Fade Out

AN: Beware, this is not sweet, not fluffy, it's dark. This story portrays the direct aftermath of 2x21 'All Hell Breaks Loose Part One', bridging some of the gap between this and the next episode. After recently rewatching a few scenes, I finally gathered the courage to write something for this episode.

Supernatural isn't mine.

A desperate cry faded away into the night.

No one called back. There was nothing but utter silence. Deathly silence.

Kneeling in the cold mud, holding his brother in his arms, Dean didn't even feel the tears freely trickling down his face by now. At some point, a single teardrop had turned into an oddly calm tidal wave. Or maybe it was the drizzle pattering down on him. Either way, it didn't matter.

There were careful steps beside him, a tentative, light touch to his shoulder. A faint voice mumbling words he couldn't grasp registered somewhere in his periphery.

Dean kept holding on tightly.

Someone nudged him.

Dean kept holding on tightly.

Someone cleared their throat.

Dean kept holding on tightly.

There was silence for another long moment, a seemingly eternal quiet, until a hushed whisper finally managed to pierce the invisible wall around him. "Dean," a familiar voice said, the single word sounding far, far away like distorted thunder in a storm.

Dean didn't loosen his grip on his brother but finally turned his head to spare the older hunter a look through bleary eyes. Bobby looked down at him, slowly pulling his hand away from Dean's shoulder. Focusing on the bearded face was a challenge in and of itself but after a few owlish blinks Dean recognized the raw helplessness and disbelief he himself was feeling written all over Bobby's features.

"Guy's gone," he mumbled, his gaze switching from Dean to the person wrapped in his arms.

Dean kept staring numbly, processing. It took a while until he understood, but even when he did, he didn't care one bit about this guy, whoever he was. Controlled and practiced like on autopilot, he studied his old friend. Bobby was white as a sheet. He looked like he was seeing a ghost. He had assessed the gravity of the situation within the blink of an eye, Dean could tell.

"Dean—"

"No," he forced out and squeezed his eyes shut, his countenance cracking just like his voice.

Once again, he buried his face in the damp mop of hair that was cradled against his neck. Denial was his last resort. He could still smell the faint scent of cheap motel shampoo, woods, and rainwater. Could still feel the warmth underneath the auburn strands. Could still pretend this was just another rainy night, just a hug. But a painful shudder ran through his chest like a cruel reminder, for a moment stealing his breath away.

"We gotta …" Bobby trailed off, his voice barely above a broken whisper.

Dean didn't care. They didn't have to do anything. Because all he cared about, the only thing he's ever cared about, lay limp in his arms.

00000

It took another endless twenty minutes that could as well have been twenty years – not that he consciously paid much attention to the concept of time right now – until Dean finally decided he wanted to get off the ground. He needed to get away. They needed to get away. Away from this damned place that had taken everything from him.

His decision stood, yet his body continued to be far from ready.

Dean breathed deeply, as deeply as his aching heart, aching lungs, aching everything allowed. Then he steeled himself and carefully pulled one of his stiff legs out from under him to put his foot on the slick surface. His limbs were already trembling from exhaustion, or sorrow, he couldn't tell. But the worst part was still to come.

Simply standing up now seemed like an insurmountable task.

He tightened his grip on his precious cargo once more and unconsciously held his breath. And then a litany of so familiar placations nearly spilled from his lips … you're good, you're gonna be fine, I'm right here … but he froze at the last second, almost choking on the words, and willing his mind to just go numb for the challenge at hand.

It took three tries and all his willpower but then he slowly pushed himself to his feet – and immediately regretted the movement when a wave of lightheadedness washed over him. Groaning and straining and ignoring the roaring of blood in his head, he lifted himself as well as the heavy weight in his arms up off the ground. By the time they were both more or less upright, he was panting heavily. Dean clung awkwardly to a tangled mess of limbs, barely managing to hold the armful of little brother in his grasp.

He wasn't ready for this. For any of this.

Dean wanted to hurl. Instead, he just cringed.

"I've got him," he rasped out when Bobby stepped up beside him, silently offering his help.

Dean didn't want no help. This was his job, his responsibility, and now his burden.

Out of the corner of his eye, he vaguely registered the older man backing down, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. Dean brushed aside the flickering and graying edges of his vision, squeezing his brother's frame tightly.

After another moment of mentally preparing himself, Dean carefully maneuvered a slack arm around his shoulder, purposefully avoiding looking at the vacant face. Then he locked his knees and without hesitation hoisted the heavy body up over his shoulders. If he'd hesitated even for a second, he wouldn't have had the strength to do what he was doing, both physically and mentally. Dean grunted from exertion, from pain in his strained muscles and in his heart. Then he just stood there for a minute, with what felt like a ton on his back, breathing through the chills that were rattling his entire body. Even though his brother's legs were dangling heavily over Dean's shoulder and painfully bumping into his ribs, he didn't adjust the position. A fireman's carry seemed the only appropriate way.

