Bex's Fanfiction

Set in the Supernatural canon.

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The motel room's got four points of entry. The front door, the back door, the window or gunning the Impala straight through the wall. In the state of inebriation that Dean is wallowing in, the last idea is the best. The only problem is that his hands are shaking and the double visions severe enough that he'll probably end up in next door's room where some fifty year old dude's banging two prostitutes.

Dean takes another swig of the bottle of whiskey. Another sip and the things empty. Then he'll use it to smash some skin off Walt's face. Son of a bitch thought he'd got away with it, even thought he'd saved them all. Killed Sam and when the apocalypse ended a few weeks later he thought he was why.

“Dick,” Dean slurs and then takes another sip.

All gone.

All done and dusted.

Well, not quite yet.

Getting out of the car is difficult. Walking up to the door is a little easier. Before he knocks he realises he's forgotten his gun.

“I'll fucking beat them to death,” he says and then he knocks. “Right, Sammy.”

There is no answer from his younger brother.

Walt is not the one to open the door. It's Roy.

“Well helllooo there.”

Dean falls forward a little and Roy instinctively pushes him back. That's better. He's upright now; he's actually fucking standing straight.

“Dean?” Roy asks.

“Thassa me. And this is for you.”

He swings the bourbon bottle and it hits Roy square on the check. Good aim for a dude who's been through two bottles of Jack. Roy tumbles backwards, feet flinging out from beneath him and sprawling on the mat which beams; WELCOME!

“What the fuck?” Someone calls from the back and it's fucking Walt.

Dean steps into the room and passes the door. Walt is standing up from the bed. His eyes flick from Roy to Dean to Roy.

And then back to Dean.

His hands go behind his back but Dean charges him. He catches him round the waist and slams him against the wall, his own head connecting but he's already dizzy. No fucking difference there though now blood's dripping over his eyes.

Walt tries to knee him in the stomach and Dean throws him onto the bed.

His fists connect with his nose, his cheekbone, splitting and cracking bone and flesh and blood flicking into his mouth. He spits it out into Walt's swollen, purple eye and continues on.

“YOU STUPID FUCK!” He's screaming but it's distant, secondary to nothing but the pummelling of Walt's body. “HE FUCKING DIED FOR YOU AND YOU TRIED TO KILL HIM!”

Out of the corner of his eye Roy is standing up, steadying himself on the TV. Walt's had enough for now so Dean flips him over; “'scuse me, boss. Gotta borrow something,” and pulls the gun from the back of his pants.

Roy is very, very afraid. One side of his face is mottled with bruises and the other side is as pale as a vamp.

Dean casually points the gun at him, one handed. His knuckles are dripping crimson. He flicks off the safety.

“I didn't wanna do it, Dean,” Roy begs, holding his palms up to Dean and his tiny fucking body quaking. “I swear. You heard me. I didn't wanna shoot you. He did it. He killed you both.”

“Sam,” Dean growls. “Know what happened to him?”

Roy shakes his head.

“We came back to life after you shot us. And he took Lucifer into his body and jumped into Hell. He jumped INTO FUCKING HELL FOR YOU!”

His finger tightens on the trigger and Roy shrieks.

“PLEASE- please, Dean. We didn't know. We didn't fucking know.”

“He tried to tell you,” Dean replies. On the bed Walt is stirring so he better get this over with. “Doesn't matter anyway. You still killed him, he came back to life and now he's in Hell. And I plan on joining him there.”

The gunshot is not as loud as the sound of Roy's body hitting the ground. Or at least it seems that way to Dean. Though the bang will reverberate in his ears for days afterwards, it's Roy's body collapsing into the WELCOME mat that he hears right then.

He turns around and points the gun at Walt's swollen face, his body strewn across the bed. He's partially conscious but he can hardly see through his swollen face.

Dean remembers catching the reflection of his own face in the Impala after Lucifer beat him half to death. It looks like Walt's and that image doesn't even make him hesitate.

A few minutes after he's strewn Walt's brains across the white sheets he begins to hear everything again. Some chick next door is screaming hysterically and in the distance there's a siren approaching. People are shouting and someone appears at the door before running away, their feet pattering loudly on the pavement.

Dean doesn't move. He stands by the bed with the gun held lifelessly at his side.

“Hello, Dean,” a voice says and he doesn't even turn around.

“You're too late, Cas,” he says and he realises he doesn't care anymore. He's done. This was his last act in the world because he had zero to nothing to live for and now he's into the negatives. “You should start working overtime.”

He lifts the gun to the side of his head and there is no pause. His finger decompresses, the metal gives way beneath it but he's interrupted.

Castiel appears in front of him, his arm already outstretched and his fingers on Dean's forehead like they had always been there.

He moves from awake to asleep so fast that he is briefly aware of the darkness and it is not the sweet relief he finds after drinking too much.