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memeswearhouse ([personal profile] memeswearhouse) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2013-09-10 11:25 pm

Since everyone on plurk seems so intent on killing their characters



the death meme



(TRIGGER WARNING. This meme deals heavy with death and also possibly with strong violence or with suicide/depression. If you are not comfortable reading about that, please PLEASE do not proceed further.)

This is it. The final curtain. You're at the end of your life, and there's someone here you really, really need to say something to before you die.


CAUSE OF DEATH

1 - Accidental. Nobody meant for this to happen, but it doesn't matter now. Due to negligence, arrogance or just plain bad luck, you've become gravely ill or injured and are now in your last moments. This covers all kinds of accidental deaths--strangulation, drowning, car accidents, unintentional beheadings, whatever you can think of.

2 - Murder. Somebody really didn't like you. Enough to kill you, it seems. You're now dead by someone else's hand. (Maybe even the person replying to you?) As with accidental death, this covers all types of intentional, malicious murder, regardless of method--so poisoning, stabbing, shooting, etc., all work here. Same with all the below options: any possible variation you can think of on it will work!

3 - Suicide. There is no hope for you, and no way out. You've reached the absolute bottom pits of despair, and the only recourse you have is to take your own life. Someone shows up to stop you... but they're too late to help you now.

4 - Terminal illness. You have cancer, or tuberculosis, or cholera back when people got cholera. The doctors have done everything they could and it wasn't enough. The only thing to do now is give your loved ones the bad news.

5 - Starvation. So thirsty. So hungry. Maybe you've been traveling in the desert for hours, or maybe you're just really poor. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter, because you're slowly wasting away until you're nothing but skin and bones.

6 - Death in battle. You've died a hero's death, and gone out in a blaze of glory. Or maybe you were a coward who got shot for deserting? Either way, you're now a casualty of war. Will you be honored with a parade or scorned as a traitor to your country?

7 - Natural causes. You've lived a long, happy life, and now your story is at an end. In a warm bed, surrounded by your family and friends, you peacefully drift off. Just make sure that you've made a will somewhere, or at least use your deathbed to set the record straight. Otherwise, who knows what kind of squabbles might errupt after you leave this world?


TIME LEFT

1 - A few minutes. You're fading fast and you don't have much, well, any time left. Better tell the person with you that you love -- or despise -- them with your last breath, because you'll never have the chance otherwise.

2 - A few hours. You haven't got much time left. Is there someone you still need to kill? To kiss? Better do it quick. (Note: last kisses not recommended for people dying of highly contagious illnesses.)

3 - A few days. The doctors have given you the news, and it's not very good. You've only got a couple days left to live. You should start trying to make peace with people and saying your final goodbyes with the days you have left.

4 - A few weeks. Take that vacation you've always wanted to go on but never had the chance to. Go do that thing you've never thought you'd be any good at. You've got only weeks left to live. Don't waste them.

5 - A few months. While you aren't quite on death's doorstep yet, your lifespan has still dwindled considerably from what you probably thought it would be. How are you going to spend your last few months on Earth? Making the world a better place and telling your family you love them? Or raising as much hell as possible?


RELATIONSHIP

1 - Lovers. This is your husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, mistress, whatever you call them they were the person you wanted to spend your life with. Too bad you don't have much of a life to spend with them anymore.

2 - Siblings. Your beloved little or older sibling is just standing there, watching you slowly waste away before their eyes. Can you say anything to comfort them? Note that it doesn't necessarily have to be interpreted literally; adopted siblings and friends so close they might as well be siblings work too.

3 - Parent and child. Nothing is worse than a parent having to bury their child... except, maybe, a young child now alone in the world after losing their parent. As with the sibling prompt, this can be expanded to include parental figures and people who are LIKE a father/mother to you as well as actual biological parents.

4 - Co-workers, teammates or classmates. You were fighting for the same side. Or you worked together in the same office for years. Or they sat behind you in biology all semester. However you met, how do your react when you find out someone who used to be a fixture in your life is going to die?

5 - Friends. You're the best of friends! You go everywhere together, know all each other's secrets, and are never seen apart. At least, you didn't use to be. Now one of you is dying and the other one is left alone in the world. Or maybe you're dying together. Wait, is that better or worse?

6 - Bitter enemies. You hate, hate, HATE this person. In fact, maybe you killed them. Or they killed you. Or maybe nobody killed anybody and they're just bitter that Mother Nature got to you before they did. Regardless, they want to confront you one last time before you bite it, if only to rub your nose in your imminent demise and their ability to outlive you.


