SPN fic: This Is How The World Ends. (gen)
Title: This Is How The World Ends.
Characters: Dean, Sam.
Rating: (gen) R.
Summary: Four ways it all comes crashing down.
Warning. Death, death and more death. Also, spoilers for AHBL pt1.
Notes: So, I woke up today with a crushing headache and a hankering to write dark, angsty fic. Thus I did. Huge thanks to halfdutch for the beta.
This is how the world ends.
i
It should have been him. The words keep repeating in his head. It should have been him that died alone in a hospital room surrounded by the overpowering smell of disinfectant and it should have been him that took a knife to the back and fell to his knees, bleeding out in the middle of a deserted street as Sam screamed his name. If he’d been quicker to believe the Reaper’s words then Dad wouldn’t have had the chance to throw his life away and if he’d gotten to Sammy sooner he could’ve saved him like he promised. But he was too slow to accept and too slow to rescue and he failed them both in the end. Dean’s tired, so tired, of the hunt, of loss, of the accusing voice in his head, so he lays down next to Sam, curls round him on the narrow mattress just like he did when they were kids and lets the pills and the liquor mix with the lullaby of guilt that sings in his mind and slowly rocks him to sleep.
ii
He has no idea how Henriksen found them, it’s not like Cold Oak is chock full of people that could phone a tip in to the FBI hotline or anything. He figures it’s the Demon’s idea of a joke, a final fuck you before he moves on to rip a new family apart at the seams. Dean can’t decide if he should be pissed that the bastard can’t even be bothered to kill him himself, that he’s letting someone else do that for him, but then maybe that isn’t what the Demon wants, maybe he thinks Dean will go quietly and spend the rest of his days rotting in jail with a head full of regrets to drive him insane. Yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen. Outside, Henriksen is yelling that the place is surrounded for what seems like the hundredth time and Dean would really like him to shut the fuck up so he can say goodbye to Sammy in peace. He leans down and whispers see you soon in Sam’s ear and then turns to the door, checks his gun is loaded and then takes a deep breath. Right on cue he hears rain start to beat down on the roof; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was always a favourite movie of his.
iii
Their whole life fits into the Impala. Everything they own can be packed neatly away inside it and yet there’s still room to spare. Dean thinks that’s pretty sad really, thinks that perhaps they should have picked up souvenirs from all the places they’ve been, created a little store of memories to pass down to the kids that neither of them is ever going to have. He tells Sam, as he straps him into the passenger seat, how cool it would be to have a snowglobe from every state or, at least, a stack of postcards, one from every town maybe, with the name of the thing they killed while they were there written on the back. Dean’s been talking to Sam a lot in the past few days, way more than normal in fact. He’s been telling Sam tales about their childhood, about how he spent the years they were apart and he’s been saying all the things he’s always meant to say but never has, things that Dean’s fairly sure Sam already knew but that he wished he’d said out loud all the same. He’s not crying anymore, he’s been there, done that and for way too many reasons than he cares to name, no, it’s just that the stench of so much gasoline in such an enclosed space is making his eyes water and his head ache like it’s fit to split wide open. His clothes are soaked through, clinging to his skin in a cold embrace that makes him shiver, not that he notices, he’s too busy listening to the clunk-click of the zippo in his hand as he flips the lid open and closed again and again. Dean turns to look at Sam, tells him it’s gonna be okay one last time then flicks the lid open and runs his thumb across the tiny wheel. There’s a spark and the world glows molten hot for a second before it fades out and all that’s left is the kiss of flames on his skin.
iv
It takes him six months of sleepless nights and endless days spent criss-crossing the country before he finally finds what he’s searching for. Half a year spent combing missing persons reports, chasing down clues that lead to nothing and trying to see order amongst the chaos of death and destruction that never seems to end. For the first two months he treats each case like nothing’s changed, hunting down whatever creature he stumbles across and dispatching it with a cold-eyed stare and an even colder heart, but somewhere in the middle of the third month he stops and starts leaving messages on Bobby’s answering machine instead, simple instructions detailing what he’s found and where it is, because, really, he’s tired of it all and thinks it’s someone else’s turn to play the hero for a change. By the start of the fifth month he’s not even doing that, he just drives into each new town, asks enough questions to know it’s another dead end and then leaves without looking back. But now, finally, six months to the day since he walked away from a burning shack with his brother’s body inside, with a new obsession eating away at the very core of him, he’s found the one thing that can make everything okay. And, as he sits quietly in the hollow shell of an abandoned factory, skin prickling in anticipation of the cool touch of the djinn’s hand on his forehead, Dean has only one wish in his head.
