(no subject)
So, uh. I just wrote almost 4k tonight. On something completely random that I started with no real idea in mind like a month ago. And it's one of those really wordy, really run-on, really mostly-introspective things that make me feel like I'm being all ..wordy... when I'm writing it, but writing it any other way doesn't work. So. Mmhm.
Also, I feel like posting it for some reason so, uh, yeah. Probably so I don't go tweaking at it more and more and kill it, 'cause once I post it it's posted and that's the end of that, harder to ruin it that way.
No title, because this is me and it's frickin' late/early and no.
Probably PG-13, 'cause it's the apocalypse, complete with angst, woe, and death.
Good clean fun all around, right?
They don't seem to understand, these people - don't understand that he owes them nothing. The world is ending, but it's going to end someday anyway - why not now? But he says nothing when they crowd out of their homes as he drives through their town, their cries for help loud enough that the engine doesn't drown them out, and he contemplates turning the radio on, up, and driving through, ignoring them. But he pulls into the nearest diner's parking lot, crowds of people reaching for him, grabbing his limbs and clothes like he can help them just from the contact, and he jerks away, pushes through, inside the building. Few follow - only the most desperate. He knows he looks like Hell, that anyone coming near him has to think he's their only hope, and he almost laughs at the mere thought that he could possibly be hope for anyone.
Maybe he could have been three months ago, before the never-ending twilight, before the air smelled like smoke and burning flesh no matter how far he drove, before the seals holding this world together dwindled down to less than ten and counting. Before Sam disappeared, before his angel refused to tell him where his brother is (or if he's even alive anymore), before he lost any shred of hope he had that he could stop this.
Damage control - that's all that's left. It's all going to go down in flames, he can't stop it - but he'll help while he can, if he can, if only because there's nothing else he can do. If Sam were here, he'd have dragged his brother off to some remote corner of the world where they could hole up and just enjoy their last days without violence and crowds of people begging for help. But Sam isn't here, isn't anywhere he's looked, and so he just keeps going.
The diner still smells like smoke, like burning flesh, but it's overlaid by the smells of food cooking, acidic coffee, and some kind of cleaner or air-freshener that really just smells like chemicals. The air is still and stuffy - it's no better than outside. The one woman behind the counter looks exhausted - the world is ending, and she's here serving desperate people crappy coffee and what food they have left. He pushes cash at her, and she laughs humorlessly and pushes it back - they're not charging anymore, and even if they were they wouldn't charge him.
He's no one special. This is his fault, anyway, so he doesn't understand why everyone thinks he can save them. That even if he saves them, averts the last seal breaking somehow, or takes out Lucifer, he's somehow going to be able to set things right. Even if things don't end, they won't just go back. People who died will still be dead, the world will still be broken, and it'll still have been his fault. It's like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole in the head; too little too late; it's just a pathetic attempt to pretend you weren't the one who fired the shot anyway.
An old man holds on to his jacket, tugs and pleads with him to help him find his grandchildren. A woman all but throws herself into his lap, saying her husband is missing, asking if he's seen him anywhere. Everyone's talking at once, asking if he can help them find their loved ones, thrusting pictures, tattered photographs of smiling people, in his face, and all he can think is I can't even find my brother, how could I possibly find anyone and maybe the woman behind the counter can read his mind, or maybe it's written all over his face, because she shoos them away and pushes them out, turning the sign on the door to CLOSED and they hover at the door but don't come back inside, and he tries to find it in him to give her a smile or say thanks, but all he can do is hold his coffee in shaking hands as he tries to hold himself together. For her, for them, for the angels, for Sam.
She sinks into a seat nearby, not too close, like she's giving him space, another thing he should be grateful for but just can't find it in himself to figure out if he is or not. She says he looks like Hell, and he tells her she has no idea what Hell looks like, and she falls silent, watching him, and then she reaches out to steady his hands around his mug, and asks if there's anything she can do to help him.
He's not really sure how to respond to that, it's been a while since anyone asked if they could help him instead of the other way around, and he doesn't think she possibly could, anyone possibly could, because even angels can't (or won't) help him with what he needs, and so how could this girl (woman - she's probably older than he is, but at this point it feels like everyone is younger than he is) possibly do anything? He doesn't say anything at all, just shifts in what he supposes is a shrug (it's stiff, he's stiff - been driving for too long, fighting before that... he's not really even sure if he was injured when the fights ended and he started driving this time around).
She smiles, tilts her head and watches him, and her tired blue eyes turn an inky black. He doesn't move, doesn't care, can't bring himself to care even though he thinks he's trying to, knows he would have, before. She's not trying to hurt him, though, even though he'd almost welcome that, thinks he might just let it happen - but she's not, and he doesn't understand why, "I know where Sam is," and then he does, and he's aware for the first time in far too long of his heartbeat, like it wasn't there before and suddenly it came back, and Ruby stands and says something about getting him something to eat, and his hands are shaking so bad he has to set the warm mug down to keep from spilling it.
She seems to come back in the blink of an eye, except she's just walking, no tricks; more gaps in time, but this time it's not so bad at least - he's just tired. She's somehow come out with some sort of crumbling pie, says he need to eat, he's too thin, says again that he looks like Hell and this time he believes her, asks if that's where Sam is, and watches the body she's stolen go pale at the thought, like she cares, and he can almost believe maybe she does, "He's not in Hell," and she pushes an almost-clean fork at him with shaking, stolen hands, chipped red nails sliding over metal as she draws her hand back, a normal sound, and he latches on to it like it's the only sound in the room, like he can't hear thunder and people crying outside and his own breathing shaking in his ears. Tries to use it to pull himself together, fails miserably, curls a hand around the amulet on the frayed cord at his neck, uses that instead with a little more success.
