Disclaimer: Don't own, don't know… unfortunately.

Just a short future fic. Enjoy!

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Dean was a hunter. He had been since he was his father, the Marine, set him up on the path to killing the proverbial shadows that lurked in the dark. A long time ago he'd once told Sam that their life didn't leave room for friends or acquaintances that knew nothing of the hunt. Dean had referred to them both as freaks because that's what they were.

Normal people went to College or University or got a job after high school.

Normal people had girlfriends, friends… hell… pets!

Normal people had homes, houses or apartments they lived in for more then a month at a time.

Normal people didn't run around killing Vampires and Demons and other supernatural beings.

Normal people didn't learn to drive at the age of ten or learn to brace themselves against the recoil of a shot gun filled with rock salt at the age of six.

Normal people didn't live out of a car.

Normal people didn't sleep with a ten inch blade under their pillow.

Normal people didn't salt the doors and windows.

Normal people didn't live in various motel rooms that could be considered condemnable.

NORMAL people didn't carry their little brother from a house that had been set on fire by a yellow eyed demon.

And normal people damn sure weren't told by their father that one day they would have to kill the very sibling they'd been instructed to protect all their life.

Dean had accepted, well and truly, that he was not, in fact, normal by any means. He'd buried all sense and memory of normal long ago. After his mother's death, he only actually shed tears four times since then.

When they had returned back to Lawrence to find their old house haunted by their mother's spirit. He had cried behind the run down gas station wall.

When he found out his father's life was sacrificed for him. He had actually dared shed a tear in front of his brother.

When Sam made him promise to kill him. He took an extra long shower so Sam wouldn't wake to his sobs.

And when Sam had to kill that girl… what was her name? Oh right, Madison, in her apartment because she was a warewolf. Dean had cried in the kitchen while Sam did the deed in the living room.

Over the years, Dean had gotten tired. Tired of burying his emotions so instead, he'd tried something new. It had been in the works for sometime, probably the reason he could count, on one hand, the number of times salty liquid escaped from his tear ducts without his explicit permission.

No more burying the emotions for Dean Winchester. No… he just stopped caring. It was hard, particularly when it came to his own safety or his brothers but eventually Dean had convinced himself that one of two things can occur during a hunt; One, you succeed. Two, you don't.

Sure he continued to be the fiercely protective older brother. Watching Sam, taking the brunt of the supernatural in order to protect the young Winchester but if things did go wrong, he wouldn't let it bother him. He wouldn't wish he could have done better. He wouldn't silently wish his father could have been there. He wouldn't care that it took twenty two stitches to sew up his shoulder.

Sam asked him after each hunt if he was alright and after each hunt Dean would answer, "I'm fine."

Eventually Sam stopped asking. Eventually, Dean stopped thinking about it.

They tried for a couple more years to find the yellow eyed demon. To save Sam. To rid the world of evil but each time they failed or didn't fail but had to deal with some law enforcement agency who believed they actually knew better, Dean's heart iced over just a bit more.

He was a hunter. He killed the Supernatural. Conscience was regulated by how many deaths could be averted by pulling a trigger or performing an exorcism.

Mom was dead.

Dad was dead.

Sammy's soul was bleeding, weeping for the danger it knew it possessed.

Dean was a soldier.

His battlefield was beyond personal, it was his own mind that he fought. His own thoughts and feelings toward his life situation. Toward his brother's situation.

So when the time finally came, Dean knew. His heart was officially as cold as ice and he knew there'd be no chance of it thawing for anyone or anything…

…Not even Sam.

One night in yet another run down, barely livable, brown stained, foul smelling motel Dean looked over at his brother. Sam sat on the chair opposite him, his gaze was distant as if focused on nothing at all.

"Sammy," Dean says. His voice was low and rough, like his father's had been. He hadn't used it much, there hadn't been need to.

Sam's gaze focused and he turned his brown shagged head toward Dean.

"Yeah?" he asks. There was hope in the young Winchester's eyes. Funny how a few years ago Dean would have given anything to see that look in his brother's eyes. Now?

Now it didn't matter. Life didn't matter. Dean had accepted that. It was in this very moment it had all come to a climax and Dean finally understood what the hunt was about.

