Lives are not lived
With silver platters
Serving up second chances.

Lives are not lived
With tooth and nail
Fights to the finish.

Lives are lived
With seconds ticking
Until your time is up.

CHAPTER 17- HEY JUDE

Kind of funny the weird things you remember when the world is about to end.

Like when Sam was sick that one winter with the flu and landed us cooped up at Bobby's for a month while Dad was off across the country hunting down a shifter. Sam was laid up in bed for a straight week, and spent his few wakeful hours puking in the bathroom across the hall, groaning through fevered dreams, and whining about everything he could. But there was one day in the middle of a monstrous snowstorm when I got him downstairs and huddled up by the fireplace, coaxed out with a warm cup of hot chocolate. He laid there, bundled up in thick blankets, all dopey with his eyes half-closed and mouth hanging open, pale and thin from sickness, smiling softly and still holding that bright look in his eyes that had seemed to have dimmed greatly over the years. We sat together, watching the snow fall in clumps from the pale grey sky, settling over the rusting shells of cars and piling up until the only thing you could see was a blanket of blindingly white snow extending on forever, the both of us basking in the peaceful silence and the warm glow of the fire, just taking it all in. I remember sipping my cooling chocolate and looking down at Sam, seeing him grin tiredly at me, hair a mess, small hand gripping his favorite Star Wars mug, and I could couldn't help but laugh and grin back. I don't know what it was about that moment, but I remember thinking I want to remember this forever. I can still feel the warmth in my chest just looking back on it.

Another time, years later, driving to Minnesota for a case shortly after Dad died, Sam was slouched in the passenger seat, half-asleep and slightly tipsy, lackadaisically watching the street lamps pass and giggling relentlessly as he told me the story of how he got drunk at a dorm party and made out with a dude. I swear, I thought he was a chick! What? No, dude, I'm telling the truth! He was just really short. I just pulled away for a second and finally saw his face and my stomach just dropped. I ran out of the party and locked myself in my dorm for the rest of the weekend. It was the most embarrassing thing I've ever done. That was the first time he had laughed since Jessica died.

Or when I was fourteen and going to my first high school, secretly terrified out of my wits after having grown up watching dumb teen movies about jocks and bullies and prissy cheerleaders. I thought I was hiding my fear well, but little ten-year-old Sam seemed to have caught onto my nervous glances and wringing hands in the hot back seat of the car on the long drive on the first day. Come on, you dummie. High schoolers don't have claws or sharp teeth. They can't throw you across rooms or bite your leg off. They aren't gonna hurt you. Something about that helped me get through the month of hell that was my first high school experience.

I smiled sadly, looking down now at the prone form of Sam lying on the lumpy mattress, face still covered in black sick, features sharp in the harsh shadows of the candles, but relaxed and peaceful in a way I hadn't seen in months, years. He still looked so young and innocent in his sleep.

In the cramped and moldy bathroom a cheap razor tucked in the corner of the rusty cabinet brought me back to my first attempt at shaving. I was twelve years old, far too young to be even thinking about having facial hair. But I had seen Dad shave so many times, so I of course wanted to do it too. I was bored, curious, and naïve. All ingredients destined for trouble. So I took Dad's electric razor from the sink top and climbed up on the counter so I could see in the mirror. Let's just say it didn't turn out well. I managed to avoid Freddie-Crugering my face, but I did slice open my finger while toppling off of the sink and slamming my head on the edge of the tub. Sam thankfully came to my rescue only after bursting through the door and scolding me for my stupidity. Totally didn't cry when he sewed up my finger.

As I stared at my gaunt reflection the mirror, felt the hunger that nearly doubled me over in pain, I couldn't help but recall times when hunger had made me do dumb things. Of course, there was the whole Boys Home thing, but there were other times too. Like when I was ten, I pick pocketed a man who just so happened to be a cop when Dad hadn't come back to the motel in weeks. Had to sneak out of the police station when the cop went to the can, sulking home, dreading having to face poor Sammy empty handed once again. I was only fifteen when I was almost beaten to death by a gang of angry bikers I had hustled out of their money in a game of pool. Sam was the one who searched the whole town for me and found me alone, barely breathing in that alley and dragged me all the way home. He was the one who yelled Dad's ear off over the phone that night, demanding he come home, scolding him for leaving us for so long, for leaving us so little money. Even though I was in a boatload of pain and only barely conscious, I couldn't help but be proud of the kid.

