All That's to Come (Dean PG-13)
Title: All That's to Come
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,187
Warnings: Spoilers for 4x01
Summary: 10_inspirations prompt a fate worse than death - Coda for "Lazarus Rising"
+++
Dean unlocked the door to the motel room and was greeted to the sight of Sam sound asleep in bed. Everything almost seemed...normal. Ever since waking up in his own grave, life had a surreal tint to it, like a dream that Dean kept waiting to wake up from. Waiting to wake up from this tease, like he had with the djinn over a year ago, to be back in that world of agony, of loneliness, of eternal fear.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
The words still echoed through his head. They were a welcome respite from the memories of screams - some his own and many from anonymous others that he couldn't see - that were constantly warring with his confused thoughts about what had happened to him the last four months, what had happened to him that brought him back and out of Hell.
He made his way carefully to the bathroom, careful to step around the broken glass, keeping the lights off to not disturb Sam. His brother was a heavy sleeper, but that was Sam four months ago, a Sam who'd been used to his big brother protecting him, guarding his back when the situation got tight. Sam now carried the guilt of failing to save him whereas Dean was burdened with his brother's suffering, a suffering that he hadn't been able to witness, more than the suffering of his own that he could barely remember.
Dean was surprised that his presence didn't jolt Sam awake. When Sam had come with him after Stanford, after Jess, it had taken Dean awhile to get used to sharing a motel room again. Every little noise or movement Sam made in his sleep alerted Dean's senses, forcing him instantly awake and battle-ready. Either Sam had adjusted to Dean being alive again faster than Dean had, or Sam just hadn't been as affected by Dean being gone has Dean had by Sam.
He liked to think that wasn't the case, but Dean was never an optimistic person. He'd never believed in good, even from his family, it seemed, which made this whole being saved by an angel thing all the more difficult to swallow.
Castiel had departed as simply as he had entered. Dean had expected him to fly away, up into the dark night sky, disappearing amongst the stars, but he just walked down the street until Dean couldn't see him any longer. Bobby regained consciousness shortly after, a question in his eyes that Dean just shook off. He didn't know where to begin, and even if he tried, he was certain that he didn't want to.
Sam was the one that believed in God and angels and a force of good in the world that left warm, fuzzy feelings in the pit of your stomach. Dean believed in what he'd seen - demons, evil, pain - and didn't like, couldn't get his head around, this sudden change in how he viewed the world. He had been in Hell, despite not being able to remember much about it.
Now he had to wonder if perhaps Mom had been right this whole time.
Suddenly exhausted, Dean stripped to his boxers as he brushed his teeth. Catching sight of the burn on his shoulder, Dean saw his fragmented reflection grimace in the mirror that had been broken by Castiel's voice.
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
Branded by an angel... Dean had to appreciate the irony, his life so defined by sin. He was grateful to be out of Hell, certainly, but Dean didn't like the idea of being indebted to Castiel, to God. He wasn't exactly up on his Christian mythology, but he did remember learning about Joan of Arc in school. She had claimed to have received her orders from God, and it hadn't ended particularly well for her. Dean wasn't about to make himself a martyr.
Although, he thought dryly, wasn't he one already?
Climbing into bed, Dean contemplated Sam. He'd have to tell him what happened. Bobby would need to know, as well, but first he needed to tell Sam. He hoped that his brother would believe him, be able to use the fact that Dean had been saved by the God and an angel that he so desperately wanted to, needed to believe in that it would relieve his guilt over not being able to do what Castiel had done. Whatever work they had in mind for Dean, it had to involve hunting or there would be no sense in bringing him back at all. If they wanted world peace or to put an end to hunger, it would've been someone else, but it was him they brought back, and all he was good at was killing evil sons of bitches. A hunt was a hunt, and he would gladly take on the task of new ones, especially since getting orders took away the legwork. As long as Sam went along with it, Dean would follow. Begrudgingly, but he would still follow.
Dean fell asleep quickly, but it wasn't long before his subconscious was swarming him with nightmares, memories repressed to the deepest, darkest corners of his brain. Everything hurt and he couldn't move, was strung in spot like a piece of meat, and there were demons everywhere. He could see them as they truly were, horrific faces with voices like nails on a chalkboard. They mocked him, taunted, told him about the suffering of those he had left behind. They'd pull on the chains that held him in place, tearing at his flesh and muscle and laughing when he screamed until his voice went hoarse. Dean could feel them surrounding him, the heat being given off of their forms as they drew in closer, so close that he felt like he was being suffocated and he struggled to breathe.
Jolting awake, Dean writhed in the darkness, unable to register where he was and what was holding him as his breath came out in short, panicked gasps. He couldn't move - something was holding him fast, and it took a few minutes for his brain to register the motel room, the bed, that it was Sam's hand holding him steady, close, unadulterated concern in his eyes as he repeated his brother's name, trying to ground Dean in the present. "Was it...?" he asked, voice trailing off like he was unsure of how Dean would react to him saying it's name.