There wasn't anything he knew with absolute certainty anymore. Everything he knew was gone. He was reasonably sure though that the car was about a hundred yards away. A hundred yards that now seemed like a journey across the galaxy.

00000

Dean forced his eyes and his mind to the muddy path ahead and took a sluggish first step.

It was an unbearably hard operation.

He'd carried his brother before. He'd carried him to safety from their burning childhood home. He'd carried him all his life. He would always carry him. But his legs were every bit as unsteady as his grip on reality was, and it took all of his strength to not just collapse under the weight. It wasn't just 180 pounds of little brother weighing him down. He was carrying the world on his shoulders. His world.

Dean carried on, not even fighting back the silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

The dizziness grew worse with every agonizingly slow step, at some point becoming so overwhelming that he almost crashed to the ground half a dozen times. His knees were buckling, threatening to give out any second. But he put one trembling foot in front of the other, stubbornly refusing to stop, refusing to let go.

One heavy step at a time, Dean got his little brother away from this nightmare of a ghost town.

Countless dragged steps and an eternity later, the blurred shape of the black muscle car finally came into view. There was no real relief though, no comfort. She used to be a home to them, the only one they knew. Tonight, she would be just a vehicle, carrying the single most valuable thing Dean possessed.

Only a few more steps.

Dean barely registered when the older hunter silently pushed past the brothers to lead the way. Now Bobby was already waiting by the car, staring at the pair heavy-heartedly. Dean ignored him, all his senses tunneling to his mission.

Three more steps.

As they approached, Bobby finally unglued his eyes, then hurried around the car, and wrenched all the doors open, only to step aside once again. Apparently, he didn't want to make the decision for Dean where to sit. Dean would have been grateful if he weren't currently busy holding in the flash flood of emotions threatening to burst out of him any moment.

Two more steps.

And suddenly, a random, rather misplaced thought crossed his mind. He wished they were in a movie or a tv show where scenes would just fade out to black, cut off – and then the characters would find themselves in a different scene, different day, without having the trouble of getting from point A to point B. Dean wished he could just skip the upcoming minutes, hours, days, years even – until he could sit down with a drink, drowning in his misery.

But this wasn't scripted. This moment was real. They were real, forced to suffer through the worst moments of their lives in excruciating detail and insufferable slow-motion.

Biting back a groan, Dean shuffled on, his boots sinking heavily into the mud.

One more step.

And finally, far beyond his limits, he hauled a leaden foot forward until it butted against a rubbery object. Lifting his sluggish gaze, he saw black. Finally. He'd reached the back of the Impala and all but collapsed right there. That's where he was going to go, there was no doubt about it. So, with no small amount of grunting, effort, and pain spiking through his back, he carefully slid his brother off his shoulders. The heavy weight almost slumped to the ground, but as always, Dean caught his little brother in the nick of time. He would never let him down.

Except that's what had happened today.

He should have—

Dean clenched his jaw hard enough to break teeth, shoving the inescapable guilt trip away for now, so he could do what he had to.

Groaning, he propped his little brother up against the shiny black metal, holding him in place with his own bodyweight pressing against him. Trembling fingers dug into broad shoulders so hard that on any other day they would leave bruises. But this wasn't any other day. Dean exhaled shakily, then took a second to look him over in the dim light of the moon. The pale, expressionless face was tilted down only inches from his, colorless lips slightly parted, eyes that Dean knew were unseeing hidden by a curtain of overgrown bangs.

Before his suddenly sharp, agonizing gasps could turn into a full-fledged sob, Dean forced himself to look away.

His eyes searched the ground and his heart seemed to drop to unknown depths, as he ever so carefully lowered his brother first back into his arms, then into the backseat of the car. He folded his legs in after him, pushing him to a sitting position. Dean breathed deeply, then dared to catch another glimpse of him. As his brother's listless head came to rest on his chest, he actually looked calm, oddly content. The way he sat there, no deep red streaks were betraying the peaceful picture. Hidden though, crimson was seeping into the seat behind him, soiling the upholstery. But for once, Dean didn't care.

Even though his hands were free now, he didn't bother to wipe away the dampness from his face. He didn't feel his own skin anymore, or the cold. Despite the weight being gone from his shoulders, he felt heavier than ever before.

Without even noticing Bobby was moving behind him, Dean then slowly dragged himself around the car. He climbed in on the other side and closed the door after himself. This way, he could easily pull his brother to his chest, slide behind him and cradle his heavy body in his arms.

So, that's what he did.

Finally, they had made it. Both brothers were sprawled across the bench-seat, huddled together like when they were kids.

No, not exactly like that.

Not at all.

00000

For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. He laid his pounding head that seemed to weigh a metric ton against the cool glass of the window.

