A/N: Thank you Ruth for the awesome beta.

This was first posted on livejournal, in case you should find it familiar.

Note: All sixteen chapters have already been written, edited and betad. I'm not just done uploading yet :-)

Long Way Down, Long Way Home
Chapter Ten
by Steffi

He was running out of money and he'd noticed it too late. He would be able to afford one last night in this motel before it'd be back to sleeping in the back seat of the Impala. He would have to spend what was left of his money on the little food he needed these days. Not that he cared much for where he slept at night anyway. Bed or back seat, it was all the same to him.

He'd forgotten to apply for a new credit card and that had never happened to him before. He'd sent off another application yesterday, but it would take some time before he'd receive the credit card, and until then, he'd be more or less broke. He'd been short on money before, but not like this. And back then he'd made some extra money hustling, but these days he was good at neither poker nor pool, and lost more games than he won. Focusing seemed an impossible thing to do, and his fingers were trembling so much he constantly missed the target.

Lady Luck had turned her back on him, and for some reason that filled Dean with satisfaction. Sometimes he imagined Lady Luck smiling at him, while he won one round of poker after another, and then she whispered 'Even if your brother's dead you're still good at poker, so how dare you complain?' and then he woke up from his daydream soaked in sweat. No, things were better and fairer this way. Not that he deserved fair.

He'd spread his weapons across the table to clean and polish them. It was the only thing he still did with his old carefulness. In fact, he'd developed a real complex as far as cleaning his guns and rifles and knives was concerned. Never before had he taken his weapons apart, cleaned and put them together again this often. It was soothing. The voices grew quieter.

His father came to his mind as Dean cleaned the barrel of his shotgun. Where was he? Was he okay? Fragments of childhood memories burst into his consciousness; his father sitting on his bed, staring vacantly out of the window. That had been the day after Mom's death, and Dean didn't like to remember that day, or any of the other days that came after. It had taken a while before Dad had been able to look after his sons again, and now Sam was dead and Dean couldn't help but wonder what that had done or was still doing or would do to his father. Maybe this had pushed Dad over the edge. Maybe this time he wouldn't be fine again. At night Dean often saw his father in his dreams, being drunk in a motel room or at a bar, his hair completely grey, eyes deeply shadowed. And then the voice would jeer: Look what you've done.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. Dean could still remember his father from before, well not much actually but – there were emotions, sentiments. He was being lifted up and cradled in his Dad's arms and he felt safe. He was catching a baseball and he heard his father's voice say "Well done, Dean!". Dad tucked him in at night and kissed him on the forehead. Every single memory from before was filled up with love and safety and comfort. The warmth was so strong it had lingered on, hung on to Dean all through the bitter years later, and no, it wasn't fair that once he'd had all this love and comfort and then it had been ripped from him and replaced with cold. But then, maybe he'd never deserved it in the first place because it was destined and the Gods or Hell or Fate –had known he'd lose Sammy. He'd lost more than Sammy, he'd lost his father for good, too. They would never be a family again, and he – Dean Winchester of all people – was to blame. Oh, the irony.

If only he could have called his father to check if he was still using his cell phone – one sign that Dad was still alive, at least, but Dean couldn't bring himself to do it. Dad could have answered it. Dean couldn't risk that.

He began to carefully put the weapons back into his duffle bag. The cool metal slid through his palms soothingly. Rifles and pistols and guns had become his friends, the only ones he had. Dean still hadn't shed a single tear since that fateful day. At first he'd been too numb to even feel the loss and pain, and now the pain had numbed him again. He tried to ignore it and knew that the voices telling him that Sam was dead because of him came from somewhere there, deep within.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried crying at first. He owed that to Sammy, didn't he? But he couldn't. Then as time went by he noticed the pain growing bigger, stretching through his body, and sometimes he held his breath because he thought his body was going to burst open from it at any second. It astonished him how much agony a body could endure. And Dean grew afraid that if he cried now he'd just break into tiny little pieces, fragments of his grieving self all over the floor, and he'd never be able to be put himself back together again. He was afraid he might drown in his own tears, and so he reinforced the wall he'd built around himself, and he piled up the tears and forbid himself to cry. Tears wouldn't bring Sam back, tears wouldn't help him keep his promise. So he became cold and indifferent, except for the pain that was so big it pierced through the numbness with a constant ache.

Dean rested his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. He had a headache again. The violent throbbing in his forehead had quickly become his faithful companion. Hardly a day passed by when Dean wouldn't swallow one or two or more painkillers to make the headache at least bearable. Sometimes he even took them when he didn't have a headache, just to be sure.

His figure resembled that of an old man these days, the way he walked with slouched shoulders, like someone who couldn't carry his burden any longer. He dragged himself from place to place, often limping, often stumbling. His body was aching and hurting and expressed what Dean's mind couldn't.

