![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTitle: These Days Are Come To An End
Pairing: None, though there are a couple of references to Lucifer!Sam/Dean
Rating: R, for language and themes
Words: ~1450
Spoilers: Heavy duty for 5x04, "The End".
Warnings: Character death, as happens in 5x04
A/N: I started this last fall, right after 5x04 aired. Had it all written but for the very last couple of paragraphs, and then my brain stalled out. I re-watched that ep recently, and it kicked the story back to life in my head (naturally, because this isn't any of the several stories I need to be working on). I really wanted it to be a Sam/Dean story, but it wasn't meant to be, except for some mindfuckery on Lucifer's part.
Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
serotonin_storm and arliss for reading through it for me. I really appreciated it, ladies. This isn't really a happy story, but hopefully y'all will still want to read it, and that Dean's voice will ring true. Thanks :)
Your phone jerks you awake, pulling you out of jumbled dreams of fire and blood.
Talking to Sam doesn't make those images go away. If anything, it intensifies them, the fire burning you with icy-cold flames the longer you talk.
"We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us…love, family, whatever it is…they are always going to use it against us, and you know that. Nah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways."
"Dean, don't do this."
"Goodbye, Sam."
You hang up the phone wondering how it's possible for that to hurt worse than anything you were subjected to in Hell.
~~~~~
In the months that follow, you don't sleep much. When you do, you dream about Sam. Sam laughing and happy, Sam crying, Sam angry. You dream about the little boy with curly hair who pouted, and the older boy who wanted so desperately to fit in, to be normal. The young man who left in search of that normal. You see him in your dreams over and over, holding his arms out to you, mouth working, saying your name.
You dream of your brother standing naked before you, his body painted in moonlight and shadows, his eyes hidden in the dark. He reaches for you, a small smile tilting his mouth at the corners.
I've been waiting for you, Dean. Hoping you'd come to me. Hoping you'd need me. Want me. Love me. I miss you so much, Dean. So much.
He's warm against you, large and solid, and he draws your hand down his chest, over his belly, down to where he's fully erect. Your heart thumps hard and fast in your chest when he curls your fingers around him, his palm hot around your hand. He grasps your erection with his other hand, strokes you slowly, then faster, leaning in to brush his mouth across yours—
You sit straight up in bed, gasping for air, body throbbing with need at the same time your stomach curdles with nausea.
"Dean?"
Bobby's right outside your door, face drawn in concern, but you shake your head. "Just a—just a bad dream," you mumble, wondering where the hell that came from.
"If you say so," he says, disbelief evident on his face and in his words. "I was coming to see--Castiel's back, if you wanna come down and talk to him."
"Good news?" Hasn't been any yet, in the almost ten months since you parted ways with Sam, but you keep hoping. Keep pretending to hope while the world disintegrates around you. You slide out of bed and reach for your boots, wondering idly when the last time was you actually undressed to sleep.
Bobby shakes his head. "More small towns reporting that demon virus you talked about. Looks like it might be starting to spread."
"Just fucking peachy." It's cold in here, and your fingers are stiff when you fumble with the bootlaces, but you're not going to turn the heat on yet. Conserving everything seems to be the way to go—looks like the world's going to end after all, just in slow motion.
"We should call Sam—" You look up at Bobby and shake your head.
"No."
"Dean."
"No." You turn your back on Bobby, sitting on the edge of your bed until you hear him wheel away, then square your shoulders and head for the living room. If Cas is back with word about the virus, maybe the slow motion is going to pick up a bit.
~~~~~
You aren't anywhere near Detroit when Sam falls, and the city along with it, but you get word via the refugees fleeing.
You spend hours afterward screaming yes up at the night sky, hope clogging your throat that someone will hear, will come, will help. At this point, you would even welcome Zachariah.
No one comes then, or in the days that follow, and eventually you stop: calling, crying, hoping.
~~~~~
The Croatoan virus is hands-down the scariest shit you've ever seen. There's no cure, no way to stop it spreading, and nothing to do but kill the ones infected.
