#tomorrow is the day so have this 2.5k word post abt dean's death

[undonesmoved]

WHITERIVER EMERGENCY SERVICES RESPOND TO REPORTS OF A CRASHED VEHICLE AT 7:27 AM ON APRIL 21, 2020. officer everett jacobs is the first on the scene, and discovers a black 1967 mustang that has collided head-on with an old maple tree that stands sentry on the edge of town. near the car is the person who made the call, the local doctor who bikes every morning before opening up his office for the day, and when jacobs asks him to step back, the doctor, with blood on his hands, looks up to him and says grimly: “one occupant, and i’m pretty sure he’s deceased.”

whiteriver is a small town, the kind of town where everyone knows everything, and the doctor, decker, is by no means a young man; jacobs saw him when he was a kid, brings his kids to see him because he’s the best (not the only practitioner, but in the eyes of his patients, he might as well be). it’s against protocol, the lines of text seared into jacobs’ memory, screaming protests at this breach, but when he hears those words - i’m pretty sure he’s deceased - jacobs waves him back, allows him to continue his examination, because either way, he’ll get a good look; if he’s alive, well, decker will treat him while they await transport to the big hospital in the city, and if he’s dead -- decker doubles as the guy who does the autopsies... (coroner, jacobs thinks belatedly; that’s the word for it.)

the ambulance arrives, red light swirling, as jacobs has cautiously treaded closer, sweeping the beam of his light across the interior of the car, rather uselessly because the sun’s already on the horizon, its golden-yellow rays glinting off something in the passenger seat. jacobs’ cousin anita is one of the paramedics, and as she and her partner exit the vehicle, jacobs is retreating, walking the perimeter of the car (admiring the paint, the detail, the love that was obviously put into it prior to the wreck), towards the passenger’s side, because this is his job: to determine what happened. but every step he takes is minuscule, and it seems to take him ages to reach the door, because this is his first dead body despite his ten years wearing a uniform; it isn’t that nobody dies in whiteriver, it isn’t even a town where you can proclaim no one is murdered (before his time, there was that serial murderer, fifteen dead bodies, there’s a memorial in the town square; just last week he arrested a handful of teens for vandalizing it) - but through luck, maybe, it’s never been him to respond to the calls involving corpses. they’ve only ever come when he’s off-duty, or preoccupied, and there’s a grumble in the precinct every time, someone wondering aloud why it’s never jacobs.

but it’s jacobs now, and as he pulls open the door of the mustang, he wishes to god it wasn’t.

blood has pooled on the seat, but that’s not what draws his attention, eyes tracking immediately to the pistol, engraved with - ivory, maybe? the grip is elegant, spattered with blood, lying amid the puddle of red and shards of glass from the caved-in windshield. the markings are clearly something, a depiction of something or -one, but he can’t make it out. his hand grips instinctively at the sidearm holstered on his belt, that hair-trigger reaction drilled into his mind in the academy, and he eyes the body - definitely dead, anita, max and decker had whispered, though not unkindly - but he doesn’t relax; jacobs fears dying, a goddamn idiotic phobia for a man in uniform, his brother reminds him frequently, and he has to bite his tongue every time so he doesn’t spit back, well, i didn’t want this job, but what the hell else was i supposed to do?

now he sees what the sun had reflected off of, and jacobs inhales, loosening his fingers, catching his tongue between his teeth as he pulls a glove from the pocket of his vest; gingerly, he grips the flask, gunmetal grey and liquid sloshing inside. he places his flashlight atop the car, clicked off, and with a small pause to fully glove both of his hands, he unscrews the cap, met immediately with the aroma of tequila - retracting from the stench with a visceral disgust. his father was a recovering alcoholic, though recovering didn’t join that label until jacobs was twelve, when his father nearly killed a man in a drunken hit-and-run -- and those twelve years were long enough to create a full-body aversion to even the slightest whiff of liquor.

he holds up the flask as if it’s the head of a decapitated enemy, and he’s the reluctant victor of some battle; slightly shamed, head bowed, expression pinched.

the trio discussing the extent of wounds, attempting to determine which killed their john doe all look up, and as a collective, they exhale, but it isn’t a noise of disgust; it’s a breath of sorrow, and they observe a moment of silence for the war this man had been fighting.