She's watching, deep black faded back into blue that still screams of exhaustion and sadness, look almost worried but probably can't be, demons can't worry, but maybe this one can, "Dean, you need to eat something," her hand reaches over to brush across his temple and he flinches as her hand crosses a cut that hasn't healed properly yet, "Should take better care of yourself. What would Sammy say?" it's not mocking even though the words sound like they should be, her voice too soft for that, like she's trying to pretend she is, for old times' sake.
He eats because she's right, but he doesn't really taste anything anymore, so she could have given him ashes and he would scarcely notice. After, she takes his arm and pulls him to the back room, cleans all the visible cuts she can get her hands on, bandages them, demands he show her anything else she can fix up, and he does without complaining, puling his shirt off and hardly noticing the pain or the look on her face (somewhere between angry and worried and sad) when she sees the deeper cuts there, or maybe it's the scars she's looking at, but he can't really be sure and doesn't think he actually cares. She's not the most gentle as she patches him up, but he's sort of numb anyway, so that's alright. She shies away from the hand-print scar on his shoulder, doesn't go near it, and he wonders if it would burn her if she touched it. Sometimes it burns him, sometimes it's the only thing he can feel that isn't frozen, burning while everything else has long since gone cold.
She gives him his shirt back and tells him it smells horrible, but he puts it back on anyway, and she rolls her eyes but doesn't make him take a shower or change his clothes or anything. She tugs at his arm and he follows her, out through the pleading sea of humanity to his car, and she gets in and he can hear the outrage, they think he's chosen her over the rest of them, and he doesn't tell them otherwise, doesn't say anything as he drives where she points.
They're driving for hours, or maybe it's days, he's not really sure. It's dark when she tells him to stop, and they're at an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a light on in one of the upstairs windows glowing warmly. She leads him inside, reaching back to half-drag him when he stumbles over something on the dirt path to the house, and up the porch steps as he trips up them. Instinct says to go for his gun, investigate this like there's possible threat involved, but he doesn't. She would know if there were danger, probably, and if not, well, he doesn't know if he cares all that much.
Someone is standing in what appears to be the kitchen when they get inside, and Dean knows his brother when he sees him, lack of light notwithstanding, and he knows Sam knows it's him, too, because he doesn't try to punch him when Dean rushes at him, doesn't take it as a threat. Could also be because he's talking, he can hear himself repeating his brother's name, Sam, Sammy, like he doesn't believe he's real. He almost doesn't.
The next thing he knows he's waking up in a dim room, sunlight leaking through the dirty window and constant clouds even though just moments ago he could have sworn it was dark, and he's curled up on a soft mattress, enough blankets on him to be heavy, but not unwelcome. He's not really sure what's going on, and he wonders if he's finally gone mad or died or something, but no this isn't that, and then he hears a rustling sound nearby and when he looks it's Sam, sprawled on top of the blankets like he fell asleep unintentionally while watching over him or something, but he's there and he's breathing and he's waking up, shifting around and making quiet sounds like he's being reluctantly dragged awake.
"Sammy," He reaches out, tugging his arm out from under the heavy blankets to brush his fingers over his brother's hair, He's not an illusion, or maybe he's a really, really solid one, one that blinks up at him blearily through disheveled bangs, first looking confused, but then shifting to surprised, concerned, happy.
"Hey," Sam sits up, rubbing his arm that was tucked underneath him like it's fallen asleep, "How y'feeling?"
Dean takes a second to figure out how to answer that. For the last three months he hasn't let himself feel much of anything, because the moment he does he thinks he'll break down and it'll be all sorts of unpleasant and painful and epic, and physically he just wouldn't have been able to go on, would have probably curled up somewhere and hoped he'd just die. And he couldn't afford to let that happen, not by himself, not with the world ending and the angels refusing to help him (it isn't time, not yet, wait, patience) and his brother gone, possibly dead. But Sam isn't dead, he's sitting right here watching him like some kind of overgrown puppy.
"Where were you?" he asks, not answering because he doesn't know how, needing to know what happened, why he was alone for months. While he's a mess, and he knows he is, Sam looks perfectly okay, no visible wounds and no obvious lack of rest or food, and even that constant tightness in his eyes is gone. He looks like the Sam Dean knew before he went to Hell, before he made his deal - the same he made a deal to save. Like somehow the years have been peeled away and he's back to how he was, even as Dean's aged and broken and damaged beyond repair.
"Here, mostly," Sam responds softly, "Ruby brought me here months ago. After. How much do you remember?"
He has to think about it a moment before he remembers anything but Sam's gone, and when he does it feels foggy and hard to grasp. "We broke a seal by mistake. The last one? You were hurt, I got distracted... and it broke," he says, "And then you were gone."
Sam's fingers curl into the top blanket, absently twisting it between them, "My blood broke the seal," he says, voice quieter than before, just barely audible, feeling the weight of being the cause of a broken seal, a familiar weight to Dean after all this, the first and the last ones, the big ones, and they broke them, "And I think I passed out, because Ruby had gotten me here by the time I woke up. She said Castiel got you, but she didn't know where he'd taken you..."
Dean's eyes fall closed a second, and he nods, "Heaven," he murmurs, tries to forget - it's too much, remembering that, overwhelming and makes him long to go back... he can't think about it. Tries to pretend it was just white and silence and too-still, instead of everything he ever wanted and needed, just so he can stay here until it's time. When he opens his eyes again, Sam's staring at him, ever-changing eyes wide. "He healed me; I was ... I don't know, I guess I was hurt. I don't remember that part."
His brother's staring at him, awe obvious on his face, in his eyes. Dean Winchester, probably the only human to have seen all the options there are for the afterlife, now - the space between and Heaven and Hell. He knows his brother's thinking that, almost the same way he knows the question that follows is coming, even though he hopes it doesn't, and then "What's it like?"
