Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hasperkynipples) wrote2008-11-03 12:48 am
hasperkynipples) wrote2008-11-03 12:48 am
Entry tags:
[BCM] Silence
[Not binding on any canon character mentioned herein, with the exception of Sam, who is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
likely_evil (because, as it was told to me, if Dean is an angst whore, Sam is his emo puppy). Not even binding on a particular verse. In fact, this is future fic. I blame this on Antigone. And Dean being a damn ANGST WHORE. Warning: CHARACTER DEATH]
War has casualties. It was one of those facts that seem entirely obvious until it’s staring you in the face, just what exactly the word “casualties” means, and as far as Dean was concerned, it didn’t just stare at you, it bitch slapped you as hard as it possibly could, every time the count was read. Dean hadn’t stopped smelling like death since the day he took this job—if not literally, then metaphorically. It’s in his stance, the way his shoulder hunched under the weight that had been placed on it, trying to lead the people to fight the good fight, to try and win the war of impossible wars, to fight against his brother for so long.
Losing Sam hadn’t been a conscious choice. Dean’s not even really sure when it happened. He just knew that they had both been on the same side of the line, and then one day, he woke up and realized that the line was between them instead. It didn’t seem to have been made by some conscious choice on either of their parts, just—something that happened. Something that Dean couldn’t change, no matter how desperately he tried. So the war became brother versus brother, and Dean just swallowed it and took it, the weight of what he was being asked to do sinking a little heavier onto his shoulders and going back to pretending that this wasn’t important.
He comforted himself by knowing that at least his brother was alive. Somewhere out there, Sam was alive, fighting for something. Fighting against him didn’t matter. So long as Sam Winchester was breathing, Dean was fine. He did his job, fought his battles, fought the war, and his only consistent thought was so long as his brother was alive, he was fine.
Until the day when he wasn’t.
He had been in a meeting—if that’s what you could call it. A motley group of hunters, angels and assorted others who he considered close enough to point him in the right direction. It was mostly the hunters that did the talking and the planning—the angels mostly stood in the back looking ominous, although Uriel was one to pipe up and tell them when a plan was stupid, right before Dean told him to shove it. Yes, they were in the middle of a war, but they weren’t fighting this war Uriel’s way. Not if he had anything to say about it. He was surrounded by a crowd of people, blocking his view of the front door, and he was bent over a map when the voice came over the crowd, loud enough to be heard over the muffled conversation of the room, but very out of breath.
“Sam Winchester’s dead.”
The room suddenly became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The people standing in front of Dean parted like the Red Sea, and his eyes were on the man in the doorway, who was suddenly very worried that he had said the wrong thing. Dean’s eyes just fixed on him, giving nothing away, or at least trying not to. “What?”
The man paused for a minute, taking a deep breath. “Mutiny. They double crossed him. Slaughtered every demon who stood with him, and left their bodies near the edge of the ridge.”
If it was possible for Dean’s voice to go even stonier than it was before, it did it then, anger lacing the words before he could do anything to stop it. “Who?”
“A group of Fallen—I’m not sure who exactly.”
All was quiet, and every eye was on him, looking to see what he would do. He was silent for a moment as his eyes dropped to the table in front of him, studying the grain of the wood as he tried to get his head on straight, not loose it in front of all these people. Because he couldn’t. Sam Winchester was the enemy. His heart wasn’t allowed to break over the enemy—at least not in front of them. He paused for a moment, before glancing over at Castiel.
“You’re in charge. I have something I need to take care of.”
Uriel disapproved of that. But then again, Uriel always disapproved of everything. He was about to say something to that effect, when Castiel shook his head. Dean took that as his cue to get the hell out, grabbing his coat and ducking out the door into the cool night air.
Contrary to popular belief, Hell on Earth wasn’t hot. The world didn’t burn—at least not most of the time. But you could feel it dying, feel the way the air would get thick with smoke and soot. There was barely such a thing as grass anymore, which meant that Dean was trudging through dust to get to where he needed to go, and was very much able to see the small cloud of dust that was swirled up as he was followed. Whoever was following him wasn’t saying anything until Dean stopped at his car, pulling out whatever was left of the gasoline and rock salt.
“Dean, where are you going?”
It was Castiel’s voice, which meant that Uriel was the one left with the muddled masses. Dean didn’t turn around, just kept walking. They weren’t going to keep him from this. No one was. For once, heaven could fucking wait.
“You know where.”
“Dean.” There was a flutter and a rush of wind before Castiel was in front of him, staring him in the face as he spoke. “We don’t have time—”
“I don’t care.”
“I understand that he’s—”
“No, Castiel, you don’t understand. I don’t care that he was the so-called Antichrist, I don’t care if he was fighting on the wrong side, I wouldn’t care if he was goddamn Lucifer himself. I’m burying my brother.” He paused for a minute, before turning in his pace and stepping around the angel, continuing to walk. “I buried the rest of my family—I’m not just going to leave Sam to sit out and rot.”