Most nights you're lucky to get two, maybe three hours of sleep between patrolling and supply runs, weapons training and tactical drills, and the thousand other things that always seem to need doing.
If you're honest with yourself, you hate sleeping, because that's when the dreams come.
When he comes.
The landscape in the dreams always changes; it's never exactly the same twice, and you never know if he's going to try and seduce you, hug you, or talk to you and fuck with your head. You're never sure if you're going to fight it or give in. Some nights it's too hard to close your eyes and resist, even if it means waking up to puke up the contents of your stomach after the devil fucks you, wearing your brother's face.
This time, he's waiting for you on a park bench, slouching back against the wood, long legs stretched out in front of him, tossing breadcrumbs down and smiling at the birds gathering around him. He looks so fucking peaceful, and it cuts you deep inside, to see that peace.
You look good, Dean, he says, voice a low, soft rumble. You flinch away when he stands, raises a hand toward you, but the touch is tender. Caring.
When he smiles, his eyes light up and his dimples peek out, and you ache so deep down inside you feel it in your bones. You want to say his name, want to hug him, hold him, hang on tight to him.
But it's not him. It's not Sammy; it's not even Sam. Hasn't been Sam in a long, long time.
"Fuck off," you tell him, closing your eyes against the gentle caresses, the feel of his fingers gliding over your face.
When you wake up your face is wet, tears tracking where his fingers touched you.
~~~~~
Bobby dies at the hands of a mob of Croats, out of their head with the madness the virus brings.
The part of you that didn't die when Sam said yes dies then, tiny remnants of hope shriveling up inside you, leaving just a cold, hard pit there.
You find that cold, hard place useful when you come across demons; it makes it easier to do whatever needs to be done to get information. You don't care anymore if it's the demon or the human host that screams and pleads for the pain to stop.
You don't care about much of anything, anymore.
~~~~~
The Colt feels good in your hand; heavy, cold iron that burns with promise.
You're going to kill the devil, or die trying.
~~~~~
Oh, man. Something is broken in you.
Your past self looks at you with a combination of pity and horror, and you wish you could feel what he's feeling. Wish you could feel anything beyond the overwhelming sense of soon. Like you're running a race and you can see the finish line, but you're too exhausted even to be excited or hopeful.
You wonder if you'll feel anything, once Lucifer's dead. You wonder if you'll cry, or laugh, or collapse.
It's easy to clock your past self; he's not expecting it. If he won't get onboard with this, fine. He goes down quickly, almost gracefully, and it's time to move on out. Send in the troops to draw enemy fire.
Cas gives you a little half-smile and a nod as they head out. You're pretty sure he knows. You wonder if he'll forgive you.
~~~~~
You've seen him over and over in your dreams, but dreams aren't reality. Reality is standing right in front of you, dressed all in white. A mockery of purity and innocence.
Its face is heartbreakingly familiar; hazel eyes shaped like a cat's, and dimples when he smiles at you.
Unbidden, your mouth shapes the word: Sammy.
You never had a chance. Never. It's in his eyes and his smile; in the way he holds himself.
Victorious.
You can't even care, any more. You're so tired, so worn out from fighting a war that no one will ever win; all you want to do is let it come.
You raise the Colt, hear the metallic click when you draw the trigger back--
You see his face – your face – staring in horror as Sam rests his foot against your neck. There's just enough time to think I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry, Sammy, before everything goes black.
~fin~
Pairing: None, though there are a couple of references to Lucifer!Sam/Dean
Rating: R, for language and themes
Words: ~1450
Spoilers: Heavy duty for 5x04, "The End".
Warnings: Character death, as happens in 5x04
A/N: I started this last fall, right after 5x04 aired. Had it all written but for the very last couple of paragraphs, and then my brain stalled out. I re-watched that ep recently, and it kicked the story back to life in my head (naturally, because this isn't any of the several stories I need to be working on). I really wanted it to be a Sam/Dean story, but it wasn't meant to be, except for some mindfuckery on Lucifer's part.