✗✗✗

HOW IT WORKS:
1. This is where I am changing it up. Feel free to choose how you are going to die, just be sure to list the closest matching categories in your subject bar, along with your character and their series.

If you are having trouble coming up with a prompt or situation, feel free to use the random number generator. Or if you rather just take a risk feel free

2. Responding characters then roll for the relationship between the two of you. Optionally responding characters can also share your cause of death/time left to live or roll for their own, but that's not required. A living character caring for (or horribly mutilating) a dying one is fine, too.

However, considering this is in our RP feel free to have your characters keep their CR, just make sure to inform the person which ever way you're going with it before responding!

3. Tell the person what you need to tell them before you bite it.

4. Have fun!

✗✗✗

ETC

Other relationships -- such as murderer/victim, doctor/patient, etc. -- can be added in along with the randomized relationships at your whim if you feel the need, or even used to replace the relationships under that heading. Just, check with the other player first if you're going to do something extreme to their character! Or, in the case of canonmates, if you want to ignore the table and just go with your characters' canon relationship, you certainly can do that as well.

Also, if you would prefer to ignore the table entirely and just play out your own death scenario, feel free! This is a meme, so rules are pretty lax. If you like, you can also replace "death" with some other irreversible, negative scenario, such as being trapped in another dimension. The main point is that the characters conversing will never get the chance to talk to one another again, so you better make the last things you say to them count.

Immortal characters can be AU'd into non-immortals or otherwise made to fit the settings however their muns would desire. Also, if you get a death prompt and a time limit that don't make sense together you can either interpret the prompt as liberally as necessary to make it make sense OR you can simply roll the time left again until you get a time limit that makes more sense! :3
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6695886)

mish mashing numbers, i do what i want

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-12 09:05 am (UTC)(link)
[When Dean envisioned the end of the world, he thought it was going to be like his little trip to the future. Croats, Lucifer, government-issued bombings. He thought that life would be jam-packed in a compound, and Cas would be high on drugs and orgies, and he would kill a supposedly infected man without blinking.

He also thought that they averted the end of the world.

But that's the thing about thinking of the future — it does shit-all for you when reality catches up. Doesn't matter how much time or energy you spent in thought, when the moment finally comes, you're not going to be prepared. It's kind of like hunting — you can think about the hunt, plan for the hunt, but the second you're there, in the moment, it doesn't matter how much you've train or how much you know — you're still going to get that feeling in the pit of your stomach. And you're probably going to get thrown against the wall, too.

So here they are: the end of the world, and it's all Dean's fault. And Kevin's, too — because Dean's pretty sure there had to be something on that tablet, some sort of fine print, that explained that if you don't finish the Trials, all Hell will break loose. Literally. Doesn't matter, though. Kevin's dead, along with the majority of people out there. Or all of them. There's no way to know, anymore. Nothing works — no phones, no electricity, no nothing. Just Sam and Dean, holed up in a crappy motel room in the middle of some crappy city where the only living humans became meat suits for demons ages ago.

The bunker is out there, still. Waiting for them. A safe haven, well-stocked with food and supplies and a generator. But they're states away, and there's no more gas. In the beginning, they said they would walk, get there eventually, even though the end of the world is fucking cold, Hell freezing over them all. Even though sometimes it's so cold that they stumble numbly until one of them falls and the other has to drag him out of the open. But that was before they ran out of food and Sam and Dean were nearly killed in an attempt to get more, those demons just sitting there, waiting for them, grinning. Dean enjoyed killing them. He wishes he could go back and kill them all over again. Killing demons is the only thing that makes sense anymore. Everything else has gone to shit.

Sam was sick for a long time after the Trials, but then he got better. A lot better, just as everyone else around them started getting picked off by demons. Dean had a suspicion, then, that it had something to do with demon blood — in trying to cure Crowley, maybe Sam was curing himself to death, maybe that was the point all along, and Dean stopped it and opened up the gates of Hell even wider, and Sam's body started to thrive. He'd watch as Sam improved and everything else failed and clutched his pistol a little tighter. He wondered what the Hell he had done and waited for Lucifer to spring from the cage and come claim Sam all over again.

But even that doesn't matter, anymore, because Lucifer never came and Sam is dying again.

They both are.

It's been days since they've had food and their water is dwindling now, too. The motel room is fucking cold, so cold, that they sit together for warmth under blankets and layers and still shiver themselves to sleep. Dean has burned all the furniture he could find, but the fire is slowly going out and he doesn't know how to keep it alive, anymore, unless they burn the blankets, too. He's picked up some kind of a wet cough that rattles in his lungs and makes him feel like he'll never breathe again, and Sam —

Sam was stabbed during their last attempt to find new shelter, and even though the wound should be healing, it isn't. It's festering, because his body is malnurished, because he needs to fucking eat, and because Dean couldn't find anything to sterilize it with before cauterizing it so Sam wouldn't bleed the fuck out. Now there's infection trapped in there and that's his fault, too.