Dean shakes his head sharply, "Can't... I can't talk about it. Can't think about..." he stops, throat won't let any sound pass through, and he shakes his head again, curling deeper into his cocoon of blankets, enjoying the comfort of that and pretending it's not dull after what he's seen, even though it's far better than he's seen since, "You'll see it, someday."
"You sure?" Sam sounds small, like he's a kid all over again, asking if Dean's sure Dad will come back from this hunt, or if he's sure they got the ghost last night, if they'll be back from their latest job in time for school. The insecurity in the question steals his breath because if either of them should end up with the happily-ever-after, it's Sam, always been Sam.
"You're on the guestlist," he murmurs, trying for the lighthearted sort of tone he used to be good at, ending up too laced with emotion for that, and Sam looks like maybe he's going to burst into tears, reaches out and pulls him into a hug easily, still strong as he was before, while Dean's withered away to almost half of what he was, and Dean just holds on, doesn't care about chick-flick moments or any of that because they deserve these moments after everything, and this, at least, isn't a flimsy imitation of happiness like everything else is now, this is real and solid and warm.
Later there's talking, trying to figure out where to go from here, what to do next, Sam and Ruby insisting he's staying put until he's healthy, and he doesn't mind that as long as he won't be alone again. Sam promises he won't go anywhere and Ruby rolls her eyes and it's the same as it ever was except the sky is burning and the air is ash and the world is ending and turning itself inside-out trying to come to grips with it but it's okay, he's fine with that, as long as he's got Sam here.
Lucifer is walking free, a trail stolen hosts left burned-out and broken in his wake because they won't hold him, he needs a stronger host than he's found so far, but Ruby says that host is Sam, and Sam seems to already know that, and Dean's pretty sure he goes as white as the lacy curtains over the dirty window beside him when he hears and huddles deeper into his blankets and pretends he didn't hear. Sam reaches over and puts a hand on his arm like he's trying to calm him down or anchor him or something, says he won't let it happen, promises he won't, and he looks sincere, all puppy-eyes under drooping hair, like he used to be, but Ruby looks grim, and he doesn't know what to believe anymore, if you can't save him you'll have to kill him ringing through his head chased by images of yellow eyes and black eyes and darkly-grinning Sam, illusions and memories and nightmares, all dragging down to reality that makes his stomach churn and tendrils of ice trail through his blood and he's not good at hiding this anymore because Sam keeps promising over and over and holds him like he's a scared child instead of Sam's older brother who's been to Heaven and Hell and everywhere between and he's not too far off on that, maybe.
Even though it feels like they have no time at all a week passes before they let him do anything but rest, before he even goes outside, Sam lingering juts behind him in the doorway like he doesn't want to set foot on even the porch. When Dean sees the sky, burning darker than before, ash bits floating on the hot breeze, he turns and comes back inside. The world is dying.
They have no time at all, but they have all the time in the world, and Ruby and Sam talk in whispers in another room when they think he's asleep, and it scares him, sends that now-familiar ice shooting through his blood into a deeper chill. He never tries to hear their words or go interrupt or even let on that he knows they're up to something, though, because he doesn't want to know. It's better if he doesn't know, because then he doesn't have to stop them.
Ruby stands over them, when they're sleeping, sometimes. When the sky starts to glow, radiate light without the aid of the sun, deep orange-red glow filtering in through thin curtains even at two, three, four in the morning, she starts standing, watching, like she's guarding them. At first it scares him, at first he tells her to go sleep and she tells him she doesn't need to, at first it's strange. And then it isn't, and it's almost the way Dad would sit over them when they were little when he was scared, something Dean took from him at some point and started doing whenever Dad was away, stayed awake for hours and days at a time because he had to watch over Sammy, except Ruby's a demon and she shouldn't care enough to do this, but she does, and he wonders if there's a way to redeem a demon, because if there's one that could deserve redemption, it's Ruby.
Castiel appears a few weeks after the sun goes dark and it's just the sky itself emitting light, red light all the time, day and night just numbers on a clock without the sun and moon to go by, and he tells them Lucifer is approaching. Dean gets up, starts throwing things into a bag and when he turns around Sam and Ruby and Castiel are just standing there, looking at him, as if to say he's being foolish, as if confirming everything that scares him, and the rest of his blood turns to ice. He demands they stop this nonsense. He yells, he grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him, yells in his face, but it doesn't seem to do much good, and then he breaks, shatters in front of them all and they still aren't giving in, and then he just sits and listens while they make their plans, sat around the farmhouse's little living room on couches, Sam at his side and Castiel and Ruby across from them, side-by-side, a demon and an angel.
They're not going to survive this. It's not part of the plan, getting out alive. In fact, Sam's not supposed to. Dean nearly returns to the protesting - yelling or crying or anything that would make them listen - when they say that, when Sam says it. They're discussing, they're talking like this is all fine, like it's not going to be the end, like sacrifices like this are good, fine, okay, like they're not going to take Sam from him again.
Sam turns and looks at him, "Dean, you'll have to do it," and Dean just laughs, sure he has to be joking, even now, even after he's not been joking about everything else, because there's no way he would ever even ask that after all of this, because surely Sam knows he won't - can't - do that, but Sam doesn't look like he's joking, doesn't smile or laugh, just looks at him with that puppy-pleading look like he's a kid again, asking for ice cream or if they can keep a stray kitten he's found, and Dean gets up and walks outside, fully intends never to stop, doesn't care where he ends up, but Sam stops him, pulls at his arm and he stops and turns, red glow of the sky lighting them both like they're burning.
