A/N: Thank you so much to ImpalaLove for reviewing the last chapter! Okay. So. This is actually the end, for real this time.
What Is And What Should Never Be
3.
Then:
Dean doesn't let Lucifer monolog.
Now:
Dean doesn't let Lucifer monolog, because he can't afford to.
He hasn't seen Sam in years. He's not in his right mind.
Lucifer would try to trick him, pretend to be Sam. And he would probably succeed. He can't imagine – he can't imagine how much that would hurt, even if it's just a charade. So Dean can't even let him try.
His brother's 6'4" frame falls like a piece of lumber, and the earth even seems to quake when he hits the ground.
Something monumental has happened: Lucifer is dead.
Something monumental has happened: Sam is dead.
Dean only sees Sam. He only sees Sam. He sees Sam when he closes his eyes, sees a bullet connect with his chest. Sees his own finger squeeze the trigger.
Dean looks again at all his dead friends, their limbs strewn across the garden. He falls to his knees and pukes in the flowers. He heaves and heaves, until there's nothing left in his body at all. Then, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and looks to the sky.
The clouds are clearing. A ray of sunlight touches his face.
He doubles over and retches again.
.
.
.
He takes the body.
He burns Risa and Jerry and Jo and Shane and Martin and Steve and Laura and Ace at the scene.
But Sam…
He takes Sam.
He carries him to the jeep, cradles him like he's made of china, like he's still a kid. Once he loads him in the car, he wonders suddenly: Where the fuck is Cas?
One of the jeeps is missing. He doesn't dwell on whys or hows.
He notices a shock of red hair in the grass, near the third jeep.
Dean takes this body, too. It's feather-light compared to the first.
.
.
.
He drives straight to Lawrence. It's not even a choice – it's just autopilot, some strange, homing mechanism kicking in. He drives straight there, to the cemetery where their parents are buried.
He cries the whole time.
He cries as he drives, as he drags Sam out of the jeep, as he looks at the tombstones. God, he thinks he might never stop crying.
After a while, he feels lightheaded and dehydrated, and his ribs hurt. He doesn't know if he's injured or not. All he knows is he's in pain.
He lays Sam on the ground next to their father's grave and just studies him.
He's not going to bury him like that. He's not going to fucking bury him looking like that.
All of a sudden, he rips off the white suit jacket and un-tucks his shirt in a frenzy. He takes off his own flannel and threads Sam's limp arms through it, one after the other, desperate to make him look more like himself. He's not going to bury him in fucking Lucifer's clothes. He's not going to bury him as the fucking devil.
When he's done, he kneels over the corpse. "I'm so sorry, Sammy," he says. "I'm so-" He can't finish. Why did he do this? Why did he say yes?
Why didn't he?
The sound of his shovel slicing through the dirt is crisp and clean.
He holds his brother one last time, presses his nose into his hair.
He lowers him into the earth.
He fills the grave.
He doesn't even think to burn him.
.
.
.
Something has ended.
Something has ended.
Why do people think something has begun?
.
.
.
He doesn't even notice until he's halfway back to Arkansas. He doesn't even notice that there are no more Croats, that the world is trying to resuscitate itself. He doesn't notice the hordes of people hugging and singing kumabaya in the streets, the preachers and priests and pastors and rabbis giving sermons outside gas stations. He just doesn't notice.
Whatever victory they see, he sees as a defeat.
He's used to avoiding highways by now; it's second nature. They're filled with parked cars, like time just stopped during rush hour and everyone abandoned their vehicles on a whim. Also, they're usually inundated with Croats.
He supposes that it isn't really a problem anymore.
But still, he takes the back roads out of habit.
He sees a doe emerge from the forest disbelievingly. She steps out into a field, wide-eyed and hesitant, to graze. His first thought is food. His second thought is shame she's so beautiful. He'd always had problems hunting animals, Bobby used to remind him. Go figure.
He supposes he doesn't have to pull over and shoot it anymore.
.
.
.