The memories came tumbling out like a waterfall, flood gates broken open, releasing a torrent of emotions that settled heavy in my chest like a sickness. I couldn't breathe.

I remembered rolling down indistinct hills dotted with sweet smelling buttercups, knees and elbows stained green and laughter filling the air. I remembered dancing half-drunk with a girl at some prom until I was bone-tired and red in the face. I remembered driving for the first time, straggling along the edges of dirt roads at a walking pace, hands white-knuckling the wheel and Dad guffawing in my ear as I continuously slammed on the Impala's breaks. I remembered meandering around a school library, cheeks red as I tried fruitlessly to get the attention of a certain brown-haired girl I had a hopeless and embarrassing crush on. I remember the first time Sam got hurt on a hunt, scratched up by a scuffle with a particularly annoying poltergeist; I had to keep a straight face as Dad carried his limp body to the car, had to hide my relief when he finally woke up, had to hold myself back from grabbing him and pulling him to my chest, so glad he was safe.

I gripped the edge of the bathroom sink as I heard the bed springs creaking in the other room. My hand went for the doorknob, but there was no lock. I was shaking. I pressed a clenched fist to my mouth to hold in a building scream as I opened the door, terrified of what may lay on the other side. Peeking around the corner into the dim room, I found Sam sitting up on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.

He was crying.

As he heard me enter, his head came up, eyes meeting mine, and it felt like the ground had been ripped out from under me because I had seen that look so many times before. The first time he cried over Dad leaving. His first day of school when we finally said goodbye and started to walk away. The time he shuffled off the school bus with a black eye and gum in his hair. The one time Dad yelled at him for forgetting to salt the motel room and he shoved himself in the corner so I couldn't see him attempt to wipe his tears away. When I screamed at him for wanting to leave for college and slammed the door in his face when he tried to tell me goodbye. When I found him in the flames and smoke of his apartment and dragged him away from everything he had lost, everything he had worked so hard to get. Broken. Lost. Betrayed. But as I looked down upon his face trailed with black stained tears, I only wanted to run.

"Dean?"

My knees couldn't seem to hold my weight. I held tightly to the door frame as the ground swayed beneath my feet.

"Dean. . . Dean, you have to kill me."

And suddenly I was thrown back to that stuffy hospital room, Dad whispering in my ear the words I would come to dread for the rest of my life, then to Sam, so scared of himself, corrupted by the demon possessing him, begging for me to fulfill those words. Those words just hours ago he was telling me I should have followed, blamed me for bringing on the end of the world when I was just trying to give him the life he deserved.

"No."

I had crawled through the deepest depths of hell to bring him back. I wasn't letting him go again.

"Please, Dean. Just end it already."

I turned away from his glistening eyes, glaring a hole through the tacky wallpaper. "No." My voice cracked. My lips trembled around the word.

"Dean, there's nothing left, nothing left to save. Just end it all. There's no point in going on anymore."

His voice was so steady. So gentle. My eyes were burning, fist tightening around the door frame, nails digging into the soft wood. I swallowed hard, looking to the ceiling and blinking tears away. God, why does it have to be me?

"You too much of a bitch to do it?"

I glanced down in confusion only to be met with Sam's face in mine. In a breath I was slammed against the wall behind me, large hands tightening around my throat.

"Fucking pussy can't even take out his own brother? I thought better of you, Dean."

All I could see were his eyes. Bulging out of his skull like ping pong balls, bloodshot and smeared with black tears, wide and wilder than any creature I had ever encountered.

My fingers pried at his until they bled, but they did not move and inch. His hands were like metal clamps, immovable and freezing cold as they pressed into the muscles and bones of my neck.

"Eh, not much to say, I guess. Always were a little socially stunted."

My head was echoing with my internal screams for Cas. My numb hands were fisting in Sam's shirt, desperately trying to push him away as my throat closed up and my vision started to blur. Goddammit, Cas, why did you have to leave him untied?

