Dean at Rest. Coda to My Bloody Valentine

 

What if Dean was so weary, felt so empty and so alone he just has to walk away for a while?

 

Dean at Rest

 

*For the sword outwears its sheath,*

Dean raised tear filled eyes to the dark heavens, whispered his desperate desolate plea into the silent empty night, whiskey bottle grasped loosely in one uncaring hand.

Nothing.

Silence.

 

Not that Dean had expected any response, not really.  God had been conspicuous by his absence so far; all Castiel’s diligent searching had found no sign of the elusive deity that Dean didn’t believe in but wanted to – and how he wanted to believe…That there was something good in this crazy world, that there was someone or something who cared.

 

Out there in the night, surrounded by the sad wreckage of the abandoned and broken cars, Dean felt right at home.  Empty shells of the old and new resonated with the emptiness Dean felt inside him.  He could still feel the deathly chilled imprint on his chest left by Famine’s withered hand.  His ears were still ringing with the Black Horseman’s searing, mocking words.

 

“That’s one deep dark nothing you’ve got there, Dean.  Can’t fill it, can you – not with food, or drink, not even with sex…”

Shut up.  Leave me alone.

“…you can lie to your brother, to yourself, but not to me…”

Shut the fuck up!

“I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated – you can’t win and you know it but you just keep fighting….”

Damn right I do…

“… just keep going through the motions.  You’re not hungry, Dean, because inside you’re already dead.”

No.

Yes.

I know.

What’s dead should stay dead…has stayed dead.

If anyone should know that, it would be me.

 

*And the soul outwears the breast,*

 

And the only thing available to take his mind of that repulsive creature’s agonising insights into his soul was listening to his brother going through the agonies of demon-blood cold turkey.  Again.

Awesome.  Just fucking awesome.

 

His vision still blurred by unwanted, unheeded tears, Dean Winchester stared unseeing into the cloud covered void, not even a star for comfort.  He could walk away, and just keep walking, into the night.  He wanted to.  Almost more than anything, he wanted to turn his back on it all, the whole sorry mess.

 

*And the heart must pause to breathe,*

 

To walk away from being the so-called Sword of Michael and the wearing constant refusal to acquiesce to that.   From the ever present doubt and fear that all this fighting was a complete waste of time, because in the end something would break his resolve and he would give in (Daddy’s little girl, he broke, he broke in thirty…) – and that everyone would die because he was weak. Empty. Dead inside.

To get away from the grinding fear that Michael was right, Zachariah was right, Lucifer was right and everything was preordained, whatever he and Sam said or did, they would end up saying yes – offering their bodies as angel meat-suits to destroy the world.

 

Dean took a step forward, his back turned to Bobby’s house, his pale tear stained face turned towards the darkness.

 

To walk away from the never-ending responsibility and guilt.

From the pain.

 

He took another step and another.  The nearly full whiskey bottle dropped to the ground from nerveless fingers and smashed, the dark spirit mingling unnoticed with the petrol laced puddles.

 

He walked away from everything he had ever known, or ever loved.  Another step.  Another.

 

He wasn’t thinking.  He wasn’t even breathing anymore.  Just walking, one foot in front of the other.

 

But the pain was walking with him.  The pain was lodged too deeply inside him to escape it like this.  Walking was too slow.  So he started to run, blindly, careering into rusted metal shapes that he didn’t see, staggering and uncaring.  He reached the edge of Bobby’s yard, kept going out into the dark, trailing Famine’s words behind him like the chains that they were intended to be, tangled round his heart, weighing him down.

 

Empty.

Dead.

Liar.

 

*And love itself have rest. *

 

When he fell, he fell hard, knocking the wind out of his straining lungs.  He lay face down in the grass, unmoving, hands as empty as his head.  Gradually his panting breathing quietened and his heart slowed its frantic rhythm.

Coherent thoughts began to seep back into his dazed brain.

What exactly was fated to happen anyway?  Lucifer said one thing, Michael another, Zach could have provided them all with another ending when he flung Dean into the future.  If everything was preordained, as these dick-head angels maintained, they couldn’t all be right. 

Dean sat up.  Looked around at the shadowy tangled underbrush and trees and started to really think.

Ergo, these supposedly powerful beings didn’t know shit. 

Ergo, either there was no such thing as predestination - or if there was, their destiny was being dictated by an unseen hand to an unknowable end.  Not by the douche-bag angels, fallen or not.  Not by demons. Not by Lucifer, or Michael.

 

What was he doing out here anyway?  Stupid, stupid Dean.  Sam was locked in that panic room in utter torment, while his big brother was running around howling at the moon.  Bobby would be freaking out alone in his wheelchair, unable to descend the cellar stairs.  Cas wouln’t be able to find him, thanks to the Enochian-branded ribs.

 

Dean got to his feet decisively.  Turned around, faced his future.  Unknown.  Unknowing.  Unbroken.  Unbowed.

 

Because there was one thing in Dean Winchester that was always true, and formed a shield as hard as adamant  – his love and loyalty for his family.

 

******

 

 

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul outwears the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

George Gordon Byron

 

 

 

Dean at Rest. Coda to My Bloody Valentine

What if Dean was so weary, felt so empty and so alone he just has to walk away for a while?