Every so often, he looks in the rearview.
There's a kid's head lolling against the backseat.
He fights the impulse to crash the car.
.
.
.
She realizes Charlie is gone once she comes down from the steeple, right after they leave.
She shouts, she tries to go after them, but the others stop her, hold her down. Tell her it's not safe. Like she might die chasing after them. Like she would want to live without the people who are in that convoy in the first place.
"Don't worry," Meagan tells her, urging her to calm down. "He's with Dean. He'll take care of him."
"He always does," Stacy supports.
For a moment, their blind faith startles her. But then she remembers Charlie is not their brother, and it's easy to throw around platitudes when you're not the one in trouble.
But she wants to believe them. She loves Dean, and he has never given her a reason not to trust him.
He saved him once – surely he can do it again.
.
.
.
Claire isn't afraid that Dean will die.
She's had dreams – she knows how this is supposed to go.
Claire is afraid he won't come back.
.
.
.
Everyone with the Croatoan virus is cured.
Isn't it great? Isn't it wonderful?
When Claire learns this, she has the wind knocked out of her.
Because yes, it's great, but –
That means Dad died for nothing. That means they killed him for nothing. If they had known, if they had just let him –
Meagan touches her shoulder blade, eyes brimming with firsthand understanding. "It's okay," she soothes sadly. "None of us knew. We couldn't have known."
Stacy understands, too. "We've all done things," she says. "You're not the only one. We couldn't have known."
Claire is immensely glad not to be alone.
She murmurs, "Will they remember?"
Rich laughs bitterly. "I sure as hell hope not."
.
.
.
When Castiel comes back alone, she can't help but feel her worst fears have been confirmed. It takes all she has not to just collapse at the sight of him, not to break down into histrionics right then and there.
Castiel seems to sense this.
"Dean is alive," he tells her enigmatically.
"Well, where is he?" Stacy demands.
"Where's everyone?" Rich adds. There's a murmur among the crowd. Castiel looks uncomfortable.
Claire finds her voice: "Where's Charlie?"
.
.
.
"What now?" Meagan asks, sounding totally unhinged. "Do… Do things just go back to normal?"
It's a good question: What now? What the fuck happens now? It's what everyone's wondering.
They look around the compound. They remember what it took to get here, the sacrifices they made. The people they lost. And what now? They're just supposed to return to business as usual?
"No," says Stacy. "They can never."
They've become wild, really – it's only natural they should fear returning to civilization.
"Things won't be the same," Castiel declares, "but they will get better."
.
.
.
This is how their champion returns: Dean shows up a few days after Cas with a dead boy in his arms.
Claire meets him at the gate, but her knees give out before she actually reaches him, buckling under the full force of her entire family's demise.
"No," she screams. "No, no, no, no."
Dean kneels too, gently lays her brother's body between them in the dust.
It's not clear what killed him. From the way his head rolls limply as she clutches him against her, she suspects a broken neck. Nothing more than the flick of a demon's wrist could have done this. She can still hold him. It's an effort, but she can still carry him. That's how small he is.
They're all dead, now. All of them except her.
She pets Charlie's long hair over and over again, shivering violently, completely beside herself. Dean pulls her to him to give her some stability, and she sobs into his filthy shoulder.
"I'm-I'm so sorry," he says. His voice is hoarse, but he's run out of tears. "I'm so sorry. He just-he must've... I should've... I didn't know, I didn't-"
It's a horrific display. The rest of the survivors leave them, despite their curiosity. They can't bear to see this. Not when there's supposed to be hope, now.
Dean has to carry Claire back into the camp.
Cas digs a grave for Charlie.
War always has casualties, but this?
Is this winning?
Is it?
.
.
.
Rich makes the mistake of asking Dean about the others over dinner.
"What happened up there in Detroit?" he questions, unaware of what he's actually asking.
Dean hurtles a beer bottle against the wall and it shatters shrilly.
No one asks about it ever again.
.
.
.
