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Dean had a newfound hatred for demons named Scott.
He grunted as he was slammed against the wall for what must have been the ninth time, his vision momentarily going black before he sluggishly shook his head. Growling, he managed to shove the demon who had taken a cocky step forward, throwing him off balance for the most precious of seconds granting him the time to pick up the fallen demon blade, holding it up just in time as the demon came rushing at him -- only to have the knife held against his throat.
The demon immediately raised his hand, as if placatingly, but still snarled anyway. “Killing me won’t grant you anything.”
Dean nodded with a slight shrug, his grip nonetheless steady on the knife. “True. But frankly, I’m kinda tired of getting thrown around like your personal ragdoll. So just for that,” and he pulled the knife away from Scott’s throat, only to shove it between the demon’s ribs.
Lighting up like a more satisfying version of a pumpkin on Halloween, Dean let the smoking corpse fall to the ground the moment it went limp in his hold. Freed from his burden, Dean took a step back, and then another, and another, until his back collided with the wall.
His vision thoroughly blurring at this point, Dean slid down the wall, his knees crumpling under him, until he was seated on the grimy warehouse ground, only feet away from the dead body.
Dean coughed, his hand coming up, and through his fading vision, he could make out the faint speckles of red splattering on the back of his hand before his sight went completely black.
oOo
He wasn’t really sure how he managed to get back to his motel room, but Dean really wasn’t going to question that right now. Heaving himself onto his bed, he took a moment to wait for the bout of dizziness and even more worryingly, urge to vomit, to pass, before he slowly straightened, groaning as he reclined against the headboard. Taking a few deep breaths, he reached over, groaning low in his throat as the action causing pain to light up through his torso, his other hand automatically wrapping around his chest, but his outstretched hand continuing on its path to grab the flask on the bedside table.
Taking a mouthful of whiskey, he swirled it around in his mouth, absently gazing at the muted TV, before something caught his attention.
Twisting around to grab the remote, he ignored the black spots dancing in front of him in favor of unmuting the TV.
“--cattle being ripped through, locals have reported sights of a gangly man seen running through the streets--”
Clenching his teeth, Dean started to mentally prepare himself for his next case.
oOo
Being roofied was never a fun experience, despite what regular drug users might say.
Not that Dean would know what they exactly said, because the times he did take drugs were never for the same reasons others probably took them for.
But right now, his vision swimming before starting to disappear as Dean went under… Dean thought that he could start to see the appeal.
Sam’s hand slapping him awake slapped the thoughts away as well, for the time being.
He barely managed to get a firm grip on the pain free memory of unconsciousness, probably the first time he actually managed to get what could count as more than a few solid minutes of dreamless shut eye, before he was dragged off to hunt the Pishtaco.
oOo
“Same circumstances… I wouldn’t.”
Dean could only stare, the words echoing in his head as he struggled to comprehend it, even as he felt the bottom of his world slip away, his weakened vision suddenly all the more threatening as he felt himself start to sway.
“I’m gonna get to bed.” As Sam slipped off the bench and exited the kitchen, not even looking back once, Dean was dimly aware of crashing back down on the bench, the table shaking with his abrupt weight.
The dull throbbing of his ribs wasn’t even enough to shake himself out of his stupor, but it was the cool sensation against his forehead that managed to shake Dean back into reality, enough to realize that he’d let his head drop down onto the table. He straightened, and when this time he couldn’t ignore the lightning pangs around his torso any longer, he grabbed the whiskey bottle, not even bothering to refill his glass, foregoing it to drink straight from the bottle instead.
Tipping his head back, his eyes slid close as he chugged the liquid, not even bothering to relish the burn of it, too intent on getting himself as plastered as possible, though he knew nothing would keep him asleep for long, not with the increased nightmares, and now, with Sam’s words still running in his head--
Dean’s hand slipped into his pocket. The roofie bottle from the resort was warm against his palm. Dean fingered the lid.
He didn’t even bother to move from the kitchen table, as he took his first dose.
oOo
He should have seen it coming.
But to be completely honest… Dean was at least hoping he’d have been able to get one stab in. Getting stabbed first really shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise… but it was just one more thing to disappoint everyone else around him, on top of everything else as well.