Reaching for the last pistol, Dean weighed the small token in his hands and frowned. He didn't put it in the bag. To the hunter's eyes she was a beauty; silver, light and easily to handle. The metal glistened in the pale lamp light as his bony fingers closed around it. They hadn't always been this bony, like a skeleton's hand, Dean remembered. He narrowed his eyes a little to survey the pistol more closely and suddenly it struck him. Suddenly he realised the answer to all his problems lay here in his hand, and had been doing so for some while.

The past months he hadn't even once considered it. He'd carried on like a loyal soldier, like a machine that just kept going.

But now he felt himself breaking under the weight. He felt drained, frail, tied. There wasn't anything left to give. He was completely empty. He didn't kill half as many demons as he'd aspired to. His agility along with his stamina and marksmanship were gone. The tricks that had saved him from dangerous situations before wouldn't work any more. Each hunt was more exhausting than the last and each fight harder to win than than the one before. The fact that he was still alive and breathing was mere luck, and his body was dotted with bruises, cuts and scratches only too willing to testify.

His grip around the pistol tightened, and slowly he lifted it until the barrel was pointed at his temple. As if the hand had a will of its own, because Dean wasn't doing it, not really. It felt like someone was pulling his hand up but there was no one. Kind of like back then when his feet had carried him to the Impala, and to the ruins of the house where Sam had died. Dean's index finger closed around the trigger. The cool metal lay against his skin, calming him. The noises grew quieter, the chaos in his mind arranged itself a little bit and he could see clearer.

He tried to think of a reason to live on but not one would come to his mind. Daylight scared him, because it lit up his sins for all to see and sometimes he wondered why people on the street didn't just beat the crap out of him, they had to know, didn't they? And there was nowhere to hide besides in the shadows and the dark of the night. His own shadow grew fainter, he was a broken toy ready to be tossed away.

Yes, he was broken. The colours were flaking, his clothes were torn. He was ready to be thrown out. There was no more room for someone like him on earth, he was about to be replaced. Broken toys were thrown away, and since Dean had no one to do that for him he would have to do it himself.

The Moor had done his duty.

The prospect of peace was so tempting Dean thought he couldn't bear it. He drew the trigger a little more, there was a click. Dean felt anticipation together with numbness. It was strange and it occurred to him that feeling this way shouldn't even be possible. But it didn't matter. Dean was calm.

Dean didn't believe in Heaven, or a happy life after death, in reunion with lost family members or Elvis Presley. Hell was the dimension exclusively reserved for demons. Lost souls and angry spirits didn't go to hell when they were released, they went nowhere. They just dissolved, as would he when he died. No existence as an angel, no cloud, no harp, he'd just be gone and that was exactly what he wanted. To disappear and leave nothing behind.

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Come on you coward, the voice said, or can't you even do this the right way?

His hand was shaking. The muscles in his index finger tensed. Dean straightened a bit. This was it. Finally.

So, you're just gonna bolt, is that it? another voice that sounded quite like his Dad's even though it was a bit different added, Sam is dead because of you, and you're going to run? Take the easy way out? Do you think you deserve the easy way? Don't you at least owe him to fulfil your promise while you still can? Death is too good for you, Dean.

The pistol sank back to the bed, Dean hardly noticed. His eyes still closed he nodded silently to himself, the voice was right. He had to carry on. He couldn't just ignore the punishment that had been bestowed upon him.

His fingers were still tightly closed around the pistol. He held onto it desperately, because there was nothing else to hang onto. Everything that he was was lying in his hand in the shape of a gun, the hunter, the demon slayer. The weapon was him, the hunter, because the time of the brother and son had passed.

Dean flung himself backwards onto the bed, the headache had returned and was apparently attempting to drive him mad with its constant throbbing. The blanket smelled of cheap fabric softener. Outside, cars and trucks rushed by at irregular intervals. When at last dusk was beginning to spread its twilight cloak over this part of the States, Dean had not had a minute of sleep.

He threw his bag into the trunk and froze when his gaze reached Sam's bag that was still lying in the trunk. Dean hadn't found the strength to move it yet or even touch it. A bolt of sheer panic rushed through Dean's body, then he hastily, almost angrily, slammed the trunk shut. He got into the Impala where he remained motionless behind the wheel for a couple of minutes. His arms were weak and numb, and he barely managed to place them on the steering wheel. He was lacking strength and possibly also will.

This was it then. No excuses, no evading, no exit.

At last he started the engine and hit the road. He needed money, and he knew someone who'd be willing to provide him with fake plates, credit cards, papers and anything else you could fake. ID cards Dean could fake himself, there was no difficult science behind it. He smiled, confident in the knowledge that he could be whoever he wanted to be, a police officer, a lawyer, even an astronaut. Dean bit his lip as he remembered how Dad had taught him that over and over again. How Dean had passed the knowledge on to Sammy.

Machines on the other hand were less easily tricked and lied to, so Dean needed help. He'd talk to his friend, tell him about his misery. Dean was pretty sure he could pay him at a later date.

Dean hit the gas pedal. If everything went according to plan, he'd be there in two days.

TBC