Pairing: none, it's gen
Wordcount: about 4K+
Warnings: character deaths
Disclaimer: Just burrowing these kick ass characters
Note: My heart aches, thinking for the show coming to an end. Back in 2006 I was a hardcore Supernatural fan for five years. Already then I wished for a final ending, where Sam and Dean go out fighting. Together. The only ending I could picture for them, that would leave me statistied. With the series finale coming to an end, my love for the show sparked again and I've finally written down my view on the ending with the adaption to the current story line as best as possible.
Shout out: A special thank you goes out to clarinette07, hardcoresupernatural and Lizzy for being my lovely betas.
So, here you go: Enjoy!
"We talked about this. No,"
Dean's voice is low, challenging.
"I say, this is our best shot." Sam shoots back, throwing his hands in the air, nearly losing the good part of his self-control. He tried to reason with him for half an hour now. The fact that they lost their special wild card because they decided not to put the kid in any danger puts them all the way down to step one. Even worse that Chuck's death book is in their possession but they are unable to use it. In other words, they were screwed.
"And I say, I'm not gonna do it, Sam."
Dean gives a side-glance, eyes piercing to clarify that he was serious.
It's Jack who stands up and cuts in, as steady as he can manage as he tries to keep his balance, "Take me. You can take me."
"No," Dean exclaims and raises a hand to stop him, sparing him a brief glance. "You stay out of it, kiddo."
Dean knows Jacks means well, has been for all the time. However, the kid is still trying to make it up to him, to earn his place. But using him as a guinea pig was out of the question, too. They nearly lost him a couple days ago and he is not keen for another goodbye. It already cost them too fucking much already.
"Well, you just have to pretend, Dean."
"What? Me going all John Wick on you?" He is glaring at his brother now, his brows furrowed in a tight line, heat rising in his tone.
"Dean." Sam licks his lips, looking like he is gathering himself, pinching his nose. Sam's voice is lower now, but he can hear the frustration ebbing out of his voice. His eyes are fixed on the page in front of him, staring blankly ahead. His breath catches in his throat when he continues.
"Look, you did it before."
Sam mutters softly, so soft Dean barely hears him. He finally looks up as Dean nearly cringes from the silent hurt and torment he can see reflecting in Sam's eyes. The images of his brother standing in the hallway trying to get him to just listen already still lingering fresh on his mind.
"You can do it again."
Dean scuffs and is shaking his head, raising a hand to rub his temple. Trying to think of something to say. Yeah, that was before his pathetic rabid rage outbreak and the feeling of utter helplessness blew his brains out, resulting in him lashing out like a caged, terrified animal. Before he held his little kid brother at gunpoint, aiming at his heart. Jesus. He had taken the stress and hatred out on the one person that stood above him, above everything else.
He swallows hard as he feels a rush of bile rising up his throat.
He is not going to point a weapon at Sam ever again, come hell or high water. Tricking Chuck into a trap, fine. Tricking him by using Sam as bait, not so much. Simulating to kill him is a whole new other level.
"Dean-"
"It's not gonna happen, end of discussion."
So it seemed perfectly reasonable that he was the one being nicked by the knife that was threatening to pop his adam apple. Before Sam threw in a punch, of course. A real one that left him flailing backwards with stars exploding behind his eyelids, but he had it coming.
He winces, as the blade cuts his skin only just, a sparse tremor traveling through Sam's hand, his fingers faintly twitching during the attempt. In a blink of an eye, Dean would have missed it. But he can read his brother like an open book. His brother, who is breathing heavily against his ear, his erratic heartbeat against his back, loud and clear, mirroring his own.
Another steading breath, and Sam dips the blade a little deeper and a groan slips past Dean's lips.
During all the past years he had braced himself every morning. Even when he was a kid, he had known the odds as soon as his dad handed him the .45. When his cubby fingers were too small for the Glock and too chunky for the crossbow, when he had trouble holding the machete because he was just as tall, he knew eventually what was going to happen.
Now, Dean would like to think that he's ready to die. Hell, he has been at peace with the prospect of his own death once or twice. Except for the deep-ridden guilt he felt every single time that he might be leaving his brother out there, alone.
So, when his little brother is standing in front of him, hesitantly pushing up his flannel úp to his elbow, clenching his fist and looking at him with a tight set of lips and a frown of tension on his face, asking "Ready?" he answers, "Ready as I'll ever be."