As blood slipped out of his body, the all too familiar tang of copper sharp in his mouth, Dean gasped, struggling to get a proper lungful of air, even as his vision started to completely fade. Permanently, now. And…
And Dean couldn’t wait. His senses weren’t the only things to fade away.
As the blood slipped out of his body, Dean realized… For the first time in weeks, maybe even months…
He couldn’t feel the pain any longer.
His head was lightened. His torso must have been going through absolute hell right now, there was no other explanation, because Dean knew he was decorated with injury on top of injury on top of injury, and yet. And yet, his entire body felt numb.
Bliss.
His body shook as it was forcefully moved, and the action sent a whole new wave of pain and feeling reeling back through his body, and Dean groaned. He’d been so close to finally letting go, slipping free and away, but for some goddamn reason, he wasn’t let go, because--
Because Sam was holding on to him. He gasped, a wet, shuddering, horrible sound, muted as it was to his own ears. Why the hell was Sam here, didn’t he realize that Metatron wasn’t dead, that Dean failed them, that he could come back at any moment and then Sam would never be free, would never--
“Sam, you got to get out of here before he comes back.”
But Sam was shushing him, his hands running all over Dean’s body, as if trying to find a single place he wasn’t injured, before settling to cradle Dean’s face, trying to steady Dean’s lolling head for him. Dean flinched, Sam’s hold too tight, too threatening, fingers slipping to his throat--
But then Sam was shifting in front of him, and it sounded like he was mumbling stupid, baseless assurances. Things you would say to a dying man, to help ease his way.
He sounded comforting.
The hand that pressed against the stab wound in his chest was anything but comforting.
Dean barely managed to hold back the whimper that threatened to rip free. Instead, he pushed it inside in trying to reassure Sam, like how it should always go, to let him know it was alright, he didn’t have to keep up this--this ruse, or whatever it was, any longer.
“Listen to me. It’s better this way.” Sitting here, bloodied from his last fight, knuckles bearing the evidence that Dean Winchester still went down swinging.
Only to be just another one of the many losses of war, swept away in a history of blood and sweat striving to carve a path for the new generation. A path that was supposed to be free of all this shit, free of angels and monsters and apocalypses and the family business.
Free for Sam to be happy, liberated from the burden that was the family he had the misfortune to be born into.
But right now, Sam was demanding an explanation, for what, Dean had no idea, but that didn’t stop him from letting a truth out. The truth that, even though Sam wouldn’t care, would only have him rest assured that letting go of Dean was right. And even though he wouldn’t, there wouldn’t be place for the slightest bit of misplaced guilt to fester within Sam, the kind that Dean was told to carry, and probably unconsciously taught his brother about in the process.
Just one of the many other disappointments.
“The Mark. It’s making me into something I don’t want to be.”
Something you’ll only hate even more. Something that you don’t deserve to see, don’t deserve to be ladened with anymore.
But Sam was starting to pull Dean’s arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about the Mark. We’ll figure out the Mark later. Just hold on, okay? Get you some help.” He grunted as he hoisted Dean into a standing position, but the sound was overwhelmed by the moan Dean let out, his whole world swirling around like clothes in the washing machine, and when it finally somewhat rightened again under his feet, Dean was all too painfully aware of every ding and scratch on his body screaming for attention.
As they made their way to the exit, Sam practically dragging Dean despite his useless feet, the cloth started to slip free, some crazily active part of his brain cuing Dean into reaching his hand up to hold it against the wound. The pressure felt like his entire chest was imploding, but gritting his teeth, he snarled as he pressed the cloth even harder.
“What happened with you being okay with this?” He didn’t know why he was asking. Probably trying to remind his brother that it was okay, he didn’t have to waste any more energy only to fruitlessly drag his brother around. Then again, being vertical and trying to walk was probably making him bleed out faster, so Sam was probably only doing Dean a favor. So as much as he’d rather lay down, Dean guessed he’d just entertain his brother one last time, right?
“I lied.”
It took Dean a moment to figure out what they were talking about again, and when he did, he couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “Ain’t that a bitch.” And it sure was, wasn’t it. For Sam, to even now, try to make Dean’s death easy.
But if doing this was what was helping Sam, then Dean would just have to go along with the ride.
A few steps later, and Dean changed his mind.
“Sam. Hold up. Hold up.” And god, he tried, did he genuinely try, but he couldn’t keep this up any longer. Dean would be damned if he disappointed his brother any longer, but this was one thing he couldn’t -- he just needed to sit down, dammit.
