another possible SPN ending
Hey. I'm not great, but I'm able. Which is something.
And this time I'm not drunk!writing.
Possibly because I have work tomorrow and my Jack Daniels has disappeared. I'm inclined to blame my brother for this catastrophe.
Anyways. Fic...thing. Sort of. Written about twenty minutes ago because the Season finale is tomorrow.
The sad thing is, they make it through the end.
They survived demons and devils and arc-angels from Hell (both literally and figuratively) until one extra large cage was slammed shut and all the fly-boys happily retreated back into Heaven.
The sad thing is, their plan worked out perfectly. Sam said ‘Yes’ like everyone always thought he would. And he, Lucifer, destroyed town and took a few dozen good swings at Dean’s face. And Dean knew he would never let Sam live that down but would always mention with a grin and a demand of extra pie. He would do that when they made it out of this fight, most of which they could not see happening but felt nonetheless. What could be seen was what they had all expected. Blood and flashes of light as demons were exorcised and angels run through by the steles of their Fallen brothers. A handful of hunters, with nothing but weapons and experience.
Sam’s body with a stranger looking out, swatting all of them away like flies. Lucifer was very much running the show, strolling through his fight as if he were taking a walk in the park. Taking in his victory with an almost lazy arrogance.
Despite the noise and rush of evil sons of bitches, Dean always knew where his brother was. It’s how he knew when the tide had turned.
Sam’s face suddenly turned softer, eyes more determined. Blood dripped from his nose and eyes and ears. Dean had watched through his one good eye, the other damaged beyond any immediate repair, as his baby brother took control.
Dean had never been more proud.
Dean had never been more distraught.
“He is doing the right thing, Dean,” had been Cas’s sole reassurance. The hand on his shoulder had felt lighter without the power of Heaven behind, the lingering power between brand and maker the only reminder of something more.
Sam had smiled, somehow conveying every emotion that had ever passed their way from cradle to road to Hellmouth. Joy and rage and regret. Pride. Relief. Part of Dean had envied him.
Then again, there still hadn’t been much of a chance that any of them were going to make it to any finish line, except maybe for a fiery and very permanent one.
The thought had cheered Dean up immensely.
“See you on the other side, Sammy.”
Sam had laughed, taking a few steps back towards the abyss. “Sure, Dean. We can both give’em Hell then.”
As famous last words went, they weren’t so bad. Only they weren’t.
The sad thing, neither of them died that night. They had been ready to. Fully prepared to bow out with the biggest bang of all. Sam had just started to fall back into Hell when his control weakened, blood and dark shadows trailing over his face.
“Lucifer is trying to take back control.” Castiel’s hand curled tight into the torn fabric of Dean’s shirt. “He-”
When Bobby ran past them, no one could react in time. A stolen stele in hand, glowing with all the holiness one would expect from the only thing able to kill an angel; Bobby slammed it into Sam’s chest without hesitation. Not to kill, not necessarily, but to weaken Lucifer just enough. To make him cower a bit more even as Lucifer struggle to get out. Enough to pull all three of them down into the Pit.
Dean screamed. Castiel clutched at his newly human heart.
Smoke and flames and cracks of lightening. There was nothing else to see for a very long time. Something within the chaos howled, and it was so ancient and terrible that both Dean and Castiel had taken staggered back, blindly clutching at one another.
When it cleared there seemed to be nothing but corpses and dead earth. Angels, ashen wings just dust on the scorched ground. Demons, eyes burned out with faces turned towards the sky. Hunters still holding their weapons.
The wreckage of a battlefield, too familiar to any soldier.
“Dean,” Castiel said, and drew the hunter’s attention away from the lifeless carnage and towards something almost as bad.
Sam was there, not too far away, long limbs strewn in awkward positions and a gaping hole in his chest. Next to him sat Crowley, looking a bit worse for wear, one hand over the wound and another resting next to a battered old trucker’s hat.
Dean limped over as fast as he could, dragging Cas along by default. Standing alone was no longer an option, the exhaustion and hurt set too deep in their bones.
“Your brother will be fine,” was Crowley’s greeting when Dean fell to his knees beside Sam’s prone form. “Consider it a gift, seeing as how you fine gents did what I wanted. Satan all wrapped up tight and out my hair again, as it were.”
“What?” Dean had managed to croak out.
