Word Count: 4361
Disc laimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW and all the lines in italics are taking directly from episode 10.03 and were written by Brad Buckner and Eugenie Ross-Leming.
AN: This is the result of watching the scene where Dean swings the hammer and thinking "what if". All I can say is I'm really sorry. I did not give my brain permission to imagine this.
All my love to BookwormBaby2580 for reading this and *dying* and still fixing all my mistakes. She keeps me writing.
Chapter 1: Last One Standing
When Dean finally came to, it was a slow awakening, like an unfolding of a consciousness that had been folded tightly to the seventh limit. He was vaguely aware of his body, which ached in every cellular fiber. It felt like acid was running through his veins and his skin itched. His head was a mass of constant throbbing. It took him a few moments to realize that his eyes were still closed. He figured he’d get around to trying to open them. Eventually.
Piece by piece, things started coming back to him—voices in his head that he struggled to make sense of at first.
Sam. I know you think you’re gonna try and fix me. But did it ever occur to you that I don’t want be fixed? Just let me go live my life, I won’t bother you. What do you care?
What the hell had happened? What was Sam trying to fix? And why? Sam had as much as said he didn’t care if Dean died. That was a very clear memory, which still tore at Dean. Sam had said they weren’t even brothers.
What the hell was going on?
Then Dean felt a blade being pushed into his abdomen. That was a memory too, but he could feel it as if it were happening at that moment. Was that what Sam was trying to fix? Had he died, and Sam was trying to make some sort of deal? But that didn’t make sense. If Metatron had killed Dean– Sam had said– Sam had said he lied. Dean remembered Sam had said he lied about being okay with Dean dying. So Sam might have made a deal…
I don’t want this.
Sammy, you know I hate shots.
I hate demons.
Sam’s voice, as clear as anything. As if he were talking to Dean, right now. But Dean was alone. Wherever he was, he somehow knew that he was alone. What about demons? Shots? Was Sam trying to cure a demon?
For all you know you could be killing me.
A cold and heavy feeling started to grow in Dean’s stomach. Images of Crowley, and a microphone and a tall leggy blonde started to flash through Dean’s mind. He could smell stale beer, cigarette smoke and sex.
This isn’t even the real you I’m talking to.
Dread began to take over Dean’s mind.
Oh, it’s the real me, alright. The new real me. The me that sees things for what they really are. Winchesters. Do-gooders. Fighting the natural order. Well let me tell you something, guys like me are the natural order. It’s the way it was set up.
It was Dean’s own voice saying these things in his memory. His own voice pronouncing his last name with such derision. Dean had always been proud to be Winchester. Fighting the good fight. It was everything he was.
What the fuck was going on? And where was Sam? Why wasn’t he here, with Dean? Dean tried to open his eyes, but his head was so heavy, and his eyes felt glued shut. It was like a recurring dream Dean often had, except Dean was almost positive he wasn’t asleep. Almost.
Don’t be so full of yourself, Sammy. You see, from where I’m sitting, there ain’t much difference from what I turned into, to what you already are… Which one of us is really the monster?
Oh Christ. Why would he say those things? He had never thought Sam was a monster, even when the kid was all hopped up on demon blood. He had never really believed his brother was evil. And Sam worried so much about being a freak, about being unclean. Why would Dean say those things?
Who cares what you meant? That line. That we thought was so clear, between us and the things that we hunted. Ain’t so clear is it? Wow. You might actually be worse than me.
Well now, Dean knew that wasn’t true. If anyone was a monster in this fucked up family of theirs, it was Dean. Sam always saw things in shades of grey, and all Dean saw was black and white. And he had done some unthinkable things as a result. Sam thought things through. Dean took action first, and lived with the guilt after.
Some feeling started creeping into his extremities and Dean felt his fingers clench. His hands were bound. Well, it wasn’t the first time Dean had woken up tied to something. He normally had a clearer memory of why he was bound though. He clenched his fingers again.
Let me ask you this, Sammy. If this doesn’t work, we both know what you gotta do to me right? You got the stomach for that Sam?
An image flashed through Dean’s head, of a man in a car bleeding to death. Of a knife wound, and a sticky blade and dark crimson, warm on his hands. He tried to lift his head again with little success.
Hey. Hey! Dean! Come on. Come back! Come back to me.
