Five Ways Dean Winchester Didn’t Die (gen-fic, 1902 words, PG)
Because I had a crappy day at work today and someone had to be punished...
Five Ways Dean Winchester Didn’t Die
(gen-fic, PG, 1902 words, spoilers for AHBL part 2)
1.
Sam’s unsettled and on edge for three days. The fourth day, he finds John waiting in his truck outside his apartment. John climbs out and Sam’s amazed how old he looks. It’s only been two years since Sam left and though it feels long enough for him to be settled in his new, non-nomadic, peaceful life, it doesn’t feel long enough for John to have grown so old.
“Sammy,” says John, and it’s like a sigh. “I need to talk to you.”
Sam lets him in and throws his rucksack down by the couch. He folds his arms across his chest and stands across the room from his father.
“Where’s Dean?” he asks, because it’s always a bad idea for Sam and John to talk when Dean’s not there to keep things from exploding. The last time they talked without Dean in the room, Sam ended up packing his bags and leaving. He remembers Dean driving him to the bus station and saying ‘If you change your mind and let me drive you back, I’ll keep my gloating to the bare minimum.’
John sits down on the couch like his legs won’t hold him up any longer, like they’ve brought him this far and have just decided it’s not worth it to go any further. He rubs his jaw and looks up at Sam, his eyes dark and shadowed.
“It’s about Dean. Sammy…” He sighs again and looks away, eyes closing and opening slowly. “Dean’s dead.”
Sam stares at John, trying to catch his words but he feels as though he’s underwater. His head is full and John’s lips are still moving and Sam can’t catch a damn word of it. The world rushes away from him as he accepts the fact of his brother’s death. It’s ridiculous and wrong but while life may fuck Sam around and trick him, John’s never been one for jokes.
“Do you want some coffee?” he blurts out. He thinks that John might still be speaking when he asks but it doesn’t matter because the question shuts John up.
John stares at him, that same blank, mirror-eyed stare Dean does, used to do sometimes. Then he shakes his head. He stands up again and there’s no sign that he ever had trouble staying on his feet.
“I can’t stay, Sammy. I’ve got work to do.”
He moves towards the door but Sam’s straight after him.
“What?” Sam snaps. “What work? What work could you possibly have to do? No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here and… and say things like that and then just run out.”
John meets his eye. Oh God, thinks Sam, he’s so old. Dean’s never going to get that old. Dean’s always going to be driving away in the Impala, one hand waving out the window as Sam waits for his bus. Dean’s going to be the fading sound of Metallica and that quiet look of helpless resignation that Sam sees in the rear-view mirror.
“They used him as a blood sacrifice, Sammy. They used his blood to raise something. I came here first to see you, but I’ve got to hunt down whatever it is they raised.”
Sam lets him go. He sits down on the couch and listens to the rumble of John’s truck starting up.
Four days ago, the world ended and the aftershock is only just catching Sam now. Dean would love to be thought of as the centre of Sam’s world. Sam wonders if that’s why he’s felt so off-balance these last years, because the world was moving from state to state, killing things and scamming credit card companies while Sam pretended not to know about demons and fires in the nursery. He knows that’s why he’s felt hollow the last four days, because his world was on an altar, being bled dry, maybe praying for a rescue that never came.
Sam leaves a note for Jess and by the next day, he’s caught up with John.
Funny how much there is to be done after the end of the world.
2.
Dean's still alive by the time Sam gets to his side, scrambling over the piles of smoking bones to reach him. He's cursing and swearing, struggling into a sitting position. Both of his hands are pressed to his side but even in the half-light Sam can see the blood pulsing out from between his fingers, thin and black.
"We got the son of a bitch," Dean gasps and Sam nods distractedly. It doesn't matter how large the bugbear had loomed when it was out there eating children, it's not all that interesting now Dean's eyes can't focus and his skin has turned grey beneath the smudges of blood and dirt.
He wants to see what state Dean is in - whether he can see those red, squishy bits that should stay safe inside Dean's skin - but Dean smacks feebly at his hands when he tries.
"Just get me stood up," he says.
Sam doesn't. Sure, he gets Dean vertical, but Dean's legs won't work properly, his feet just scuff along the ground as Sam half-carries, half-drags him back to the Impala. Dean leaves a slick handprint on the metal of the door and slumps in his seat.
"Gimme a moment… need to catch my breath."
"You need medical treatment," Sam insists.
He doesn't like the note of panic in his voice and he thinks Dean doesn't either, because Dean is rolling his eyes. But then he's not, his eyes are just rolling back up into his head. Sam grabs at him, at his battered leather jacket and even more battered hands. The knuckles are skinned from the punches he's thrown, but his fingers can't tighten about Sam's hand.