Crowley grinned. “Knew your angel wouldn’t much be up to any healing. Still not fully recharged, is he? Maybe the batteries completely dead. Shame.”
Castiel’s glare was half-hearted at best, attention trained on the two Winchesters. “Dean. He’s telling the truth; Sam is healing even as we speak.”
Dean nodded, pushing blood-stiff hair out of his brother’s eyes as if that would encourage him to open them. “We…we should get him out of here.”
“We should wait until he is more stable before we attempt to move him.” Castiel was trying to be reasonable. Logical. Calm.
It was everything Dean needed right now, but none of what he wanted. “Damn it, Cas, I want to get us, all of us, out of here. Now.”
“I don’t think it would be wise to-”
“Cas. Please,” Dean forced out with a tired breath, breaking off his one-side staring contest with Sam to look up at Castiel, green meeting blue with a silent plea to the only person Dean had left.
Castiel nodded, once, turning the force of gaze towards Crowley. “Heal him. Faster.” Or else.
“No need to get your feathers all ruffled,” Crowley sniffed, standing up and brushing off his hands. “While you two were having your little lover’s spat, I got the boy back into the green. Take him wherever you bloody want. Just don’t make me sit through one of those scenes again.”
“He’s really going to be okay?” Dean asked, standing up as well. Cas placed a hand on his elbow to help steady him.
“With rest, he will be,” the angel assured him. Sam was strong, after all. He had proven that much.
“No thanks to you. I did all the heavy lifting, you know” Crowley commented. The crossroad demon glanced at the ground, bending to pick up the trucker hat. Crowley looked at it thoughtfully, brows raised.
Dean zeroed in on the scrap of cloth and memories, a fresh wave of hurt rolling through him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Never. It was supposed to be all or nothing, with his bets riding on the all. Not this. Not… “No. He…no.”
Dean dimly felt the hand tighten around his arm.
Crowley looked like he felt a pang of regret, small as it was, if only for a second. “He was a funny bloke. Even if he was a shoddy kisser.”
The statement made Castiel nearly growl. His voice was foreboding. “His soul If you…”
“Oh, that. Look, I keep a promise, yeah? I’m a regular saint amongst demons that way.” Crowley puts his hands up in an appeasing manner as the angel started forward. “Before all this went down, I ended the contract. Weren’t much of a chance you lot would betray me then, was there? So, after all this, Singer’s soul isn’t going anywhere but up.”
It was something.
After a few more precautionary minutes, Dean and Castiel hefted Sam up between them. Neither of them was looking forward to the walk to the Impala but neither was about to ask for the demon’s assistance either. So they started forward, as always, taking the first step before they decided against taking any. And a night at ground zero was the last thing they needed.
The elder Winchester nodded at Crowley as they slowly hobbled passed. “I know you only helped up to save your own sorry ass. I get that. But still…thanks. I mean it.”
“Just remember that in the future, sweetheart, and leave me out of your hunting game,” Crowley said. “I don’t always play nice when people are forgetful.”
Dean nodded again, accepting but not making that promise again. Not yet, with Sam’s dead weight pressing against his side and Bobby’s death weighing on his mind.
“I too wish to express gratitude,” Castiel unexpectedly spoke up, voice still heavy, as grave as it had been when he had threatened to toss Dean back into Hell. All that long time ago. “But I made no such agreement. I suggest you avoid our path.”
“…fair enough, angel. You may as well take this then.” The demon offered Dean the hat, not offering anymore help as the hunter tried to maneuver a free hand away from his unconscious brother.
The hat was old and dirty, beat up from years of hard work and harder hunting. When the hat was handed over to Dean’s care, it seemed like the last remnant of Bobby Singer was being placed in his torn and stained palms. It seemed final, more than smoke storms and the calm after it had been.
That was it, Dean realized. The apocalypse was over. Forty years of Hell and two years of Hell on earth all wrapped up in shoved into the closet. Because of a pain in the ass brother and a guy with a hat.
Strangely fitting.
Castiel seemingly followed his train of thought, tilting his head to the side with a quizzical expression. “He did not even have to be here. He was not of Heaven nor Hell, and he was not a vessel. He was simply…very human.”
“Hmph.” Crowley snorted, pausing in his intended departure. “I’ve got to say…I didn’t expect it to end like that.”