***

THE LICENSE IN HIS WALLET IDENTIFIES HIM AS JAMES FORD, but a multitude of forged badges - local and federal law enforcement - offer a myriad of other names. fingerprints call him dean winchester, and jacobs has a permanent crease between his brows as he studies the file that accompanies it: first-degree murder, robbery, assault, impersonation of a federal officer, fraud... it’s a laundry list of crimes, and the tension in his temples beats a steady rhythm the more he reads. there’s blogs and documentaries dedicated to this man, there’s conspiracies and theories and even an obscure book series from some writer who seems to be a ghost that follows a man named dean and his brother, sam - and jacobs’ dean has a brother named sam, too. 

or had, at least, because he seems to be dead ---- though it seems dean has been dead a couple times, too. st. louis, then again in colorado, and apparently a handful of other times, but the reports are conflicting and his headache’s worsening. there’s reporters camped out in front of the station, in front of the hospital, scouting his house and anita’s and max’s and decker’s, searching for any word, quote, photo they can get.

he abandons his computer mid-article detailing the occult ties to dean winchester, proclaiming he’s a satan-worshiper, a demon himself, satan himself, jacobs retreating to the bathroom, locking himself in a stall, and trying to remember what that engraving on the handle of dean winchester’s gun showed.

***

SAM WINCHESTER IS SITTING IN FRONT OF THE TELEVISION, watching the nonstop reporting of the ‘apparent death of dean winchester’ - a headline accompanied by a subtitle that reads “again?” they call him a monster, a killer, insane, they remind the public how dangerous he was, that he was one of the most wanted men in the country once upon a time. social media has their theories, their criticisms, some expressing gratitude he’s dead, while others wonder how he’s managed to seemingly die so many times, how he keeps slipping out of custody, and anyway, is he really dead now? some post his mugshot and a series of tweets insisting they’ve seen him, met him, the more bold ones who don’t care about reputation coming outright and saying he saved them from a monster; that his story is real, only to be dismissed as “just as crazy as him” / “he brainwashed u, he’s a psycho, that’s what they do.”

they speak of him as if he isn’t a hero, a man who’s saved the world once or thrice or a dozen times.

sam is in a motel, because he could not be home; he could not let amelia see him crumbling. he had accepted that his brother was gone, though some part of him continued to hope he may resurface; after heaven and hell, why not escape purgatory as well? but time passed, seasons came and went, months became years and sam began to understand it was a futile hope, that he was merely hurting himself the longer he clung to this, the longer he kept dean with him; he was gone, and he wouldn’t want sam like this, anyway, always with an eye and foot towards the door. he would want him to live, and sam could hear dean say that, and hears it again in this motel room that smells of rotten linen: you deserve a life, sammy, it’s all i ever wanted for you.

the weight of the wedding ring on his finger grounds him, and he twists and pulls at it, just like dean did to the one he wears - wore. the one that belonged to their mother.

there’s a knock on the door, quick and efficient, and sam tenses, pulling from a holster on his side a sleek grey pistol.

a voice calls his name - not the false surname he uses now in this new life, but the one he was born to, and he shudders, cocking back the hammer of his gun, crossing the room with military precision.

the voice calls again, but not just his name; this time, she says, “i’m a friend. i knew dean.”

***

ZARI IS IN THE PASSENGER’S SEAT OF THE IMPALA. sam is behind the wheel. the car is freshly waxed and detailed, the rims shining silver beneath the pale moonlight. around the rearview mirror is the same air freshener dean liked, tree-shaped and bought from a gas station; a charm that bobby gave him bobbles beside it, a little sigil on a metal chain. zari doesn’t know the symbolism of it.