"You know how long I have wanted to die, Dean?" He breathed the words into my face, never blinking, never looking away. "Long before this shit show even began. Long before I even went to hell and got mind-fucked by Lucifer. Long before Dad died, before Jessica, before college. I was thirteen years old. I was abandoned in a dirty hotel room with only a bag of beef jerky and five dollars in change. My dad was piss-drunk at a sleazy bar, my brother was off fucking some slut in an alley somewhere. It was three in the morning. I had no one. I had no friends, no family, no one who cared. I was supposed to grow up to be like my brother, like my drunkard father, destined to hunt down monsters and murder them. To never have a home, to never settle down, to have to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. Do you know how heavy a burden that was to carry at only thirteen? Would you expect any young teen to be okay with that? I thought there was only one way out. I was going to shoot myself, Dean. I was going to kill myself to get away from it all. But I didn't, because I came to my senses and realized I could just walk away from it all. And I did. I had a home, a girlfriend, a job. I was happy. And guess who took that all away from me!" His voice rose as he pulled me forward and slammed me against the wall again, and my vision went black.

"You forced me back into this life!" I was thrown into the wall once again. "You brought me back!" Again. "When I got stabbed in the back, you brought me back!" Again. "When I died and went to hell, you brought me back!" Again. "When I got sick after the trials, you brought me back!" Again. My legs fell out from under me, and he released me as I went limp, letting me slide to the ground. "Now, even when the whole whole world has become a fucking graveyard, you still won't let me go!"

He went quiet. As I sucked in the frigid air, he stared down at me, and I could vaguely see his huffing outline as the tingling silence permeated through the room.

"I guess I'll have to do it myself," he muttered, just above a whisper. My heart jumped into my throbbing throat as he turned sharply and strode across the room. I was struggling onto my hands and knees as I heard a gun being cocked, and blinked through the black spots to see him bracing himself on the edge of the mattress as he keeled over to vomit all over the carpet.

I sighed in relief as the gun tumbled to the ground, slumping back against the wall as my head spun like a top. If I had anything in my stomach, I probably would have thrown up as well.

It seemed to take hours for him to stop throwing up. I sat dazedly, still trying to catch my breath, just watching distantly as he continued to barf his insides up. Slumped against that wall in that musty motel room in the middle of a dead and desolate world, watching indifferently as my brother slowly lost his mind, as it dissolved and ran out his ears, down his face like tears. Watched as his muscles went slack and he plunged face first into the sick, lying there, still as a corpse.

The four years Sam spent at college were the hardest four years of my life. The first few months, Dad was pissed. Constantly. A week post-showdown, Dad still had barely said a word. He threw himself into hunts, one after the other, never taking a break from hacking and slashing and stabbing to even wash the blood from his clothes or sew up his wounds.

It was quiet without Sam. The car felt empty without him in the backseat with his nose stuck in a book or bickering with me about dumb shit. It felt strange not having to ask for an extra cot at hotel desks, felt strange not fighting over who got to shower first in the morning, felt strange seeing the empty space where Sam's bag would usually be placed. Dad was standoffish about it all, huffing when he found one of Sam's old shirts in the trunk, throwing it in the trash, swearing when he accidentally called out for Sam during a hunt and taking his anger out on an innocent tree, getting his knife stuck deep in the trunk. Any time I brought up Sam, he acted as if he didn't exist, as if his betrayal had exiled him off the face of the Earth - well, Dad's Earth, at least.

I tried calling Sam several times, but he must have gotten a new number, because the calls were always dropped. It wasn't just quiet without him, it was difficult. I now had to take on the job of two men, because God forbid Dad work a little but harder than usual. This resulted in multiple stitches, broken bones, heaps of pain meds, and even one trip to the emergency room when I had been knocked unconscious by a nasty rugaru. And that wasn't even Dad's doing. The girl we had saved insisted that I go to the hospital, and an ambulance was there before my Dad could even drag my limp body to the car and speed off.