It is bound to happen at some point. Truth is, he is overdue anyway. He holds on, clinging to his younger brother's arm as he is anchored tighter against his chest, determined to follow the plan.
For the first time in a long time he feels in control again. They had one chance, and he is sure gonna take it.
They both feel the shift in the energy in the air.
He freezes, thinking for a brief moment that maybe, freedom and choice are nothing but a delusion after all. Maybe, they were just naive enough to believe that they could stand a chance.
"Didn't want to miss the big show, huh?"
Dean mocks, mouth curling up in disgust, surprised that the bluff actually worked.
He claps his hands together, shuffling around the giant warding on the floor, plastred right in the middle of the room. He brushes past Sam, who is hovering mere inches from him. Heaven-sent or not, Chuck wasn't going anywhere. Jack leans against the wall, watching every movement across the room carefully.
"So, we hate to break it to you," Dean continues, his voice deadly low now. "But your little puppet show is over."
Dean continues pacing, closing the space between Sam. "But you know what?" he asked, teasingly. "Of all actions, all universes or whatever you can alter, there is one think you simply can't control." Dean brings his chin up, eyes hard as he stares at the other man.
Dean gestures his hand between him and Sam, his voice thick with emotion.
"This."
And with that, he'll take the heartache, the betrayal and desperation. The anger and the fighting. Not gladly, but it comes in a package deal, really. And all things considered, he would take it all again in a heartbeat. It's what defines them, always has and always will. It was all that mattered, it was all they had. It was everything and more that kept him going throughout his life.
The brother's eyes briefly meet and Sam has to look down, forcing some air into his lungs as he swallows down his own emotion.
It is Dean who steps forward, using his advantage of height to stare down, his eyes sparkling with fury.
"Time to cut the strings," Dean says with grim satisfaction, pulling out the archangel blade and wiggling it triumphantly in his hand. "Let's say we rewrite your story, mh?"
They are met with silence for a moment.
"Oh Dean. Sam." Chuck mutters, a hint of a smile lifting his lips.
Sam stiffens behind him, trying to hold his position, the remark making the hair on his neck stand.
Something subtle shifted in Chuck's blue eyes and Dean's whole body stiffens, muscles screaming. Surely, he could have sworn he saw them flicker, pitch black and vicious.
"You really thought I would leave the calvary behind, didn't you?"
They burst through the door, sending a clamour throughout the room.
Dean leans against the wall with a thud, letting out a long breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his little brother facing him, making a move to come over. He waves him away then, like he always does.
Except this time an angel blade is impaling him, again, poking out of side, purposely crushing his liver.
"Door," Dean hisses, feeling a bitter taste creeping up the back of his throat. The loud drop drop drop rushing in his ears as pulsing red oozes out his body, joining the cement floor.
Furniture is scrapping across the floor as he clutches his fingers around the dark handle, his skin instantly coated in blood, warm and loving like a bittersweet embrace.
He staggers some as he turns, one hand placed against the wall to keep him from keeling over. He lets out a long breath before he gingerly touches the mess on his side, his fingertips slick and sticky. He mirrors the others, forming a deep, dark red circle on the concrete, small symbols symbols engraved by his mind.
"Any time now, Jack," Dean ushers urgently, a small hitch in his voice. He wets his lips, takes in a deep breath and looks nervously at the door, clutching his side. Thank god he's still riding the adrenaline high, so he doesn't feel it yet.
As he can hear Jack chanting low in the back, he fumbles for his scarf, hastily trying to secure it around his wound. Tough though, because as soon as he touches it once more, the word falters and he is forced to his knees. His face comes dangerously close to the ground, but then there is Sam, there is always Sam.
"Woah, hey, hey Dean." Dean is engulfed by a pair of arms, warm and firm and familiar against his sides. "I gotcha."
"Well, ain't that a bitch," Dean croaks, no time at all to hide the pain in his voice. He manages to stifle a groan as his brother mercilessly hauls him to his feet and Dean tries to straighten himself with a grimace. Sam's mop of hair is in his face and Dean can smell sweat, gunpowder, and some stupid, girly shampoo Sam insists on using.
