Notes: I hate to say it, but this is The End. There's at least ten years between Shrapnel and now, and a lot of things happened in those ten years that I'm not sure I'll ever write about. If I do, rest assured you'll be the first to know.
So this is the Angelface 'verse! You're not required to read any of the stories that came before this one, but if you don't you may not understand what exactly is happening. I claim no responsibility for symptoms of confusion or anger.
And if, for some crazy reason, you want to ghost-write an Angelface story for me then throw me a PM and we'll talk business.
It's a surprise, he thinks, that it would end this way. He'd grown up assuming that he'd be killed in the field by hunters or demons. But here he is all the same, strapped in place, right arm twingeing from the shoulder down like it hasn't for years (or when it's about to snow). For some reason they've covered his eyes and he thinks it's probably because it's harder for most people to kill a man when you can see his eyes. Dean thinks it would be faster if he'd done it himself last night in his cell. He's not entirely sure why he didn't, maybe so his last words will actually be recorded and not lost to empty concrete and steel.
Lethal injection would be quicker anyway. Without a gun or a certain amount of drugs the whole killing yourself thing seemed like it tended to drag on.
Dean didn't recognise the voice of the attending physician (or whatever-the-fuck they were called), but he knew the guards who'd taken him from his cell hadn't changed. He'd been a model prisoner since he'd first gotten to the maximum security centre, quiet and charming; He never started fights, only defended himself if he needed to, and all for this reason. So he'd actually get an answer when he asked the big questions.
"Hey Schmidt," Dean flashes one of his best smiles, "any reporters out there?"
"Biggest crowd of them I've ever seen," the guard replies. The sound of his voice came from somewhere to Dean's right, probably by the door somewhere, or standing on one side of the viewing window. "You've got six people with badges. All the major news stations."
"Celebrity killings, man." Dean chuckles to himself. "What fuckin' ghouls."
"You're famous, Winchester. They want you off the streets."
"I'm already off the streets."
Someone cleared their throat and Dean would have made a lip-zipping motion if he was actually capable of moving his hands. He thinks about what his last words are actually going to be, if they give him a chance to say anything. He considers pissing everyone off with something like an award-acceptance speech, breifly considers something that's classic serial-killer, but they're just idle fantasies. He already knows what he wants to say.
Dean ignores the rest of the pomp, counting imaginary starbursts to pass the time. He snaps back to attention when an unfamiliar voice asks him; "Is there anything you want to say?"
"Yeah," Dean replies easily. He clears his throat. "You'll never catch my brother, and if you catch Cas it's only 'cause he wanted to be caught. Family was everything to me, I regret nothing... And, shit, what the hell - The Winchester legacy will live on, bitches!"
He can't hear the reaction, but he'd guess that it's only the second half of those words that are actually going to make it to the news. An odd sensation is spreading through his limbs, one he recognises as anaesthetic. In the split second before he's out cold he remembers the process; Three injections, then they wait and make sure he's dead. He thinks it would be really fucking funny if somehow he survived.
He knows he hasn't when his eyes snap open and he finds himself lying on a flat surface much different from the last. He's still strapped down, but this time he's naked and the slab burns cold underneath him. What he can see is actually pretty heartening - he'd been imagining something different, something less abrstract. Dean knows he probably wont feel that way for very long. It is Hell after all, it's not like the place is supposed to be fun.
"Hello Dean," A voice whispers into his ear. He can't turn his head, but there's a sudden sensation like vertigo and then he's staring the being - a little girl in a red dress - in the face. "Would you like to play?"
Dean gives her his most charming smile. "What are we playing today, doll?"
"My name's Lillith," the girl tells him. "And we're playing carve the killer."
Dean thinks for a moment. "Yeah, sure," he says finally, giving himself over to the reality of Hell the same way his father had years before, "I'm up for that."
It would be painful, brutal, would cut him to the core and strip him down to the barest bones of his own self. But Dean knew something that most people who went to Hell had no notion of; One day this particular pain would end, and he would walk free through the dark kingdom fundamentally changed. One day Dean would be a demon, and then it was only a matter of time before he found a way out.
He was hoping he could do it before Cas turned fifty.