There are whispers in the camp, whispers about their champion. Some people say he led their friends into death. Like they didn't choose to follow him. Like he doesn't know it was still his fault.
"It was a suicide mission."
"They're dead because of him."
"Why the hell would he take that kid with him?"
"How could he do this to us?"
Hasn't he given enough already? What more do they want from him?
Can't they just let him have his sorrow? Can't they just leave him alone?
He can't be what they need him to be anymore. He can't. He won't – he won't be that. He's not a leader, and he's done taking care of people. He washes his hands of them.
He thinks, briefly, this is a bad attitude for a father-to-be.
(He almost wants to laugh, then. He almost forgot).
.
.
.
He doesn't push her away.
He thought he might, but he doesn't.
He doesn't really know why.
(He almost didn't even come back).
.
.
.
In the aftermath, Dean and Claire cling to each other so tightly they don't if they're elevating one another or just the opposite.
It isn't healthy.
There's a gaping, bleeding, brother-shaped void in both their chests that can't be filled. Dean can't fill it with Claire. Claire can't fill it with Dean.
But they try.
"I'm not a hero," he tells her quietly, when they're alone at night. "I'm not who they think I am."
His head is in her lap. She brushes the hair away from his forehead. "You saved the world," she replies.
He smiles; a painful, labored twitch of his lips. He doesn't have the energy to dispute her, not anymore. All he says is, "It doesn't feel like it."
He saved the world.
He saved the world, but not for himself.
.
.
.
Their suffering is oddly parallel. They have nightmares together, they ask the same questions, they both wonder why. Dean wonders why Sam said yes. Claire wonders why Charlie left the camp. They'll never find the explanations they seek – there's no one left to explain them.
Maybe Sam thought he could take Lucifer all on his own.
Maybe he had a death wish.
Maybe Charlie thought Ryan was still alive and went out to look for him.
Maybe he had a death wish.
They'll never know for sure.
.
.
.
Claire doesn't blame Dean for Charlie's death.
Dean blames himself. Dean blames himself for everything.
.
.
.
The walls around the camp come down, at some point. People move into town. Some even take their families and move away, into neighborhoods and gated communities in nearby counties. Some go back to where they came from, wherever that may be.
Dean and Claire stay. They can't imagine going anywhere else. They don't want to see new people, don't want to see any of it. They can't help but feel this new world is not for them.
So, they stay. Some of the others stay too, but not many of them.
Castiel stays. Castiel doesn't know who he is anymore, doesn't know what to do, even more than the rest of them. Leaving Dean would be absolutely devastating to him. Dean is the only thing that he cared about when he used to be an angel that he still cares about.
His face is sad when he looks at Dean, like he's trying so hard to remember something but just can't.
Dean weans him off the drugs. Slowly. Patiently. One day at a time.
It's scary and surreal – there's falling, and then there's falling, and Castiel has plummeted. Seeing him like this…
It's scary and surreal, but Claire thinks it helps both of them. Dean likes projects (needs projects). And Cas needs him.
Dean sometimes thinks he wants to be done taking care of people.
He sometimes thinks maybe he has addiction too, like Cas.
.
.
.
Claire isn't sure she actually ever tells Dean about the baby. But somehow he just knows.
She genuinely can't remember if she told him or not. Things from that time… they're hazy. One big, muddled cloud of tragedy in her brain that she hardly ever tries to sift through.
But he seems happy about it – as happy as he has the capacity to be, anyway.
Maybe this can fill the void, that void neither of them can fill for the other. Maybe. Maybe.
"Will you name him Charlie?" Dean asks her suddenly one day.
"No. No," she sputters.
He's immediately sorry he said it.
"Not Sam, either," she says.
"No," he agrees.
.
.
.
In the end, it doesn't even matter. She's a girl.
Dean laughs and laughs because he'd been so sure it was a boy, amused by his own stupidity. He takes her in his arms and says, "You're gonna be a little heartbreaker."
Still, she thinks he's glad.
She's glad – she'll never look like Sam or Charlie.
