"Sam, I'm sorry. I'm not going to deal with you anymore. I just… won't. I won't see you become a monster."

Sam rose from the corpse of the demon, his lips covered in blood. "Dean-"

"I won't, Sam. I won't."

The conversation played over and over again in Dean's head as he drove down the interstate. The landscape blurred around him, and the tunes on the radio blurred together too as he sat there and thought and thought about Michael.

What was it, that he'd said?

It was always going to end this way.

I'm really gonna have to do this, aren't I? he thought. The bastard hasn't given me a choice. He's too far gone, he's gonna say yes.

Dean pulled over, blinking back tears.

Dammit, Sam.

Dean sat at the edge of the dock, letting his legs swing back and forth like pendulums, like they had when him and Sam were together in much longer, better days. Was it so long ago, he thought, that they had gone on their first fishing trip together? Their first Hunt?

The fishing rod he held was old and weathered; it looked as if the slightest breeze could blow it away. Well, lucky for Dean, there wasn't a single cloud in the whole blue sky. Nope, because of course the last day of his life would turn out to be the best; make him miss all of this sun.

Without the wind, the lake was pleasantly quiet. There was nothing but the gentle lap of the waves and the hum of mosquitoes filling the air. Dean had gotten a few bites already, but what the hell, the day couldn't be completely perfect. Least when he left, he wouldn't be bothered with those little bastards anymore. The thought really didn't make him feel better, though. Didn't make him feel worse either. That was the weird part: sitting here with his rod and his beer and his bluejeans, with Baby parked at his back, he felt more at peace than he had for a long, long time.

Of course, he wasn't here alone; couldn't be, not with all of these damn people on this planet, there wasn't an inch of spare space. About every hour or so, when the sun would start to burn a hole in his eyes, Dean would feel the waves start to lap against the soles of his boots and pick up in pace as some soccer dad's motorboat drifted across the lake. People would always smile and wave at him then, and Dean would smile back, and feel that smile rest easy on his lips. That was always his cue to reach for another beer and take a long, cold (or slightly lukewarm) sip.

But then, when the sun set and the boats disappeared, Dean found himself setting down his beer and letting his mind wander past the horizon. It had been a while since he'd done this, he realized. Where could he possibly go? That made him think of what it was like driving on the highway without Dad, without Sam-

Dean could almost see him now, sitting next to him at age ten, holding his rod with his clumsy kid fingers, just out of the corner of his eye.

For the first time in hours, Dean spoke.

"Sam, you remember our first fishing trip?"

No response. That was alright. Better than what Sam would say if he were here, anyway. And in a way he was; he could feel an echo of him sitting next to him, wearing that stupid kid haircut and the little orange life vest that the lifeguard made him wear. Dean could almost hear him say No, remind me, Dean .

"Remember you caught that fish 'bout five seconds after we got there, and I was so jealous? That thing must've been twice the size of you back then. I remember you with your little shrimpy arms getting pulled back and forth and back and I thought it was the funniest thing. Dad woulda laughed too, but he was back at the car, I know because he ran out of beer."

Dean took another look at his, considered it, and put it down.

"So you're pulling and pulling and the damn thing's throwing you around like a chew toy. Then, quicker than you can say 'boo,' pop, you go right into the water. And I stand there, and I think 'I should jump in' but I don't. I can't. It's like my arms and my legs are stuck, and I can't remember how to swim. My mind's just blank. And meanwhile you're getting dragged by this fish into an early grave."

Dean could feel Sam's eyes on his back now, and he found that he missed the feeling.

"Then Dad comes back from the car and I explain and he's just steaming. He jumps into the water and throws you on the dock and shouts, 'Are you okay are you okay?' and I'm asking too and he tells me to shut up. And I'm sitting there and I'm looking at you, all lifeless, and I think, 'Why didn't I do anything? What the hell is wrong with me?' And I tell myself it'll never happen again, but it did, and now…"

Dean turned to look at his brother, but there was nothing there but an empty dock.

"...We're here."

The sun was down now. Knowing Sam - the real, grown-up Sam - he'd probably almost caught up to him now, if he was tracking him. Dean hoped he wasn't, but knew he would be. Hell, it's what he'd do, and he'd practically raised the little bastard.

Sorry Sam, Dean thought, and he closed his eyes and let him go.

"Zachariah?" Dean spoke again, and suddenly it felt as if there were a hook in his throat, making it hard to swallow. "Zachariah, it's Dean Winchester…"

"I'm ready."

Not a second later, Dean heard the familiar swoosh of wings at his back. He turned and saw a pudgy middle-aged woman and what looked like a twelve-year-old kid standing there, their faces impossibly, inhumanly blank. Dean's heart twisted at the sight of the kid. Weren't these angels supposed to be righteous?

"Dean," the woman uttered, and uttered is the only word for it - the sound was as tonelessly flat as a stretch of two-lane Kansas asphalt. "You're sure that you're ready?"

Dean looked at the kid. "Where's Zachariah?"

"He's being… reprimanded."

Dean didn't bother to hide his grin. "Why? Wait, let me guess: because he couldn't seal the deal with me?"

The woman pursed her lips. "Something like that."

"Well, I guess some stories do have happy endings."

The woman lifted an eyebrow. "If you are serious about this, Winchester, then I might agree with you."

Dean's grin fell.

The woman paused, then said, "If you mean to do this, then you have to answer this, and answer it honestly. There is no taking it back. Are you going to say-"

"Yes." There was no hesitation now. "Just get it over with."

The woman nodded towards the boy, who studied Dean for a long time with small, solemn eyes. Then he turned and drew a long, thin angel blade from his sweatshirt pocket and dug it into his skin. He knelt, then, and drew symbol after symbol on the wooden deck with a fervor that reminded Dean of a child drawing with sidewalk chalk on their front porch.

Dean looked out at the water. I'm sorry, Sam, I really am.

"Promise me," Dean said to the woman. "Promise me you'll keep Lisa safe?"

The woman nodded. A white light seemed to be coming from her, but when Dean looked closer he saw that the light was coming from the symbols the boy had drawn with his blood, glowing, twisting, turning, and suddenly the sound of it filled his ears, this horrible high-pitched drone that went on and on until-

Suddenly-

Dean saw him.

His dad, walking across the bay, wreathed in light. Smiling. "It was always going to end this way," he said.

And Dean was gone.