The sad thing was, none of them had.
And this time I'm not drunk!writing.
Possibly because I have work tomorrow and my Jack Daniels has disappeared. I'm inclined to blame my brother for this catastrophe.
Anyways. Fic...thing. Sort of. Written about twenty minutes ago because the Season finale is tomorrow.
The sad thing is, they make it through the end.
They survived demons and devils and arc-angels from Hell (both literally and figuratively) until one extra large cage was slammed shut and all the fly-boys happily retreated back into Heaven.
The sad thing is, their plan worked out perfectly. Sam said ‘Yes’ like everyone always thought he would. And he, Lucifer, destroyed town and took a few dozen good swings at Dean’s face. And Dean knew he would never let Sam live that down but would always mention with a grin and a demand of extra pie. He would do that when they made it out of this fight, most of which they could not see happening but felt nonetheless. What could be seen was what they had all expected. Blood and flashes of light as demons were exorcised and angels run through by the steles of their Fallen brothers. A handful of hunters, with nothing but weapons and experience.
Sam’s body with a stranger looking out, swatting all of them away like flies. Lucifer was very much running the show, strolling through his fight as if he were taking a walk in the park. Taking in his victory with an almost lazy arrogance.
Despite the noise and rush of evil sons of bitches, Dean always knew where his brother was. It’s how he knew when the tide had turned.
Sam’s face suddenly turned softer, eyes more determined. Blood dripped from his nose and eyes and ears. Dean had watched through his one good eye, the other damaged beyond any immediate repair, as his baby brother took control.
Dean had never been more proud.
Dean had never been more distraught.
“He is doing the right thing, Dean,” had been Cas’s sole reassurance. The hand on his shoulder had felt lighter without the power of Heaven behind, the lingering power between brand and maker the only reminder of something more.
Sam had smiled, somehow conveying every emotion that had ever passed their way from cradle to road to Hellmouth. Joy and rage and regret. Pride. Relief. Part of Dean had envied him.
Then again, there still hadn’t been much of a chance that any of them were going to make it to any finish line, except maybe for a fiery and very permanent one.
The thought had cheered Dean up immensely.
“See you on the other side, Sammy.”
Sam had laughed, taking a few steps back towards the abyss. “Sure, Dean. We can both give’em Hell then.”
As famous last words went, they weren’t so bad. Only they weren’t.
The sad thing, neither of them died that night. They had been ready to. Fully prepared to bow out with the biggest bang of all. Sam had just started to fall back into Hell when his control weakened, blood and dark shadows trailing over his face.
“Lucifer is trying to take back control.” Castiel’s hand curled tight into the torn fabric of Dean’s shirt. “He-”
When Bobby ran past them, no one could react in time. A stolen stele in hand, glowing with all the holiness one would expect from the only thing able to kill an angel; Bobby slammed it into Sam’s chest without hesitation. Not to kill, not necessarily, but to weaken Lucifer just enough. To make him cower a bit more even as Lucifer struggle to get out. Enough to pull all three of them down into the Pit.
Dean screamed. Castiel clutched at his newly human heart.
Smoke and flames and cracks of lightening. There was nothing else to see for a very long time. Something within the chaos howled, and it was so ancient and terrible that both Dean and Castiel had taken staggered back, blindly clutching at one another.
When it cleared there seemed to be nothing but corpses and dead earth. Angels, ashen wings just dust on the scorched ground. Demons, eyes burned out with faces turned towards the sky. Hunters still holding their weapons.
The wreckage of a battlefield, too familiar to any soldier.
“Dean,” Castiel said, and drew the hunter’s attention away from the lifeless carnage and towards something almost as bad.
Sam was there, not too far away, long limbs strewn in awkward positions and a gaping hole in his chest. Next to him sat Crowley, looking a bit worse for wear, one hand over the wound and another resting next to a battered old trucker’s hat.
Dean limped over as fast as he could, dragging Cas along by default. Standing alone was no longer an option, the exhaustion and hurt set too deep in their bones.
“Your brother will be fine,” was Crowley’s greeting when Dean fell to his knees beside Sam’s prone form. “Consider it a gift, seeing as how you fine gents did what I wanted. Satan all wrapped up tight and out my hair again, as it were.”
“What?” Dean had managed to croak out.
