Note:
Hi All,
This one is my spin on what might have happened if Dean didn't go with Crowley and get the Mark of Cain, but instead let himself give into the self-hatred and guilt he had been pushing aside for years. Taking Sam's words to heart.
If you are of the Dean is horrible and Sam can do no wrong camp, this probably isn't the story for you.
I started with a 10-chapter plan of what was going to happen, but that went sideways around chapter 3 and isn't back on track by chapter 14, so we will see how we end up. ;)
I am still working this one, so while I have 14 chapters done, it may slow down depending how the muse goes.
It is not a happy fic so far, and if you are triggered by depression, suicide themes, self-harm etc, please tread very carefully or sit this one out. And always AKF!
Anyway, hope you enjoy, and thanks for the look.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
The rain pounded against the steel bridge, relentless and cold. Dean barely felt it. He stood there, shoulders hunched against the wind, his face set in a grim mask.
"All right," he said, his voice low and rough, the weight of the last few days dragging it down. "Let me hear it."
Sam stood a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his posture rigid. He didn't look at Dean right away, his jaw working as he stared out over the water.
"What do you want me to say?" Sam finally snapped; his voice sharp. "That I'm pissed? Okay, I am. I'm pissed."
Dean braced himself. He'd known this was coming. Hell, he deserved it.
"You lied to me," Sam continued, his eyes finally locking onto Dean's. "Again."
Dean swallowed hard. "I didn't have a choice."
Sam laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "I was ready to die, Dean."
"I know."
"But I wouldn't let you," Dean said, his voice rising, raw with emotion. "Because that's not in me."
Sam's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "So, what, you decide to trick me into being possessed by some psycho angel?"
"He saved your life," Dean shot back.
"So what?" Sam's voice cracked, the anger giving way to something deeper. "I was willing to die."
Dean's chest tightened, the weight of Sam's words pressing down on him. He didn't have a response.
"And now…" Sam hesitated, his voice softer but no less devastating. "Kevin…"
"No." Dean's voice was sharp, cutting through the rain. He stepped closer, his expression fierce. "That is not on you."
"Kevin's blood is on my hands," Dean said, his voice trembling. "And that ain't ever getting clean."
Sam said nothing, his silence heavier than any words he could've spoken.
"I'll burn for that. I will," Dean continued, his voice breaking. "But I'll find Gadreel, and I'll end that son of a bitch. But I'll do it alone."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam demanded.
Dean's laugh was bitter, humourless. "Come on, man. Can't you see? I'm… I'm poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed. Or worse."
Sam stared at him, his face unreadable.
"I tell myself I help more people than I hurt," Dean continued, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper. "I tell myself I'm doing it for the right reasons, and I believe that. But I can't… I won't drag anybody through the muck with me. Not anymore."
Sam's expression hardened. "Go," he said finally, his voice low and cold. "I'm not gonna stop you. But don't go thinking that's the problem, 'cause it's not."
Dean blinked, his throat tightening. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam didn't answer. He turned and walked away, his figure disappearing into the rain.
Dean stood there for a long moment, the storm raging around him. Then he turned, climbed into the Impala, and drove.
The neon sign for the bar flickered in the rain, casting a pale blue glow on the wet pavement. Dean pulled into the lot, his tyres crunching over gravel, and killed the engine.
Inside, the place was dimly lit and half-empty, the low hum of conversation blending with the clink of glasses. Dean made his way to the bar, his boots scuffing against the sticky floor, and slid onto a stool.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked, a grizzled man with a weathered face.
"Whiskey," Dean said. "Leave the bottle."
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He set the bottle and a glass down in front of Dean before moving off to tend to another customer. Dean poured himself a generous glass and downed it in one go, the burn spreading through his chest. It didn't hurt as much as it should have.
He poured another.
You were stupid.
The thought hit him hard, unrelenting. He'd let Gadreel in. He'd trusted him, believed his lies. He'd thought he was saving Sam, but instead, he'd gotten Kevin killed.
Kevin.
Just a kid. A kid who'd trusted him, followed him,believed in him.
And now he was dead.
Crowley warned him,Dean thought him to stay away from me. Said I get people killed…. Well, he is right.
Dean took another swig, the whiskey warming his throat. It didn't dull the ache, though. Nothing could.
"Hey."
Dean glanced up to see a woman standing next to him, a sly smile on her face. She was pretty, with dark hair and red lipstick, her leather jacket clinging to her like a second skin.
"You look like you could use some company," she said, leaning against the bar.
Dean managed a tight smile. "Appreciate it, but I'm not in the mood."
The woman's smile faltered, but she didn't push. She gave a small shrug and moved on, disappearing into the crowd.
Dean let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. He poured himself another glass, the whiskey barely registering now.
I should've protected him. Kevin.
The thought gnawed at him, relentless. He'd promised to keep Kevin safe, to be the shield between him and the horrors of the world. Instead, he'd been the one to bring the horrors to Kevin's doorstep.
Dean closed his eyes, his head tipping back against the bar. The room was spinning now, the whiskey doing its job, but it didn't make him feel any better.