It's all his fault.

He doesn't say that, though. He sits and he watches as Sam succumbs to fever and dies, as he himself dies, and he swears he can hear the demons laughing at them, at him. At the Winchesters, for saving the world, just to end it.

He's huddled against Sam, can feel him shaking and he knows that it's only a matter of time. It's always been only a matter of time, but it's just so much fucking closer now that Dean can feel it.]


Here.

[He holds out their last bottle of clean water and tries to get Sam to grab it, to find the strength to do that much. He doesn't mention it's the last. Sam doesn't need to know.]
collegedropout: (sulking moose motherfucker)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-12 09:32 am (UTC)(link)
[Sam shifts uncomfortably, eyes half-lidded, and for a few minutes he's lost somewhere else. Where, only he seems to know, and he plans to keep it to himself. And yet when he snaps back into reality, looking tiredly at the drink, he swallows hard and thinks Dean, stop helping the dying man. It's not worth the waste of water, really; he knows that he won't make it. Still, it's hard to outright deny Dean's offer, knowing how miserable he is right now. Sam shakily takes the bottle, but there's hardly any strength in his fingers anymore; almost drops it, but his whole hand drops with it, unwilling to let it go. While he draws the gift back up to sit in his nearly convulsing hands, he doesn't drink.

The fever is really eating up his focus; he hates it. He's had a lot of those since taking on the second trial, and even had them for a while after the third. It's like his body had been rebelling the moment he let the light into his veins. And then after... well, it didn't really matter, afterward. Maybe Sam should be mad. That everything abruptly broke, all because Dean wanted him to live. But really, how could Sam blame his brother for something like that? Sam would've done the same. And now, in the end, they're trapped in a horrible world where the only escape is Heaven — Heaven wasn't exactly the best, but at least in the end, Sam could count on seeing Dean there.

Unless the demons dragged him back down. That scared him more than anything on the land.

He licks his chapped, raw lips, sweat on his brow despite the awful chill that rattles him where he sits.]


You — we need to... keep looking for a car with gas. Get to the bunker. We have stuff to treat... that rattling thing in your lungs.

[He's glad that he's not so far gone yet that he's in fits of delusional rambling (though he has had his moments, where a coughing Dean's had to redirect a stumbling, not-so-lucid Sam through rooms; he feels plenty guilty about that). Through this mess, Sam's still got a head on his shoulders: foggy, but there. And while Sam's seeing that the light at the end of the tunnel is him ascending to some afterlife? Dean could survive at least a few years off the supplies in the bunker alone. Or maybe even just one year. Maybe even just one month. Better than out here. When he suggests the car, he's not suggesting it for the two of them. He knows in the end, it'll be just Dean.

He blinks hard, shifts, feels the horrible ache in his side where the stab wound screams at his every movement. He tries not to cry out, but it feels like fingers being wriggled through the flesh, trapped and revolting against his body. It's not pretty to look at, either — under old bandages, it's red, swollen, leaking blood and all sorts of ugly things. Near Dean's side, the wound is burning hot through his clothes, at least offering that much warmth. A little beacon of what's killing him, he supposes. How Dean can sit next to him while he smells so much like death, Sam's not sure.

It hurts.

He lolls tiredly, like staying still is even too much energy to do.]
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-12 10:09 am (UTC)(link)
[Moments like those are what Dean fears — that Sam is going to get that faraway look in his eyes and just slide away and never come back. During that pause — between Dean's urging and Sam's response — Dean can feel his heart pounding and he thinks, This is it, that they've finally reached the point where Sam is going to slip —

But Sam takes the bottle, and Dean has never felt more proud of him in that fucking moment. If he dropped the whole thing on the floor, just spilled it everywhere, it would still be worth it. Because those moments are becoming fewer and fewer, and eventually they're going to stop. They're all Dean has left, so he counts them as victories and commits them to memory like they're all he has left.

He wishes that Sam wouldn't do that — wouldn't will Dean to keep fighting the good fight, to get up and leave and try to find a vehicle that's not out there waiting for them. To try and survive when there's nothing left anymore, when Sam himself is going to be fading soon. What else is there for Dean to do, once Sam is gone, but follow him through the exit door.

Dean has no illusions about where he's going. He's pretty sure there's no room in heaven for the guy who denied Michael and then broke the world because he couldn't stand to see his brother die.]


