Where the Road Ends
SUMMARY:
Jax Teller rides toward the ending he’s always known was waiting for him—one written in blood, loss, and the weight of every choice he can’t undo. But death doesn’t come clean.
When the road disappears beneath him, he wakes to something quieter. Something wrong. No sirens. No chaos. Just the wreckage… and a woman who knows his name.
She isn’t there by accident. She belonged to Opie—the one man Jax could never save—and now she’s here to collect what’s left of him.
WARNINGS
Major character death (Jax Teller) Canon-typical violence Suicide themes & self-destructive behavior Graphic emotional grief & trauma Mentions of murder (including family member) Dark themes / heavy angst Supernatural elements (afterlife, guardian angel) Psychological distress Open/ambiguous afterlife concepts
PART ONE - 580
The wind claws at Jax Teller’s face, sharp and relentless, but he barely registers it anymore. It’s just noise. Like the engine screaming beneath him, like the distant echo of sirens somewhere behind, like the constant hum of everything he’s done that won’t ever be undone. It all blends together now, one long, violent note that’s been ringing in his skull since the moment Tara hit that kitchen floor.
The bike feels like an extension of him, the vibration steady, familiar, almost comforting in a way nothing else has been for a long time. His hands sit loose on the grips, not careless, just… settled. Like this is the one thing he’s sure about. The only thing.
Everything else is finished.
The club is safe. Cleaner than it’s been in years. The wars are over, or at least as over as they ever get in this life. The men he dragged into hell with him get to breathe again. Chibs has the gavel. Tig’s still standing. The chaos machine keeps turning, but without him feeding it gasoline.
His boys are gone. Far away from Charming, from SAMCRO, from all of it. From him.
That’s what matters.
That’s the only thing that ever mattered.
So why does it still feel like this?
Like something hollowed him out and left nothing but ash rattling around inside his chest.
He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the stretch of road ahead, long and empty like it’s been waiting for him all along. Maybe it has. Maybe this was always the endpoint, written in ink the second he chose the cut instead of the pen, the gun instead of the exit.
Tara’s face flashes, uninvited, unavoidable.
Not the way he wants to remember her. Not laughing, not soft, not looking at him like he was something worth saving. No. It’s always that moment. Cold tile. Blood too bright. Eyes that don’t see him anymore.
His jaw tightens, fingers flexing slightly on the throttle.
“Should’ve got you out,” he mutters, voice ripped apart by the wind before it can mean anything. “Should’ve listened.”
But he didn’t.
He chose the club. Chose the life. Chose the lie that he could have both.
And she paid for it.
The bike surges a little faster.
Gemma’s next. Of course she is. She’s always there, somewhere in the middle of everything, like a shadow stitched into his bones.
He can still feel the weight of the gun in his hand. Still hear her voice, softer than he’d ever known it, telling him it was okay. Telling him she understood.
Jesus.
He killed his own mother.
Pulled the trigger like it was just another necessary move, another piece of the board cleared so the game could end the way it was supposed to.
Because that’s what this all became. A game. A war. A spiral he couldn’t stop feeding.
Or maybe… didn’t want to.
Opie rises up next, heavier than the rest, always heavier. A brother in every way that mattered, a man who stood beside him since they were kids with scraped knuckles and stupid dreams about what this life meant.
Opie didn’t hesitate.
Not when it mattered.
Not when it came down to sacrifice.
He stepped forward and took death like it belonged to him, like it was just another thing Jax needed and Opie was willing to give.
Jax swallows hard, throat tight.
“Yeah… I know,” he says under his breath, like Opie’s riding somewhere just out of sight. “I know.”
There’s no fixing that. No balancing it out. Some debts don’t get paid. They just sit there, deep in your chest, rotting slow and steady until there’s nothing left but the stink of them.
Bobby follows. Loyal to the end. Dead because Jax couldn’t stop pushing, couldn’t stop escalating, couldn’t stop turning every problem into a war that needed to be won.
It all stacks up. Faces. Names. Blood.
A long list that leads right here.
The road stretches ahead, the horizon blurring as his speed climbs. The sirens behind him get louder now, but they don’t matter. They were never the point. This was never about running.
This is about ending it.
About cutting the rot out at the source.
Him.
He thinks about his father then, about the manuscript, about the words that tried to warn him. About the man who saw what this life would do and tried to steer it somewhere better, somewhere cleaner.
Jax tried to believe he could do that too.
Tried to tell himself he was different.
But in the end, he didn’t fix it.
He became it.
Worse, maybe.
The truck appears in the distance, massive and steady, cutting across his path like something out of fate itself. For a moment, everything narrows down to that single point. That impact. That final second where all of it stops.
“Just like you, old man,” he murmurs, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
A circle closing.
A legacy fulfilled.
The throttle twists a little more.
Closer now.
Closer.
And then—
Movement.
Right in the middle of the road.
Jax’s eyes sharpen, instinct kicking in despite everything. A figure steps out, arms waving, frantic, trying to flag him down. For half a second, he thinks it’s real. Some poor bastard about to get themselves killed because they picked the worst possible moment to cross his path.
Then the world tilts.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
“Jax!”
The voice hits him like a punch to the ribs.
He knows that voice.
He’ll always know that voice.
Gemma stands there, dead center in his path, her hands thrown out in front of her like she can physically stop what’s coming. She doesn’t look like she did when he left her. There’s no blood, no bullet wound, no final stillness.
But she’s not right either.
There’s something hollow about her, something stretched thin, like she’s barely holding shape.
“Stop! Jackson, stop!”
Behind her, shapes begin to form, bleeding out of the air itself.
Tara.
Still. Quiet. Watching him with those same eyes that used to see through every lie he told.
Bobby, arms crossed, disappointment written all over him.
Clay, of all people, standing just off to the side with that same knowing smirk, like he clocked this ending years ago and just waited for Jax to catch up.
Jax’s breath hitches, just once, just enough to feel it.
“What the hell…” he mutters, but it doesn’t come out steady.
The bike keeps moving. It doesn’t care what he sees. It doesn’t care what’s standing in front of him.
The truck is closer now. Too close.
Gemma’s screaming, her voice cracking, raw and desperate. “Don’t you do this! You don’t get to leave like this!”
And that hits.
Not the anger. Not the guilt.
The truth in it.
Because this isn’t some clean, noble sacrifice.
This is an escape.
This is him choosing the easy way out after burning everything down.
Tara doesn’t move. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t beg.
She just watches him.
Like she’s waiting to see who he really is.
Even now.
Jax’s chest tightens, something sharp and unbearable digging in deep. Everything collides at once, every memory, every mistake, every choice that dragged him step by step to this exact moment.
“I’m tired,” he breathes, the words torn straight out of him.
Not an excuse.
Not a justification.
Just the truth.
Gemma reaches for him, like she can still pull him back. “Jackson—!”
The truck fills his vision.
There’s no time left.
No clean ending.
No straight line through this.
So he makes a choice.
Not toward it.
Away.
His hands jerk the handlebars hard, the bike screaming in protest as the tires rip across the asphalt. The world tilts violently, the road vanishing beneath him as the edge comes fast, too fast—
And then there’s nothing under him at all.
For one suspended second, everything goes quiet.
No engine.
No sirens.
No ghosts.
Just open air and the sudden, weightless drop of it.
Jax closes his eyes, the tension finally draining out of him like something’s been cut loose.
No more running.
No more fighting.
No more trying to fix something that was broken long before him.
The bike disappears over the bridge, swallowed by the empty space below, gone in a heartbeat.
And the road above keeps stretching on, untouched, indifferent, like it didn’t just take everything with it.
Like it never does.
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