Many thanks to
serotonin_storm and arliss for reading through it for me. I really appreciated it, ladies. This isn't really a happy story, but hopefully y'all will still want to read it, and that Dean's voice will ring true. Thanks :)Your phone jerks you awake, pulling you out of jumbled dreams of fire and blood.
Talking to Sam doesn't make those images go away. If anything, it intensifies them, the fire burning you with icy-cold flames the longer you talk.
"We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us…love, family, whatever it is…they are always going to use it against us, and you know that. Nah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways."
"Dean, don't do this."
"Goodbye, Sam."
You hang up the phone wondering how it's possible for that to hurt worse than anything you were subjected to in Hell.
In the months that follow, you don't sleep much. When you do, you dream about Sam. Sam laughing and happy, Sam crying, Sam angry. You dream about the little boy with curly hair who pouted, and the older boy who wanted so desperately to fit in, to be normal. The young man who left in search of that normal. You see him in your dreams over and over, holding his arms out to you, mouth working, saying your name.
You dream of your brother standing naked before you, his body painted in moonlight and shadows, his eyes hidden in the dark. He reaches for you, a small smile tilting his mouth at the corners.
I've been waiting for you, Dean. Hoping you'd come to me. Hoping you'd need me. Want me. Love me. I miss you so much, Dean. So much.
He's warm against you, large and solid, and he draws your hand down his chest, over his belly, down to where he's fully erect. Your heart thumps hard and fast in your chest when he curls your fingers around him, his palm hot around your hand. He grasps your erection with his other hand, strokes you slowly, then faster, leaning in to brush his mouth across yours—
You sit straight up in bed, gasping for air, body throbbing with need at the same time your stomach curdles with nausea.
"Dean?"
Bobby's right outside your door, face drawn in concern, but you shake your head. "Just a—just a bad dream," you mumble, wondering where the hell that came from.
"If you say so," he says, disbelief evident on his face and in his words. "I was coming to see--Castiel's back, if you wanna come down and talk to him."
"Good news?" Hasn't been any yet, in the almost ten months since you parted ways with Sam, but you keep hoping. Keep pretending to hope while the world disintegrates around you. You slide out of bed and reach for your boots, wondering idly when the last time was you actually undressed to sleep.
Bobby shakes his head. "More small towns reporting that demon virus you talked about. Looks like it might be starting to spread."
"Just fucking peachy." It's cold in here, and your fingers are stiff when you fumble with the bootlaces, but you're not going to turn the heat on yet. Conserving everything seems to be the way to go—looks like the world's going to end after all, just in slow motion.
"We should call Sam—" You look up at Bobby and shake your head.
"No."
"Dean."
"No." You turn your back on Bobby, sitting on the edge of your bed until you hear him wheel away, then square your shoulders and head for the living room. If Cas is back with word about the virus, maybe the slow motion is going to pick up a bit.
You aren't anywhere near Detroit when Sam falls, and the city along with it, but you get word via the refugees fleeing.
You spend hours afterward screaming yes up at the night sky, hope clogging your throat that someone will hear, will come, will help. At this point, you would even welcome Zachariah.
No one comes then, or in the days that follow, and eventually you stop: calling, crying, hoping.
The Croatoan virus is hands-down the scariest shit you've ever seen. There's no cure, no way to stop it spreading, and nothing to do but kill the ones infected.
Most nights you're lucky to get two, maybe three hours of sleep between patrolling and supply runs, weapons training and tactical drills, and the thousand other things that always seem to need doing.
If you're honest with yourself, you hate sleeping, because that's when the dreams come.
When he comes.
The landscape in the dreams always changes; it's never exactly the same twice, and you never know if he's going to try and seduce you, hug you, or talk to you and fuck with your head. You're never sure if you're going to fight it or give in. Some nights it's too hard to close your eyes and resist, even if it means waking up to puke up the contents of your stomach after the devil fucks you, wearing your brother's face.