Tomorrow. [He coughs again, turning away from Sam like it matters if he picks up whatever is slowly nesting in Dean's chest. It's getting old, and his ribs are sore from it, but Dean just catches his breath and start over again.] I'll look tomorrow.

[He won't, though. He's playing vigil until the end — seeing this through, and then going right after. But if that is what Sam wants to hear, then fine. He'll tell him tomorrow — and if Sam makes it until tomorrow, he'll tell him he'll go the next day. Dean will tell him anything he wants, just —

Don't die, Sammy. Not now, not after everything.

Sam isn't drinking, so Dean reaches forward and takes the bottle from him and puts it to Sam's lips.]


Drink.

[He eases the water down his throat carefully, just a little bit, knowing that Sam can't handle too much at once.]
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-12 10:34 am (UTC)(link)
[It's almost shameful, that he has to be literally fed water down his throat — but it's Dean, and there have been times where they've been weak, needed a helping hand. Sam quietly accepts the offer and drinks a little, enough that it's soothing on his parched lips. He doesn't want his stomach to rebel right now. Not now. The pain of vomiting with this sort of wound? Overwhelming.

Sluggish, he smiles.]


A — alright. Tomorrow. Holding you t-to it.

[Jerk.

He just wishes his voice were steady, not on the verge of giving out. His head is starting to throb and the chills are ripping through him enough to inspire pain — under the button-up shirt, there's a red mark traveling toward his heart; the infection's bad. He feels another twinge of pain and curls unashamedly toward Dean, soaking in the mild heat he offers.

It hurts.

Hair unkempt around his sallow face, it shudders against his short breaths. His stomach growls and his muscles clench, and god, can't it make up its mind? He struggles against the churning of his guts, where every contraction of muscle feels like someone's knifing him cruelly.]


You drink, too. [A pause.] ... Could use a salad 'bout now.

[The bruises under his eyes are heavy as he closes them, but he scoffs a toothy smile, pulling the blankets closer. As it so turns out, dying slowly gets you plenty of time to talk about things. And Sam was getting good at it — talking about how Dean would like dogs if he just gave them a chance, talked about football and sports and girls they were secretly into on television. Talked about old cases, talked about the time they fucked up hustling for pool and ended up temporarily carless and bloody-nosed (and how Dean downright embraced Baby's trunk when he found her again).

But with each breathy word, Sam feels a little wisp of his life slip away.

It's scary, but not so bad. He's gotten used to death; it's an old friend. Dean, though? He just doesn't want him to feel like shit anymore. About all this... Sam realizes pretty quickly that Dean probably has no intention of soldiering on. It hurts, but it's okay. Sam understands.

... He just wishes death wasn't so ugly. So slow. Was it always this slow? Like floating through the minutes, losing track of time. He's still not sure how long they've been in this room.]
Edited 2013-09-12 10:37 (UTC)
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6695875)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-12 12:00 pm (UTC)(link)
[He doesn't drink. It's the last of their water, and he's not going to waste it, not when Sam needs it more. Dean sets it aside without comment.]

Rabbit food, Sammy? You need to dream bigger.

[But Dean's tone is light, not as teasing as it should be, because Sam's curling into him, closing his eyes. Sleep is so close to death — too close — but Dean lets him drift because Sam needs it. Because it might ease the pain, a little, if he can slide into unconsciousness.

He knows that Sam's pain is getting worse. There was a time, when Dean knew infection was setting in but they still had time, where Dean would look at his pistol and promise himself that he would use it if things got bad. If Sam started to suffer, if he was sure that Sam wouldn't make it. Ease his burden, so that he doesn't have to go out miserably. It was a silent oath to Sam — something that Dean could do right, after he screwed everything else up. A final attempt at looking out for his little brother.

There were times, too, when he picked it up, prepared to do just that. Sam, asleep, fever setting in, shivering — and Dean would tell himself that he has it in him. He knows he does, somewhere deep inside — that part of him that evolved during the future that he avoided, that part of him that emerged in Purgatory. Ruthless, determined. He can't bring that back out, now, though. Maybe it's dying, too, along with Sam. Or maybe he doesn't know how to flip it around — turn that determination to fight into a determination to end. Ultimately, Dean always put the pistol down.

He can't do it. He can't do it because he wants Sam to live just a little longer. Wants to stave off the inevitable for as long as possible. It's selfish, but these little conversations — these exchanges of memories and interests — remind him of a time they left behind long ago. On the road in the Impala — riding with Dad, looking for Dad. Back when things were simple. Dean wants to keep them going for as long as possible.

After a while, listening to Sam's breathing, trying to muffle his own pathetic wheezing and coughing so Sam can maybe have a few blissful moments of peace, Dean speaks up, voice a hoarse whisper.]