And then Dad started going out on solo hunts, and I had never felt more alone. Spending hours in the cold silence of the car driving through the night, music doing nothing to relieve the pressure. Lonely nights spent flipping through the channels in hotel rooms, bathed in the flickering light of the television, no one to share jokes with about the dumb soap operas. Limping back to the car after a particularly taxing hunt and having to sew up my own wounds, no snarky quips about my hunting abilities to distract me from the pain. I was pretty sour about it all for a while. At first, I sided with Dad, completely disheartened and angry at Sam for giving up on the life, for giving up on the people we needed to save. But as I saw Dad fall deeper into alcoholism and became more acquainted with the despondent, spiritless community of hunters, I began to realize why he wanted out. I remember overhearing one hunter at a bar saying You either live this life until it kills you, or live it long enough until you kill yourself.

God knows I have been on either side of that saying far too many times.

Now, as I stood swaying over Sam's limp body tied up to the motel chair, grasping the cold gun in my trembling hand, I had no idea if that saying could even apply to me anymore.

He was still alive. He was still breathing. I had no idea how, considering a good amount of his dissolved organs were smeared all over the molding carpet, more of the black liquid dripping from his mouth and nose. Cas was still gone; having not responded to any of my prayers, I had to assume he was dead, a fact that only made the deep ache in my chest grow ever more agonizing. Like a heart attack that just refused to put me out of my misery.

My finger shook on the trigger. I was so positively lost that I wasn't even sure if the Earth was still spinning. Nothing, nothing could have ever prepared me for this. I have been to every "after" imaginable, spent decades in Hell being ripped apart by demons and stitched together again, spent a year traversing the darkest pits of Purgatory, got a glimpse of the Heaven I would never get to reside in. I've stopped two apocalypses, took the Devil head-on, ganked the big bad leviathan, sliced off the head of the demon Abbadon, and killed Death himself. I've witnessed the deaths of everyone I ever loved, whether by personal sacrifice or brutal slaughter, right before my very eyes. I've been through what I thought was the worst of the worst, but nothing would prepare me for this.

"You know, you could try pointing that thing somewhere useful." Sam spat black sludge at my feet, whipping his greasy hair out of his face. "At my head, between your eyes, maybe."

I just swallowed hard, the pressure feeling like gravel on my sore throat.

"You do understand how fruitless this all is, don't you? This 'trying to save the world' shit. Everything's dead, Dean. There's nothing left, no people to save, no monsters to hunt." He paused, a smirk unfurling on his face. "Little motto doesn't seem to apply when you've killed the whole world."

"No." I croaked, meeting his eyes defiantly. "I'm not playing any of your sick games. You're not Sam, not anymore."

"Then why am I still here?" I wavered at his sudden sharp tone, readjusting my grip on the gun. "Ah, yes, Dean's proverbial abandonment issues. Aren't you getting a little tired of this story? I mean, I can only die so many times before it starts to become cliché. It has to end somewhere."

My fingernails dug into my palms. "You-"

"Still haven't answered my question. Why on Earth would the one and only Dean Winchester try so hard to keep his brother alive when he is already dead?" He leaned forward, eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer. My eyes fell to the ground, teeth catching on my lip as he hummed with content. I could hear the grin on his face. "Yes, that's right. He won't let him go, because deep down, he knows his brother is still in there, still alive and kicking. How else would Sam know all those delicious things about Dean? He's never told another soul."

I watched the tears fall from my cheeks and plummet to the floor, watched as they darkened the carpet, chest tightening as I fought down a sob.

"I'm all here, Dean, and I've never been more awake."

And suddenly I just couldn't do it anymore.

A cry fell from my mouth as I threw the gun across the room, head falling into my hands as I turned away, anything I could do not to look at him.

"Aww, you gonna cry like a little baby? Gonna cry for your mommy? Too bad she burnt up on the ceiling-"

"Shut up! Shut! Up!" My throat felt like it was bleeding. My face was hot. All I could see was red. "I'm gonna save you. I'm gonna fix this all even if it kills me."

"Like I said, there nothing left to fix. There's no point in going on anymore, so if you could just lay off the macho front for a while and-"

I bounded forward and snatched up his jaw in my hand, yanking his face towards mine. "I said shut up."

The light in his eyes was like that of no other. I could see the reflection of fire in his irises.

"Yeah, and I asked you to shoot me in the fucking head. We don't always get our wishes granted."

My fist met his cheek and he was left spitting up a mess of blood and sludge.

"You know," His head hung on his shoulders, hair masking his face, hands twitching uncontrollably on the arms of the chair, "I've always thought you hit like a girl."

