15.05 coda--nothing means anything anymore
I had someone once who made every day mean something. And now…I am lost…And nothing means anything anymore.–Ranata Suzuki
How are we supposed to fight God?
The question sits like a stone in the pit of his stomach. It’s with him when he showers, when he dabs antiseptic around the cuts on his side, when he eases into a shirt and into his bed. It sits on his chest, it lurks in his mind, it rises in his throat. It’s what he breathes, what he sees. Inescapable. Total.
The walls press in around him. He’s never thought that the bunker was suffocating, but here it is, 4 am and he can’t breathe because the walls are closing in around him. He thinks that if he was in the middle of the Grand Canyon, it still wouldn’t be enough. These aren’t real walls, they’re Chuck’s fingers, squeezing around his and Sam’s neck until finally–
Michael was right, the bastard. Chuck just writes drafts and discards them, he’d said, and goddammit all, he was right. What had that been? Some weird crossover?
Dean’s never…Even at the darkest point, even when the Apocalypse was looming, even when he was losing pieces of himself to the Mark, even when the Darkness was pressing around him, even when he was waking up with splitting headaches because Michael was screaming inside his head–There had always been a plan. There had always been some other action to take, something to do, something to fight. There had been something. But now…The gerbil wheel goes faster and faster and there’s no way off and there’s nothing, there’s nothing–
It takes him a second to realize that he’s hyperventilating, breath turning the pillow damp. His teeth bite into the pillow, fingers tear at the sheets. He needs…he needs…
He screams into his pillow, a muffled, broken sound that rips his throat raw. It tears out from his lungs, from his heart, but it doesn’t help, it can’t help–Everyone they lost along the way–Dad, Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Charlie, Jack…Mom…It was nothing. It was nothing but Chuck getting bored. His whole life and it’s been nothing but fucking God having a hard-on for watching him break until there’s nothing left to shatter.
Well, the fucker might get his wish. Because right now…There’s nothing left.
It’s not a conscious decision to reach for his phone. It’s not a conscious decision to press the name that he’s been avoiding for weeks, the name that he’s tried to forget.
For weeks he’s avoided calling Cas. For weeks he hasn’t texted him. He knows that Sam’s called him–he’d be stupid to miss the furtive, guilty looks, or the way that Sam shoves his phone in his back pocket whenever Dean enters a room. But Dean’s kept himself separate, apart. He changes the subject whenever Sam asks why Cas isn’t texting him back or why all his calls go straight to voicemail.
He still hasn’t told Sam about that night. The finality in Cas’ words. The resignation in his eyes, the resolution in his steps. He’d seen that same look in Cassie’s eyes, in Lisa’s. It was the look of someone when they said goodbye and meant it. He’d known then, when Cas tilted his head and the ghost of what might have been a smile crossed his face, that that was it. Cas was gone.
And Dean had respected that, he had. He put his head down and kept on, and it had been fine. It had been fine. He and Sam would keep on doing what they were doing, and he would find new weird jerkies to eat, and it would have been fine.
But then, Chuck, and Lilith and…Dean can’t breathe, he can’t get any air into his lungs, nothing means anything anymore. He’s drowning, he’s falling, and he can’t tell it to Sam because Sam’s just barely hanging on, and he can’t tell it to Cas, because Cas is…Cas had…
The phone rings. Once. Twice.
vaporwave
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pixelskylines
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snowghoul
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ellievsbear