You were right, you know.

[He isn't sure if Sam's there, in the moment, when he says it, but he continues anyway.]

I should've trusted you.

[Should have trusted Sam to finish the Trial, shouldn't have taken Naomi at her word, should have believed in Kevin when he said he didn't see anything about how Sam would die.

He should have trusted Sam to make it through, but in the end, Dean couldn't even give him that much. Because in the end, all Dean wanted was for Sam to survive. No matter what.

Again.]
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-12 03:21 pm (UTC)(link)
[Sam's body seems to shake even more at the admittance. The too-hot face curled against Dean's shoulder moves, as though he's trying hard to sit up, to look Dean in the face, but the weight just shifts back heavily against Dean. It's too much work. And dammit all if tears are leaking out of his eyes, ruining the sip of water he'd taken just by the fact that he had so little body water to spare; it soaks into Dean's shirt against Sam's every will to keep them behind his eyelids. That, too, is too much work.]

S'not your fault... I'd do it, too. I'd've done it, t-too.

[He wants to lift his hand and put it on Dean's knee, squeeze it reassuringly, but it's hard. It flops bonelessly at the effort against the side of Dean's thigh as he fights to make his hands work; he's able to weakly grab at the thigh of his pants, but there's nothing to find purchase on. His hands look unnatural in the harsh shadow; he always had long, lanky fingers, and now after the trials and the illness... they're cold and almost old-looking and speckled with dirt and blood, nothing like they'd been just a few years ago.

If just one thing, God, let him comfort a little. It comforts him in return.]


Not your fault...

Fate hates us...

[Literally hates us. He laughs a crackly little laugh, and it hurts to do it but he doesn't care. He just sits there with that small sound he barely heard anymore, shivering and crying into Dean's shoulder, trying to move a body that just doesn't want to carry on anymore. It hurts, it hurts --

He suddenly startles, realizing blearily not long after that he must've fallen asleep crying; how embarrassing. He licks his lips again as they've already dried out with time and fever, and he's having a desperately hard time making heads or tails of anything. He couldn't really remember why they were here. Couldn't remember much of anything. Where's the Impala? Where's Dean? He realizes he's still sagging against him, tremoring in the blue light of the world around them.

He swears there's someone else in here. Maybe it's all fake. His heart stutters.

His voice is small and rasping.]


D'n... Real...? Not the Cage... Don't let 'em take me back -- don't take me back.

[There's a little unintelligible rambling while his fever cooks him slow and steady, sapping him of valuable water even further, but the chief words in the topic are 'Cage', 'Lucifer', and 'please'. If anyone can figure out a way to protect Sam's soul, it's Dean, Sam thinks. If anyone... His brow crumples, after a few minutes.]

Where's... Dad...

[A sharp stab of pain as he shifts, and he chokes on a hurt and startled gasp, like he'd forgotten it was there. He had.]

Tell -- him I think -- hunt went wrong. S'rry I failed. M'sorry I wasn't what... he needed me t'be... D'n, I'm sorry. Dean -- M'sorry I wasn't what -- you needed me to be.
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-12 09:52 pm (UTC)(link)
[Dean immediately feels guilty. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. Late apologies won't do anything for either of them, except upset Sam, and now he's crying because Dean can shut the fuck up. Because his wall — that strong filter that's been up for years — is crumbling along with Sam and the rest of the world.]

Shhh.

[He moves an arm around Sam, rubbing small circles on his back, like they're kids again. Like Sam is sick and Dad isn't answering his calls and the only thing Dean knows to do is follow the instructions on the Tylenol bottle and rub Sam's back so he can fall asleep.

And Sam does fall asleep.

Dean's cold. He's so fucking cold, but it's a bone-deep cold that he feels like has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. He huddles against Sam all the same — to make sure he can feel him breathing, to make sure he's still there. He tries not to cough.

And eventually, he dozes off, too. Until Sam starts, and then Dean nearly jumps up — expecting something horrible, something that's been trying to come for them for a long time. Because Sam's right — fate really does hate them. Maybe the world was destined to end one way or another and it had to be a Winchester's fault. Maybe stopping the Apocalypse only bought them a little bit of time.]


Sammy —

[Dean readjusts so that his arm is around Sam again, tucks him close, holds on with a strong grip to prove that he's there, that he's real, that he isn't going anywhere.]

You're here. You're not going back there. You're —

[Not okay. Sam isn't okay.]

you're gonna go to Heaven.

[To your heaven of dinners with other people's families and leaving for Stanford and being happy anywhere else but here, with him. Dean should have just let you go ages ago — let you have that life, instead of pulling you back in. Maybe you'd have survived. Maybe the world wouldn't have ended.

