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Blown Out (in your Sky Eyes)

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Dean has been procrastinating on his suicide for a long time.

It's been years now, he thinks. Like yet another apocalypse that's been happening silently in the background of all the others the Winchester brothers keep surviving. But this one, this special apocalypse is his own, personal, intimate one.

He's the only one aware of it, of its inevitability, and he's smart enough to know that everything he went through and everything he conquered, to this day, was accomplished as a team, no matter how hard he tried to do it all alone.

Sam, Cas, Mary, Bobby, all the others that came and went at one point or another. Without them and Dean Winchester, he knows the world would have poofed out ten times just in the last decade. This one apocalypse, though. This one, no one but him saw it coming. This one, no one will even know it's been creeping closer for years until it'll be too late.

So Dean keeps the Colt under his pillow, and he procrastinates. He has been for long enough so that not even Sam notices anything. Hunts are getting rarer and rarer, and most of those who come up, Sam relays them to others hunters across the country.

“We're tired,” Sam says.

“We're getting old,” Sam says.

And Dean is too much of all of that to object and get angry. Hell, he doesn't even get that angry anymore, and the Sasquatch is too busy becoming the new Bobby Singer, with his twelve phones and his constant roaming through the library for other hunters in need of lore and information. Sam doesn't notice much anymore.

So the bunker gets quieter and quieter, the Winchesters' sleep deeper and deeper, their time together rarer and rarer, and Dean's days locked up in his room, longer. Longer. Longer.

He stares at his pillow like it's a chained up demon waiting for him to plunge a blade through their chest, and he know it's a matter of days before he flips his shit and his fluffy beddings and just end it all right there, on his bed, in the bunker, between a week old greasy pizza box and a skin mag.

In all his glory.

Brains and bullet.

Poof.

Tonight, Dean stares at his pillow like he knows Cas stares at him when he thinks he's not looking. The angel's been getting better at it, though. The Staring™. Fucker's still doing it, of course, but at least he has the dignity to look away when he's caught.

Tonight, Dean is alone in the bunker. Sam is off to visit some hunter he befriended the year before, when Dean was wherever Michael took his personal meatsuit for a drive. Now that he thinks of it, the whole archangel possession may have been the last strike to his shattered identity. Anyway, Sam is not here, Cas has gone AWOL for a few weeks now, like he's been doing since Mary died, and Mom's living her best after-life in Heaven, so Dean's alone in the too big, too silent, too cold Bunker.

Tonight's the night. Tonight, Dean finally stops procrastinating. Tonight, he kills what's been dead for centuries.

Himself.

So he gets up from the chair in his room, sweeps everything off his grimy sheets with his hands, sits down with his legs crossed on the bed, pulls the Colt out of the pillow behind his back and opens the cold chamber. One bullet. One special bullet. As if the Colt wasn't enough of a deadly weapon even for the most dangerous creatures – expect archangels, of course, because that would be too easy, wouldn't it –, that one bullet can kill every monster that doesn't need a nice and good decapitation to fuck off. Witch, demon, angel, werewolf, you name it. Dean's pretty sure that with all the carving and special ingredients he customizes that bullet with, it would at least tickle Chuck himself, if he shot it at his head.

Sure, to anyone else, that much dedication to one single bullet would seem a bit over the top. Dean may have been postponing the whole suicide operation, but that doesn't mean he wants a cheap, easy out that could backfire and leave him alive, potentially disfigured, and very disappointed. He came back from the dead enough times to know that if he really wants to never, ever come back, he has to be extra zealous. Some god of another dimension might realize they need him for whatever those holy assholes need humans for and bring him back just for kicks. So Dean figures that if he's too damaged to be salvaged, then it's worth the effort. It's all rather poetic, really.

Dean Winchester is just another monster who won't survive the pull of his own trigger.

He doesn't care wether he goes to Heaven or Hell – even though he has a pretty good idea of which one he's more likely to end up in. With a little luck, that masterpiece of a bullet, if he does say so himself, will be deadly enough to shoot his after-life in the head while it splatters his brain all over the place.

On his dirty bed, the Colt heavy in his hands, the TV on mute and his cold, bare feet twitching with anticipation, Dean imagines black. Just pure, deep, black, a flash of infinite void before he forgets he ever existed and stops thinking.

He can't fucking wait.

Sam's away, Cas is doing whatever angels do, Mary's dead, no apocalypse is going on - right now and that he's aware of, at least -, and Dean will be damned if he's gonna wait for another to start, because he knows he couldn't resist trying and stop it. It's hardwired in his brain, now, so he has no other choice but to bypass the system by… getting on with it.

Dean closes the chamber of the Colt, now warm in his hand, cocks it, rests his finger comfortably on the trigger, raises the gun so the muzzle digs into the soft part under his chin, corrects the angle, exhales a short breath that ranks of his best whisky, shrugs, and pulls.

Dean sees the door to his room open a millisecond before the blast, but it's too late.