He didn’t get any more arguments after that, but he wasn’t going to kid himself into thinking that he wasn’t being followed. They were at war, after all, and Dean was their commander-in-chief. He was rarely ever without some kind of angel watching over his shoulder at every turn—usually Castiel, because he was the only one of them he actually trusted, but there were times when Castiel wasn’t available, and he was left with someone else. Either way, there was always someone with him at all times, and it was especially critical that someone be there tonight.
When he finally reached the ravine, all he could see was the pile of bodies, nothing that distinguished any of them between some random man who happened to have been possessed and his brother. He moved methodically, pushing away random detached body parts and limp bodies until he found his brother, buried at the bottom of the pile, throat slit and eyes blank. He shifted his weight slightly, dropping to knees a bit to take the weight, and dragged him free of the corpses, away into somewhere where they were a bit more free of the carnage. As the distance passed, he could feel the composure he’d been holding together so far start to crack, the corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes watered slightly, but it wasn’t until he actually came to a stop and looked at who he was holding that his vision fully clouded.
His hands pulled away from Sam slightly, thinking that maybe if he let go, this would be some kind of twisted joke, a prank to get him away from everyone else. It didn’t happen, though. He could see the grayness of death sweeping over the skin, and he could feel how cold his brother was. Tears were starting to slip by, but he was ignoring them, just holding his hands over his brother’s body, before they moved back down again, landing on his brother’s chest and gripping the front of his shirt slightly. “Damnit, Sammy.” He barely got the words out before his body caved and for the first time in as many years as it had been since the war started, he let himself cry.
There was nothing but silence for the longest time, before the sharp ache of losing the one bit of family he had left changed to a dull numbness, and Dean knew that he had to finish the job before people came looking for him. He wasn’t sure when Castiel had built the altar, or how, but there was a look of silent gratitude before he hauled his brother’s body up onto it, and finished the preparations he needed. He didn’t say a word, just let the moment pass in silence. Neither of them said a word until the pyre was already lit, and what was left of the man who had once been Sam Winchester was nothing but ash.
“Castiel?”
Dean’s eyes still didn’t leave his brother’s body, but grief was giving way to resolve, even anger. It was lighting up in the back of his eyes and twisting the pit of his stomach, but otherwise, his face showed no sign of what he was feeling or thinking.
“Yes?”
There was a long silence again, interrupted by nothing but the occasional crackle and pop of the fire, and when Dean spoke again, there was nothing but resolve and stone to his voice, so that the order itself was not to be mistaken.
“Slaughter them all.”
1601 words
likely_evil (because, as it was told to me, if Dean is an angst whore, Sam is his emo puppy). Not even binding on a particular verse. In fact, this is future fic. I blame this on Antigone. And Dean being a damn ANGST WHORE. Warning: CHARACTER DEATH]War has casualties. It was one of those facts that seem entirely obvious until it’s staring you in the face, just what exactly the word “casualties” means, and as far as Dean was concerned, it didn’t just stare at you, it bitch slapped you as hard as it possibly could, every time the count was read. Dean hadn’t stopped smelling like death since the day he took this job—if not literally, then metaphorically. It’s in his stance, the way his shoulder hunched under the weight that had been placed on it, trying to lead the people to fight the good fight, to try and win the war of impossible wars, to fight against his brother for so long.
Losing Sam hadn’t been a conscious choice. Dean’s not even really sure when it happened. He just knew that they had both been on the same side of the line, and then one day, he woke up and realized that the line was between them instead. It didn’t seem to have been made by some conscious choice on either of their parts, just—something that happened. Something that Dean couldn’t change, no matter how desperately he tried. So the war became brother versus brother, and Dean just swallowed it and took it, the weight of what he was being asked to do sinking a little heavier onto his shoulders and going back to pretending that this wasn’t important.
He comforted himself by knowing that at least his brother was alive. Somewhere out there, Sam was alive, fighting for something. Fighting against him didn’t matter. So long as Sam Winchester was breathing, Dean was fine. He did his job, fought his battles, fought the war, and his only consistent thought was so long as his brother was alive, he was fine.
Until the day when he wasn’t.
He had been in a meeting—if that’s what you could call it. A motley group of hunters, angels and assorted others who he considered close enough to point him in the right direction. It was mostly the hunters that did the talking and the planning—the angels mostly stood in the back looking ominous, although Uriel was one to pipe up and tell them when a plan was stupid, right before Dean told him to shove it. Yes, they were in the middle of a war, but they weren’t fighting this war Uriel’s way. Not if he had anything to say about it. He was surrounded by a crowd of people, blocking his view of the front door, and he was bent over a map when the voice came over the crowd, loud enough to be heard over the muffled conversation of the room, but very out of breath.
“Sam Winchester’s dead.”
The room suddenly became so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The people standing in front of Dean parted like the Red Sea, and his eyes were on the man in the doorway, who was suddenly very worried that he had said the wrong thing. Dean’s eyes just fixed on him, giving nothing away, or at least trying not to. “What?”