Take a deep breath.
“I got to say something to you.”
Feel the blood seeping into his lungs.
“What?”
Sam’s eyes piercing into his.
“I’m proud of us.”
Sam’s eyes misted, but--no. That was his vision.
His vision going black, taking Sam’s face away into the darkness as well.
Dean’s head dropped, even as the image of his brother burned bright within his mind.
Until even that faded.
“Dean!”
oOo
“Sammy! You’re just making this worse for yourself, man! Oh, by the way, you can, uh… blame yourself for me getting loose! All that blood you pumped into me to make me human… Well. The less demon I was, the less the cuffs worked.”
That really should have reassured Sam.
Seeing as his brother was still a demon, however? Sam was a little too preoccupied to be feeling any semblance to relief.
Dean’s voice continued to ring out through the hallways as he hunted Sam down, getting closer to where he was hiding from his brother’s -- no. From the demon’s view. “And that Devil’s trap? Well, I just walked right across it. It smarted, but still. Not like it hurt more than anything else during my stint as a human. Gotta tell you, Sammy,” And now his voice boomed as he inched ever closer to Sam. “Being a human? You realize how much it actually sucks once you’re finally freed from all that pain, all that misery.”
The lights suddenly turned back on, and Sam jumped forward. He closed the door just in time, hearing the slight scoff even through the thick door.
“That’s your big move?”
Until Castiel gets here, yeah, Dean. That’s my fucking big move.
“Listen to me, Dean! We were getting close, okay? I know you’re still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments.”
The only thing Sam was met with was worrying silence.
“Dean?”
And then the door was struck, as Dean attacked it with his hammer.
Sam jumped backwards.
“You act like I want to be cured!” Dean suddenly yelled out, and though his voice remained steady, the blows he landed against the door only increased in tempo. “As if I want to go back to that dreadful existence as a human. Consistently in pain from one injury or another, by trying to help out other people.” He sneered the word, and Sam could see the complete disgust as Dean pushed apart the wood, revealing more and more of himself as the door was ripped apart. “Not that you cared, did you? Couldn’t even tell when I was coughing blood right under your nose, but now that I’m in a lot better fighting state than you can ever hope to be, ‘course that’s when you start noticing me, huh, Sammy?” A piece of wood went flying as Dean hammered through it with all his strength.
Sam swallowed. “Dean, stop that! Look, I don’t want to use this blade on you!”
Dean paused, slowly straightening as a deadly smile graced his lips. “Funny. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure a few months ago you didn’t have mind as much, when someone else used a blade on me.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Sam’s eyes narrowed, but despite his words, he tried to keep a steady hold on the knife in between him and his brother.
“Come, on, Sammy!” And he started kicking through the last few pieces of wood.
Sam didn’t wait around any longer. Turning, he ran, even as his brother’s voice echoed behind him.
“Let’s have a beer, talk all about it then. How I was left alone, hunting demon after demon to get the Mark, and then the Blade, ignoring how I was killing myself in the process. Not that I mind about that anymore. Right now?” Dean’s voice faded, before abruptly ringing out, marking his location as closer… but still muffled. “I’m tired of playing. Let’s finish this game!” Dean roared.
Sam panted, backing up against a wall, trying to ignore the confusion swirling in his head. His heart was aching, and he didn’t even know why, goddammit, but he didn’t pay heed to any of that right now. Instead, Sam turned to look around the corner, expecting to see Dean.
Only, the hallway was empty.
Turning back around, he barely had time to register the hammer flying at his head before he ducked, the object getting lodged into the wall instead. Taking advantage, but acting more on instinct than anything else, Sam straightened in one fluid movement, holding the knife up to Dean’s throat.
Dean smiled.
“Well… Look at you.” He smirked, letting his mouth drop open tauntingly. “Do it. Wipe away all traces of your brother, hm!”
The knife fell from Sam’s useless fingers.
Dean’s eyes went black, his smirk growing. He took a step forward.
But then grunted, as he found himself restrained.
“It’s over.” Castiel’s eyes began to glow, a piercing contrast against the solid pools of Dean’s blackened eyes.
“Dean, it’s over.”
Dean roared, the sound vibrating through the halls, Castiel not once letting go.
“It’s over.”
Sam trembled.