Dean can feel Sam carefully prying his hand away, palm pressing against the wound to staunch the flow. And oh shit, it fucking hurts. His brother fumbles with the bandana he lously tried to put on himself earlier. Sam's lips are pressed together in an expression of sympathy, an uncomfortable set to his shoulders, as he puts pressure on both sides, tying the clothing together and keeping his insides from falling out like a stuffed goddamn burrito.
It's only when Sam stands up straight that Dean can take a good look at his brother. Christ, Sam's face is a fucking bloody pulp; a huge gash above his righ eye, his nose bleeding and a stained dark purple forming on his jaw the size of Texas. Dean stares at him in horror as he trails down the red soaked neck, the collar of his button-up drenched through.
Their eyes briefly meet. Sam's hazel was bloodshot and worn out, but mostly tired.
Dean frowns.
You good?
And Sam answers his question with a tight nod.
I'm fine.
And then, between one heartbeat and the next, he feels immobilized, frozen in place. The lights above them explode in a shower of sparks and glass, pain explodes behind his eyes, his ears. For a moment he thinks in his head is going to burst and he can't think about anything but not screaming.
The noise sends them sprawling to the floor, clutching their ears, heart hammering widely in their chest.
He feels fluid running through his fingers, along his wrists.
Somewhere, over the dull, stabbing pain in his skull he hears voices and screams.
Everything is a blur after that.
It's angels and demons.
Light and darkness.
Good and evil.
Truth is, the lines fuzzed out a long time ago.
Ears still buzzing, Dean forces his uncooperative body to move, so he sluggishly moves forward and feels Sam beside him doing the same. For a moment it's them, shoulder against shoulder, the well-functioning duo he craved so much, before he is yanked forward, taking a blow across his face as he goes down. Rolling on his back, he kicks out, sending the meatsuit-bearer on the floor with him. He slashes the demon knife in his throat, not taking time to register the satisfaction as the flesh snickers a bright, burning orange. He crawls to his knees, blocking another fist, gripping tightly and shiftling the bone in the opposite direction before he brings the blade down, again and again, because he is too fucking nauseaus to tell.
It was the sound. A wet, violent crack and a grunt of pain that brought him back to reality.
Dimly, as if it was happening to someone else, he sees his brother going down as he is smashed against the wall like he weightet nothing at all. His heart seizes painfully in his chest, breath staggering, as he almost instantly sees something wet blooming beneath his prone feature.
Suddenly, Dean is flooded with images of his little brother beaten, shot and bleeding out. Stabbed by a rusty silver knife, an awful, horrible scar gracing the spinal column. Images, he never wished to see again.
Jerking with surprise, the ground under him vanishes, his legs scrambling for purchase, his throat getting crushed with vicious strength.
"Thought you were a man of your word," Chuck snickers, his eyes shadowed by the darkness, causing Dean's gut to tighten.
His world was shifting, his body thrumming with pain and shock as he struggles to draw in air.
Eyes frantically searching for his other half, he burns with rage as Chuck dares to plaster a fucking smug smile on his face. Muscles in his jaw dancing with tension, he drowns the instincts overriding his thoughts. Mind racing, he pins him with a stare that screams of hatred as he quietly reaches down to his arching side, ready to bring an end to their whole, long, tragic story.
He sees the faint stir of irritation in his opponent eyes as his lips twist into a cold snarl.
"Suck it, you son of a bitch," he lets out through clenched teeth, the words biting on the way that he rips the archangel-killing knife out, a tearing noise and a gutted scream filling the silence, jamming it into the other man's heart.
Perfect landing, son.
For a brief second, his dad's words cross his mind, the ones that haunted his dreams over and over again. Maybe it was never about the car after all.
Black dots dance before his vision, he tries to suck in a breath as the hold disappears, Dean crashes painfully to the floor as he barely has any time to brace himself as he lands hard on his knees and falls limply to his side, sending his senses reeling. His breath slips harshly through his parted lips as he drowsily tries to find his bearing.
Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Jack scrambling on his hands and knees, flashing him a warm, heartfelt smile, blood staining his teeth, bright red against white. Seeing the path of the kid's gaze, panic grips him. Dean reaches out a hand, trying to stop him as he brushes past him.
"Jack, no," he mutters, his words pained and breathy. "No."