As his head lolled back into its place, I finally realized just how sick he looked. So, so thin. I could see every edge and curve of the bones in his face, cheeks hollow, eyes so sunken that the candle light left nothing but deep shadows in the sockets. His skin was white, transparent almost, stretched so tight over his bones that blue veins poked through on his temples, flowed like tributaries across his hands. The skin around his eyes was stained purple from illness and lack of sleep. I couldn't remember the last time he slept.

His face twitched as he tilted his chin up at me. It was like his whole body was being zapped with electricity, causing his muscles to tense up erratically, but he didn't seem to be phased by it. The Cheshire grin on his face stayed true through it all.

"I don't know how I'm gonna convince you." He frowned and shrugged his shoulders. "You always were the stubborn one."

"I'm not going to fall for this, so you can go ahead and shut your mouth."

"But where's the fun in that? I've been quiet for so long, Dean. You've always said I need to be more open. All it took was an apocalypse and a monster sickness to get me to finally put my mind on my sleeve." He dipped his head to the side so the black sludge from his ear dripped onto his shoulder. And then he threw his head back and laughed.

I fell onto the edge of the mattress, fists pressing into my eyes as my head pounded like a jack. God, oh God, what was I supposed to do?

"Dean-o, you know praying will do you no good. God's long dead. The Darkness killed him a long time ago."

I pressed my hands over my ears, wishing to hear anything but his voice.

"Oh, come on! You really think that's going to make a difference? I didn't think you were that childish!"

And suddenly I was wishing I was back in that car again, going ninety and speeding towards oblivion. I wished Cas had been a minute too late and had found nothing but a steaming pile of metal and had just turned and ran. I wished I had burned up in that fire, had been turned to nothing more than a pool of ash, had been killed by that crazed woman in that supermarket, had been carved up by that zombified college student so long ago. I wished I had just followed through with Death's plan, wished I had never gotten that God-forsaken Mark in the first place. Nothing was worth this.

I remember when Sammy was born. Most of my memories from that time have faded away over the years, but that day stands out clear in my mind. It was early in the morning. The sun hadn't even risen yet. Dad came into my room short of breath and red faced, but smiling brightly as he ushered me out of bed. I jumped up and got dressed in about ten seconds flat, grabbing my bag I had had packed for months waiting for this day, stuffed full of unnecessary extra clothes and toys I was excited to share with the new baby. Dad followed me as I bounded down the steps, bag in tow, and hopped into the car, where Mom was already strapped in, eyes squeezed shut and face red too as she gripped her swollen stomach. I obviously didn't really know what was going on at the time, Dad telling me that the baby was 'just really excited to be born' so I would stop asking questions. The car drive was hectic, Mom screaming thought several contractions, Dad nervously making wrong turns and repeatedly asking if the baby was coming, but we finally made it. As Mom was wheeled to her room, Dad and I settled into the waiting room, and the next few hours were torture to a hyper little four year old. But the wait was well worth it when we were finally allowed back and I got to meet my new little brother. I was confused at first, because I didn't see any baby, but when Dad lifted me up to sit on the bed next to Mom, I peered down at the bundle in her arms to see the tiniest little baby I had ever seen. I had fully expected him to be the same size as me, so when the microscopic kid was carefully placed in my arms, I was beyond confused. I remember the first thing out of my mouth when I got to hold him was Why does he look like a potato? and my parents laughed and smiled down at me and I was was absolutely beaming at the little thing that was my new brother.

"Kill me! Just fucking kill me already you cowardly fuck!"

I remember the first time Sam crawled. He he had just turned five months old, and I was with him and Mom in the back garden, snacking on sandwiches and playing in the leaves. I had already raked up a substantial leaf pile, and Mom was giggling as she watched me roll around in it, Sam playing with a toy truck in her lap. It had taken me a long time to accept that little Sammy wasn't going to be able to play with me for a while, but I had been happy just being able to make him laugh by making dumb faces from afar. When Mom had placed him down on the picnic blanket for a moment to run inside to answer the phone, I started to throw leaves in the air and jump around to get a laugh out of him. He gave me a toothless grin, clapping his tiny hands together, and I couldn't help but feel accomplished. When he got on all fours and started making his wobbling way over to me, though, it felt as if I had won the world's best brother award. I was cheering and egging him on a and he stumbled forward at a snail's pace, still proud even when he fell on his face. When Mom came back out, she gasped and frantically called in Dad from the garage, and they both came running out practically glowing with pride as they watched their youngest crawl all the way across the yard by himself. And when he reached me, I scooped him up into my arms and gave him a big kiss on the head, and is swear I couldn't stop smiling.