This time, he's waiting for you on a park bench, slouching back against the wood, long legs stretched out in front of him, tossing breadcrumbs down and smiling at the birds gathering around him. He looks so fucking peaceful, and it cuts you deep inside, to see that peace.
You look good, Dean, he says, voice a low, soft rumble. You flinch away when he stands, raises a hand toward you, but the touch is tender. Caring.
When he smiles, his eyes light up and his dimples peek out, and you ache so deep down inside you feel it in your bones. You want to say his name, want to hug him, hold him, hang on tight to him.
But it's not him. It's not Sammy; it's not even Sam. Hasn't been Sam in a long, long time.
"Fuck off," you tell him, closing your eyes against the gentle caresses, the feel of his fingers gliding over your face.
When you wake up your face is wet, tears tracking where his fingers touched you.
Bobby dies at the hands of a mob of Croats, out of their head with the madness the virus brings.
The part of you that didn't die when Sam said yes dies then, tiny remnants of hope shriveling up inside you, leaving just a cold, hard pit there.
You find that cold, hard place useful when you come across demons; it makes it easier to do whatever needs to be done to get information. You don't care anymore if it's the demon or the human host that screams and pleads for the pain to stop.
You don't care about much of anything, anymore.
The Colt feels good in your hand; heavy, cold iron that burns with promise.
You're going to kill the devil, or die trying.
Oh, man. Something is broken in you.
Your past self looks at you with a combination of pity and horror, and you wish you could feel what he's feeling. Wish you could feel anything beyond the overwhelming sense of soon. Like you're running a race and you can see the finish line, but you're too exhausted even to be excited or hopeful.
You wonder if you'll feel anything, once Lucifer's dead. You wonder if you'll cry, or laugh, or collapse.
It's easy to clock your past self; he's not expecting it. If he won't get onboard with this, fine. He goes down quickly, almost gracefully, and it's time to move on out. Send in the troops to draw enemy fire.
Cas gives you a little half-smile and a nod as they head out. You're pretty sure he knows. You wonder if he'll forgive you.
You've seen him over and over in your dreams, but dreams aren't reality. Reality is standing right in front of you, dressed all in white. A mockery of purity and innocence.
Its face is heartbreakingly familiar; hazel eyes shaped like a cat's, and dimples when he smiles at you.
Unbidden, your mouth shapes the word: Sammy.
You never had a chance. Never. It's in his eyes and his smile; in the way he holds himself.
Victorious.
You can't even care, any more. You're so tired, so worn out from fighting a war that no one will ever win; all you want to do is let it come.
You raise the Colt, hear the metallic click when you draw the trigger back--
You see his face – your face – staring in horror as Sam rests his foot against your neck. There's just enough time to think I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry, Sammy, before everything goes black.
~fin~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 03:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 03:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 03:49 am (UTC)God, I don't get why Lucifer was fucking with Dean like that, but hell, I guess your Dean didn't know why either, or particularly care at the end. He was just so, so tired. Oh, and how you linked Dean screaming 'yes' at the sky right after Sam said 'yes' in Detroit--that was perfect. I didn't get the connection when I heard it in the episode, but of course that's when Dean would have done it.
Nice story. *g*
no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-17 04:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-19 05:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 02:14 am (UTC)Glad you enjoyed the story, and I appreciate the comments :)
no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 02:17 am (UTC)I hate Zachariah, too. It's hard to believe an angel could be so evil and still be an angel.
The idea of Dean and Sam splitting up, and Dean never calling to check on Sam...yes. Horrific. *shudders* I'm glad too, that Dean decided not to go that route.
no subject
Date: 2010-04-19 12:58 am (UTC)*snugs*
no subject
Date: 2010-04-19 12:59 am (UTC)Thanks for reading, honey, and for the comments :)
no subject
Date: 2010-04-19 01:00 am (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed the story--thanks for letting me know :)