Nothing would.
Dean stood in the motel room, staring at himself in the cracked mirror above the dresser. His reflection was distorted, the uneven glass stretching his face into something unrecognizable. Maybe that was fitting.
He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the sink as he stared into his own eyes. They looked hollow, sunken, eyes of a man who didn't recognize himself anymore.
"What the hell are you even doing?" he muttered, his voice low and hoarse.
The room was silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioning unit. A whiskey bottle sat on the nightstand, the glass beside it still half-full.
Dean looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He flexed his fingers, trying to stop the tremors, but it didn't help.
He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face. It didn't clear his head. The image of Kevin, crumpled and lifeless on the floor of the bunker, flashed behind his eyelids.
Dean clenched his jaw, gripping the sides of the sink so hard his knuckles turned white.
I killed him.
He didn't need Sam to say it. Didn't need Crowley's smug voice reminding him. The truth was already there, etched into his soul.
Kevin had trusted him. Believed in him. Followed him into the fire, and Dean had repaid that faith with death.
He slammed his fist against the sink, the sharp pain shooting up his arm. It wasn't enough. He wanted to feel something, anything other than the crushing guilt.
The motel bed was stiff, the sheets scratchy and reeking faintly of bleach. Dean sat on the edge, the whiskey bottle in his hand. He tipped it back, the liquid burning its way down his throat.
The alcohol didn't help.
He'd thought it might, even for a little while. But it only made the voices in his head louder.
Kevin was just a kid. A damn kid, and you let him down.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face, his stubble rough against his palm. He felt like he was unravelling, his thoughts spiralling out of control.
You were supposed to protect him. You were supposed to protect all of them.
Lisa. Ben. Ellen. Jo. Kevin. Bobby. Dad. Sam
Their faces blurred together in his mind, a parade of people he'd failed. People who were dead because of him. He took another swig, the bottle slipping slightly in his unsteady hand.
His phone buzzed on the table, pulling him out of his stupor.
Crowley.
Dean let it buzz for a moment before picking it up. "What do you want?"
"Well, someone's cranky this morning," Crowley drawled. "Must've been quite the night."
Dean didn't answer.
"Fine," Crowley said, his tone turning serious. "There's a situation. I could use your help."
Dean snorted. "Yeah, I'll bet."
"I'm serious, Dean. There's a case. Demons, bodies piling up, your kind of gig."
"Not interested."
Crowley paused, then let out a sigh. "You really are a mess, aren't you? Brooding, drinking yourself into oblivion in some dump."
"I'm not helping you," Dean said, his voice slurred but firm.
Crowley chuckled. "Oh, I don't doubt that. You're too busy wallowing in your own misery, aren't you?"
Dean said nothing, his grip tightening on the phone.
"You know, Dean," Crowley continued, his tone softening, "Your problem, is that nobody hates you more than you. Believe me, I've tried..."
Dean's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together.
"Go to hell," he muttered.
"Been there, done that," Crowley said lightly. "But you… you're already halfway there again, aren't you?"
Dean ended the call, his hand trembling as he tossed the phone onto the bed.
He sat there for a long moment, staring at the cracked wall in front of him.
Then he grabbed his duffel bag, shoving the bottle inside, and headed for the door.
The parking lot was quiet, the rain having slowed to a light drizzle. Dean stood by the Impala, leaning against the hood as he stared up at the overcast sky. The clouds were thick and heavy, blotting out the stars.
Dean took another swig from the bottle, the whiskey warming his chest but doing nothing to ease the cold knot of guilt in his stomach. He thought about calling Sam. Thought about apologising, about trying to explain. But what would he even say?
Sorry I ruined your life? Sorry I got Kevin killed? Sorry I'm poison?
Dean let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the still night. He tipped the bottle back again, draining the last of the whiskey.
"You're a real piece of work, Winchester," he muttered to himself, his voice slurred.
He tossed the empty bottle into the passenger seat and climbed into the car. The leather was cool against his skin, the familiar scent of the Impala wrapping around him like a shroud.
He turned the key, the engine rumbling to life.
Dean didn't know where he was going. He just needed to drive.
By the time he hit the highway, the rain had stopped completely. The road stretched out before him, dark and endless, the white lines blurring together in the glow of the headlights.
Dean's thoughts were a jumbled mess, the whiskey dulling his senses but not the pain.
He thought about Crowley's words, the demon's voice echoing in his mind.
"Nobody hates you more than you."
Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. He hated that Crowley was right.
He hated himself.
He thought about Kevin again, about the way the kid had looked up to him. Trusted him.
You should've protected him.
Dean swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He blinked, his vision blurring for a moment before he shook his head, trying to clear it.
The highway signs passed in a blur, their green lettering glowing faintly in the darkness. One of them caught his attention:South Carolina, 1000 miles.
Dean's lips twisted into a bitter smile. The ocean.
He'd never been much of a beach guy, but the idea of sitting on the sand, staring out at the waves, didn't sound so bad.
Maybe he'd just keep driving until he hit the water.
xx
Thanks for reading.