"I won't," he tells Sam seriously, voice steady even though he's nothing like it himself, "Can't," and Sam just pulls his arm, leads him back inside, Castiel and Ruby, angel and demon, still sitting together, waiting, knowing this isn't their moment as Sam pulls him past them, into the kitchen where they're not alone, but they're not in front of an audience, and then Sam lets go of him and brushes flakes of ash off his shoulders, off his arms, casual and as if this isn't all happening, "Can't, Sammy. You can't expect me to..."
"You have to. There's no one else," Sam says, "He'll kill Ruby and Cas if they get too close, anyone at all getting anywhere near won't survive. For you, I can stop him long enough. I think. It's the only chance we have, Dean."
He knows, understands all of that on one level. The part of him that understands hunting and plans and strategy approves. It's a good plan. Except the part of him that's Dean can't accept it, won't accept it, isn't strong enough to. He wishes he was as sure as they are, as strong as they all are, half as strong even, so he could do this and save the world.
Anna is there, then, too, pushes Sam back and touches his forehead, and then he's waking up in a bed, his bed, wrapped in what's probably every single blanket in the house, with worried eyes (angels, a demon, and Sam) all on him, though he's not really sure why, except maybe he is, because he feels like someone ran him over with a truck or ten, and his eyes are doing weird things - he can see... he can see Ruby's real image again, like before when the hellhounds were coming, and he can see Castiel, really see him, and... and Sam's taint, spread through his blood like bait for Lucifer. Anna is... something else, not like Cas, dimmer, and he doesn't know why, but before he can think about it the house shakes, jerks and shifts like it's a child's plaything.
"It's time," and Ruby takes hold of Sam's arm, kisses him and then disappears. Castiel and Anna disappear, too, and it's just him and Sam, and when he gets up he's not weak anymore, even though he's full of dread and confusion and his blood is still frozen and he still doesn't think he can do this (can't can't can't it's Sammy, he can't), and Sam flashes him a smile, like nice knowin' ya, and then he heads downstairs, and Dean follows.
Sam presses a sword into his hands as they reach the front door, scoops it up off the table and makes him take it, locks eyes with him and "I'll see you in Heaven. You said," and then he goes outside, and Dean isn't trembling when he follows wishes he was because he shouldn't be so calm. Shouldn't be calm at all when he's about to watch his brother die again, about to kill his brother and watch him die again. The sword is heavy in his hands, heavy and cold where he's touching it, cold seeping from his veins into the metal, or maybe not but it feels that way as Sam approaches the limping figure, nearly ashes on bones now, that's approaching.
Then there's a light, and it's seeping into Sam, and Dean... knows. Knows what's happened to him, knows what's happened to Sam. He isn't scared or full of dread anymore - there's a sadness, but it's distant, because suddenly he knows what it's like to have peace, faith, Grace.
And when Lucifer turns to him, Sam's body not burning around his essence, he can see the fallen angel's face. It's grotesque, like demons, but instead of dark it's light. Tainted light, and Sam does his part, flickering to the surface enough that Lucifer pauses as his hand comes up, palm towards Dean and building light in it's wake and Dean's grip on the sword flutters, tightens, shifts, and he lunges.
And then it's over. The red sky rolls up, disappears and the sun comes back, the sky is blue again and there's hope for the world again and the sun is warmth that isn't hellfire. The ash falls from the air still, the smell of smoke and filth and decay still lingers, but Lucifer's gone.
Sam's making choking sounds, curling fingers into his shirt as he clings on to Dean, both of them collapsing as their legs give out for entirely different reasons, and he opens his eyes and meets Dean's and then he's gone. Lucifer is gone, and Sam's gone, too. The red sky rolls up, disappears and the sun comes back, the sky is blue again and there's hope for the world again and the sun is warmth that isn't hellfire, but Sam's gone, and it all feels sort of hollow.
Dean's aware that he's sitting with his brother in his lap, bleeding all over him, sword still through his chest because Dean hasn't moved from where they both collapsed, can't move at all except to run his fingers through his baby brother's hair, rest his chin against the top of his head and rock a little, like he used to when Sammy had nightmares and he was just chasing them away, proving that his little brother was safe and that nothing was ever going to hurt him.
There's a flutter of wings, a sound he would recognize even if he didn't feel it, deeper than just instinct, when the angels appear. Anna reaches for him, and he moves enough to shy away, "Don't," he pleads, "Please. You can't..." She hesitates, looks to Castiel, and Dean prays he'll understand, they'll understand. If they take it back, he won't survive. Without this borrowed Grace, he won't hold it together, can't.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, kneeling beside him, and Castiel is standing in front of him and looks conflicted, broken for an angel but nowhere near his own level of devastated, and Anna's fingers are brushing his skin, and then everything just breaks apart more, shatters and splinters and he can't... he can't do anything, can't even breathe properly, clings to Sam and rocks and cries and doesn't care that he does, because Sam's gone, Sammy, he killed Sammy, it's over but he doesn't think it was worth it.
And then he just… stops.
And then it's bright, brighter than it could ever be in the sunlight, and Sam is there, and Mom and Dad and the grandparents and assorted family members he only ever saw photos of as a kid, before the fire, and he's home again, really home, finally home, and he's not alone and he saved the world and now he's home and he can just rest now, forever, it's over.
It's over, it's the beginning of forever, and he can be happy now.
-------
I BROKE MY OWN HEART A LITTLE.
Also that's not how I believe salvation/redemption is, just random like that, I'm just following what the show's cannon SEEMS to indicate (that is, not a whole lot of sense?). Also, eek OOC Dean is OOC. But, well. It's the apocalypse. And stuff. I'm going with stress/trauma as an excuse. Also I'm not actually fond of Ruby that much, but this worked here, even though I don't trust her in the show much.