"Oh quit worrying," says Dean. "Just a little… uh, haemorrhaging. You worry too much, Sammy. Gonna give yourself wrinkles."
"Dean," Sam says. "You're dying. That's a legitimate concern."
He says it and he believes it, but he's not convinced it's a done deal. Dean does this. Dean brushes up nice and dangerous to Reapers, flirts a little, all Don't you want me, baby? Come on, take a bite of me. You know you want to. It's only teasing.
Dean's laugh might sound as raw as beaten flesh but it's a laugh. It proves this weakness and exposed internal organs is all an act.
"Stupid. 'Course I'm not dying. Like I could trust you to manage without me."
He's dead by the time Sam's got the key in the ignition.
3.
It's 10:58pm when Dean goes out to pick something up for dinner. He hasn't eaten all day, been so busy trying to catch up with the damn skinwalker. But the skinwalker's nothing but a pile of mush and a bad smell in the air now and Sam doesn't even really hear Dean leave, not his lame-ass joke about the bruise on Sam's neck that looks like a hickey, not the motel-room door shutting or the rush-and-roar of the Impala's engine.
At 11:26, Sam guesses there must have been a queue.
At 11:49, Sam wonders whether the girl behind the counter is prettier than the one that kept them lingering at that gas station back up the road for over an hour.
After another hour disappears, Sam calls Dean's cell. There's nothing. Not dial tone, not voicemail. It's like calling into flat, black silence.
So Sam steals a car and drives the roads out of town. He stops at cafes and gas stations, flashing a picture of Dean and being met with friendly nothings. The night rolls into washed-out morning. The sky is clear, the colour of dead grass.
He calls Ellen and Jo and Bobby and none of them have heard a thing from Dean. He checks back at the motel in case Dean's doubled back somehow and is waiting there with a tale of woe - maybe involving a serious lack of pie and unsympathetic waitresses. But the room is just as Sam left it, his laptop humming away quietly next to one of Dean's abandoned girly magazines.
He finds the Impala in the afternoon. It's parked on the side of a back road, where the horizon is made of fields and the town is a little mess of buildings in the distance. The car's locked and though Sam looks it over carefully, there's not a single scratch or dent on it that he doesn't recognise.
That's where it stops. That's the end of the line. There are no tracks off into the dust, no history of disappearances, no odd footnotes in local folklore.
Sam searches through the days and the weeks. Even through the years. He never finds anything. And after six years, as he's packing his bag to make the journey once more, he realises that he believes Dean is dead. Dead and, most finally, gone.
It doesn't stop him going back.
4.
The darkness sinks away and Sam's suddenly aware of the jagged metal taste in his mouth, and the big hand that smells of car oil clamped on his face. He's struggling to throw his attacker off before he recognises it as Bobby.
He's never seen Bobby look like that. There are shadows in his eyes but they're not demons. They're just the darker parts of Bobby looking out at him. There's a Devil's Trap above Bobby's head - at least, that's what Sam thinks it is but the ceiling's like a piece of paper folded too many times and cracks run all through the image.
"Sam?" says Bobby.
Sam nods and the movement sends cramping pains through his body. Bobby's hand lifts from his mouth and manhandles Sam up off the ground. He's not exactly gentle. Little black dots creep in at the edge of Sam's vision and he has to catch hold of the back of the sofa before he falls. His stomach lurches and he thinks for a moment that he's going to be sick. The last thing he can remember eating is a slice from the pizza Dean ordered in yesterday.
He thinks that was yesterday.
It's suddenly much colder and Sam doesn't like the way Bobby is looking at him. And he doesn't like the way Dean isn't with him.
"How do you feel?" says Bobby.
"Like Hell," Sam says. He scrapes his fingers through his hair and they catch on something sticky. There's something dark and red on his fingertips when he examines them. "Where's Dean?"
Bobby makes a sound that isn't friendly enough to be called a laugh. He backs away to the kitchen, his eyes constantly darting back to Sam, and he pours him a glass of water. Sam takes the glass from him and tries not to notice that the red from his fingers smears the side of it.
"Drink it," says Bobby and even though it doesn't taste any different when he gulps it down, Sam knows the water is blessed.
When Sam doesn't sizzle and smoke, some of Bobby's hostility fades away. But it's replaced with sadness and that's so much worse. Sam's lips twitch as he tries to form words but in the end he can only manage one, the only one he's ever really needed.
"Dean?"
Bobby looks back at him, then ends it all with a single shake of his head.
"He wouldn't shoot."
5.
