fight-those-faeries:
dicksp8jr:
ismarty:
Carry On My Wayward Son (lullaby Version)
imagine if this was playing at the and of the series
Dean and Sam are dying in the dirt of Stull cemetery, where they so long ago sealed away the Devil. Dean watches with tears in his eyes and a block in his throat as Sam convulses and hacks up blood.
He chokes out his brother’s name over and over, wishing only that Sam’s dream of them both making it out alive had come to fruition. But they hadn’t. They wouldn’t. They had lost everything to seal away Hell and it all seemed so meaningless as his little brother’s blood colored the ground dark. Dean’s own blood slowly is absorbed by the dirt until both of them lay on one connecting circle of dark red.
He stares down at the claw marks on his chest and lets out a painful chuckle at the thought that he didn’t have an angel to get him out of this one. He didn’t want to, either.
Slowly his hand inches towards his brother’s face. The life leaves his eyes and his last breath is exhaled with his older brother’s name on his lips. Dean’s world crashes. He’s seen it happen before, but he won’t be around to bring him back. No more crossroad deals or bigger plans. Sammy is gone. He chokes out a wail and waits for the end.
why
No one steps foot in Stull Cemetary for years. An omen hung about the place that no one questioned. Eventually teenagers started using it as fodder for ghost stories, centered around two brothers who were killed there whilst sealing the gates of hell. The most common form of the legend was that they haunted the place, defending against people who might want to reopen the gate. It was also said sometimes that one of the ghosts would also get particularly violent if you in any way showed interest in the ‘67 Chevy Impala parked within the cemetery.
One day a brave lad decided he wanted answers. He did research for weeks, finally piecing together a story about two brothers called Sam and Dean Winchester. They also frequently appeared in pictures with a mysterious man in a long overcoat, who never aged or even changed clothes in any picture our brave little student could find. Finally, there was nothing left but to go there himself.
He arrived at dusk, gun with modified salt rounds at the ready. Yes, he had definitely done his research. Everything was shrouded in gray as the gate creaked open and he stepped inside, the first human to set foot here in nearly a decade. He crept around the cemetery for a while before he saw the Impala. It was rusted and falling apart, though there were some places where the black paint had held on. Remembering the stories about the one ghost who got touchy about the car, he stopped. At the sound of wings behind him, he whirled around, gun at the ready.
There stood the man in the trench coat from the pictures, exactly as he had looked ten and fifteen years prior.
“It’s you…” he said in disbelief, but he didn’t lower the gun.
“My name is Castiel. Dean Winchester wishes for me to tell you that you are allowed to touch the car. In the glove compartment you will find a book. It will answer your questions.”
The boy glanced back at the car for a split second, but when his eyes returned to Castiel, he was gone. With every sense alert, he carefully opened the passenger door, and then the glove compartment. There was indeed a book inside, bound in leather. The front read “Journal - Sam Winchester.”
He opened it and read the first page out of curiosity, which lead to a second page, and a third. At midnight, he was still there, sitting against the rusted bumper of the Impala, perusing through Sam’s neat handwritten notes with the aid of a flashlight. He didn’t notice two shadowy figures behind him, one several inches taller than the other. He didn’t notice that Castiel had returned and stood next to them, watching over him, and he only barely registered when the radio in the car buzzed to life and began playing a soft version of an old Kansas song, a song that would follow him through the rest of his life as an honorary member of the Men of Letters.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANO.