“I’m trying, Sammy,” Dean thought. “If I could just clear my damn head…” He straightened his back a little, feeling a hard, sturdy chair back dig into his spine. Perhaps if he just changed his position a little, slipped down a bit, he could tilt his head back to rest on the chair.
You notice that I tried to get as far away from you as possible? Away from your whining. Your complaining. I chose the King of Hell over you. (What the ever-loving fuck?) Maybe I was just tired of babysitting you. For always having to yank your lame ass out of the fire since… forever. Or maybe, maybe it was the fact that my mother would still be alive, if it wasn’t for you. That your very existence sucked the life out of my life.
Dean was starting to panic now. Those words could not be his. Jesus Christ, those words could not be his. He tried to slip his body down the chair a little, but his feet were apparently tied to the chair legs, leaving him very little room to maneuver. He managed to slip down maybe an inch or so, and fought to lift his head.
You never had a brother. Just an excuse for not manning up. Well guess what? I quit.
No. No you don’t. You don’t get to quit. We don’t get to quit, in this family. This family is all we have ever had.
Damn straight. That’s what Dean had been trying to tell Sam, the reason he let Gadreel in. They never give up, especially not on each other. Another image, of a stocky guy coming at Dean with a scream in his eyes and in his throat, flashed through Dean’s mind. The guy looked vaguely familiar, but all Dean really saw was Sam, watching him attack the man, with a desolate look on his face.
This is me. Yanking your lame ass out of the fire. You’re welcome.
So. Dean needed saving. That wasn’t much of a surprise, considering where Dean’s mind had been the last few weeks. Wait, was it the last few weeks? Dean tried to focus his memories—receiving the Mark of Cain seemed like it happened just a few days ago, but at the same time, felt years away.
C’mon Sammy. Don’t you wanna hang out with your big brother? A little quality time?
The tone of his voice made Dean shudder.
Smart, Sam. Locking the place down. Doors won’t open. I get it. But here’s the thing. I don’t wanna leave. Not ‘til I find you.
He was in the bunker. Okay, that was good. Sam locking him in the bunker seemed less good. He didn’t want to leave? Not until he found Sam? Why in the name of god would he be threatening Sam? Dean heard a click and his vision suddenly flooded with red. He had been in the dark and someone had switched the lights on. Which meant someone was coming. Dean stiffened, trying to put all his senses on alert. There wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do to defend himself, or Sam, while tied to a chair though.
Sammy! Just making this worse for yourself, man. Oh by the way. You can 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 work. And that devil’s trap, well. I just walked right over it. It smarted, but still.
Oh. Fuck. Sam had been trying to cure a demon. Sam had been trying to cure Dean. Dean’s throat closed, and the air became too thick to breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe.
Listen to me, Dean. We were getting close, okay? I know you’re still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments.
You act like I wanna be cured. Personally, I like the disease.
Dean started shaking. He was shaking so hard he thought the chair beneath him might shatter. Dread washed over him, fear like he had never felt before. Not even when he had seen his father looking back at him with yellow eyes.
Look, I don’t wanna use this blade on you.
A blade. A sharp, gleaming meat cleaver in his hand… No, not a cleaver. A blunt, heavy hammer. A weighty, solid hammer, perfect for bashing bra—
Well that sucks for you, doesn’t it. ‘Cause you really mean that.
Look if you come out of that room, I won’t have a choice.
Sure you will. And I know which one you’ll make. Isn’t that right, Sammy. But see, here’s the thing. I’m lucky. Hell, I’m blessed. ‘Cause there’s just enough demon left in me to kill you, with no choice at all.
Dear god, no. Careful footsteps. Sam was right in front of him, but his back was turned. Careful, creeping footsteps…
C’mon Sammy, let’s have a beer. Talk about it. I’m tired of playing. Let’s finish this game.
A firm swing of his arm back. Sammy turned quickly, but not quickly enough. Swing forward and…
Thud, thud, thud.
Well, look at you. Do it. It’s all you.
Dean had never gotten over how really warm blood is. And he was covered in it.
Jesus fuck, please no.
He finally managed to open his eyes, to look at the person who he knew was now standing in front of him. He took a deep breath and spoke, his voice hoarse.
“You look worried, Cas.”