Dean goes to a crossroads, kisses a beautiful woman.
Sam cremates him one year later.
~end
Five Ways Dean Winchester Didn’t Die
(gen-fic, PG, 1902 words, spoilers for AHBL part 2)
1.
Sam’s unsettled and on edge for three days. The fourth day, he finds John waiting in his truck outside his apartment. John climbs out and Sam’s amazed how old he looks. It’s only been two years since Sam left and though it feels long enough for him to be settled in his new, non-nomadic, peaceful life, it doesn’t feel long enough for John to have grown so old.
“Sammy,” says John, and it’s like a sigh. “I need to talk to you.”
Sam lets him in and throws his rucksack down by the couch. He folds his arms across his chest and stands across the room from his father.
“Where’s Dean?” he asks, because it’s always a bad idea for Sam and John to talk when Dean’s not there to keep things from exploding. The last time they talked without Dean in the room, Sam ended up packing his bags and leaving. He remembers Dean driving him to the bus station and saying ‘If you change your mind and let me drive you back, I’ll keep my gloating to the bare minimum.’
John sits down on the couch like his legs won’t hold him up any longer, like they’ve brought him this far and have just decided it’s not worth it to go any further. He rubs his jaw and looks up at Sam, his eyes dark and shadowed.
“It’s about Dean. Sammy…” He sighs again and looks away, eyes closing and opening slowly. “Dean’s dead.”
Sam stares at John, trying to catch his words but he feels as though he’s underwater. His head is full and John’s lips are still moving and Sam can’t catch a damn word of it. The world rushes away from him as he accepts the fact of his brother’s death. It’s ridiculous and wrong but while life may fuck Sam around and trick him, John’s never been one for jokes.
“Do you want some coffee?” he blurts out. He thinks that John might still be speaking when he asks but it doesn’t matter because the question shuts John up.
John stares at him, that same blank, mirror-eyed stare Dean does, used to do sometimes. Then he shakes his head. He stands up again and there’s no sign that he ever had trouble staying on his feet.
“I can’t stay, Sammy. I’ve got work to do.”
He moves towards the door but Sam’s straight after him.
“What?” Sam snaps. “What work? What work could you possibly have to do? No. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to come here and… and say things like that and then just run out.”
John meets his eye. Oh God, thinks Sam, he’s so old. Dean’s never going to get that old. Dean’s always going to be driving away in the Impala, one hand waving out the window as Sam waits for his bus. Dean’s going to be the fading sound of Metallica and that quiet look of helpless resignation that Sam sees in the rear-view mirror.
“They used him as a blood sacrifice, Sammy. They used his blood to raise something. I came here first to see you, but I’ve got to hunt down whatever it is they raised.”
Sam lets him go. He sits down on the couch and listens to the rumble of John’s truck starting up.
Four days ago, the world ended and the aftershock is only just catching Sam now. Dean would love to be thought of as the centre of Sam’s world. Sam wonders if that’s why he’s felt so off-balance these last years, because the world was moving from state to state, killing things and scamming credit card companies while Sam pretended not to know about demons and fires in the nursery. He knows that’s why he’s felt hollow the last four days, because his world was on an altar, being bled dry, maybe praying for a rescue that never came.
Sam leaves a note for Jess and by the next day, he’s caught up with John.
Funny how much there is to be done after the end of the world.
2.
Dean's still alive by the time Sam gets to his side, scrambling over the piles of smoking bones to reach him. He's cursing and swearing, struggling into a sitting position. Both of his hands are pressed to his side but even in the half-light Sam can see the blood pulsing out from between his fingers, thin and black.
"We got the son of a bitch," Dean gasps and Sam nods distractedly. It doesn't matter how large the bugbear had loomed when it was out there eating children, it's not all that interesting now Dean's eyes can't focus and his skin has turned grey beneath the smudges of blood and dirt.
He wants to see what state Dean is in - whether he can see those red, squishy bits that should stay safe inside Dean's skin - but Dean smacks feebly at his hands when he tries.
"Just get me stood up," he says.
Sam doesn't. Sure, he gets Dean vertical, but Dean's legs won't work properly, his feet just scuff along the ground as Sam half-carries, half-drags him back to the Impala. Dean leaves a slick handprint on the metal of the door and slumps in his seat.
"Gimme a moment… need to catch my breath."
"You need medical treatment," Sam insists.
He doesn't like the note of panic in his voice and he thinks Dean doesn't either, because Dean is rolling his eyes. But then he's not, his eyes are just rolling back up into his head. Sam grabs at him, at his battered leather jacket and even more battered hands. The knuckles are skinned from the punches he's thrown, but his fingers can't tighten about Sam's hand.
