A/N & D: I wrote this without having seen Seasons 10-now, so any overlap with canon reality is truly accidental and hopefully not an actual overlap. All usual disclaimers apply!
Warning: Major character death.
For E, my best beta ever, for years of support and encouragement, without whom none of this would be possible.
Chapter title is from song by Ruelle.
1
Until We Go Down -Ruelle
He dreamt he was in Hell.
There was a voice rambling somewhere over his head, raspy and British and droning on and on and on like it was making some kind of confession.
Crowley?
He tried moving, but nothing responded. Not his fingers, not his toes.
He was paralyzed from the neck down.
He was paralyzed from the neck down and Crowley was going to talk him to death and beyond and of course this was his Hell.
He blinked his eyes open. The room he was in looked like the bunker. The ceiling overhead looked like the ceiling of his room, and it felt like memory foam beneath him.
But his body wasn't moving.
He shoved harder and unexpectedly peeled out of his body, his hands translucent, sitting upright, half in and half out, which was just downright freaky. He stared at the bloodstains on his transparent hands, on his real-life jeans, ignoring Crowley still monologuing, something about seeing what he saw and feeling what he felt and good God, for real? He snapped out of his body—friggin' floated—and found himself in the Bunker's hallway, his ghostly boots not touching the ground.
What the hell?
Was he a friggin' ghost? Was he stuck in the Veil?
He couldn't be. He'd earned his express ticket downstairs a few times over. The holding pen for Heaven was for good people.
He had to find Sam. Who knew, maybe the bunker's warding kept out Reapers and Hellhounds. And maybe by bringing him here, Sam had forestalled his trip below, and he'd take that. He'd take staying out of the pit, the fire and the blood and the gut and Alastair humming show tunes to himself as he dug around in his entrails, digging and digging until blood gushed tacky warm down his sides, his intestines twisted and sliced and his throat hoarse from screaming.
A flicker shuddered through him, a cold pull towards nothingness, and he was suddenly see-through and wispy.
Shit. This ghost crap was harder than he thought.
He had to find Sam.
He drifted down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Sam wasn't there. Sam was probably out, looking for Cas, or one of Cas' angel pals, or a spell, or some way to bring him back.
Or.
Sam was out on the hillside behind the bunker, gathering up a cord of wood for a pyre.
He stopped and shuddered again. It was suddenly colder.
Overhead, the lights flickered.
Was he doing that?
A familiar voice came out of the darkness.
Dean?
"Kevin?" He peered down the dim hallway, but there wasn't anyone there. Did ghosts see other ghosts?
Hey there, Grumpy.
That was a different voice, one that sounded like…
"Pamela? What are you doing here?" He frowned in confusion. "Why aren't you in Heaven?"
This wasn't making sense. Pamela had been Up Above the last time he saw her, at her endless concert at the Meadowlands.
Dean? Dean, honey, that you?
And that was Ellen's voice, smoky with affection and concern, behind Jo's lighter one, and this was all wrong. They shouldn't be here. They shouldn't be ghosts.
"Jo? Ellen? What is this?"
DEAN.
He jumped. He knew that voice. He snapped to attention.
I gave you a job, Dean. Watch out for Sammy. Why are you here? I told you to watch out for your brother.
"Dad, I…" He brought his hands up towards the wound in his chest to explain, but there was no wound there. There was still blood on his hands, wet and slickly red—but it wasn't his. It was the blood of the ghosts suddenly crowded all around him, Kevin and Pamela and Jo and Ellen and Dad, their burnt black eye sockets staring accusingly at him and the wounds in their chests bleeding all over him, spilling onto his hands, splashing down between his fingers, turning into rust-coloured stains on his hooves. He looked down at his hands blankly, watching as the blood turned into flames and his fingers turned into claws.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall brought his head up. Sam. He shied away from the kitchen door, not wanting Sammy to see him yet, and definitely not like this. But Sam turned the corner and just looked at him, completely unsurprised by the horns on his head and the flames on his claws.
Death was standing just behind Sam.
No. No no no no no no.
There was nothing in Sam's eyes but a world of weariness.
Please tell me, Dean. Exactly what is the upside of me being alive?
Sam was taking Death's skeletal hand.
No. No no.
He lunged for Sam, reached out to Sam, to hold on to him, to save him, to keep Sam with him.
And Sam burned.
He'd forgotten his hands were fire.
And Sam burned.
Dean went down on his knees, pulling his errant hands inwards to himself but it was too late. He went down, blinded by tears, his heart tearing, his lungs heaving with sobs that would turn him inside out.
His soul ripped to shreds.
Everything he touched burned and crumbled to ash around him, until all that was left to him was darkness, howling and eternal.
He'd done this before. Dug a hole six foot deep into hard packed soil, and shoveled dirt over his heart. Driven a thousand miles to nowhere, and hit a dog.
