Fic: The Dark Descent - SPOILERS! - Rated T - Dean, Castiel
AN: Spoiler Alert: For anything beyond 7.12. Includes specific spoilers to upcoming episodes and guest stars. Please do not read if you do not want to be spoiled. This is MY vision of how a particular event will take place. Enjoy and be sure to review, because I'm considering going further with this idea, but I need feedback...cuz I'm a review whore!
Disclaimer: The only thing that belongs to me are the crazy ideas within.
What's a guy to do when everything - everyone - in his life is stripped away from him, one by one, until he's left with nothing and no one but himself - literally? Does he go out and fulfill his father's legacy of seeking vengeance on everyone who's ever harmed him? And he could think of a few…Hell there's a couple douchebag hunters floating around somewhere that have more than a bullet to the brain coming to them for what they done. Or does he curl up in a ball in the corner of a padded room right next to his brother's and rock himself into oblivion? And now that that gem of an idea's been introduced, it doesn't sound like such a bad idea. Or does he take off; run to some far corner of the world where no one would ever have a clue who he is or who he had been and there will never be any expectations put upon him, no responsibilities, no demands for salvation, nothing but to exist? Or why even exist at all? He could take the Colt that's burning its desire into the small of his back where it's tucked into his waistband; take it and bury a bullet deep into his brain and then it would be over. He would be over. To Hell with peace and life everlasting. To Hell with that two-lane blacktop in the sky, paved just for him and his brother and his precious Impala to cruise for eternity. Neither of them was going there anyway. Not now. Not after everything. So what's left? If he didn't have the energy for revenge; if an adjoining room in the nuthouse with his brother wasn't even a consideration; if Bali was off the map right along w/ Heaven, then what was left?
Dean stopped walking. He looked up from the pavement and had to take a moment to let his eyes adjust to the world outside the grey square slabs of concrete. He'd been walking so long, in no particular direction, for miles maybe, he wasn't sure. And now looking around, a small voice in his head panicked, saying: 'You stupid fucker. You got us lost.'
"Shut up, we're not lost."
And he wasn't, because there was one thing Dean Winchester knew for sure: he would never forget this town; this little town in the middle of Missouri that was the cause of so much pain in his life. It had taken Cas from them and now…it had taken Sam too. So, no. He was definitely not lost. He…just didn't know where he was…exactly.
"See? Look, there's a bar."
Sure. Why not? Why not fall back on ole reliable? A fifth of Scotch and everything would look right in the world…or at least he won't be able to see the world. It was a win-win.
Dean made an immediate left across the street, dodging through what little traffic there was and then burst through the door of darkened bar; a chorus of grunts rising up in protest of the sudden wave of light from the outside world. Dean stood there for a minute, letting his senses adjust to the new environment and then he made his way to the bar.
"What'll it be?" the nameless, faceless bartender asked.
"Scotch, neat…double."
There was a nod of confirmation, a pat of the man's hand against the bartop and then as if by magic, a glass with three fingers of the golden whiskey was set, warming in his hands. And all Dean could do was to sit there, stare and let himself be mesmerized by the honey swirls.
"You gonna drink that, son? Or are you waitin' for it to evaporate?"
"What?"
Dean looked up, confused and slightly taken aback by the question. Of course he was gonna drink the Scotch. What kind of stupid question was that? He'd only just given -
"You've been sitting here for three hours, guy, staring into that glass like it holds the secrets to the known Universe. Trust me, if ya ain't found it yet, you're not gonna find it in there, so either drink the drink or walk away."
"What?"
Dean checked his watch and disbelieving it, tapped the glass and listened for the tell-tale tick-tick of a healthy watch.
"Your watch is fine. It's you that's not alright. You want me to call someone for you to come pick you up? A cab, maybe, to take you home?"
"Don't have one," Dean muttered, "Don't have anyone," and in his head, Elliot Ness snarked, 'Well boo hoo, son. Cry me a river.' But Dean ignored him. He pushed the glass of Scotch back across to the bartender, took a $20 from his wallet and laid it on the bar -not waiting for the change - and left the bar.
Stepping out into the cool air of early evening, Dean pulled his jacket tight around him and stood just outside of the doorway not knowing what his next move would be; not knowing where to go. He couldn't seem to get a handle on anything at the moment; just so lost and confused and what was he gonna do about Sam? What was he gonna do without Sam?
Find Dick Roman; that's what he should be doing. Find the bastard and tear him limb from limb and once that was done, he would salt-n-burn the lil' prick and get high on the acrid fumes of its flesh. That would make everything…
Dean sighed. Who was he kidding? He didn't have it in him; this fight. Not at this juncture, anyhow. Hell, it took all his will power to keep his legs from giving out on him; all his strength not to slide down the outer wall of the bar and rest his head on top of his knees and cry.
There'd been so many times over the years when he'd ask: 'Haven't we given enough?' And through all those years, not once did he ever truly believe there would come a time when he literally would have nothing left to give. Not once. Until now.
"Fuck." He groaned and tried to physically shake himself out of his funk, letting his arms and neck go loose in the process. "Okay, ya gotta move, man. Can't stand around feelin' sorry for yourself. Sammy'd never let you get away with that. Need to find a place to stay, figure out your next move. First things first, though…you gotta stop talking to yourself."
Looking around, Dean once again found his world spinning. He had no clue where he was. He'd left the car - if you could call the Coronet a car - in the parking lot of MHI and had not a clue one how to get back.
The day Dean had driven up with the smudge green and wood trim station wagon, Sam had laughed at him; fallen on the floor laughing, actually. But Dean had defended his choice, or lack thereof, by explaining that the '75 Dodge was a classic…even if it did look like a beast. Handled like one too; kinda slow and sluggish with shocks that did nothing to keep the monster of a car from loping gently down any bumpy road they encountered. It was the kind of ride that could put you to sleep if you weren't too careful. So could his train of thought today, if he wasn't careful.
Dean shook the cobwebs from his head and made a left, walking away from the bar. No wait…hadn't he come from the other direction? He turned back around and started again. Maybe it would be better, he thought, if he'd had the bartender call MHI to come pick him up. A day or two or 28 in a padded room might not be such a bad idea. As it was he was already talking to himself, zoning out for hours on end, lost in the piss-hole town that ruined his life, and, "Oh, and now I'm hearing things. That's just great."
Dean stopped to listen to the back and forth sound of friendly conversation, bouncing and echoing through that quiet section of town. Something scratched inside his head, an ache of familiarity and recognition in the deep tenor of the man's voice. Dean stilled. Frozen and waiting on baited breath for his head to catch up with what the rest of him already knew. And then he heard it again; the dry chuckle that Dean had worked so long and hard for all those times, just because he needed to see the guy relax once in a while. And in his head, he could see the cockeyed grin and brilliant blue eyes that squinted a bit around the edges when he smiled. And every fiber in Dean's body was telling him to run. Run away. Run towards. Just run, because there was no doubt in his mind what-so-ever, that the voice he was hearing, just around the corner was Cas.
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