The man paused for a minute, taking a deep breath. “Mutiny. They double crossed him. Slaughtered every demon who stood with him, and left their bodies near the edge of the ridge.”
If it was possible for Dean’s voice to go even stonier than it was before, it did it then, anger lacing the words before he could do anything to stop it. “Who?”
“A group of Fallen—I’m not sure who exactly.”
All was quiet, and every eye was on him, looking to see what he would do. He was silent for a moment as his eyes dropped to the table in front of him, studying the grain of the wood as he tried to get his head on straight, not loose it in front of all these people. Because he couldn’t. Sam Winchester was the enemy. His heart wasn’t allowed to break over the enemy—at least not in front of them. He paused for a moment, before glancing over at Castiel.
“You’re in charge. I have something I need to take care of.”
Uriel disapproved of that. But then again, Uriel always disapproved of everything. He was about to say something to that effect, when Castiel shook his head. Dean took that as his cue to get the hell out, grabbing his coat and ducking out the door into the cool night air.
Contrary to popular belief, Hell on Earth wasn’t hot. The world didn’t burn—at least not most of the time. But you could feel it dying, feel the way the air would get thick with smoke and soot. There was barely such a thing as grass anymore, which meant that Dean was trudging through dust to get to where he needed to go, and was very much able to see the small cloud of dust that was swirled up as he was followed. Whoever was following him wasn’t saying anything until Dean stopped at his car, pulling out whatever was left of the gasoline and rock salt.
“Dean, where are you going?”
It was Castiel’s voice, which meant that Uriel was the one left with the muddled masses. Dean didn’t turn around, just kept walking. They weren’t going to keep him from this. No one was. For once, heaven could fucking wait.
“You know where.”
“Dean.” There was a flutter and a rush of wind before Castiel was in front of him, staring him in the face as he spoke. “We don’t have time—”
“I don’t care.”
“I understand that he’s—”
“No, Castiel, you don’t understand. I don’t care that he was the so-called Antichrist, I don’t care if he was fighting on the wrong side, I wouldn’t care if he was goddamn Lucifer himself. I’m burying my brother.” He paused for a minute, before turning in his pace and stepping around the angel, continuing to walk. “I buried the rest of my family—I’m not just going to leave Sam to sit out and rot.”
He didn’t get any more arguments after that, but he wasn’t going to kid himself into thinking that he wasn’t being followed. They were at war, after all, and Dean was their commander-in-chief. He was rarely ever without some kind of angel watching over his shoulder at every turn—usually Castiel, because he was the only one of them he actually trusted, but there were times when Castiel wasn’t available, and he was left with someone else. Either way, there was always someone with him at all times, and it was especially critical that someone be there tonight.
When he finally reached the ravine, all he could see was the pile of bodies, nothing that distinguished any of them between some random man who happened to have been possessed and his brother. He moved methodically, pushing away random detached body parts and limp bodies until he found his brother, buried at the bottom of the pile, throat slit and eyes blank. He shifted his weight slightly, dropping to knees a bit to take the weight, and dragged him free of the corpses, away into somewhere where they were a bit more free of the carnage. As the distance passed, he could feel the composure he’d been holding together so far start to crack, the corner of his mouth twitched as his eyes watered slightly, but it wasn’t until he actually came to a stop and looked at who he was holding that his vision fully clouded.
His hands pulled away from Sam slightly, thinking that maybe if he let go, this would be some kind of twisted joke, a prank to get him away from everyone else. It didn’t happen, though. He could see the grayness of death sweeping over the skin, and he could feel how cold his brother was. Tears were starting to slip by, but he was ignoring them, just holding his hands over his brother’s body, before they moved back down again, landing on his brother’s chest and gripping the front of his shirt slightly. “Damnit, Sammy.” He barely got the words out before his body caved and for the first time in as many years as it had been since the war started, he let himself cry.
There was nothing but silence for the longest time, before the sharp ache of losing the one bit of family he had left changed to a dull numbness, and Dean knew that he had to finish the job before people came looking for him. He wasn’t sure when Castiel had built the altar, or how, but there was a look of silent gratitude before he hauled his brother’s body up onto it, and finished the preparations he needed. He didn’t say a word, just let the moment pass in silence. Neither of them said a word until the pyre was already lit, and what was left of the man who had once been Sam Winchester was nothing but ash.
“Castiel?”
Dean’s eyes still didn’t leave his brother’s body, but grief was giving way to resolve, even anger. It was lighting up in the back of his eyes and twisting the pit of his stomach, but otherwise, his face showed no sign of what he was feeling or thinking.
“Yes?”
There was a long silence again, interrupted by nothing but the occasional crackle and pop of the fire, and when Dean spoke again, there was nothing but resolve and stone to his voice, so that the order itself was not to be mistaken.
“Slaughter them all.”
1601 words