.
.
.
They call her Mary.
Every time Dean puts her to sleep, he hums Hey Jude.
Every time Claire puts her to sleep, she kisses her forehead and whispers, "Your daddy saved the world for you."
.
.
.
She always said: Dean likes projects.
Cas is back to semi-normal, now. Three months sober, the longest he's ever gone.
Dean fixes up the Impala, gets her running again. Claire never truly realized it until now, but that car is his pride and joy. He's out there every day, grease-stained and attentive, fiddling under the hood. He has to get parts shipped in from god-knows-where, but he does it. He drives into town and picks them up, assembles them lovingly. After a while she's shiny and beautiful, like a new penny.
One day, when he's all finished, he takes Mary out to see. He sits her on his lap in the driver's seat, and her tiny, grabby hands instantly find the steering wheel.
Dean looks at Claire, and just beams. His eyes crinkle in the corners and, for an instant, his face shows nothing but pure happiness.
She's never seen him smile like that before.
.
.
.
Cas asks him, once, "What will you do now? Will you start hunting again?"
Dean laughs and says, "I have no friggin' idea."
.
.
.
After almost a year to the day, Dean gets a strange call from Rich. He moved back into town, but he visits the old campground every once in a while. Dean has built himself a farmhouse, a real one. The planks on the ceiling line up seamlessly.
Cas has built a house on the grounds, too. And Meagan, with her new beau Carl. They're the ones who stayed.
Rich says, "Man, you're never gonna fuckin' believe what I found."
"What?" Dean demands.
"It's a surprise. It's a surprise – you're gonna love it. You and Claire."
"Uh… Okay," he says warily. "Just… No more pets, man. A dog is not a housewarming present. You can't just give people living creatures."
"Hey don't lie, you love Arrow. You were always goin' on about wantin' a dog on hunts." Animal hunts Dean has to mentally clarify.
"She barks like a motherfucker."
"Beagles, man."
"Yeah, whatever. It better not be another dog. That's all I'm sayin'."
"Yeah, yeah… So, how's the baby?"
"Loud."
Rich snorts uproariously on the other end of the line. "My cabin used to be next to yours, Dean-o. Not surprised."
Dean is grinning in spite of himself. "Shuddup," he chides.
"Frankly, I'm surprised y'all just have the one."
"Yeah, okay," he snorts.
.
.
.
That night, Rich appears on their doorstep with a tall young man with mussed brown hair and brilliant blue eyes. Arrow yips at his feet.
"This is Ryan," Rich introduces to Dean, his own black-brown eyes sparkling mirthfully. "Ryan Shurley."
Dean's hand, mid-handshake, goes completely limp, and his eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. His mouth goes slack for a few beats, until he manages, "Wha- how- Claire!"
Claire materializes from within the house, Mary on her hip. Dean quickly takes the baby from her, afraid she might drop her in shock.
"What is i-" Then, she sees. "R-Ryan? No, it can't be… How?"
She collapses in her brother's arms, and he hugs her back tightly.
"It's a long story," he murmurs into her hair.
.
.
.
In the living room: "You'll never believe it," Rich says, shaking his head with an ear-to-ear grin. "You know, in town people're putting up fliers. You have to have seen 'em."
Claire and Dean nod enthusiastically. They're everywhere. Pasted on every wall, on the back of every milk carton. Things like:
Missing: Abraham Lahey, 52.
Missing: Carlos Alvarez, 11.
Missing: Sydney Atkins, 23.
Missing missing missing.
Rich digs two folded fliers out of his pocket. They're faded and torn, but still legible.
Missing: Claire Shurley, 27.
Missing: Charles Shurley, 17.
Claire stares at her own face, her brother's. She has no idea when or where the photos were taken, or how he got them.
Seventeen. That's how old Charlie would be now, if…
"Saw these in the window of the hardware shop. I recognized the two of you right away, and I figured… I dunno. Figured it had to be kismet, or somethin'. Number sent me straight to him."
