the light that burned inside you, the spark that kept you warm and alive has been extinguished, snuffed out in an instant. He knows it. He will never be warm again. He will never be comfortable. He will remain cold. Like ice. Forever.
His legs start to move but they do so without any commands from him. He can feel the support of his friend Bobby on one side and can see the angel on the other side of him. An angel on his shoulder. Huh, that might have been a funny sort of thought a couple of days ago. Or maybe even yesterday. But now he sees no humour in it. No humour in anything. He figures those days are gone too.
The duo half carry, half drag Dean's body to the truck and Bobby smiles softly to him as he opens the door and motions for him to get in. "Get in son, I'm just gonna talk to Cas for a second."
The Winchester son wonders at what point it had happened. At what point it was that he turned into a weak and pathetic loser. A burden. What good is he to anyone if he can't even manage to get into a damn truck by himself, under his own steam. What a waste of air and space. He nods in Bobby's direction and as the door closes he seems to focus on a suddenly fascinating and incredibly intricate design embedded in the dash of Bobby's ride. He gazes out the window and sees the other two men in the midst of their discussion. He can't make out the words but he thinks they are probably talking about him. Probably fighting over which one has to look after his sorry hide. Probably just trying to figure out what the hell to do with him, where they can dump him and then head on down the road, never looking back. God, they must hate him. So much. And he can't blame them one little bit. He's surprised they have stuck around as long as they have. And now that the good half, the worthy half of team Winchester is gone, there is no need for them to pretend. He won't stay, he won't be around long enough to cause any more damage. He is done.
He looks back towards the dash and continues his staring contest with the inanimate object. He stares and stares at it, until all the images slowly fade into one. The sound of the door as it closes makes him jump and as his wild eyes scan the inside of the truck for the source, it takes a fraction of a second to realize it came from Bobby. He looks at the older man and cringes when his friend mutters a soft "Sorry boy."
Dean hears the words but they do not comfort him. They burn him. Sorry. Bobby has absolutely nothing to be sorry for. But he does. Dean. He has every reason to be sorry. He will not put this man through any more shit. He can't face him. He can't face Cas. Hell, he can even face himself. And he will not stick around to make any more mistakes. His mind is made up. The first chance he gets he is going to leave. He is going to check out. He will be gone. For good.
TBC...