#tw: dean winchester's narrative arc being fucked
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15x20 - The Barn (1200 words)
https://lottitties.tumblr.com/post/635351778553167872 - inspired by this post and my rant tags underneath
It's a simple job, one he likes, taking out vamps. He’s always been good at it: tracking down the nests, scouting out their numbers, methodically working through the bastards until they all fall to his feet. Yeah, Dean’s pretty damn good at killing vamps.
His heart pounds heavily, but the adrenaline feels good. Feels like something other than emptiness at least. He’s with Sam, fighting side-by-side, just as it should be. The world is right when his blade slices through the skull of a vamp like butter; the world is right when he watches Sam duck and weave all the punches, his extra long limbs an unfair advantage. But Dean holds his own, he has his own tricks, knows his body too well to fuck up in the dance of combat.
A vamp launches at him and they wrestle clumsily. Vamps are still damn strong and Dean’s only human, he’s Dean freakin’ Winchester, but still only human. The barn is a death trap in of itself, he hates them. There’s always hidden dangers like broken wood and nails and hooks and farming equipment half-hidden under hay. But Dean’s good. He knows how to scope; his eyes are quick and efficient as he takes in the shadows and the rough edges and the places that might cause an issue for taking back the upper hand. Always gotta plan on getting it back, don't just assume you’ll never lose it. That’s good Hunting.
So when the vamp in his stupid clown mask grab dean by the lapels and pushes him backwards, Dean knows he needs to slow the momentum. There’s an itching in the back of his skull that screams do not hit that wall. Whatever he registered, it wasn’t conscious, but it was enough to get his instincts to kick in. He braces himself, tries to move his centre of gravity just enough to topple their balance - hitting the ground is better. He can work with being on the ground.
But Dean doesn’t hit the ground.
Vamps are strong. Even when Dean was a younger man, when he spent all his time on hunts, running after monsters and dragging dead bodies onto pyres, it’s hard to fight them. He’s not so young now. He spends most of his days in the bunker, cooking and researching and watching bad daytime TV. So, he can’t quite get a handle on this, can’t throw him off the way he wants, and it's tiring. A lump lodges in his throat as he’s dragged backwards, flailing, knowing, anticipating...
All of the air is knocked from his lungs as his spine crashes into a beam behind him. It hurts. But it’s not the usual pain. His chest is tight. His legs are weak. How ever the rest of the vamps fall, he doesn't register, all he know is he is stuck. A strange calmness comes over him. So, this is death, huh? Not as dramatic as he’d hoped for, but honestly, Dean’s had enough drama for ten more lifetimes. He regrets that it was a vamp that got him though, his Dad would be so disappointed to see him trip at such a low hurdle. But his Dad isn’t here. And at least he has time to say goodbye this way.
“Whoah Sammy,” he laughs, touching the sharp spike protruding from his abdomen, his fingers come away wet. “Don’t think I can move. Feels like it’s holding me together.”
“Dean, no,” Sam is panicked. Pure panic and fear on his baby brother’s face. It hurts worse than being impaled. “We can fix this, we can-”
“No, Sam, no more bringing me back. I’m done,” his lungs shudder. “This is it.”
“No.”
His courage starts to fail. Dean thought he could accept death, he’s done it so many times before, how different would it be this time? But the pain in Sam’s voice, the tears that start falling immediately... He’s suddenly afraid.
He can’t leave Sam, what was he thinking?!
“I’m scared,” he whispers. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” Sam grips his hands tight. “I’m here.”
Every breath is harder than the last. His spine is compressed and the pressure on his brain makes it hard to focus on Sam’s face. He’s cold. He tries not to think of his blood, pooling inside of him, slowly more and more diverted from his heart and brain.
He tries not to think about how Cas fixed so much worse. He tries not to think about Cas ever. But he imagines Cas appearing in the doorway, trench coat billowing around him in a way that should not be attractive but totally is. He imagines those big blue eyes wide in horror. Cas was always horrified when Dean got hurt.
Cas, if you can hear me-
No. That isn’t fair.
Dean stares into his brother’s eyes and wonders what to say. How do you condense a life like theirs into a few moments? Cas had a pretty great final speech. You just gotta talk from the heart. So he talks about that night he went to Stanford, the night everything changed. He talks about how proud of Sam he is; and he makes a few self-deprecating jokes that he wishes he didn’t believe; and he makes Sam promise:
“Let me go, okay? You can let me go.”
“Dean-”
“Let me go, Sammy.”
“Okay. You can go Dean,” Sam holds him tightly, taking more and more of his weight as Dean loses strength and consciousness. “You can go. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.”
“I love you so much.”
Dying is different every time you do it. Only a few people know that though. For Dean, this death is painful but quiet. His body shuts down with blood loss and being ripped apart inside, but it manifests as a stillness. The great, yawning abyss of pain in his chest finally fades away as his life does too. The relief is almost worth it.
If he doesn't think about his sobbing brother, holding the last family he has as they die in his arm; if he doesn't think about Miracle waiting for them at home; if he doesn't think about the application for a mechanic’s position on his desk; if he doesn't think about all of the life he planned to live now he was allowed... Yeah, it’s a relief. Not to feel like his heart has been scooped out of his chest every time he sees a couple, every time he sees Cas’ coat in the trunk of his car, every time he turns to make a comment about the dumb show he's watching but the sofa is empty next to him...
Dean knows suicidal, could consider it one of his best friends at this point, but he hesitates to answer whether he tried his best not to die tonight. Was he really bested so easily, or did some part of him allow it?
His hands go numb, the last thing he feels with them are Sam’s hands.
His head lulls forward and rests on Sam’s shoulder and Dean can’t lift it again. He can’t even speak to apologise.
He concentrates on dragging air into his lungs.
Until he can’t.
And so, quietly, unnoticed by the rest of the universe, and with great relief, Dean Winchester slips from life to death for the last time.
#personal#my fic#my writing#spn fic#spn 15x20#15x20 fic#supernatural#dean winchester#sam winchester#that scene#I want to kill myself!!!!#tw: death#tw: grief#tw: dean winchester's narrative arc being fucked#fanfic
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