Um now I am going to go to bed.
Oh and if the formatting is wonky? .... I don't care right now. Bed. It's almost five. Aaahhh!
Also, I feel like posting it for some reason so, uh, yeah. Probably so I don't go tweaking at it more and more and kill it, 'cause once I post it it's posted and that's the end of that, harder to ruin it that way.
No title, because this is me and it's frickin' late/early and no.
Probably PG-13, 'cause it's the apocalypse, complete with angst, woe, and death.
Good clean fun all around, right?
They don't seem to understand, these people - don't understand that he owes them nothing. The world is ending, but it's going to end someday anyway - why not now? But he says nothing when they crowd out of their homes as he drives through their town, their cries for help loud enough that the engine doesn't drown them out, and he contemplates turning the radio on, up, and driving through, ignoring them. But he pulls into the nearest diner's parking lot, crowds of people reaching for him, grabbing his limbs and clothes like he can help them just from the contact, and he jerks away, pushes through, inside the building. Few follow - only the most desperate. He knows he looks like Hell, that anyone coming near him has to think he's their only hope, and he almost laughs at the mere thought that he could possibly be hope for anyone.
Maybe he could have been three months ago, before the never-ending twilight, before the air smelled like smoke and burning flesh no matter how far he drove, before the seals holding this world together dwindled down to less than ten and counting. Before Sam disappeared, before his angel refused to tell him where his brother is (or if he's even alive anymore), before he lost any shred of hope he had that he could stop this.
Damage control - that's all that's left. It's all going to go down in flames, he can't stop it - but he'll help while he can, if he can, if only because there's nothing else he can do. If Sam were here, he'd have dragged his brother off to some remote corner of the world where they could hole up and just enjoy their last days without violence and crowds of people begging for help. But Sam isn't here, isn't anywhere he's looked, and so he just keeps going.
The diner still smells like smoke, like burning flesh, but it's overlaid by the smells of food cooking, acidic coffee, and some kind of cleaner or air-freshener that really just smells like chemicals. The air is still and stuffy - it's no better than outside. The one woman behind the counter looks exhausted - the world is ending, and she's here serving desperate people crappy coffee and what food they have left. He pushes cash at her, and she laughs humorlessly and pushes it back - they're not charging anymore, and even if they were they wouldn't charge him.
He's no one special. This is his fault, anyway, so he doesn't understand why everyone thinks he can save them. That even if he saves them, averts the last seal breaking somehow, or takes out Lucifer, he's somehow going to be able to set things right. Even if things don't end, they won't just go back. People who died will still be dead, the world will still be broken, and it'll still have been his fault. It's like putting a band-aid on a bullet hole in the head; too little too late; it's just a pathetic attempt to pretend you weren't the one who fired the shot anyway.
An old man holds on to his jacket, tugs and pleads with him to help him find his grandchildren. A woman all but throws herself into his lap, saying her husband is missing, asking if he's seen him anywhere. Everyone's talking at once, asking if he can help them find their loved ones, thrusting pictures, tattered photographs of smiling people, in his face, and all he can think is I can't even find my brother, how could I possibly find anyone and maybe the woman behind the counter can read his mind, or maybe it's written all over his face, because she shoos them away and pushes them out, turning the sign on the door to CLOSED and they hover at the door but don't come back inside, and he tries to find it in him to give her a smile or say thanks, but all he can do is hold his coffee in shaking hands as he tries to hold himself together. For her, for them, for the angels, for Sam.
She sinks into a seat nearby, not too close, like she's giving him space, another thing he should be grateful for but just can't find it in himself to figure out if he is or not. She says he looks like Hell, and he tells her she has no idea what Hell looks like, and she falls silent, watching him, and then she reaches out to steady his hands around his mug, and asks if there's anything she can do to help him.
He's not really sure how to respond to that, it's been a while since anyone asked if they could help him instead of the other way around, and he doesn't think she possibly could, anyone possibly could, because even angels can't (or won't) help him with what he needs, and so how could this girl (woman - she's probably older than he is, but at this point it feels like everyone is younger than he is) possibly do anything? He doesn't say anything at all, just shifts in what he supposes is a shrug (it's stiff, he's stiff - been driving for too long, fighting before that... he's not really even sure if he was injured when the fights ended and he started driving this time around).
She smiles, tilts her head and watches him, and her tired blue eyes turn an inky black. He doesn't move, doesn't care, can't bring himself to care even though he thinks he's trying to, knows he would have, before. She's not trying to hurt him, though, even though he'd almost welcome that, thinks he might just let it happen - but she's not, and he doesn't understand why, "I know where Sam is," and then he does, and he's aware for the first time in far too long of his heartbeat, like it wasn't there before and suddenly it came back, and Ruby stands and says something about getting him something to eat, and his hands are shaking so bad he has to set the warm mug down to keep from spilling it.
She seems to come back in the blink of an eye, except she's just walking, no tricks; more gaps in time, but this time it's not so bad at least - he's just tired. She's somehow come out with some sort of crumbling pie, says he need to eat, he's too thin, says again that he looks like Hell and this time he believes her, asks if that's where Sam is, and watches the body she's stolen go pale at the thought, like she cares, and he can almost believe maybe she does, "He's not in Hell," and she pushes an almost-clean fork at him with shaking, stolen hands, chipped red nails sliding over metal as she draws her hand back, a normal sound, and he latches on to it like it's the only sound in the room, like he can't hear thunder and people crying outside and his own breathing shaking in his ears. Tries to use it to pull himself together, fails miserably, curls a hand around the amulet on the frayed cord at his neck, uses that instead with a little more success.