At least, in Heaven, Sam can be happy. Even if Dean thinks that Heaven and angels and god screwed them so royally, he'd just as soon go back to Purgatory and spend the rest of eternity there.]


Don't, Sammy. Please. Don't.

[Dean's voice breaks and then he's coughing again, but he forces himself to get the rest of what he's trying to say out.]

I — I'm proud of you. Dad's — proud, too.

[Quietly, then:]

You did good, Sammy.

[You became an amazing hunter and you were going to go through the Trials no matter what. He's proud, and he'll continue to be proud of the person you became, until his own end.]
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-12 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)
[It's all comforting, and he's not in his best state of mind to argue any of it back. He just breathes heavy, sitting there, waiting, clasped tight between Dean's arms. He wants to sleep; he wants to sleep for a long time, feel the wholeness of health return so he could get up and drag Dean to the Bunker, get his strength up so they can fix everything. Or break it even more. Sam doesn't know, but he mentally goes through the motions, too spent and feverish to think otherwise.

Dad and Dean are proud? He smiles lazily with his eyes closed, and it's almost a peaceful thing, if not for the deeper hollows of his eye sockets, or the paleness sweeping over him. His breathing is sporadic and shallow as his heartbeat barely oozes in a rhythm through his veins. His body has passed the stage of panic, passed into a drugged, slow descent into inadequacy.

He's dying. Sam's expression shifts into realization at that, even though he's thought it so many times already. He's dying. He'll be dead soon. Through the fever-fog there's that clarity, and as much as he wants to jump up and shake the death out of his bones, rid himself of the smell of destroyed flesh and sweat, he can't. He can't do much of anything but sit there with his hands collapsed into his lap, long legs sprawled. He manages to drag his feet up closer to him.

He couldn't die yet. He just couldn't.

Despite himself, he falls back asleep, and doesn't wake up for several more hours. When he finally regains consciousness — he might as well have been unconscious — he's not shivering much anymore. Even with the cold. It barely even registers against Dean's quivering body; Dean, who's cold, and Sam, who's progressively getting more cold.

Dying. No... No.

He swallows a few times, but it doesn't clear the dry ache in his throat, in his upper chest.]


Dean...?

[It doesn't hurt like it should. He doesn't understand. He blinks and it takes too long for such an automated task. Death is ugly, Sam thinks. Death is ugly, always has been. He's seen so much of it, and none of it's ever been very noble... There was Jo and Ellen, and then Bobby's quiet goodbye... There are a few that are like the movies, strong, with a farewell and someone holding the other in their arms, crying gently, saying they love them.

He's mostly just seen corpses with their guts pulled up, a brother crying out in pain while gory marks rake over his fragile skin. And even now, it's the saddest death — sitting here, unable to move, knowing you'll never get up on your own from this spot. Sitting here almost numbed, the cold sweeping over your skin, eyelids heavy.

No... Not much like the movies.

No I Love You's.

But why not? He tries so hard, focuses so intently. That's not what Winchesters do, right? Why not? He supposes it's because actions speak louder than words. But he doesn't have the strength to move. He feels a brief moment of energy sometimes in his hands, but he's so tired...

It takes him a while to actually get it out there, though. Not because he's weak, but because it just feels so — bizarre. How often have these words ever been exchanged in the Winchester family?]


Love you...

[It's so foreign on his lips, but it makes him feel better.]

Dean, love you... Thanks. Thanks for being here... since — forever.

[His eyes burn, but he doesn't cry. He might just not have the capacity to.]

M'sorry, that's weird. Bein' weird.

[Ha... Jesus. He hums quietly, deep down in his chest, an easier sound to manage.]

Still alive. Not dyin'... told me not to...
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617116)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-13 12:30 am (UTC)(link)
[Dean doesn't move.

Sam sleeps for hours, but Dean doesn't get up. Doesn't try to rekindle the now-dead fire, doesn't look to see if there are demons encroaching on their territory. If he tried, he feels like he'd lose Sam to the cold, that he'd slip away while Dean is across the room, and he'd find nothing but an empty shell. Sam doesn't wake up, but he keeps breathing, and eventually Dean sleeps a little, too — fades in and out.

Then Sam rouses, and Dean is tempted to reach for the water, to get him to drink just a little more, to stay hydrated just a little longer. But he stays rooted, because he knows that it's too late for water to do anything now. It's too late for them both.

Don't, he wants to argue. Don't start saying goodbyes — because it is a goodbye, some final words about love and gratitude. Dean doesn't deserve Sam's thank yous. They're in this mess because of him, and he failed, because he's losing Sam. Again. But this time, there's no last-minute rescue. It's over.