nothing about the car’s changed. dean’s arsenal and talismans are still in the hidden compartment of the trunk; sam and dean’s initials are still engraved in their spot; there’s still a dent in the hood of the car from a typically angry shapeshifter. dean’s knife made from dragonbone and his bible from pastor jim, one of the people who raised the boys when their own father couldn’t, and his stash of pain medication he always believed sam never knew about but did from day one, are all still in the center console; sam hasn’t changed a thing, has just kept up the appearance and the mechanics, keeping the impala pretty and running good for dean’s return. it’s been a week and the news still features his face, and zari is scrolling through a conspiracy thread when they pull into the parking lot; she’s quiet, and so is sam, and the radio is on but it’s low, tuned to one of dean’s favorite stations (sam never even changed the station, never touched the dial once). he looks sideways to his company, this woman who said she was a friend of dean’s - just a friend, she repeated, and sam nodded - who worked with him, hunted with him, because he’s been back for years and didn’t say anything.

he’d been back for years, and he never said anything.

she said it was because dean didn’t want to pull sam away from his life when he was finally living; “not again,” dean had said to her, and though she didn’t understand, sam has never forgotten the way dean crept into his stanford apartment, and how he’s blamed himself for what happened to jessica, in the same way sam shoulders the same guilt. sam is pale, waxen, feeling as dead as his brother is (“it is him,” zari had whispered, and she was crying when she said it; “it’s really him.”) he parks the impala, rolling to a stop and cutting the engine, and zari pockets her phone, looking up at him, then to the moon; it’s not quite full, but it’s swollen and it’s bright, and the lot is illuminated with its white light, the world in shades of white and blue. they exit, doors shutting in unison, and zari jerks her head to the left, to a set of doors by the loading bay of the hospital.

she and a ‘friend’, she said, bribed the right people, and they’ll bring dean’s body to them, to do with what they wish rather than have it cremated like the powers that be decreed.

the doors shudder open; a small woman keeps her head low as she wheels out a body bag on a gurney, not looking at either of them. in the doorway is a shadow, slightly larger than the woman, but it melds into the rest of the darkness after the exchange is complete; not a word is said while the body is placed in the backseat of the impala, and the woman disappears without even a nod.

zari and sam slide into the car, and sam swallows loudly, hands shaking, too badly to even turn the key; zari reaches to hold his wrist, and, quietly, they switch seats. 

sam keeps his eyes on his feet, but his cries aren’t quiet, and zari holds his hand while she drives.

*** 

TWO PEOPLE STAND NEAR THE PYRE. sam reacts visibly to one as he turns to see them, rushing to help hoist dean’s body, sam’s grip failing; victor henriksen smiles at him, a brief flash of teeth, before shifting his focus to assisting zari in removing dean’s corpse from the bag. he’s been in a morgue for a week, but the freezer only staves off so much decay, and the four of them feel their stomachs churn at the sight of dean atop the unlit wood. victor retreats to the man he’d been speaking to before, who sam eyes with confusion, then alarm as his mouth twists in a growl, fangs glistening.

“yes, benny’s a vampire,” zari says, and sam feels his confusion deepening, heavy in his eyes.

benny offers a curt nod, then says in his southern drawl, “met him in purgatory. got each other out.” he sees sam’s disbelief, and he laughs - an awkward noise at a funeral, and benny coughs so that he doesn’t cry. he keeps it at that, not telling sam all of the things he could, because those things - the love he felt for dean, most of all - he wishes to keep for himself.

victor is stepping forward to hug sam, and sam finally gives him a good look, and he’s smiling now, as best as he can. he asks victor how he is, how he’s been, and victor shrugs his shoulders; he’d been expecting something violent, something vitriolic, for knowing dean was here and not telling sam.

but if sam feels that way (and he does, slightly, vaguely) he keeps it to himself.

it’s benny who lights the pyre; sam doesn’t question this, though he still wonders about him, finding it difficult to envision dean so close with a supernatural. as the flames burn, as dean’s body is reduced to ash, zari and benny huddle together, and victor has sam’s hand in his; as they offer dean to eternal peace, the four of them, the four who’ve loved dean the most in his life, all experience the same thing: the sensation like breathing on the napes of their neck, a shudder of a breeze that seems to say thank you.

the sun has risen by the time the fire dies, the wood spent, a pile of ash atop the blackened ground; benny drives the stake of a cross into the dirt, carved across it the simple inscription “DW.—1.24.79-4.21.20.”