Characters: Dean, Sam.
Rating: (gen) R.
Summary: Four ways it all comes crashing down.
Warning. Death, death and more death. Also, spoilers for AHBL pt1.
Notes: So, I woke up today with a crushing headache and a hankering to write dark, angsty fic. Thus I did. Huge thanks to halfdutch for the beta.
This is how the world ends.
i
It should have been him. The words keep repeating in his head. It should have been him that died alone in a hospital room surrounded by the overpowering smell of disinfectant and it should have been him that took a knife to the back and fell to his knees, bleeding out in the middle of a deserted street as Sam screamed his name. If he’d been quicker to believe the Reaper’s words then Dad wouldn’t have had the chance to throw his life away and if he’d gotten to Sammy sooner he could’ve saved him like he promised. But he was too slow to accept and too slow to rescue and he failed them both in the end. Dean’s tired, so tired, of the hunt, of loss, of the accusing voice in his head, so he lays down next to Sam, curls round him on the narrow mattress just like he did when they were kids and lets the pills and the liquor mix with the lullaby of guilt that sings in his mind and slowly rocks him to sleep.
ii
He has no idea how Henriksen found them, it’s not like Cold Oak is chock full of people that could phone a tip in to the FBI hotline or anything. He figures it’s the Demon’s idea of a joke, a final fuck you before he moves on to rip a new family apart at the seams. Dean can’t decide if he should be pissed that the bastard can’t even be bothered to kill him himself, that he’s letting someone else do that for him, but then maybe that isn’t what the Demon wants, maybe he thinks Dean will go quietly and spend the rest of his days rotting in jail with a head full of regrets to drive him insane. Yeah, right, like that’s gonna happen. Outside, Henriksen is yelling that the place is surrounded for what seems like the hundredth time and Dean would really like him to shut the fuck up so he can say goodbye to Sammy in peace. He leans down and whispers see you soon in Sam’s ear and then turns to the door, checks his gun is loaded and then takes a deep breath. Right on cue he hears rain start to beat down on the roof; Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was always a favourite movie of his.
iii
Their whole life fits into the Impala. Everything they own can be packed neatly away inside it and yet there’s still room to spare. Dean thinks that’s pretty sad really, thinks that perhaps they should have picked up souvenirs from all the places they’ve been, created a little store of memories to pass down to the kids that neither of them is ever going to have. He tells Sam, as he straps him into the passenger seat, how cool it would be to have a snowglobe from every state or, at least, a stack of postcards, one from every town maybe, with the name of the thing they killed while they were there written on the back. Dean’s been talking to Sam a lot in the past few days, way more than normal in fact. He’s been telling Sam tales about their childhood, about how he spent the years they were apart and he’s been saying all the things he’s always meant to say but never has, things that Dean’s fairly sure Sam already knew but that he wished he’d said out loud all the same. He’s not crying anymore, he’s been there, done that and for way too many reasons than he cares to name, no, it’s just that the stench of so much gasoline in such an enclosed space is making his eyes water and his head ache like it’s fit to split wide open. His clothes are soaked through, clinging to his skin in a cold embrace that makes him shiver, not that he notices, he’s too busy listening to the clunk-click of the zippo in his hand as he flips the lid open and closed again and again. Dean turns to look at Sam, tells him it’s gonna be okay one last time then flicks the lid open and runs his thumb across the tiny wheel. There’s a spark and the world glows molten hot for a second before it fades out and all that’s left is the kiss of flames on his skin.
iv
It takes him six months of sleepless nights and endless days spent criss-crossing the country before he finally finds what he’s searching for. Half a year spent combing missing persons reports, chasing down clues that lead to nothing and trying to see order amongst the chaos of death and destruction that never seems to end. For the first two months he treats each case like nothing’s changed, hunting down whatever creature he stumbles across and dispatching it with a cold-eyed stare and an even colder heart, but somewhere in the middle of the third month he stops and starts leaving messages on Bobby’s answering machine instead, simple instructions detailing what he’s found and where it is, because, really, he’s tired of it all and thinks it’s someone else’s turn to play the hero for a change. By the start of the fifth month he’s not even doing that, he just drives into each new town, asks enough questions to know it’s another dead end and then leaves without looking back. But now, finally, six months to the day since he walked away from a burning shack with his brother’s body inside, with a new obsession eating away at the very core of him, he’s found the one thing that can make everything okay. And, as he sits quietly in the hollow shell of an abandoned factory, skin prickling in anticipation of the cool touch of the djinn’s hand on his forehead, Dean has only one wish in his head.