Two more of the Impala's doors creaked, then he faintly heard them get shut one by one with more cautiousness than Bobby had ever granted her before. The car slightly dipped as the older hunter quietly slid into the front seat, carefully closing the last remaining door. Then he seemed to say something, something about holing up in a cabin nearby because his place was too far away, about how long the ride would be taking. But the words were floating in the thick air and barely reaching Dean. He didn't care to comment. The estimated however many hours already felt like a never-ending trip through hell.

Because Dean was in the backseat of his car, there was no blaring rock music, there was no smell of cheap diner food, there was no snorting laughter about something stupid he'd just said. There was only silence.

Everything about this felt wrong.

Dean peeled his lids open. His bleary gaze instantly fell on the fuzzy dark tufts that were tucked under his chin. His head instinctively bowed down some more, coming to rest on top of the mop of hair. He couldn't see the ashen face from this angle, and he was glad he couldn't. He could feel the fading warmth under his hands though. His arms were wrapped around an unmoving torso, his stiff fingers digging into the fabric of a shirt he himself had picked for his brother not too long ago. And the fabric of his own shirt now clung stickily to his chest, a damp stain mirroring the one on his brother's back.

His guts twisted, a bout of nausea settling in his stomach like concrete.

But he didn't move. He couldn't.

Dean felt his heart pounding rapidly underneath his skin, his ribcage heaving. A beating heart, a pulse, life. Awareness dawned that all of this was a grotesque contrast to the complete absence of any kind of movement from the person clutched in his arms. There was no heartbeat thudding in synch with his own. No breathing. No trying to wriggle out of Dean's grasp because it was too tight.

Nothing.

Dean was vaguely aware that he should probably feel something, something other than the sudden rumble of the engine underneath – anger, desperation, grief, anything. At this moment, all these emotions and a thousand more were running dangerously close to the surface, yet he was completely numb, shocked into silence and paralysis. He stared into nothingness, detached from reality. His mind still failed to process the entirety of what had just happened despite his body feeling the deadweight pressing heavily against his chest. The slack, stiff deadweight of his little brother.

Dead. Literally.

Sam.

Just now did he allow himself to think of the body in his arms as Sam. Just now could he connect his brother's name to the corpse he was holding. The … thing that felt like a foreign object in his grasp was his Sammy.

Denial was no longer an option.

The unfathomable had happened. The one thing Dean had tried to prevent his whole life.

His baby brother was gone.

Dean's mouth went dry in an instant but oddly, the realization trickled into his conscious mind ever so slowly. Three words were swirling in the dark haze. Every single letter of the dooming words painfully burned itself into his brain one by one. By the time all nine letters had materialized as a grim, black cloud before his inner eye, Dean gasped soundlessly.

Sam is dead.

For the fraction of a dreadfully long second the world crashed to a halt. Time and space and everything in between ceased to exist. There was nothing but emptiness and a quiet so loud it rang in Dean's ears. If the world just stayed like this, maybe Dean could cease to exist too. But then, with the same abruptness, the planet started spinning again, a maelstrom of colors drifting by at the speed of light. The force of gravity slammed into him so hard that he didn't know where was up and where was down.

Dean's merciless mind repeated the awful truth over and over again: Sam is dead. Samisdead. Sam. Sammy.

And that's when an avalanche of devastation was set free. His body was dropped into ice water, and a surge of speechless terror swamped him, consuming every fiber of his body. His heart cramped painfully, his lungs refused to take in any air. He couldn't—oh God, he was drowning. He was drowning in darkness all around him, and there was nothing but darkness inside him as well. His guts felt like they were replaced by a big black hole swallowing him up from the inside. He wanted it to take him away. To just be gone from the surface of the earth. To just sink into the deepest ocean and never come back.

But he was still here, in the backseat of the Impala with his dead brother in his arms.

The inner storm ever so quietly unfolded while Dean was completely frozen on the outside, as perfectly still as the body in his arms. But inside everything fell apart as his entire existence silently splintered into a million pieces.

He stared ahead, not even blinking, and in his daze not seeing anything at all.

He didn't see the dark landscapes passing by. He didn't see the back of Bobby's head, the older hunter sitting behind the wheel. He didn't see the interior of the Impala, the worn leather seats or the plastic soldiers stuck in the ashtray or the initials carved into the rear shelf.

The only thing he saw was his little brother in his arms.

The eldest Winchester once again tightened his grip on Sam.

No, not the eldest Winchester. The only Winchester.

A fresh tear broke free from his eye, unnoticed, as Dean's mind was taking a plunge into the deep black pit of his worst fears.

Sam was dead.

And for a split-second it felt like Dean's heart would stop, too. It didn't. But it might as well have because something inside him was gone, a piece of him brutally ripped away. A part of him had died along with his little brother.

It was too much.

Then, like in tv shows or movies, the scene did finally, mercifully fade out to black – just like the light in Sam's eyes had faded – but not before an unbearable conclusion ran through Dean's mind.

He was all alone in the world.

The end.

AN: Thank you for reading.

Sorry for this, I'm mean, I know! What do you think? Drop me a note.