Crowley grinned. “Knew your angel wouldn’t much be up to any healing. Still not fully recharged, is he? Maybe the batteries completely dead. Shame.”
Castiel’s glare was half-hearted at best, attention trained on the two Winchesters. “Dean. He’s telling the truth; Sam is healing even as we speak.”
Dean nodded, pushing blood-stiff hair out of his brother’s eyes as if that would encourage him to open them. “We…we should get him out of here.”
“We should wait until he is more stable before we attempt to move him.” Castiel was trying to be reasonable. Logical. Calm.
It was everything Dean needed right now, but none of what he wanted. “Damn it, Cas, I want to get us, all of us, out of here. Now.”
“I don’t think it would be wise to-”
“Cas. Please,” Dean forced out with a tired breath, breaking off his one-side staring contest with Sam to look up at Castiel, green meeting blue with a silent plea to the only person Dean had left.
Castiel nodded, once, turning the force of gaze towards Crowley. “Heal him. Faster.” Or else.
“No need to get your feathers all ruffled,” Crowley sniffed, standing up and brushing off his hands. “While you two were having your little lover’s spat, I got the boy back into the green. Take him wherever you bloody want. Just don’t make me sit through one of those scenes again.”
“He’s really going to be okay?” Dean asked, standing up as well. Cas placed a hand on his elbow to help steady him.
“With rest, he will be,” the angel assured him. Sam was strong, after all. He had proven that much.
“No thanks to you. I did all the heavy lifting, you know” Crowley commented. The crossroad demon glanced at the ground, bending to pick up the trucker hat. Crowley looked at it thoughtfully, brows raised.
Dean zeroed in on the scrap of cloth and memories, a fresh wave of hurt rolling through him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Never. It was supposed to be all or nothing, with his bets riding on the all. Not this. Not… “No. He…no.”
Dean dimly felt the hand tighten around his arm.
Crowley looked like he felt a pang of regret, small as it was, if only for a second. “He was a funny bloke. Even if he was a shoddy kisser.”
The statement made Castiel nearly growl. His voice was foreboding. “His soul If you…”
“Oh, that. Look, I keep a promise, yeah? I’m a regular saint amongst demons that way.” Crowley puts his hands up in an appeasing manner as the angel started forward. “Before all this went down, I ended the contract. Weren’t much of a chance you lot would betray me then, was there? So, after all this, Singer’s soul isn’t going anywhere but up.”
It was something.
After a few more precautionary minutes, Dean and Castiel hefted Sam up between them. Neither of them was looking forward to the walk to the Impala but neither was about to ask for the demon’s assistance either. So they started forward, as always, taking the first step before they decided against taking any. And a night at ground zero was the last thing they needed.
The elder Winchester nodded at Crowley as they slowly hobbled passed. “I know you only helped up to save your own sorry ass. I get that. But still…thanks. I mean it.”
“Just remember that in the future, sweetheart, and leave me out of your hunting game,” Crowley said. “I don’t always play nice when people are forgetful.”
Dean nodded again, accepting but not making that promise again. Not yet, with Sam’s dead weight pressing against his side and Bobby’s death weighing on his mind.
“I too wish to express gratitude,” Castiel unexpectedly spoke up, voice still heavy, as grave as it had been when he had threatened to toss Dean back into Hell. All that long time ago. “But I made no such agreement. I suggest you avoid our path.”
“…fair enough, angel. You may as well take this then.” The demon offered Dean the hat, not offering anymore help as the hunter tried to maneuver a free hand away from his unconscious brother.
The hat was old and dirty, beat up from years of hard work and harder hunting. When the hat was handed over to Dean’s care, it seemed like the last remnant of Bobby Singer was being placed in his torn and stained palms. It seemed final, more than smoke storms and the calm after it had been.
That was it, Dean realized. The apocalypse was over. Forty years of Hell and two years of Hell on earth all wrapped up in shoved into the closet. Because of a pain in the ass brother and a guy with a hat.
Strangely fitting.
Castiel seemingly followed his train of thought, tilting his head to the side with a quizzical expression. “He did not even have to be here. He was not of Heaven nor Hell, and he was not a vessel. He was simply…very human.”
“Hmph.” Crowley snorted, pausing in his intended departure. “I’ve got to say…I didn’t expect it to end like that.”
The sad thing was, none of them had.