He pulls back enough to look at Sam — really look at him, expression open and pained and appreciative and so many other things at once. I'm sorry I couldn't do better. It was all for nothing, and Dean wishes he could change that. Wishes he could go back to the day Jess died and fix all of it.

He can't say it back. Even now, even cracked open as his wall is, Dean can't bring himself to repeat those words back. He knows he'll lose it if he does, and Sam doesn't need that, so he just nods. Stays strong, for him.]


Such a girl.

[But there's no disguising his tone, no holding that back.

He detangles one of his arms from Sam and the blankets and brings his hand to carefully ruffle Sam's hair, like to used to do, ages ago. Lifetimes ago.

He takes a wheezy breath, pulls Sam back to him again, holds him and feels the weakened rise and fall of Sam's chest.]


It's okay, Sammy. You —

[A hesitant pause, because Dean doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to let him, doesn't want to give in after all this fighting, after he tried so hard again and again to make sure Sam stayed alive.

But it's for Sam.]


can let go.

[Stop suffering. Let it go.]
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-13 01:11 am (UTC)(link)
... No.

[He grounds it out, rough but suddenly stronger, dredging up all the life he's got left in his body, pulling it all to a tired but fierce and strangely stubborn stare as he looks back at Dean; actually pulls himself to sit upright so that they're parallel. His head can't support itself and he's leaned back, and the light is clearly seeping out of his eyes, but he furrows his brow and grabs Dean's hand over knuckle with his own cold palm, squeezing pathetically — barely even enough to keep his hand there at all. His flaked, aching lips thin neutrally and he works his jaw, determined. He couldn't leave Dean behind. He couldn't leave him like before. He's supposed to be here until the end. Isn't he? Together. He couldn't let Dean deal with a body. He couldn't be dead and gone next to him, leave him to his own misery.

Sam sees it. How much it hurts. Hurts Dean more than the stab wound hurts Sam. He doesn't even feel it now; barely registers that he's touching clammy skin, clutching with the might he has left.]


No, no... No. Can't let everything go, Dean. Not everything...

[Not you. Not yet. He said he'd live. He won't let you down again. But oh, god, it's so hard. His vision is blurring, fuzzing at the corners, and he just weakly shakes his head, as if trying to jostle it — because he needs to — he couldn't — ]

No, I'm here... I'm still... I'm here. Don' want to go...

[His hand trembles over Dean's.

He's almost gone. Sam feels it. He feels it, and suddenly he's frantic to try and live; but even with the mantra, no, not going, no, even with the stubborn set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, he slowly lets Dean's hand go. Stares at Dean in pained confusion, because he's trying so hard to keep him company, just for a while more. They could tell more stories, make fun of each other; Dean can insult his masculinity or they can take a cruise in the Impala, wherever she is. They can collapse on motel beds and grumble about their lives and how crappy it can be. They can go hunting. They can fight about something, even go so far as to throw punches. They can drink silently in the Bunker. Anything.

He's scared he won't find that, where he's going.

The confusion settles, green eyes catching the ray of morning light trickling into the gnarled blinds beyond them. A silent plea — don't leave me behind. Even though he's the one leaving. Don't leave me. The hand over Dean's is paralyzed and his breathing staggers, but he looks at Dean with sad, hopeful, worried, stubborn eyes.

He wants to say something. Anything. But all he can do is breathe haggardly, as he slowly lists sideways, expression dimming, dimming, dimming — the last thing he can see is Dean, and then the last thing he hears, muffled under invisible warm blankets, is Dean. His eyes finally glaze over with a dawning new emptiness, disconnected from the world around him, and they slide shut. He breathes for another five minutes; his mind is gone for all of it. His thready pulse stops. And then he's incredibly still and cold, body hauntingly empty.]
Edited 2013-09-13 01:15 (UTC)
ramble_on: (pic#6503103)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-13 02:22 am (UTC)(link)
[Don't fight it, Dean thinks as Sam struggles — looks at him, puts that weak hand over his. They've fought so much, so hard, day in and day out, and he doesn't want Sam to go that way. He wants him to go peacefully, happily — without pain, without suffering. With his blessing.

He repeats:]


It's okay. It's okay.

[Tries to will Sam into settling down, into giving up the struggle, so that he doesn't have to look at that — panicked but hopeful, as though there's still something Dean can do. As though he can rescue Sam from this, somehow.

