Spoilers for season four (just a warning)
When I was eight my brother began asking me questions. Mostly about why we moved around, why we didn't have a mom, where our dad went? Shit like that. He asked for six months, no matter how many times I begged him not to. Finally, he just stopped one day, out of the blue, and never asked again. Not until he was eight and found Dad's journal.
Now, over two decades later, he's Mr. Answers. He's the one who answers my questions. What creatures we're hunting? How to kill them? Where to find them? All five W's and one H. Him and that trusty computer he lugs around. But no matter how many answers he gives me, there are still questions he's not answering. Like: what'd he do when I was 'away' for those four months? When did he and Ruby become so buddy, buddy? How did his powers-powers that didn't even work before I went 'down under'-begin to manifest so quickly? So many questions and not enough answers.
Of course, I really shouldn't talk. Mr. Answers still had questions; mostly about my time in Hell. But how do you explain to your little brother, the one who has looked up to you since he was no older than three or four, the mental, physical, and emotional abuse one lone demon can put you through. How a demon can take everything, every wall you put up, and demolish it to nothing. Leaving you blubbering like a baby, begging for mercy. You can't; you just can't.
And really, that's not even the worst part. What's worse is what I did after the torturing. How weakness brought me to the open arms of a demon, how weakness had me carving my own victims. And as much as I regretted it, as much as I was sick to my stomach for doing it, I enjoyed it. I was no better than Alastair, no better than any demon really. And there's no way I can explain that to my brother. No way he'd understand. None.
So, like always, I suppressed my feelings. I drank a lot in hopes that the alcohol would numb any and all emotions. But the nightmares would creep up on me, like silent assassins. And the pain, blood, fire, and screams would fill my head once more.
I could probably deal with those, those were nothing. It was the voice-the all too familiar voice, the one I had grown to know as well as my own father's-that got to me. His voice. Alastair's. "You want the pain to stop? I can make the pain stop. Just one simple word and all this will stop. Just say yes to my request, Son. All will be well, you'll see."
I held off, I did. Thirty years of saying 'no.' Thirty years, my whole life, of being the strong willed Winchester I was raised to be. Despite the pain, despite the fact that half the time I wept while on the rack, despite the fact that the small voice in the back of my head taunted me every single day, I held off. But when the beginning of the thirty-first year hit, when the voice became the only company I had and was sounding mighty convincing, was the finally straw.
I survived thirty years of pain, but I couldn't do it anymore. I just couldn't. So, when Alastair offered I accepted. I said, "Yes, I'll do it." In a broken voice, nonetheless, but I said yes. Some hero I am, right?
You'd think, after being raised by the one hunter who never backed down from anything, after being around other hunters who were just as stubborn as my father, I'd have held on ten more years. Or, at least until the angels dragged me out. But I didn't, nope, because I am weak.
Weakness was never an option for my father and I probably let him down. I was glad he wasn't in Hell with me when I agreed to become Alastair's 'student.' I don't think I could have taken his betrayal filled eyes watching me do what I did. Besides Alastair, the way his sick and twisted mind worked, probably would have assigned my dad to me. And I knew I could never handle that.
Yes, another one-shot of the beautiful mess that is Dean Winchester. I am an addict, I know :P
Thanks for reading, drop a comment if you can, and I own nothing.