It wasn't about saving the world or his brother or his family or himself. He was a criminal in the eyes of the 'normal' world and even if the yellow eyed demon was killed, he would still be a criminal. A psychotic, anti-social, criminal with behavioral problems but a criminal none the less.

Now the hunt was something his body did because it knew how. And now, Sam was a creature of the hunt.

"Stand up Sammy," Dean says. Sam raised an worried eyebrow but did as instructed.

On the last hunt they'd been on, a demonic possession, the demon has said something that stuck with Dean. It said,

"You can't have good without evil Winchesters. You can't have you without me." But the possessed eight year old girl was looking directly at Dean when she'd spoken. She didn't look at Sam because she knew Sam was on her side. And for a second, a brief, undeniable second, Dean saw a glint in his brother's eye. It was sympathetic but it was directed toward the demon inside the little girl.

Not the little girl herself, but the demon inside.

And Dean knew. He knew that was it.

This was it.

"What's going on Dean?" Sam asks as he rises from his chair. Dean stands too, he reaches into his duffle bag and pulled out his .45. The one his father had given him to protect Sam. A mirror image of the one Sam had to protect himself from the things in his closet. "Dean?" Sam asks again.

Dean looked up and raised the gun to his brother's eye level. Eyes which were now wide open in horror.

"Dean what are you doing?"

"I saw you look at that demon earlier," Dean says. Sam furrows his brow in confusion.

"What look? Dean… Look I know that hunt got to you but now's not the time to be kidding around," he says. Then carefully adds, "Christo."

"I'm not possessed Sam," Dean replies immediately. He takes a few steps toward his brother so he's sure not to miss. "And the hunt didn't get to me. The little girl was exorcized and we brought her back to her mother. She's fine Sam… but you aren't."

"Dean, please…" Sam says backing away from his brother slightly. "I… I don't know what you're talking about. What look?"

"The look Sam," Dean says with conviction. "The look of sympathy. Let's face it, shall we? We aren't any closer to finding the demon or saving you from it. That look today… you know what you felt. You can't lie to me Sammy I've known you for too long." There's a fraction of a second in which Sam pauses but then his head drops slightly and he nods. Dean doesn't bat an eyelash, he knew this was the moment.

"I did feel it," Sam concedes, then he looks up, "And it scared me Dean but I fought it off, doesn't that count for something?"

"Get on your knees Sam," Dean says. Tears start streaming down the youngest Winchesters face but he complies and brings his tall lanky frame to the floor with his hands up.

"I know you tried Dean," Sam says quietly. "I know you wont think twice about this but I know you still tried."

"And failed," Dean replies stoically. He takes the final few steps to his brother and presses the gun to Sam's forehead. Sam closes his eyes and leans into the weapon.

"Goodbye Dean."

"Goodbye Sam."

The gun shot isn't muffled but it's a crappy motel and their were few if any guests to begin with. Sam's, now lifeless body falls forward into Dean's legs. Dean steps out of the way and lets it fall to the floor. He doesn't cry, he can't. He doesn't feel, he can't.

Mission complete. Mission success.

Dean packs up the weapons, the clothing, the odds and ends and tosses them into the back of the Impala before returning for his brother's body. He throws some water on the walls diluting the blood stain and cleans up what he can of the brain and skull matter that was all that was left of the back of Sammy's head. Then he puts a winter hat on Sam's head, covering the gaping hole at the back and he cleans the small neat hole in the front. He pulls the hate lower, surprised the hat covers the wound.

Hooking Sam's limp arm over his shoulder he pretends walk but really drags the body out to the front seat of the Impala. Sam always rides shot gun, why should that stop now?

He just closes the door when the motel manager, a portly old man in a ripped t-shirt stocks up.

"He okay?" the man asks. From Dean's position the man's few of his brother is skewed.

"He's resting," Dean says. Which isn't a lie, Sam is at rest.

"Well you're all settled up. That young feller there paid when you two came in," the old man says. "Just thought I heard something like a gun shot from around here. You hear it?"

"No," Dean replies. Again, it wasn't a lie, Dean doesn't hear gunshots anymore. He hears the success of a bullet hitting it's mark and he hears the failure of a bullet missing it's mark, nothing more.

"Okay then," the old man replies. "You two take care of yourselves."

"Always do."