And then Sam really does fade. Slowly, leaning, disappearing. Dean watches him, then pulls him close and murmurs apologies and promises. Talks to him about everything he should have said over the years, all the things that were on his mind, how Sam was a good brother, and how he's sorry he was so damn hard on him, especially toward the end. Then Sam is gone, so it's okay for Dean to stop being strong. He lets the tears fall freely and sits there huddled under blankets with Sam's cold body, regretting so much, wishing he could at least give him the hunter's funeral that deserves.

Dean stays that way for a long time.

Then he stands — shakily, weakly, coughing pathetically — forces himself up so he can ease Sam's body down. Fixes the blankets over him, tucks him in like he's little Sammy, waiting for Dad to come home. He takes one last look before he grabs his pistol and Ruby's knife and heads outside.

Because his story ends here, too. There's nothing left for him, now that Sam's gone, and it's only a matter of time before he dies, too. But Dean is going out the way he has always said he would — with a gun in his hand.

And he's going to take out as many of those demon bastards as he can on his way.]
collegedropout: (pic#6582046)

shush i needed a little bit of positivity okay leave me be ;-;

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-09-13 08:33 am (UTC)(link)
[Sam's gone.

When he opens his eyes, he's sitting against a tree; the bark scratches softly on the back of his head as he rises up unsteadily. It's cool, and his body is muscular, strong, like it had been years before. And it feels... nice. It's been so, so long... so long since he'd felt like this -- since his body's felt healthy, even since Jess. He's been so tired, so pale and dark-eyed. Despite all the smiles back then, it still all ached: muscles, head, heart, it all ached. Now, there's a calmness seeping through him. He's dead. Dead, and he's here.

Slowly he rises to his feet.

The grass and dirt crunch under his feet, and he walks. The forest is calm and the wind sways the green brush; the sun is bright and warms his face; it's that dew-dotted world, that sort of morning walk Sam always quietly loved about the location of the Bunker. Eventually, there's the door of it, just up the pathway. No Impala parked in the front -- it's not his to take care of. It had been twice, but... it's not truly his Baby. Not like it's Dean's. He wanders into the stocked place, so full of books, of warm showers and ridiculous old weapons and bedrooms that are so much better than motels...

He grabs a beer, ignoring the way it replaces itself, walks back outside, breathes in deep, and then sits down near the railing. He takes a sip of beer, resting as the breeze cards through his hair. Doesn't hurt. Doesn't make him shiver. It's a reverie he's thankful for, after all that pain. It's been so long since they've been free. Free from everything. Maybe it's all just a bunch of bullshit, and maybe he should be angry that this is it -- memories. Dean probably would have quite a few things to say about this place, if he were here...

But he feels peaceful. Maybe because he believes, truly -- he won't always be alone here.

Sam's waiting. He doesn't mind it; spent more than one lifetime waiting for a salvation that would never come.

Now, he's just waiting for the hum an old, strong engine.]
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

positivity it is!

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-09-13 12:46 pm (UTC)(link)
[In the end, Dean takes down four demons. Only four, before they grab him and slowly tear him into pieces, talk to him about how he's going back on the rack after all of this, and how Castiel will not be there to save him this time. How he'll fit right in, get warped all over again, until he once again embraces the torturer he was. And in the end, he'd end up just like them — a twisted, tainted soul. A demon, walking the earth, laying claim.

Dean dies surrounded by demons and expects to wake up in Hell.

He doesn't.

He wakes up on a road, able to breathe deeply again, feeling whole. He isn't tired or bleeding or strung up by hooks. There's a part of him that expects that it's some kind of trick or joke — that he'll take a few steps and then he'll be pulled from this reverie, back into Hell. But he walks and it doesn't happen — the road just continues, and Dean keeps walking, until finally, he finds her.

Baby. Whole and free of rust and with a full tank. Dean circles around her, hand running over her body. Home, he thinks before opening the driver's side and taking a seat. Even when they settled into the bunker, and even after Dean had his own room, he still considered Baby his home. The piece of his life that has always, always been a constant. When he turns the key, Led Zeppelin's Traveling Riverside Blues comes on and Dean hums along, driving down the road, feeling strangely calm.

Heaven sucks, he reminds himself, thinking back to his last experience here. To the memories, to the isolation. But as the bunkers comes into view and he sees Sam sitting outside, Dean can't help but think that maybe it doesn't suck so bad after all.

He parks and pockets the keys as he climbs out, giving Baby another appreciative pat for being here for him even now, even after all of this time. Then he walks up to the bunker, smiling at Sam, who looks better. Stronger. Healthy.]


Where's mine?

[He gestures to the beer, and everything about this moment feels so damn right, it's almost painful. Almost. But instead of pain, Dean just feels, for the first time in so, so long — maybe ever — happy.]