"Oh quit worrying," says Dean. "Just a little… uh, haemorrhaging. You worry too much, Sammy. Gonna give yourself wrinkles."
"Dean," Sam says. "You're dying. That's a legitimate concern."
He says it and he believes it, but he's not convinced it's a done deal. Dean does this. Dean brushes up nice and dangerous to Reapers, flirts a little, all Don't you want me, baby? Come on, take a bite of me. You know you want to. It's only teasing.
Dean's laugh might sound as raw as beaten flesh but it's a laugh. It proves this weakness and exposed internal organs is all an act.
"Stupid. 'Course I'm not dying. Like I could trust you to manage without me."
He's dead by the time Sam's got the key in the ignition.
3.
It's 10:58pm when Dean goes out to pick something up for dinner. He hasn't eaten all day, been so busy trying to catch up with the damn skinwalker. But the skinwalker's nothing but a pile of mush and a bad smell in the air now and Sam doesn't even really hear Dean leave, not his lame-ass joke about the bruise on Sam's neck that looks like a hickey, not the motel-room door shutting or the rush-and-roar of the Impala's engine.
At 11:26, Sam guesses there must have been a queue.
At 11:49, Sam wonders whether the girl behind the counter is prettier than the one that kept them lingering at that gas station back up the road for over an hour.
After another hour disappears, Sam calls Dean's cell. There's nothing. Not dial tone, not voicemail. It's like calling into flat, black silence.
So Sam steals a car and drives the roads out of town. He stops at cafes and gas stations, flashing a picture of Dean and being met with friendly nothings. The night rolls into washed-out morning. The sky is clear, the colour of dead grass.
He calls Ellen and Jo and Bobby and none of them have heard a thing from Dean. He checks back at the motel in case Dean's doubled back somehow and is waiting there with a tale of woe - maybe involving a serious lack of pie and unsympathetic waitresses. But the room is just as Sam left it, his laptop humming away quietly next to one of Dean's abandoned girly magazines.
He finds the Impala in the afternoon. It's parked on the side of a back road, where the horizon is made of fields and the town is a little mess of buildings in the distance. The car's locked and though Sam looks it over carefully, there's not a single scratch or dent on it that he doesn't recognise.
That's where it stops. That's the end of the line. There are no tracks off into the dust, no history of disappearances, no odd footnotes in local folklore.
Sam searches through the days and the weeks. Even through the years. He never finds anything. And after six years, as he's packing his bag to make the journey once more, he realises that he believes Dean is dead. Dead and, most finally, gone.
It doesn't stop him going back.
4.
The darkness sinks away and Sam's suddenly aware of the jagged metal taste in his mouth, and the big hand that smells of car oil clamped on his face. He's struggling to throw his attacker off before he recognises it as Bobby.
He's never seen Bobby look like that. There are shadows in his eyes but they're not demons. They're just the darker parts of Bobby looking out at him. There's a Devil's Trap above Bobby's head - at least, that's what Sam thinks it is but the ceiling's like a piece of paper folded too many times and cracks run all through the image.
"Sam?" says Bobby.
Sam nods and the movement sends cramping pains through his body. Bobby's hand lifts from his mouth and manhandles Sam up off the ground. He's not exactly gentle. Little black dots creep in at the edge of Sam's vision and he has to catch hold of the back of the sofa before he falls. His stomach lurches and he thinks for a moment that he's going to be sick. The last thing he can remember eating is a slice from the pizza Dean ordered in yesterday.
He thinks that was yesterday.
It's suddenly much colder and Sam doesn't like the way Bobby is looking at him. And he doesn't like the way Dean isn't with him.
"How do you feel?" says Bobby.
"Like Hell," Sam says. He scrapes his fingers through his hair and they catch on something sticky. There's something dark and red on his fingertips when he examines them. "Where's Dean?"
Bobby makes a sound that isn't friendly enough to be called a laugh. He backs away to the kitchen, his eyes constantly darting back to Sam, and he pours him a glass of water. Sam takes the glass from him and tries not to notice that the red from his fingers smears the side of it.
"Drink it," says Bobby and even though it doesn't taste any different when he gulps it down, Sam knows the water is blessed.
When Sam doesn't sizzle and smoke, some of Bobby's hostility fades away. But it's replaced with sadness and that's so much worse. Sam's lips twitch as he tries to form words but in the end he can only manage one, the only one he's ever really needed.
"Dean?"
Bobby looks back at him, then ends it all with a single shake of his head.
"He wouldn't shoot."
5.
Dean goes to a crossroads, kisses a beautiful woman.
Sam cremates him one year later.
~end