She's watching, deep black faded back into blue that still screams of exhaustion and sadness, look almost worried but probably can't be, demons can't worry, but maybe this one can, "Dean, you need to eat something," her hand reaches over to brush across his temple and he flinches as her hand crosses a cut that hasn't healed properly yet, "Should take better care of yourself. What would Sammy say?" it's not mocking even though the words sound like they should be, her voice too soft for that, like she's trying to pretend she is, for old times' sake.
He eats because she's right, but he doesn't really taste anything anymore, so she could have given him ashes and he would scarcely notice. After, she takes his arm and pulls him to the back room, cleans all the visible cuts she can get her hands on, bandages them, demands he show her anything else she can fix up, and he does without complaining, puling his shirt off and hardly noticing the pain or the look on her face (somewhere between angry and worried and sad) when she sees the deeper cuts there, or maybe it's the scars she's looking at, but he can't really be sure and doesn't think he actually cares. She's not the most gentle as she patches him up, but he's sort of numb anyway, so that's alright. She shies away from the hand-print scar on his shoulder, doesn't go near it, and he wonders if it would burn her if she touched it. Sometimes it burns him, sometimes it's the only thing he can feel that isn't frozen, burning while everything else has long since gone cold.
She gives him his shirt back and tells him it smells horrible, but he puts it back on anyway, and she rolls her eyes but doesn't make him take a shower or change his clothes or anything. She tugs at his arm and he follows her, out through the pleading sea of humanity to his car, and she gets in and he can hear the outrage, they think he's chosen her over the rest of them, and he doesn't tell them otherwise, doesn't say anything as he drives where she points.
They're driving for hours, or maybe it's days, he's not really sure. It's dark when she tells him to stop, and they're at an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, a light on in one of the upstairs windows glowing warmly. She leads him inside, reaching back to half-drag him when he stumbles over something on the dirt path to the house, and up the porch steps as he trips up them. Instinct says to go for his gun, investigate this like there's possible threat involved, but he doesn't. She would know if there were danger, probably, and if not, well, he doesn't know if he cares all that much.
Someone is standing in what appears to be the kitchen when they get inside, and Dean knows his brother when he sees him, lack of light notwithstanding, and he knows Sam knows it's him, too, because he doesn't try to punch him when Dean rushes at him, doesn't take it as a threat. Could also be because he's talking, he can hear himself repeating his brother's name, Sam, Sammy, like he doesn't believe he's real. He almost doesn't.
The next thing he knows he's waking up in a dim room, sunlight leaking through the dirty window and constant clouds even though just moments ago he could have sworn it was dark, and he's curled up on a soft mattress, enough blankets on him to be heavy, but not unwelcome. He's not really sure what's going on, and he wonders if he's finally gone mad or died or something, but no this isn't that, and then he hears a rustling sound nearby and when he looks it's Sam, sprawled on top of the blankets like he fell asleep unintentionally while watching over him or something, but he's there and he's breathing and he's waking up, shifting around and making quiet sounds like he's being reluctantly dragged awake.
"Sammy," He reaches out, tugging his arm out from under the heavy blankets to brush his fingers over his brother's hair, He's not an illusion, or maybe he's a really, really solid one, one that blinks up at him blearily through disheveled bangs, first looking confused, but then shifting to surprised, concerned, happy.
"Hey," Sam sits up, rubbing his arm that was tucked underneath him like it's fallen asleep, "How y'feeling?"
Dean takes a second to figure out how to answer that. For the last three months he hasn't let himself feel much of anything, because the moment he does he thinks he'll break down and it'll be all sorts of unpleasant and painful and epic, and physically he just wouldn't have been able to go on, would have probably curled up somewhere and hoped he'd just die. And he couldn't afford to let that happen, not by himself, not with the world ending and the angels refusing to help him (it isn't time, not yet, wait, patience) and his brother gone, possibly dead. But Sam isn't dead, he's sitting right here watching him like some kind of overgrown puppy.
"Where were you?" he asks, not answering because he doesn't know how, needing to know what happened, why he was alone for months. While he's a mess, and he knows he is, Sam looks perfectly okay, no visible wounds and no obvious lack of rest or food, and even that constant tightness in his eyes is gone. He looks like the Sam Dean knew before he went to Hell, before he made his deal - the same he made a deal to save. Like somehow the years have been peeled away and he's back to how he was, even as Dean's aged and broken and damaged beyond repair.
"Here, mostly," Sam responds softly, "Ruby brought me here months ago. After. How much do you remember?"
He has to think about it a moment before he remembers anything but Sam's gone, and when he does it feels foggy and hard to grasp. "We broke a seal by mistake. The last one? You were hurt, I got distracted... and it broke," he says, "And then you were gone."
Sam's fingers curl into the top blanket, absently twisting it between them, "My blood broke the seal," he says, voice quieter than before, just barely audible, feeling the weight of being the cause of a broken seal, a familiar weight to Dean after all this, the first and the last ones, the big ones, and they broke them, "And I think I passed out, because Ruby had gotten me here by the time I woke up. She said Castiel got you, but she didn't know where he'd taken you..."
Dean's eyes fall closed a second, and he nods, "Heaven," he murmurs, tries to forget - it's too much, remembering that, overwhelming and makes him long to go back... he can't think about it. Tries to pretend it was just white and silence and too-still, instead of everything he ever wanted and needed, just so he can stay here until it's time. When he opens his eyes again, Sam's staring at him, ever-changing eyes wide. "He healed me; I was ... I don't know, I guess I was hurt. I don't remember that part."
His brother's staring at him, awe obvious on his face, in his eyes. Dean Winchester, probably the only human to have seen all the options there are for the afterlife, now - the space between and Heaven and Hell. He knows his brother's thinking that, almost the same way he knows the question that follows is coming, even though he hopes it doesn't, and then "What's it like?"
