By: Karen B.
Season Five Spoiler Warning
Summary: Short MBV tag. Dean in the scrap yard scene.
Disclaimer: Not the owner!
Rated: Dark and ugly with a little light shining at the end. A short exploration of what Dean might be thinking/feeling after being told by Famine he had nothing left, not even a soul.
Thank you for your care and time,
Vaya Con Dios,
His life had been shattered like a mirror into a thousand nightmarish, fragmented pieces since the age of four. Life happened and life ended, he got that. He'd gotten that before his child's mind ever should have been able to get that.
Dean glanced up at the sky -- a monstrous black thing that went on and on -- a rabbit hole in reverse. Was there a heaven? If there was a hell there had to be its polar opposite. If he could jump in reverse, he'd hurdle his body toward heaven. Find the wretched creature that moved time, space and all the universes combined. Beg for help. Face to face. Ask the ten-thousand dollar question that kept stomping his heart into the dirt.
Why the heartache?
Why the suffering?
Why were the Winchester brother's lives so freaked up and completely out of their hands?
"Please," Dean begged, waited, got no answer, not so much as a breeze tickling his ear.
Dean shifted from foot to foot uneasily. He was as dead as the graveyard of cars that surrounded him. They were all screwed. The weight that had been on his shoulders for so long had finally oozed into his heart -- his soul. This was all his fault. All of it. No ifs, ands, buts, or two-ways about it. The world was going to end, and it was going to end ugly. "Please," Dean asked again, beyond grief.
Everything he'd ever touched turned to char broil, black as coal. His very own brother lay cuffed to a cot, withering and rotting like a banana peel left in the summer sun, all because of him. Dean's dark thoughts held tight to hell's leash of despair, held tight to the sloshing whiskey bottle in his trembling hand. He'd never gotten out of hell, not really. His soul was branded. Like the ass end of a cow -- permanently marking him a five-headed monster spouting everything demonic.
Waves of dizziness made Dean's legs tremble, whiskey splashing through every square inch of his body.
"What? You want me on my knees?" Dean growled; hit both knees, never taking his eyes off the sky. "Fine!" He set the half-empty whiskey bottle in the dirt before him. "Here I am!" He yelled, arms outstretched. "On my knees!" A huge knot boiled in the back of his throat. "Do you even give a crap?" His heart hammered. "What else do you want from me? You want me to dig my own grave? Bury myself alive! What's it going to take to get some help down here?" Dean's lips quivered. "Sam and I...we're not your stringed puppets! I'm not out here counting stars, counting shadows. I'm ask…I'm begging…praying to you for some…for a little help!" Dean bowed his head staring down inside the bottle and wishing he could crawl in and swim around in the liquid; even knowing that would no longer take away his pain. "Can't." The one word cut into his heart. "I can't!" He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Don't make me…us... do this. I won't do this!" His shoulders hunched and shook. "I love him. He's my brother. My baby brother."
If you can't save him --you have to kill him.
How could Dean lead the lamb to the slaughter? The very lamb he'd spent his whole existence protecting, shielding, defending. Silence hung in the air.
"I…I won't ki-kill him." The lump in his throat caught fire, too hot to swallow. "I'd rather put a gun to my head and pull the trigger myself." Dean whispered brokenly.
He shivered hard, swallowing that impossibly fiery lump. Just when he thought there was nothing left to do but finish the whiskey, something clicked deep inside. Dean's eyes snapped open, the light of the moon causing shadows to leap about from car to car. Dean's body went rigid. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was what was left of his damned soul. Maybe it was his prayer -- somehow being answered. Dean couldn't be sure which.
"If you don't take the friggin' wheel…" He ground his teeth, looking skyward. "I swear to you, I will." Dean's eyes welled and he wobbled on his knees. "I swear it!" he yelled.
Sinking back on his heels, Dean grabbed the neck of the whiskey and turned the bottle upside down, splattering the liquid to the ground.
No one was going to tell him how to live or how to die. No one was going to tell him he couldn't get back his soul. He wasn't going to let his brother be taken from him. Wasn't going to let heaven or hell flatten them both, like mindless dandelions being mowed over.
"I swear to you…" Dean snarled, like a wounded animal. "My will is as strong as his," he hissed." I'll say yes to that son-of-a-bitch, Michael. I promise you..." Empty bottle in hand, Dean stood -- courageous. "... I will say yes..." He paused to take in a breath. "Let that bastard in. Then I'll shove Michael's sword straight into my own heart!" he hissed through tightly clenched teeth. "Kill us both with one stroke. You know I'll do it!" Dean whirled and pitched the empty whiskey bottle over the roof of the Impala, into the weeds. "If he was your brother, you'd do the same damn thing!" He choked out a sob.
Dean was going to take back his life. Without another thought, without another prayer, or another slug of whiskey.
"So help me, God!" He yelled, his voice echoing into the night.
Battle line drawn, pain pocketed, Dean turned with newfound strength and headed back inside to be where he always belonged -- with his brother.