Dean barely gets hold of the hem of the kids jeans before the whole room explodes in light, more brilliant and vivid than anything that he has ever seen.
He knows.
The world tilts around him and he blinks slowly, his lashes tinted with sweat and dried blood. He tries breathing through his nose, mind slowing everything down around him, unwilling to shift everything into place.
Chucks gone. The angels, the demons.
And Jack with them.
Dean flings his focus on his brother's prone form, Cas's name forming on his lips in an instant. But it's pointless. Because just as he is about to plead for help - to fix things, to fix Sam - he remembers that his best friend is gone, gone, gone. The memory of burnt feathers fresh on his mind, mixed with the taste of ash and failure and sorrow on his tongue.
His brows clench in misery as he limply clenches his hand into a fist, letting it clumsily hit the ground, breathing heavily through his nose.
"Sam", the name comes out ragged and breathy, an edge of fear coloring his tone.
Holding onto the mangled flesh beneath his fingers, he levels himself awkwardly up on his left arm, hissing at the pain which causes his vision to waver. He calls his brother's name again, the same way he had for years and years before.
Slowly, he was making his way over, showing himself across the room with clumsy movement, leaving a red stain along the path, the distance between them impossibly long now.
"Alright, alright." He mumbles, sweat breaking out of his forehead, a wave of nausea swapping over him.
His arm feebly reaches out, shaking with the effort, until he connects with the soft cotton of his brother's shirt.
He follows along the sleeves until nearly numb fingers find his brother's hand, leaving a bloody smudge, fingertips hovering just above his brother's wrist, afraid to touch, really, before he gently claps it tightly and presses his fingers into his brother's skin.
Dean holds his breath. Waits.
Adjusting his grip, he presses his red-smeared fingers deeper into the skin, their blood oddly mending together.
He doesn't register how his heart beat echoes in his head, doesn't register how his breath is coming out shorter now. Because just like that, his whole world comes to a screaming halt.
"S'okay, S'mmy." Dean chokes on his breath, tears burning behind his eyes. "S'okay." Dean's voice is raspy, like sandpaper as he squeezes Sam's wrist in sync with his reassurances. The words were empty though, just like him.
His lip trembles and he bits down hard, collapsing on his back and letting his head fall backwards to the floor. Dean's jaw is clenched tightly as he tears his eyes away from his brother, squeezing his eyes shut. Something inside of him breaking beyond repair.
"I'm right here." Dean croaks.
He can taste copper on his tongue now, clogging up the back of his throat.
His entire side was burning, but he couldn't seem to make himself care. The awful pain in his heart numbed him in a way no other wound ever could. He simply holds on to Sam's limp hand, clammy and cold, the sleeve is awkwardly trapped in the middle. He repeats the words one more time and at this time he is not sure who he is reassuring.
A single tear makes it slowly down his cheek, his mind in a drowning haze.
This was wrong. This was not supposed to happen. They finally won.
It was over. The fight was over.
He welcomes the cold, piercing numbness creeping throughout his body, his eyes getting heavier as he lies there, just an arm length away from his brother.
Salvation and peace. Old and happy. Being at rest and alive.
That is a paradox for the Winchesters not bound to happen.
He looks up at the ceiling, his green eyes fading as focusing seems harder and harder now.
Rest would be nice.
So he closes his eyes, just for a while.
Just for a little while.
There is white hot pain.
Flames flashing behind his eyes. Screams full of despair and misery.
The clanking of chains.
The breaking of bones. His heartbeat so rapid, he thinks he is about to burst.
But he isn't bathed in flames. His skin isn't sliced. No darkness consuming him. There is no stench of sulfur and death suffocating him. Instead there is a faint scent of leather and gun oil. And stale french fries.
The hell?
When he shifts, it doesn't hurt. It's all soft and oddly cosy underneath him.
So when the pain doesn't come, Dean dares to open his eyes.
Almost instantly, light washes over him and he waits for the world to settle. He watches the sun streams through the windows, dust floating lazily through the air. His mouth is dry, the taste of smoke and sulfur on his tongue is nothing but a fading phantom.
Blinking slowly, he forces himself to focus. As he finally comes to, his gaze sets on the black surface in front, all smooth and shiny.
A dashboard. A steering wheel. Keys. Ignition.
Some of the tension eases out as his foggy mind processes where he was: he was sitting in the impala.