The oak logs were heavier without Dean to pick up the other end. He needed dry leaves and hickory and pine branches to start the fire, then stout limbs of oak to keep it burning hot. If he just concentrated on what he was doing, stacking the logs into the right formation, he'd be able to keep from thinking about other things, about the body he was going to lay across the top of the pyre he was building, about getting Dean's old leather jacket out of the Impala and covering him with it, about lighting that match and dropping it, about watching everything go up in flames, this time and all the times before, and why did anyone think he could keep doing this?
Gabriel had lied. A hundred Tuesdays at the Mystery Spot, six months, four months, a year; it never got any easier. Every time hurt as much as the first time, and it never got better.
He laid the last log down across the top and turned back towards the bunker.
He hadn't listened to Bobby the first time. He'd built a pine box and dug down deep, because Dean would need a body to come back to. There was nothing to bury the second time, and he'd just run, because he hadn't wanted to find one. He hadn't wanted to be faced with that decision again.
He swung open the bunker's door and let it clang shut behind him. He walked past the glowing map in the anteroom, not looking at it. He took the short steps down into the library, mechanically preparing to turn right into the hallway. A gleam of light reflected through glass caught his eye, an opened fifth on the table, Dean's last bottle.
He stopped. He should raise a toast. He could take a minute for that. He'd raise a toast to Dean's own personal heaven, strippers and all, though he had a feeling Dean's heaven wouldn't be that at all.
To Dean's Heaven, whatever it was.
The whiskey burned its way down his throat. He poured himself another, feeling the liquid fall into a hole that had never been there before. He shut his eyes hard against the feeling of Dean's hand slipping from his face all over again, Dean's weight slumping heavily against him, the setting chill of Dean's skin.
He drained his glass in one gulp and stared through the clear bottom. It was tedious, pouring in two fingers worth and sipping like there was company when there was no one looking. No one to care. It was just much faster to drink it straight. He took a swig, the neck of the bottle swinging loosely between his fingers, pacing restlessly to the other end of the room.
It was time. It was time to lock this place up as he had meant to lock up the gates of hell, and walk away. Walk away from the family business.
Walk away from his brother.
He'd said he'd would.
When Dean had pressed him about Gadreel, about saving him no matter the consequences or the cost, he'd said: No, Dean. I wouldn't. Same circumstances, I wouldn't.
And Dean had said: It's better this way.
He stopped and hurled the bottle across the room, the sound of glass breaking like all the things he'd broken, like the broken thing he'd seen in Dean's eyes. Like whiskey seeping through his hands, he could feel the life ebbing out of Dean's body—the feeling of Dean doing something Dean had never, ever done.
Letting go of fighting. Letting go of life.
Letting go of him.
And he was falling.
He would never stop falling.
He went around the room again, hollow footsteps echoing in the empty space. He bit down on his tongue, on the things he had said, things that he thought they would work through, tomorrow, because there had always been a tomorrow, hadn't there? They'd gone through hell literally, and they'd always come through.
It couldn't end like this.
With a single furious sweep of his arm he cleared the shelf nearest to him, the thud of the books hitting the floor loud in the silence where there should have been a voice.
He was not going to let it end like this.
He summoned Crowley, because Crowley had gotten Dean into this, and Crowley was going to get him out.
"Bring him back." He grit out. "You owe us, Crowley. So you bring him back."
If Crowley objected to being slammed up against the wall, the jagged edge of Ruby's knife set to the tender skin of his throat, the bastard didn't let it show. There was nothing but a speculative gleam to Crowley's eyes, reading his face.
"Moose. This is getting a little predictable, don't you think?"
He dug his elbow viciously into the tender spot between Crowley's ribs, hard enough that Crowley let out a little ooof. They were standing at the very edge of the devil's trap, maybe even hanging over the edge, but they must have still been within it, or Crowley would have thrown him off. He dug the tip of the demon knife hard into Crowley's skin, drawing a rivulet of blood. Maybe it could do nothing permanent to Crowley—but it would hurt, and that was what he cared about.
"Fix it."
"You sure that's what you want to do, Samantha?"
He glared at Crowley, as if that were even a question. The satisfaction in Crowley's eyes grew brighter.
"Fine."
He shoved harder before he stopped. "What?"
"I said fine, Moose. I'll bring him back. Better than new, even. But you know." Crowley paused, pregnant with the other shoe, before shrugging, "the rules require we make a deal."
"Take it." He ground out.
Both of Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "You're not going to bargain?"
"Does it matter?"
Crowley eyed him again. "No. I suppose not." Crowley smiled, softly. "But."
"What?" He snarled, because what was Crowley up to now?
"I wasn't going to ask for your grass-fed goodies, Moose. Just…" Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully, "Promise me a favor, someday down the road. You're a hidebound honorable sort; you'll be good for it."
"What?" There was no such thing as a free deal. He stared suspiciously at Crowley's too innocent face, as if the fine print might be written somewhere between Crowley's smarmy smile and Crowley's too wide eyes.