"KILL ME! BLOW MY BRAINS OUT, GODDAMMIT! PUT ME OUT OF MY FUCKING MISERY!"

I remember the night my mother died. Before the fire, before the screaming and the smoke and the sirens. I had had another nightmare, stricken from bed by visions of shadowy figures and long, scraping claws. I had dragged my blanket along with me through the dark halls, searching for my mother through the sound of pitiful wailing and static filled televisions. She was in Sam's room, desperately trying to lull him into sleep as he cried and cried and cried. She told me to go back to sleep, but I pushed out my lip and batted my big eyes, which must have struck a chord with her, because she set the whining Sam down in his crib, kneeling down beside me and bringing her soft hands to my cheeks, giving me a look that soothed me to the soul. She picked me up, swathing me in my blanket as she carried me to my room, placing me in my bed and curling up next to me. She held me tight in her arms, brushing the hair from my forehead with gentle fingers, singing Hey Jude into my ear as I drifted into a peaceful sleep in her grasp. I woke up only hours later the the sound of roaring flames a my father's voice telling me to get up and run.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH, JUST KILL ME! KILL ME!"

I dragged myself from the mattress, each foot weighing a ton as I trudged over to the corner, each step feeling like climbing a mountain.

"YOU'RE GOING TO ROT IN HELL DEAN WINCHESTER, YOU FUCKING PUSSY!"

I could barely see through my tears, could barely breath over my sobs as I fell to my hands and knees, groveling on the ground as I groped around blindly, desperately.

"JUST PULL THE TRIGGER, DEAN! YOU'RE NOT DOING THE WORLD A FAVOR BUY LIVING ANY LONGER!

My hand closed around something cold, numb skin sticking to the surface like glue. I gripped it tight in my shaking hands like it was the Queen's crown, wobbling to my unsteady feet and turning to face him again.

"KILL ME! KILL ME ALREADY! KILL ME, DEAN. JUST DO IT!"

I blinked the tears from my eyes as I met his, almost completely engulfed in the black ooze, face red from screaming, chest heaving as he waited, waited.

"JUST DO IT!"

I closed my eyes as I lifted the gun and pulled the trigger, letting it drop from my hand as the world finally went silent.

The fire was the warmest thing I had felt in a lifetime.

It had taken hours to build. Gathering enough wood was nearly impossible. Everything had died and crumbled to dust a long time ago. Cas appeared a few hours in, empty handed and completely stricken at the sight. We didn't speak, didn't look at each other. He just began helping, stacking more disintegrating wood onto the pile in silence. I was barely standing by the time we finished, so, so tired and already into the first stages of starvation. We lugged the body, covered only in dirty motel sheets, up onto the top with a bit of struggle. I stood heart-weary at the base for a few moments, taking in the lumpy, blackened sheets and hastily built pier, complete frozen by the feeling of lead in my veins and the fear of finally letting go.

As I turned to Cas, I found him staring back, eyes like a mirror reflecting my own sorrows. I nodded, gaze falling back to the pier as he snapped, causing it to go up in flame. And I stood there, taking in the searing heat of the flames, watching them lick the sheets, send them dissolving into embers that flew up into the black sky, smelling the all too familiar gut-churning scent of burning flesh, listening to the wood snap and crack. I stood there, stoic, hands in my pockets, watching my brother's body burn, holding it all together until everything just split at the seams and I was collapsing into Cas's arms, sobbing into his shoulder as my last remaining piece of hope went up in flames, and I just couldn't take it anymore.

Cas guided me to the ground as my knees went out from under me, held me to his chest in the dirt for hours as I cried out every tear I had left.

And as we sat there in the dimming glow of the fire, when sound died down and the silence closed itself around the Earth once again, I knew we were the only ones left.