Dean shakes his head sharply, "Can't... I can't talk about it. Can't think about..." he stops, throat won't let any sound pass through, and he shakes his head again, curling deeper into his cocoon of blankets, enjoying the comfort of that and pretending it's not dull after what he's seen, even though it's far better than he's seen since, "You'll see it, someday."
"You sure?" Sam sounds small, like he's a kid all over again, asking if Dean's sure Dad will come back from this hunt, or if he's sure they got the ghost last night, if they'll be back from their latest job in time for school. The insecurity in the question steals his breath because if either of them should end up with the happily-ever-after, it's Sam, always been Sam.
"You're on the guestlist," he murmurs, trying for the lighthearted sort of tone he used to be good at, ending up too laced with emotion for that, and Sam looks like maybe he's going to burst into tears, reaches out and pulls him into a hug easily, still strong as he was before, while Dean's withered away to almost half of what he was, and Dean just holds on, doesn't care about chick-flick moments or any of that because they deserve these moments after everything, and this, at least, isn't a flimsy imitation of happiness like everything else is now, this is real and solid and warm.
Later there's talking, trying to figure out where to go from here, what to do next, Sam and Ruby insisting he's staying put until he's healthy, and he doesn't mind that as long as he won't be alone again. Sam promises he won't go anywhere and Ruby rolls her eyes and it's the same as it ever was except the sky is burning and the air is ash and the world is ending and turning itself inside-out trying to come to grips with it but it's okay, he's fine with that, as long as he's got Sam here.
Lucifer is walking free, a trail stolen hosts left burned-out and broken in his wake because they won't hold him, he needs a stronger host than he's found so far, but Ruby says that host is Sam, and Sam seems to already know that, and Dean's pretty sure he goes as white as the lacy curtains over the dirty window beside him when he hears and huddles deeper into his blankets and pretends he didn't hear. Sam reaches over and puts a hand on his arm like he's trying to calm him down or anchor him or something, says he won't let it happen, promises he won't, and he looks sincere, all puppy-eyes under drooping hair, like he used to be, but Ruby looks grim, and he doesn't know what to believe anymore, if you can't save him you'll have to kill him ringing through his head chased by images of yellow eyes and black eyes and darkly-grinning Sam, illusions and memories and nightmares, all dragging down to reality that makes his stomach churn and tendrils of ice trail through his blood and he's not good at hiding this anymore because Sam keeps promising over and over and holds him like he's a scared child instead of Sam's older brother who's been to Heaven and Hell and everywhere between and he's not too far off on that, maybe.
Even though it feels like they have no time at all a week passes before they let him do anything but rest, before he even goes outside, Sam lingering juts behind him in the doorway like he doesn't want to set foot on even the porch. When Dean sees the sky, burning darker than before, ash bits floating on the hot breeze, he turns and comes back inside. The world is dying.
They have no time at all, but they have all the time in the world, and Ruby and Sam talk in whispers in another room when they think he's asleep, and it scares him, sends that now-familiar ice shooting through his blood into a deeper chill. He never tries to hear their words or go interrupt or even let on that he knows they're up to something, though, because he doesn't want to know. It's better if he doesn't know, because then he doesn't have to stop them.
Ruby stands over them, when they're sleeping, sometimes. When the sky starts to glow, radiate light without the aid of the sun, deep orange-red glow filtering in through thin curtains even at two, three, four in the morning, she starts standing, watching, like she's guarding them. At first it scares him, at first he tells her to go sleep and she tells him she doesn't need to, at first it's strange. And then it isn't, and it's almost the way Dad would sit over them when they were little when he was scared, something Dean took from him at some point and started doing whenever Dad was away, stayed awake for hours and days at a time because he had to watch over Sammy, except Ruby's a demon and she shouldn't care enough to do this, but she does, and he wonders if there's a way to redeem a demon, because if there's one that could deserve redemption, it's Ruby.
Castiel appears a few weeks after the sun goes dark and it's just the sky itself emitting light, red light all the time, day and night just numbers on a clock without the sun and moon to go by, and he tells them Lucifer is approaching. Dean gets up, starts throwing things into a bag and when he turns around Sam and Ruby and Castiel are just standing there, looking at him, as if to say he's being foolish, as if confirming everything that scares him, and the rest of his blood turns to ice. He demands they stop this nonsense. He yells, he grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him, yells in his face, but it doesn't seem to do much good, and then he breaks, shatters in front of them all and they still aren't giving in, and then he just sits and listens while they make their plans, sat around the farmhouse's little living room on couches, Sam at his side and Castiel and Ruby across from them, side-by-side, a demon and an angel.
They're not going to survive this. It's not part of the plan, getting out alive. In fact, Sam's not supposed to. Dean nearly returns to the protesting - yelling or crying or anything that would make them listen - when they say that, when Sam says it. They're discussing, they're talking like this is all fine, like it's not going to be the end, like sacrifices like this are good, fine, okay, like they're not going to take Sam from him again.
Sam turns and looks at him, "Dean, you'll have to do it," and Dean just laughs, sure he has to be joking, even now, even after he's not been joking about everything else, because there's no way he would ever even ask that after all of this, because surely Sam knows he won't - can't - do that, but Sam doesn't look like he's joking, doesn't smile or laugh, just looks at him with that puppy-pleading look like he's a kid again, asking for ice cream or if they can keep a stray kitten he's found, and Dean gets up and walks outside, fully intends never to stop, doesn't care where he ends up, but Sam stops him, pulls at his arm and he stops and turns, red glow of the sky lighting them both like they're burning.