The next thing Dean is aware of is the empty seat next to him. He hasty turns around, clutching the upholstery of the bench, fingers digging into the leather as he strains his neck to check the other half of the car. One eyebrow raised as he speaks, his voice pitched high. "Sam?"
His frown deepens with genuine concern, when aside from fast-food wrappers with leftover french fries and two empty cups of coffee the impala is indeed empty. Only the sound of his hitched, nervous breathing keeping him company.
When he shifts back, agony overtakes him.
So sudden and fierce, he hunches over, letting out a muffled cry of misery. And yeah well, he thinks for a moment he is this close to passing out. But he doesn't. Instead, he is gritting his teeth and letting the pain roll down on him like a wave.
Dean frantically pries the layers of clothing away and palms against his side.
He huffs in surprise, when his skin comes back perfectly fine. Because there is no ripped fabric. No blood. No injury in the first place.
His mind is trying to adjust and it's only then, chin down, that he notices something else. The feeling of the weight resting between his chest oh so familiar that he didn't notice the presence at all.
A patch of hot sunlight engulfs the small, golden horns as he carefully curls his fingers around it. The warm glow is mesmerizing. Absently, he twines it between his thumb, latching on the leather string, before his attention shifts to the wooden box beside him.
He reaches over and scoots it closer, settling it down on his knees. His fingers are tracing the outline of the box, before he peeks inside. A stack of badges greets him, old ones actually, as he rifles through them. A deep rumble escapes his throat as he fishes one out, smoothing his thumb over the transparent, protecting the portrait underneath. His vision blurs as memories continue to come back. His kid of a brother with the goddamn fringe.
Carefully stacking the IDs back, he reaches for his glock in the dashboard, tugging it between his waistband before the door creaks in familiarity as he hauls himself out.
A cold wind whips his face, the air crisp and clear, carrying the faint scent of highway and freedom. Gravel nips his shoes as he shuffles around, realizing he is standing on a bridge in the middle of nowhere.
He walks to the edge, watches the water winding its way between the rocks and the pebbles, the river thick like gravy from the mud and sentiments. On the horizon he can see the mountain ranges surrounded by evergreen giants like pines and firs. Dean shifts his weight and tilts his face up at the graciously clear sky. For a faint moment he feels like he is in a frigging Bob Ross painting, because even he has to admit, the view is astonishing.
There is nothing but the chirping chant of birds and the roaming of the current. The rustling of leaves. No engine,not even at a distance. Not a single soul either.
It's just the Impala and an abandoned car stranded in the middle of the bridge. Dean's eyes trace the tape, which is stretched between the pillars. Bright yellow and utterly out-of-place. He ducks and walks through anyway, trying to make sense of it.
He looks through the window and sees the dried blood. On the driver seat, the front shield, the side window. The smell alone triggers his gag reflex, but thankfully he can keep it down. Sometime's the small favours, really.
All in all, it didn't look like a typical crash at all, because A) there is no other car, B) there is no wild game in sight and C) the car is perfectly fine from the outside. It's unusual. More like a furious beast ripped someone's organs out. The heart maybe or -
Wait, he knows where he is.
He is in California. Somewhere in a small ghost town. He was here before, when they were looking into the suicides near the Centennial Highway. Sam. Sam and him. It was the first time they've seen each other in, hell, three years. Their first hunt after their dad disappeared on him, when Sam was at Stanford. The hunt was before: when Sam and he only had to worry about salt-and-burns that looked like a walk in the park now, when all they had to hunt were urban legends and a couple of freaky ghosts. Throw in a couple of lunatic zombie girls and they were good to go. But it was their reunion he craved so much all these years. When it
Behind him, he can hear the gravel moving, the overcast of a faint chuckle.
"Guess we can pass as US Marshals now, huh?"
Dean just stops, letting out a low snort. The corners of his mouth turn up, a full-on smile plastered on his face as he turns around, the corner of his eyes crinkling. His heavy heart lifting.
"Hell yeah, I bet we do, Sammy."
end
Note:
Dean: So everybody gets a little slice of paradise
Ash: Pretty much. A few people share - special cases. What not.
Dean: What do you mean special?
Ash: Aw, you know. Like, uh, soulmates.
I always liked the idea. So, yeah.