Their heads swivel in Ryan's direction.
"What happened?" Claire asks softly.
He gulps nervously, brushing off the tops of his jeans.
"After," he starts. "I couldn't… The way Charlie looked at me, Claire," he pleads desperately, willing her to understand. "It was like… It was like he didn't even know who I was, like… I couldn't… I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have left you two, I'm so sorry..."
"So, then what? Where did you go?"
"I was off on my own for about a week, from what I remember. I must… I must've been bitten. I woke up months later here, in Arkansas, when it was all over. I knew it was probably a long shot, but I thought you might be around these parts still… I dunno. I've been back in Illinois, trying to help rebuild…" He pauses, staring at his hands for a few moments. He goes on, "Charlie… Is he…?"
She nods solemnly. "Yeah. He… He snuck out. Right before it ended. He's… buried out there."
Ryan nods, too. "I figured… When Rich only mentioned you, I figured something probably…" He scrubs his hands over his stubbly face, eyes bloodshot. He looks much older than Claire remembers him.
When he pulls his hands away from his face, he takes a deep breath and changes the subject. "You have a baby," he says in wonder, staring at Mary in her brightly colored walker. "And… and a dog."
"You can thank Rich for that part," Dean grumbles.
"You can thank Dean for the first part," Rich adds smugly.
Claire shoots them both a disapproving look. "Dean and the rest of his camp found us and took us in a couple of weeks after you left," she informs Ryan.
"That's good. That's lucky," he says.
"Yeah," she agrees halfheartedly.
"It is," he says adamantly. "God, Claire, you're lucky you never… The way it is out there… The things I must've done…"
He looks up at his audience. They all have the same question written on their faces, though none of them are willing to ask it.
"I don't remember it," he says. "Oh god, I don't remember it, but it must have been…"
"It's okay," she tries to appease, laying a hand between his shoulder blades. "It wasn't your fault."
He nods his head woodenly. "Yeah. Yeah, that's what you have to tell yourself."
.
.
.
He visits Charlie's grave.
There's a worn, wooden cross with his brother's name sloppily carved into it – that's how he knows it from the others.
He kneels, touches the marker.
"I'm so sorry, buddy," he chokes. "I wish I could've told you how sorry."
.
.
.
Ryan stays a few days. He meets Cas, Meagan, the others.
He and Dean hit it off big time. They take the Impala to a bar in town.
Dean misses this.
He can't go to a bar with Cas, and Rich is a little too wild for him these days.
But to see that passenger seat filled with a tall, brown-haired figure…
He probably drinks more than he should.
When they return, Ryan's face is flushed and he's wearing dopy grin. They have their arms slung around each other's shoulders.
"You got my brother drunk?" Claire asks in horror as they stumble through the threshold.
Dean flashes her a guilty smirk. "It was only a coupl'a beers," he defends. This is clearly a lie.
"Yeeeah just a coupl'a brews," Ryan corroborates.
Claire rolls her eyes. They reek of whiskey. "Put him on the couch," she orders. "I don't want him dropping something upstairs and waking Mary up."
"Aw c'mon, sis, that's not very hospit… hospitable," he hiccups good-naturedly.
Dean obeys. "Sorry, man," he says, "she's in charge."
Apparently, the couch is perfectly comfortable. Ryan is in a deep slumber in a matter of minutes.
.
.
.
"You could stay, you know," Claire suggests at the end of the gravel driveway. "Dean likes you."
"He's a good guy," Ryan says fondly. "I'm really happy you found this, Claire. I'm really happy for you. But I have to go back. There's someone…"
Claire grins broadly at him, surprised. "Why are you just mentioning this now?"
"Well, it's still early, but…"
"You'll have to take her down here so we can meet her."
Ryan smiles back without showing his teeth. "Yeah. Maybe someday."
.
.
.
They put themselves back together.
Piece by piece.
The End
A/N: I didn't want to leave you guys with something so goddamn depressing, but this was the best I could do haha. Hopefully it mitigates the pain a little.