Summary: The Winchester men have been playing this game of vengeance since Mary died. Now it's time for it to finally end.
Warning: This is a deathfic and a very, very dark one at that. If you don't like that, don't continue on.
Authors: geminigrl11 and Faye Dartmouth, together known as pingthing
A/N: This is our first attempt at this cowriting thing, and regardless of how it's turned out, we've had a blast doing it. This fic was born out of discussions concerning appropriate ends for the Winchester's search for vengeance. As much as we wanted to give them all a happy ending, the more we saw that the way the family is set up, there is no way for them to live happily ever after. The Winchesters are a tragic lot, no matter how you slice it, and this is an outcome that we see as (sadly) plausible.
A/N 2: The first section here is a prologue, and it's not like most of the story...the boys will appear promptly in the next part and the action rises steadily from there.
Disclaimer: We can't claim any of this stuff...
Endgame
Prologue
It lived in shadows, crept in darkness. It slithered and shifted, edging in and out of blackness, dancing just beside the light, just beyond what most people could see. It found pleasure in their pain and had perfected a game of unwilling sacrifices. It was not human, but it chose the shape of a man, preferring that masculinity, that power.
He used to be less deliberate--attacking at random, inflicting torture at whim. It was so easy to make humans self-destruct. It was so easy to show them all the darkness they never knew existed, the evil that their nightmares couldn't even fathom--and then watch it destroy them, eat them alive. Darkness changed people, it skewed their perceptions. Some collapsed immediately, taking a gun to their heads before grief could truly settle in.
Others turned to alcohol, drugs, other opiates to bear the brunt of the shock. There was a certain indulgence in watching that inept attempt to forget. Those were the kind that believed in denial, who clung to the hope that maybe it had been a dream, that maybe they were crazy, deluded. It was easier to be drunk than to be forever marred by darkness.
He found those victims less satisfying. It was too quick, too easy. They lacked the will to make the fight worthwhile.
As time passed, he found he enjoyed the hunt even more than the kill. He preferred to stalk his prey, judging them, anticipating their response. He prided himself on his ability to pick those who would not crumble under the pressure, whose pride or stubbornness would keep them in the game longer, unwilling to admit their inevitable defeat.
Their denial would ultimately cost them in the end, usually everything. There was always pain and suffering, and it was widespread, because he always picked the ones with families, the ones with something left to lose.
He found a kindred spirit in fire. It was darkness and light all it once. It sparked and devoured. It ate away slowly, singeing the senses while the brain was still in tact. It prolonged the suffering.
He couldn't remember when he first thought to put them on the ceiling, to skewer them there alive and terrified. He relished the suspense of it, the symbolism.
He always picked families and he had a preference for little boys. He liked looking down at their innocence, that implicit trust and joy that they possessed. He chose them early, watching as they were born, as they took their first breaths of precious life. He watched them flourish in subterfuge, their prosperity the ultimate lie of safety and security.
The chosen ones always knew him. He liked the way they could see him over their parents' shoulders, the way he could make them coo when he smiled his long smile at them. That familiarity was what made them not cry when he stood over them, what made them so calm when he made his move.
It was always at night, always in the nursery. He would wake the child, stare at him, show himself to him.
It didn't matter who found him next--it was usually the mother--but they were to be the first sacrifice, the play to set the game in motion.
The game was so predictable. A lifetime of devastation, with pain to spare. He reveled in that pain.
But this time had been different. It had been the same setup, the same idea, but the response had been nothing he had seen before. No one had ever thrown themselves back at him so vehemently. This one didn't deny his existence, he sought it. In his grief, this one forgot about life, and instead dedicated himself to vengeance.
That intrigued him, and he played along. He put obstacles in his course, led evil to him to see what he could vanquish and how much he could fight. This one was impressive; his skills grew exponentially.
This one believed he was making a difference, that he was making progress. This one didn't know that he still watched him as he fought, fascinated by the futility of his actions. That so much of the evil was nothing more than little games set up to watch him run around like a mouse in a maze. This one didn't know that a force beyond his control made sure that he lived to fight another day. This one was alive by his grace.
They always ruined their children, in one way or another. The image of death seared into their minds changed them. But this one condemned his sons to a fate he had never imagined. This one had been doomed from the beginning, just like the rest, but this one was one of the only ones to ever doom his sons to a far worser fate than even he himself could have envisioned.
He sighed. This one had gone on longer than most, longer than he had intended. They were making connections, drawing lines he had never anticipated.
They were primed now, all of them. Primed and ready. It had gone on long enough. It was time.
He smiled, nodding slowly. Yes, it was time.
And all he would have to do was sit back and watch.
