the summer shores, where all is green - SN fic - R
Title: the summer shores, where all is green
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; title from Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Warnings: AU, character death
Pairings: none
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1000
Point of view: second
Notes: I wanted to write batshit-crazy!Dean, inspired by the talented and twisted
creeno. I got this. *shrugs*
Blood drips from his fingernails, congealing on the glass floor, trailing along as gravity does its eternal job.
“Dean.”
He doesn’t look over, just watches the wall with that flat stare. That dead stare. It scares the shit out of you. You’d do anything to make it go away.
Well… almost anything. Not what he asked of you before hiding himself away behind those empty eyes.
“Dean,” you say again. “He wouldn’t want this for you.”
You would call him son, tell him how much you care. But you lost that right, and he’s never been your blood.
This isn’t right. Not right at all. But it was the only option left. It’d be a mercy to kill him. All those things he screamed at the end-he’ll come back into those eyes of his one day and make them true.
You deserve it, you know. You’ll let him take his vengeance, not fight. Others, though… they won’t be so understanding.
It’d be easy, now. One bullet to the brain or the heart. Intravenous drugs. You could probably suffocate him and he wouldn’t struggle, just stare at the damned wall.
“Dean, boy, c’mon.”
Nothing. Nothing at all. How’s it come to this, one of John’s boys dead(the fucking Antichrist, how fucked up is that?) and the other just a shell, completely comatose with wide-open eyes? You just don’t know.
“Bobby.” Ellen comes in, one sad glance at Dean. “No change?”
You shake your head.
“Gordon’s riled them up,” she says. “They’ll bay for his blood soon. What should we do?”
“They were good boys,” you murmur. “You only saw them after John died. But they were good boys, good men.”
You choke back a scream. How the hell has it come this?
And that’s the answer. It came from Hell. Hellfire in Sam’s eyes and Sam’s blood. The same blood in Dean’s veins, the same blood that’s already damned him in Gordon and his followers’ eyes.
But there’s nothing you can do. Dean’s as dangerous as Sam(don’t think of him as chubby, bright-eyed Sammy, curious about everyone and everything. Just… don’t.) ever was. Maybe more. Even at the end, Sam was hesitant, unsure.
But Dean will extract vengeance from the world, when he comes back to himself. Bitter, brutal vengeance, and not just on the guilty.
You remember him as an overprotective brother, back when Sam was only knee-high. Dean will blame everyone who lives that Sam doesn’t anymore, and never again.
“Forgive me,” you whisper. Dean will only ever see that knee-high baby, not the man who was so close to embracing the darkness. Who couldn’t help but slide over the edge. “It was for the best, Dean. Even if you’ll never believe it.”
Ellen places a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bobby,” she says. “I know you loved them.”
“They were good boys,” you repeat softly. “The best of boys.”
Shouting in the next room. Eager, excited voices. Men who just killed the Antichrist. They think they’re immortal, invincible.
You look at Dean, blood dripping from his fingernails, and you know better.
“Bobby,” Ellen says again. “What do we do?”
You don’t know. You just don’t know. None of this is right. None of it. Sam was such a happy child, so kind of a man… one of the best people you ever knew. But at the end… you had no choice. You didn’t.
Dean doesn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t see it that way, and you can’t find it in you to blame him.
“Let’s go,” you tell her.
It’s the coward’s way out, but you’ve already watched one of John’s boys die. You don’t have it in you to watch the other, too.
“Okay,” she replies.
You can’t meet her eyes. You can’t look back. They’re baying for blood, those hunters who saved the world. Lost in victory, in the victor’s madness. They won’t listen to an old man. If you stay around, they may even start to ask why you didn’t see it sooner, what Sam would become.
You lead the way, slinking around the crowd. Gordon’s eyes track you, but he doesn’t say anything. He is their god, their king, the man who stopped the Antichrist.
You almost wish Dean would wake up before what comes next, so he goes down fighting. Almost. His fury, though, his hatred… there’s no guarantee they would win. Sam(not Sammy, not Sammy, not that precocious boy with floppy hair and shining green eyes) was caught by surprise, at the beginning of his powers. Dean, though… he won’t go down easy. He’ll fight with everything he is, everything he has, that fire from his soul lashing out, and those men-they saved the world. They saved billions from Hell’s chosen king.
But they killed Dean’s brother to do it. Shot him with Colt’s kill-all gun, poured gallons of holy water on him, said half a dozen exorcisms over his writhing body, and still he fought.
And Dean… Dean. However long you have left to live, his agonized howls will echo in your nightmares. Gordon left it to you to keep Dean contained, and you did. For the good of everyone else, you did. It was only when Sam’s body collapsed and lay still, sluggishly bleeding and horrifically broken, that Dean fell in on himself, blankly staring.
“Forgive me,” you whisper again, sitting shotgun in Ellen’s car. Your soul hurts. Your eyes ache with tears you refuse to shed.
“He would,” Ellen lies, and by her voice she knows it. “If he could think clearly, he would.”
You hold in the snort her words induce with hardship. She’s the last ally-friend-you can claim, and she means well. She doesn’t know Dean like you do, though.
It’ll be better for the world that he dies in that backroom, still lost-hiding- somewhere deep in himself.
It will be. You know it. Somehow, that doesn’t make it any easier.
Ellen asks where to go. Like so much else, you just don’t know.