Dean make sure the man is far enough away before going to the drivers side and getting in. When he starts the engine he looks over to his brother's body, when rigor sets in it'll be an easy enough position to get out of the car…

…the drive wont take that long.

Dean doesn't pray over the body. He already said goodbye. He simply watches as the body goes up in flames in an empty field on the outskirts of the town they're in.

An hour later it's done. Dean throws some dirt on the ashes, making sure the fires out and returns to his beloved car.

He pulls out his cell and dials.

"Hello?" Ellen's voice is familiar but has long since been anything more.

"Sam said yesterday you got wind of a hunt in Wyoming," Dean says. "Can you get Ash to e-mail the details to me?"

"Well hello to you too Dean Winchester," Ellen laughs. "Ash already sent the details said Sam figured you guys would want to make an early start tomorrow morning."

"I'm starting now," Dean says. "Thanks then."

"Dean wait." Ellen's suddenly very serious. Dean looks at his watch, he can make it to Wyoming by dawn but he needs to leave.

"I'm in a hurry Ellen, I can't stay here long."

"Just wait a god damn minute Dean," Ellen sounds pissed. "Tell me how you are? It's been… it's been a while since you actually called. Usually it's all Sam… how's he doing by the way?" Dean blinks.

"He's dead," Dean says without missing a beat. He hears the horrified gasp and rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time for this. "Thank Ash for the info, I'll call you later if I can't find another hunt." With that, Dean hangs up.

The entire drive to Wyoming his cell phone doesn't stop ringing. He can only guess that Sam's would be ringing too but that burned with Sam so there's no way of knowing.

A day of research finds Dean in another grody motel room. That night, he's seconds from turning in when there's a knock at the door. Weapon in hand he opens it and raises a non committal brow.

"Christo," he says. It's become his greeting, so much more efficient then hello.

"No, Bobby," the older man replies. He looks around the room and frowns. "Where's Sam, Dean?" Dean returns to Sam's laptop… well, it's his now and sits in front of it.

"He's dead," Dean replies. "We couldn't save him."

"From what?" Bobby asks. He steps inside the motel room and closes the door behind him. Dean looks up, as if surprised the older man appears to be staying.

"From himself." At this Bobby now looks more worried then confused. He sits in the chair closest to Dean and leans in slightly.

"Dean," he tries again. "What happened to Sam?" Dean shrugs as he opens another website of information.

"Shot him with a .45, burned him last night then came here," he replies. Then he looks up at Bobby who's face has paled.

"You killed him?" Bobby echoes. Dean nods then goes over to the bed, where his weapons are sitting. He finally has a beat on the Wendigo that's terrorizing a nearby campsite. "Dean… What have you done?" Dean readies his flare gun and shot gun just in case then heads for the door.

"You going to be here when I get back from the hunt?" Dean asks. Bobby lowers his gaze and head away from Dean.

"No," the older man replies quietly. And Dean knows he wont, Dean knows the final bridge, the final tie that had been grounding him to any sense of that foreign word 'normal' has been at last destroyed.

He wont ever talk to Bobby again or Ellen. He wont ever talk to any of the contacts his father had left for him again. His body has gotten to good at finding the hunts and succeeding at the missions.

Days go by. Hunts go by. Years go by. And finally at the age of 63, there's a knock on his motel room door. The sound is foreign, no one has knocked in many years, but Dean answers.

The FBI agents take him down surprisingly hard considering his age but he doesn't fight them.

Nor does he fight it when his chest starts to feel like an elephant is sitting on it.

The last thing on earth that he hears is an angry FBI agent screaming,

"You don't have the right to fucking die on me scum bag!"

The first thing of the after life that he hears, is laughter. He opens his eyes and sees his family, mom, dad, Sam and Sam's girlfriend Jess sitting happily on the front lawn of their Kansas home. They all wave to him and he knows this is Sam's 'normal.'

He doesn't wave back. He turns to the darkness behind him. To where the shadows lurk and where all the things he once laid to rest have once again risen up. This hell… This is his 'normal.'

And so the hunt begins again. And the boy raised a soldier, raised a hunter, continues even after death, to do the only thing his body knows how. For now…

… and for eternity.

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Heavy, I know… tell me what you thought! Review please!