Dean at Rest

*For the sword outwears its sheath,*

( Read more... )

Dean at Rest. Coda to My Bloody Valentine

 

What if Dean was so weary, felt so empty and so alone he just has to walk away for a while?

 

Dean at Rest

 

*For the sword outwears its sheath,*

Dean raised tear filled eyes to the dark heavens, whispered his desperate desolate plea into the silent empty night, whiskey bottle grasped loosely in one uncaring hand.

Nothing.

Silence.

 

Not that Dean had expected any response, not really.  God had been conspicuous by his absence so far; all Castiel’s diligent searching had found no sign of the elusive deity that Dean didn’t believe in but wanted to – and how he wanted to believe…That there was something good in this crazy world, that there was someone or something who cared.

 

Out there in the night, surrounded by the sad wreckage of the abandoned and broken cars, Dean felt right at home.  Empty shells of the old and new resonated with the emptiness Dean felt inside him.  He could still feel the deathly chilled imprint on his chest left by Famine’s withered hand.  His ears were still ringing with the Black Horseman’s searing, mocking words.

 

“That’s one deep dark nothing you’ve got there, Dean.  Can’t fill it, can you – not with food, or drink, not even with sex…”

Shut up.  Leave me alone.

“…you can lie to your brother, to yourself, but not to me…”

Shut the fuck up!

“I can see inside you, Dean. I can see how broken you are, how defeated – you can’t win and you know it but you just keep fighting….”

Damn right I do…

“… just keep going through the motions.  You’re not hungry, Dean, because inside you’re already dead.”

No.

Yes.

I know.

What’s dead should stay dead…has stayed dead.

If anyone should know that, it would be me.

 

*And the soul outwears the breast,*

 

And the only thing available to take his mind of that repulsive creature’s agonising insights into his soul was listening to his brother going through the agonies of demon-blood cold turkey.  Again.

Awesome.  Just fucking awesome.

 

His vision still blurred by unwanted, unheeded tears, Dean Winchester stared unseeing into the cloud covered void, not even a star for comfort.  He could walk away, and just keep walking, into the night.  He wanted to.  Almost more than anything, he wanted to turn his back on it all, the whole sorry mess.

 

*And the heart must pause to breathe,*

 

To walk away from being the so-called Sword of Michael and the wearing constant refusal to acquiesce to that.   From the ever present doubt and fear that all this fighting was a complete waste of time, because in the end something would break his resolve and he would give in (Daddy’s little girl, he broke, he broke in thirty…) – and that everyone would die because he was weak. Empty. Dead inside.

To get away from the grinding fear that Michael was right, Zachariah was right, Lucifer was right and everything was preordained, whatever he and Sam said or did, they would end up saying yes – offering their bodies as angel meat-suits to destroy the world.

 

Dean took a step forward, his back turned to Bobby’s house, his pale tear stained face turned towards the darkness.

 

To walk away from the never-ending responsibility and guilt.

From the pain.

 

He took another step and another.  The nearly full whiskey bottle dropped to the ground from nerveless fingers and smashed, the dark spirit mingling unnoticed with the petrol laced puddles.

 

He walked away from everything he had ever known, or ever loved.  Another step.  Another.

 

He wasn’t thinking.  He wasn’t even breathing anymore.  Just walking, one foot in front of the other.

 

But the pain was walking with him.  The pain was lodged too deeply inside him to escape it like this.  Walking was too slow.  So he started to run, blindly, careering into rusted metal shapes that he didn’t see, staggering and uncaring.  He reached the edge of Bobby’s yard, kept going out into the dark, trailing Famine’s words behind him like the chains that they were intended to be, tangled round his heart, weighing him down.

 

Empty.

Dead.

Liar.

 

*And love itself have rest. *

 

When he fell, he fell hard, knocking the wind out of his straining lungs.  He lay face down in the grass, unmoving, hands as empty as his head.  Gradually his panting breathing quietened and his heart slowed its frantic rhythm.

Coherent thoughts began to seep back into his dazed brain.

What exactly was fated to happen anyway?  Lucifer said one thing, Michael another, Zach could have provided them all with another ending when he flung Dean into the future.  If everything was preordained, as these dick-head angels maintained, they couldn’t all be right. 

Dean sat up.  Looked around at the shadowy tangled underbrush and trees and started to really think.

Ergo, these supposedly powerful beings didn’t know shit. 

Ergo, either there was no such thing as predestination - or if there was, their destiny was being dictated by an unseen hand to an unknowable end.  Not by the douche-bag angels, fallen or not.  Not by demons. Not by Lucifer, or Michael.

 

What was he doing out here anyway?  Stupid, stupid Dean.  Sam was locked in that panic room in utter torment, while his big brother was running around howling at the moon.  Bobby would be freaking out alone in his wheelchair, unable to descend the cellar stairs.  Cas wouln’t be able to find him, thanks to the Enochian-branded ribs.

 

Dean got to his feet decisively.  Turned around, faced his future.  Unknown.  Unknowing.  Unbroken.  Unbowed.

 

Because there was one thing in Dean Winchester that was always true, and formed a shield as hard as adamant  – his love and loyalty for his family.

 

******

 

 

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul outwears the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

George Gordon Byron