Author Note: I didn't know I was going to do this. I'm still in the post-finale processing phase, and I didn't intend to tag anything. But my wandering mind started working on filling in one of the gaps before I even realized it was happening.
Switches
His cell phone is ringing again.
It's Sam, again. He doesn't even have to look. The missed calls are piling up, coming fast and furious, sandwiched between a barrage of texts he hasn't yet been able to focus long enough to read.
The ringing stops, leaving the room once more in unbearable silence. After a beat, the screen goes dark.
Dean drops his hands from his head, stares down at the phone.
He told Sam he'd trade them all, everyone he knows, everyone he cares about, for freedom. He'd given into the anger, and blinded by rage, he'd fucked up.
He failed to kill Billie, left them cornered.
One last, big Dean Winchester fuck up.
And now…
His phone starts ringing again.
Sam, again.
He sniffs, drags a hand down his face. His fingers are trembling; he makes a fist, knocks it against his knee as he finally reaches for the phone with his other hand. He brings it to his ear but doesn't trust his voice.
"Dean?"
His brother sounds breathless, shell-shocked. Terrified.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he manages. Because he doesn't know how not to respond to Sam when he's afraid. Because he has to be okay.
Like flipping switches. That's the only way Dean's getting up off this floor. The only way he's walking out of this room.
Sam's sigh of relief, built on a lie, sounds like it weighs a goddamned ton.
"What about Billie?"
"She's gone," Dean says. He closes his eyes and lays his head back against the wall. Knocks it once, hard enough to smart, and silently pleads with his brother not to ask anything else. knowing the only way Sam doesn't is if it's damn bad out there.
He should ask about the others, but he can't. Because the switch isn't flipped yet. Not entirely. The emotional and mental whiplash of what's happened combined with a dangerous lingering ache in his chest from Billie's grip have sapped his strength.
He's not out there yet. He's still here, down and reeling, legs taken out from under him.
"You at the bunker?"
"Yeah."
"Have you been outside?"
He swallows a bark of inappropriate laughter, rolls his head against the wall as his gaze reflexively drifts to the open door. "No. Why?"
Sam sucks in a breath.
Dean knows what it sounds like when his brother is about to deliver bad news.
"Everyone's gone, Dean."
His fingers tighten around his phone, and he closes his eyes as his chest clenches painfully.
"Charlie, Bobby. Even Donna."
His eyes blow open at that, head and shoulders coming off the wall like it's a hot stovetop. I'd trade them all. "What?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Hysteria is creeping into his brother's voice, and it threatens the precarious position of that switch inside. Because Dean's not there yet. He's not up off the mat yet.
"I can't get anyone on the phone. When you weren't answering, I thought…Dean?"
"Yeah."
"You sure you're okay?"
He bites down on his lip. "Yeah."
He can't discern in the ensuing pause whether his brother believes him, but if what Sam is saying is true, it doesn't really matter.
"Okay. Because we need to figure out what to do next, man. We're already on our way to you. We're in, uh…we're coming up on Mason City. I can't…" Sam's next breath audibly catches in his throat. "We've been on the road for over an hour and I haven't seen anyone."
He can't even process what his brother is saying to him. Just keeps hearing I'd trade them all.
"Dean?"
"Yeah." He scrubs roughly at his face, looks around the empty room. They don't need to be here. There's nothing left for them here. "Yeah, I'll meet you," he says, doesn't catch it in time. I'll. Not we'll.
Just him.
Sam doesn't catch it either.
"Okay. I'll have Jack find a spot halfway and text you."
Already, Sam sounds calmer. Because of that switch Dean has flipped. The same one that lets him say, "okay."
Another long pause.
"I'm glad you're okay."
He disconnects the call without a word, hopes Sam won't take it too personally. It's fine. He'll know soon enough that Dean isn't anywhere in the vicinity of okay.
He sits a long moment, statue-still, breathing too fast and too loud in the silent, cold room.
When he finally tries to stand, one hand braced against the wall, he's stopped by a sharp pain in his chest. He grunts and slides back down, lands hard on his ass on the concrete. Jars that switch.
Goodbye, Dean.
He curls a fist against his chest and ducks his chin, choo choos out a few tight breaths and waits for the ache to subside.
It doesn't.
He catches the blood then, on the shoulder of his jacket. An almost perfect handprint. Another mark left by Cas saving him.
He did this. Somehow. Some way. No one will ever convince him otherwise.
I'd trade them all.
He'll undo it. Give that squirrely son of a bitch whatever he wants to bring them all back. To bring Cas back.
His phone pings, the place he's supposed to meet Sam and Jack.
Dean grits his teeth and braces a foot against the wall, forces himself upright with one hand still twisted in the thick fabric of his jacket. Locks that switch down.
He's on the clock now.