Dean shoves an extra jacket into the duffel bag lying open on the bed. He turns to give the room a cursory glance, but his eyes catch on a photograph illuminated by the light on his desk. He steps forward and takes the photo in his hand, taking a moment to study that face, the one he has committed to his memory every day of his life since he was four years old. He breathes in, reaching to place the photo back in its place under the desk lamp.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
The tightening in his chest was becoming unbearable. Emotions, thought..they just bled out of him most days. But now, he can feel them fighting back, trying to claw their way to the surface. It is strange how segmented he had become. He often had to remind himself to show compassion, or at least, convey understanding and connectedness on the rare occasion that he was forced to have a conversation with anyone. Each day he had to spend an hour in the shower to just ground himself, to search out some part of him that still felt familiar under all of the darkness and tether himself to it so that he made it through to see another day. But now..now it's time. No more waiting.
He's gone through these motions before. Last time was different, though. Last time, a part of him held out hope of being stopped, or being throttled for his idiocy. Now, there is no hope to cling to. There is only the deep nothing that pulses with the sense of purpose – his final act. There is nothing left of him to save.
Dean turns, taking in his surroundings, committing to memory the only room he has ever called his own. He had filled this room with everything that defined him, that made him feel connected to himself and this world. He struggles now to remember why it mattered. What was so important about having an identity when you were built to die? He knows that he has become a shadow of his former self. Dad would be proud, he thinks, I'm a better Hunter, I'm faster, stronger, more focused. He's doing what he was made for, saving people, hunting things..saving Sammy. He stands by his conviction. He's smart enough to know that he won't last much longer like this. The lines between right and wrong were already blurred, and every hunt, every kill deepened the struggle. The hunt was the only thing he had left. It made him feel alive. It made him powerful.
Dean draws in a steadying breath, reaching his left hand to grasp his forearm in an attempt to quell the burn in his veins.
Another deep breath steels his resolve and he spins back to desk, searching for a scrap piece of paper. He is about to rip a page from John's journal when his eyes flick to the vinyl resting on a stack of books by his hand. Led Zeppelin I, that works, he smirks to himself. He quickly scribbles across the cover and flips the album over. Words have never come easily to Dean, but this time he knows them by heart. There really is only one thing left to say.
He places the vinyl on his pillow and raises his eyes to the mantle above his bed. Showtime, he thinks as he grasps the Blade in his hand. His arm shakes with the force of the connection and he grinds his teeth against the electric current that sears through him. He looks down at himself, taking in the sight of his entire body keyed up from the contact. This is what he has become. A junkie with the shakes and half a hard-on from another hit of juice. Dean sneers at the thought and shoves the Blade to the bottom of the duffel, zipping it up and slinging it around his shoulder in one fluid movement.
Walking through the halls of the bunker is easy now, at least. The memories and his connection to this place are tuned out by the hum of power settling in his veins. He charges through the main hall and toward the garage. Dean pauses at the entrance to the garage, his eyes ghosting over the collection of cars before falling on the Impala. He drinks her in, moving forward to run his hand across her hood. The purr of her engine out on the open road used to be what kept him human, but now it's just a reminder of a deeper drone that fills him, head to toe, momentarily before dropping away into the nothingness. That loss, the withdrawal, is agonizing. Dean opens the car door, tosses the keys onto the driver's seat and slams the door shut. He presses his hand flat on the roof one last time.
"You be good to Sammy."
Dean turns his back on the Impala and strides across the room to open the garage door. He snatches a set of keys and makes his way toward his new ride – Dorothy's bike. Fast and hard to track. Dean secures the duffle to the back of the seat and climbs onto the motorcycle. No more time for hesitation.
He turns the key and kick starts the engine. He feels the power surging through him again. He is ready.
I got work to do.
Dean pulls away into the night. Every second of his life is numbered now. He's never felt more relieved.
Sam knocks twice on his brother's bedroom door before pushing it open. "Hey Dean, we.." he trails off when he realizes the room is empty. Sam is about to turn to head back through the bunker when he sees the album resting on Dean's pillow. He steps into the room, his gaze falling on the empty spot on the mantle where the Blade should be. Sam stops by the foot of the bed, taking in a deep breath as he clenches his fists. He berates himself for a moment for not keeping an eye on Dean like he was supposed to. Sam knew this was a risk and he should have seen it coming. His eyes fall to the album again and he reaches for it when he notices the word written across the cover: Cas.
Sam turns the album over in his hands and freezes, his breath catching in his throat. Three words.
I loved you.
The vinyl falls to the floor as Sam runs from room, silent prayers flying for more time.