"Tick tock, Moose. You want me to bring your brother back to life, or not?"
"A favor?"
"Someday down the line. Nothing big. Nothing terribly objectionable. I promise."
He searched Crowley's face again. Deceit, it was always there. There was a catch somewhere, and he didn't know where.
But he didn't care.
He couldn't care.
He needed to fix things.
"Fine. Do it."
Dean felt his eyes snap open. He was vaguely aware he didn't really want them to, but it was as if someone had given him a command to wake, so he woke, eyes popping open like a freaky robot doll. He saw double for a moment, the light blinding in his eyes for a microsecond, before his vision shifted and settled and he could see again. He was still in his room in the bunker, which meant he'd gotten pulled back to his bones or...
"Dean?"
Sam.
He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut, to close his ears, to make nightmare-Sam go away, but he found he couldn't. He was breathing when he shouldn't be breathing, air going in and out of his lungs like someone was pumping a bellows, and it all felt disconnected from him. He shifted his head towards the direction from which Sam's voice had come.
"Sammy?"
His voice came out as a croak, heavy with panic. Not Sam. Not here, not in Crowley's remodeled Hell that was the bunker, unless it was another part of the dream-nightmare and if he reached out and touched Sam, he would smell smoke and feel fire and Sam would burn.
"Dean." The thing that sounded like Sam's voice steadied, relief washing through it in a wave so strong Dean almost felt it curl around and buoy him. "Are you ... okay?"
Okay? He was in Hell. How the hell would he be okay?
He pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved when his arms responded and his legs moved. Fake Sam's hands came quickly around and gripped him by the arms, helping him up. He shied away in panic and fear, and looked up in surprise when Sam flinched at his reaction.
"Sam?" He asked carefully.
Sam bit his lips hard shut, but the hurt still showed in Sam's eyes.
Dean grit his teeth and let 'Sam' help him, only breathing again when Sam's hands disconnected and he could see they remained whole and uncharred from the contact.
"Sam. What the hell?" He rasped out, his voice stiff and salty.
Sam's eyes flickered down and to his left shoe. His tell.
Dean cast his eyes around the room. No Cas. The thoughts came almost too quickly now, because he remembered dying. Crowley. Hell. Him sitting here simulating breathing now and no Cas meant only one thing.
"SAM. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"
He reached out and seized Sam by the shoulders, ready to shake him when he abruptly let go again, remembering he shouldn't do that. Remembering flames.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"I thought you said you were past all this!"
He was still shouting. And Sam just looked at him, that puppy dog expression on his face, like the time he was 5 and thought it would be cool to be underwater and nearly drowned himself. Sam would always claim he had things under control, but blue was blue.
Dean snapped his teeth shut so hard they clicked.
"How much time?"
"Dean."
"Don't Dean me. How much time?"
"Crowley didn't ask for my soul."
"WELL THEN WHAT DID HE ASK FOR?"
He was roaring. He couldn't help it.
"A favor. Someday."
"AND YOU BELIEVED HIM?"
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, wanting to pace. Only his legs hadn't caught up with his resurrection yet, and gave out under him. Sam caught him before he hit the floor, and propped him back up against the headboard, where he fumed ineffectively, before he asked.
"Why?"
Sam looked down at his feet. Dean was on the verge of poking the bear and reminding Sam of all the things he had said—when Sam looked up, his soul in his eyes.
He clamped his lips shut. Sam's voice was barely audible when Sam finally spit it out.
"I couldn't let it end like that."
Dean was on the verge of lashing back with Like what? except he knew. He knew.
He looked away. He just didn't think Sam needed that any more. Family. Hell, he didn't even know if Sam had ever needed it, considering all the times Sam had run away, considering Sam's various ideas of heaven. He thought Sam had outgrown it. Outgrown needing his big brother.
And he knew he had pissed it all away when he'd tricked Sam into saying yes to Gadreel.
Sam went on, still quietly.
"I needed to fix things."
Dean looked at his hands. Fire and blood. He could still see it all there, on his hands. He clenched them closer to himself. Some things couldn't be fixed. They were just broken. He was broken.
Couldn't Sam see that?
"Dean, please."
He closed his eyes to the ache in Sam's voice. He couldn't do this. Not again. He knew that ache. He'd heard it in his own voice when Sam had been laid out on that hospital bed, a tube in his nose, and there had only been one salvation. One hope. He had taken his chances.
He put a hand carefully on the bed and tried his legs again. They held, although Sam had a hand on his shoulder anyway. He stared at his feet because they looked strange. They looked like feet and not hooves, like boots, actually, still splashed with blood. He looked away, because he wasn't sure it was his blood.
"A favor?" He said. "That's what Crowley said?"
Sam nodded, short and eager and careful.
It'd be a cold day in hell if he believed that was all the double-crossing son of a bitch had in mind. But as he looked into Sam's face, at the shadows beneath Sam's eyes, he put that thought away. For now.
He'd deal with Crowley later.