"I won't," he tells Sam seriously, voice steady even though he's nothing like it himself, "Can't," and Sam just pulls his arm, leads him back inside, Castiel and Ruby, angel and demon, still sitting together, waiting, knowing this isn't their moment as Sam pulls him past them, into the kitchen where they're not alone, but they're not in front of an audience, and then Sam lets go of him and brushes flakes of ash off his shoulders, off his arms, casual and as if this isn't all happening, "Can't, Sammy. You can't expect me to..."
"You have to. There's no one else," Sam says, "He'll kill Ruby and Cas if they get too close, anyone at all getting anywhere near won't survive. For you, I can stop him long enough. I think. It's the only chance we have, Dean."
He knows, understands all of that on one level. The part of him that understands hunting and plans and strategy approves. It's a good plan. Except the part of him that's Dean can't accept it, won't accept it, isn't strong enough to. He wishes he was as sure as they are, as strong as they all are, half as strong even, so he could do this and save the world.
Anna is there, then, too, pushes Sam back and touches his forehead, and then he's waking up in a bed, his bed, wrapped in what's probably every single blanket in the house, with worried eyes (angels, a demon, and Sam) all on him, though he's not really sure why, except maybe he is, because he feels like someone ran him over with a truck or ten, and his eyes are doing weird things - he can see... he can see Ruby's real image again, like before when the hellhounds were coming, and he can see Castiel, really see him, and... and Sam's taint, spread through his blood like bait for Lucifer. Anna is... something else, not like Cas, dimmer, and he doesn't know why, but before he can think about it the house shakes, jerks and shifts like it's a child's plaything.
"It's time," and Ruby takes hold of Sam's arm, kisses him and then disappears. Castiel and Anna disappear, too, and it's just him and Sam, and when he gets up he's not weak anymore, even though he's full of dread and confusion and his blood is still frozen and he still doesn't think he can do this (can't can't can't it's Sammy, he can't), and Sam flashes him a smile, like nice knowin' ya, and then he heads downstairs, and Dean follows.
Sam presses a sword into his hands as they reach the front door, scoops it up off the table and makes him take it, locks eyes with him and "I'll see you in Heaven. You said," and then he goes outside, and Dean isn't trembling when he follows wishes he was because he shouldn't be so calm. Shouldn't be calm at all when he's about to watch his brother die again, about to kill his brother and watch him die again. The sword is heavy in his hands, heavy and cold where he's touching it, cold seeping from his veins into the metal, or maybe not but it feels that way as Sam approaches the limping figure, nearly ashes on bones now, that's approaching.
Then there's a light, and it's seeping into Sam, and Dean... knows. Knows what's happened to him, knows what's happened to Sam. He isn't scared or full of dread anymore - there's a sadness, but it's distant, because suddenly he knows what it's like to have peace, faith, Grace.
And when Lucifer turns to him, Sam's body not burning around his essence, he can see the fallen angel's face. It's grotesque, like demons, but instead of dark it's light. Tainted light, and Sam does his part, flickering to the surface enough that Lucifer pauses as his hand comes up, palm towards Dean and building light in it's wake and Dean's grip on the sword flutters, tightens, shifts, and he lunges.
And then it's over. The red sky rolls up, disappears and the sun comes back, the sky is blue again and there's hope for the world again and the sun is warmth that isn't hellfire. The ash falls from the air still, the smell of smoke and filth and decay still lingers, but Lucifer's gone.
Sam's making choking sounds, curling fingers into his shirt as he clings on to Dean, both of them collapsing as their legs give out for entirely different reasons, and he opens his eyes and meets Dean's and then he's gone. Lucifer is gone, and Sam's gone, too. The red sky rolls up, disappears and the sun comes back, the sky is blue again and there's hope for the world again and the sun is warmth that isn't hellfire, but Sam's gone, and it all feels sort of hollow.
Dean's aware that he's sitting with his brother in his lap, bleeding all over him, sword still through his chest because Dean hasn't moved from where they both collapsed, can't move at all except to run his fingers through his baby brother's hair, rest his chin against the top of his head and rock a little, like he used to when Sammy had nightmares and he was just chasing them away, proving that his little brother was safe and that nothing was ever going to hurt him.
There's a flutter of wings, a sound he would recognize even if he didn't feel it, deeper than just instinct, when the angels appear. Anna reaches for him, and he moves enough to shy away, "Don't," he pleads, "Please. You can't..." She hesitates, looks to Castiel, and Dean prays he'll understand, they'll understand. If they take it back, he won't survive. Without this borrowed Grace, he won't hold it together, can't.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, kneeling beside him, and Castiel is standing in front of him and looks conflicted, broken for an angel but nowhere near his own level of devastated, and Anna's fingers are brushing his skin, and then everything just breaks apart more, shatters and splinters and he can't... he can't do anything, can't even breathe properly, clings to Sam and rocks and cries and doesn't care that he does, because Sam's gone, Sammy, he killed Sammy, it's over but he doesn't think it was worth it.
And then he just… stops.
And then it's bright, brighter than it could ever be in the sunlight, and Sam is there, and Mom and Dad and the grandparents and assorted family members he only ever saw photos of as a kid, before the fire, and he's home again, really home, finally home, and he's not alone and he saved the world and now he's home and he can just rest now, forever, it's over.
It's over, it's the beginning of forever, and he can be happy now.
-------
I BROKE MY OWN HEART A LITTLE.
Also that's not how I believe salvation/redemption is, just random like that, I'm just following what the show's cannon SEEMS to indicate (that is, not a whole lot of sense?). Also, eek OOC Dean is OOC. But, well. It's the apocalypse. And stuff. I'm going with stress/trauma as an excuse. Also I'm not actually fond of Ruby that much, but this worked here, even though I don't trust her in the show much.
Um now I am going to go to bed.
Oh and if the formatting is wonky? .... I don't care right now. Bed. It's almost five. Aaahhh!