"Yeah," Dean replied uncomfortably, sticky with his own sweat and starting to notice red marks on Sam's face and arms that he had undoubtedly caused. Sam was right in not fully asking about it because Dean didn't want to talk about it. Even now, the nightmare was racing away like a shadow in approaching light. He leaned against the headboard, trying to get his breathing back under control and finding comfort in Sam's hand, warm and heavy, still resting against his arm.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
Anything that would keep him from having to go back.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,187
Warnings: Spoilers for 4x01
Summary: 10_inspirations prompt a fate worse than death - Coda for "Lazarus Rising"
+++
Dean unlocked the door to the motel room and was greeted to the sight of Sam sound asleep in bed. Everything almost seemed...normal. Ever since waking up in his own grave, life had a surreal tint to it, like a dream that Dean kept waiting to wake up from. Waiting to wake up from this tease, like he had with the djinn over a year ago, to be back in that world of agony, of loneliness, of eternal fear.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
The words still echoed through his head. They were a welcome respite from the memories of screams - some his own and many from anonymous others that he couldn't see - that were constantly warring with his confused thoughts about what had happened to him the last four months, what had happened to him that brought him back and out of Hell.
He made his way carefully to the bathroom, careful to step around the broken glass, keeping the lights off to not disturb Sam. His brother was a heavy sleeper, but that was Sam four months ago, a Sam who'd been used to his big brother protecting him, guarding his back when the situation got tight. Sam now carried the guilt of failing to save him whereas Dean was burdened with his brother's suffering, a suffering that he hadn't been able to witness, more than the suffering of his own that he could barely remember.
Dean was surprised that his presence didn't jolt Sam awake. When Sam had come with him after Stanford, after Jess, it had taken Dean awhile to get used to sharing a motel room again. Every little noise or movement Sam made in his sleep alerted Dean's senses, forcing him instantly awake and battle-ready. Either Sam had adjusted to Dean being alive again faster than Dean had, or Sam just hadn't been as affected by Dean being gone has Dean had by Sam.
He liked to think that wasn't the case, but Dean was never an optimistic person. He'd never believed in good, even from his family, it seemed, which made this whole being saved by an angel thing all the more difficult to swallow.
Castiel had departed as simply as he had entered. Dean had expected him to fly away, up into the dark night sky, disappearing amongst the stars, but he just walked down the street until Dean couldn't see him any longer. Bobby regained consciousness shortly after, a question in his eyes that Dean just shook off. He didn't know where to begin, and even if he tried, he was certain that he didn't want to.
Sam was the one that believed in God and angels and a force of good in the world that left warm, fuzzy feelings in the pit of your stomach. Dean believed in what he'd seen - demons, evil, pain - and didn't like, couldn't get his head around, this sudden change in how he viewed the world. He had been in Hell, despite not being able to remember much about it.
Now he had to wonder if perhaps Mom had been right this whole time.
Suddenly exhausted, Dean stripped to his boxers as he brushed his teeth. Catching sight of the burn on his shoulder, Dean saw his fragmented reflection grimace in the mirror that had been broken by Castiel's voice.
"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."
Branded by an angel... Dean had to appreciate the irony, his life so defined by sin. He was grateful to be out of Hell, certainly, but Dean didn't like the idea of being indebted to Castiel, to God. He wasn't exactly up on his Christian mythology, but he did remember learning about Joan of Arc in school. She had claimed to have received her orders from God, and it hadn't ended particularly well for her. Dean wasn't about to make himself a martyr.
Although, he thought dryly, wasn't he one already?
Climbing into bed, Dean contemplated Sam. He'd have to tell him what happened. Bobby would need to know, as well, but first he needed to tell Sam. He hoped that his brother would believe him, be able to use the fact that Dean had been saved by the God and an angel that he so desperately wanted to, needed to believe in that it would relieve his guilt over not being able to do what Castiel had done. Whatever work they had in mind for Dean, it had to involve hunting or there would be no sense in bringing him back at all. If they wanted world peace or to put an end to hunger, it would've been someone else, but it was him they brought back, and all he was good at was killing evil sons of bitches. A hunt was a hunt, and he would gladly take on the task of new ones, especially since getting orders took away the legwork. As long as Sam went along with it, Dean would follow. Begrudgingly, but he would still follow.
Dean fell asleep quickly, but it wasn't long before his subconscious was swarming him with nightmares, memories repressed to the deepest, darkest corners of his brain. Everything hurt and he couldn't move, was strung in spot like a piece of meat, and there were demons everywhere. He could see them as they truly were, horrific faces with voices like nails on a chalkboard. They mocked him, taunted, told him about the suffering of those he had left behind. They'd pull on the chains that held him in place, tearing at his flesh and muscle and laughing when he screamed until his voice went hoarse. Dean could feel them surrounding him, the heat being given off of their forms as they drew in closer, so close that he felt like he was being suffocated and he struggled to breathe.
Jolting awake, Dean writhed in the darkness, unable to register where he was and what was holding him as his breath came out in short, panicked gasps. He couldn't move - something was holding him fast, and it took a few minutes for his brain to register the motel room, the bed, that it was Sam's hand holding him steady, close, unadulterated concern in his eyes as he repeated his brother's name, trying to ground Dean in the present. "Was it...?" he asked, voice trailing off like he was unsure of how Dean would react to him saying it's name.
"Yeah," Dean replied uncomfortably, sticky with his own sweat and starting to notice red marks on Sam's face and arms that he had undoubtedly caused. Sam was right in not fully asking about it because Dean didn't want to talk about it. Even now, the nightmare was racing away like a shadow in approaching light. He leaned against the headboard, trying to get his breathing back under control and finding comfort in Sam's hand, warm and heavy, still resting against his arm.
"Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you."
Anything that would keep him from having to go back.