Isn’t she beautiful when she sleeps? So vulnerable in the moonlight. So unaware of the danger that crept into her bedroom. She still dreams happy dreams, the corner of her lips twitches to their rhythm. Her chest, barely covered with the white fabric of her pjs, still rises and falls with each even breath.
He could just stand there, he could watch her all night. It’s his last, after all—his last night alive. If he can even call himself that, anymore.
The ending is not what he’d imagined it’d be.
But at least it won’t be painful, not as ugly as could be. And he gets to say goodbye. If he dares.
Or he could just stand there for only a little bit longer. Before disappearing, for good, as they both knew he would, eventually.
That way, he’d never have to be the one who breaks Lisa’s heart.
Never be the one to bring her the bad news. For a few more days, she’d keep her peace. Radio silence’s never killed anyone’s hope yet. Sam was always better at this stuff, anyway. At bringing the bad news to the girlfriends, bringing the comfort to the bereaved wives. He’s practiced well, all those years in their make-believe FBI.
Or maybe Sam wouldn’t have the decency, and Lisa’d call and she’d call and she’d give up, at last. Isn’t that how all those stories end, where a girl brings a drifter under her roof? She’d be sad, sure. She’d be pissed at him—and that, he deserved.
Maybe a part of her would wait for him to come back, but she’d never hold her breath.
And then she’d move on, and that would be that for their little love story.
A dog barks outside, the wretched noise thundering in Dean’s ears. He forces it out of his mind and focuses all his attention on Lisa, on her face, trying to etch it into his brain, so that, when the moment comes, when the silver blade of the machete swings towards his neck, he can recall it, as she is now, let it be the last thing he sees before his head rolls to the dirty motel floor.
No, he can’t think about that, not now. This is about her. About everything she’s done for him.
That’s what he came here for. That’s why he drove all the way here, the road hazard that he was in his condition (a condition, what a funny word for becoming a monster). The lights of passing cars were so blinding he barely managed to keep his eyes on the road. The lovely purr of Baby’s engine, once his favorite sound, was drowning him, grating like a thousand nails on a chalkboard.
Somehow, he made it here in one piece. For Lisa.
Now he’ll get to touch her soft, pulsing skin.
But he doesn’t get to move. The fucking barking outside wakes her up—
It’s his view that startles her. A stranger in her room.
No, not a stranger.
She doesn’t know that yet.
“Hey,” he lets out.
She flicks on the lamp on the nightstand; a freakin’ firework straight into his eyes. He turns his face away. At least it’s something to take his mind off her thundering heartbeat.
“Hey.” She rubs the sleep away from her eyes. “I wasn’t expecting you for a couple of days.”
They have just talked about it, about him coming home. Now, the conversation feels like a lifetime ago.
“Yeah, yeah. I wanted to see you.”
He sits down on the bed. Not his greatest idea. He’s too close. He can’t even look at her.
“Are you okay?”
“What’s going on?”
The concern in Lisa’s voice is killing him. So is her scent, as she moves closer.
“It doesn’t matter. But I need you to know—you and Ben—just, uh…” He should have had the speech prepared. He thought he had. But there are too many thoughts racing through his head. He’s got too much to tell her. He needs more time with her. So much more time. But he has to settle for a simple, honest, “Thanks. Okay? For everything.”
“Dean,” she says—she begs—slipping from under the covers, moving even closer, “you’re scaring me.”
He can’t stand the pounding of her heart anymore.
He can’t stand the closeness. The hypnotizing scent of her blood—the kind of temptation he’s never felt, never resisted, before.
As she leans towards him, he pulls away, stands up. He needs to put distance between them, as much as he can, as fast as he can.
“Oh, God, I’m Pattinson.” He wishes it was nothing but a dumb joke. He wishes it was embarrassing, not terrifying.
“Nothing. I gotta go.”
“No, you can’t just show up here like this and—”
She’s so bent on being close to him, she gets up and follows him. He can’t blame her. Coming here was a bad idea. All he does is make it harder and more confusing for her.
“Believe me, I wish it was different.”
“Just stop, and explain to me what’s going on out there.”
Don’t think about her heartbeat.
Don’t think about her pulse.
He wants to tell her everything. He needs her to understand. So that, maybe, once he’s gone, she doesn’t hate him.
He wants to tell her he was wrong; about jumping back into the life like a fucking boomerang, though he swore he was done hunting. He could have just stayed with her, full time. They could have had so much more time.
Most of all, he wants to tell her how afraid he is. He’s played tag with death for most of his life. But nothing could have prepared him for the real thing. For the no-coming-back-this-time thing.
He might have acted tough in front of Sam, but he doesn’t wanna go.
And where will he go, anyway? Like this? Not heaven, that’s for sure. He can only hope there’s no special circle of hell for monsters like him.
A big, fat nothing always seemed like a good idea.
“Lisa, I can’t bring this crap home to you.”
“You’re talking about your work?”
“I’m talking about my life. It’s ugly...and it’s violent...and I’m gonna die—soon.”
She doesn’t understand. How could she?
“Just tell me,” she pleads, coming closer, too close. “Just tell me what the hell is going on.”
She’s got her hands wrapped around his arms. Her face, her body, inches away. And Dean can’t back out any further.
He can’t stand it anymore.
He can’t stand it. He can’t.
He grabs her shoulders and pushes her against the wall, rough, too rough. Eyes narrowed, he watches the fear in her eyes.
The fear. The arousal.
Heavy breath, racing heartbeat.
The last remnants of her trust in him don’t let her fight back, don’t let her scream or try to run away. She’s waiting for his move. For his lips moving closer to her lips. For his tongue finding her tongue. For his hands sliding up her thighs. For the touch, the love, the fucking. For something that says this has all been an act, a game.
For anything that doesn’t sound like goodbye.
Dean can’t give her that. He can only take. He can only devour.
The scent, the rush of blood under her skin, there’s nothing else beside it. There’s nothing but that red, burning, overpowering desire.
His lips don’t touch her lips.
They move lower.
Down her jaw. Down her neck.
There’s the artery, the thick river of blood, waiting for him. Waiting for the thing that’s in control of him, the animal that’s taken over.
He can’t do this.
He has to stop.
He has to stop!
But her skin gives in so easily.
And her blood tastes so sweet.
Sweeter than wine, sweeter than pie with whipped cream, sweeter than her love’s ever been, Lisa’s blood erupts into Dean’s mouth. Suddenly, he’s Tantalus, straight off his torment, and he swallows, and swallows, and swallows ravenously. Doesn’t care if it drowns him; the taste—oh God, that taste—is well worth dying for.
Worth killing for.
Worth living for.
Envious of each stray drop that escaped his tongue, Dean can’t stop taking her in. It’s addictive, it’s intoxicating.
And it works. It quenches the hunger, at last, quiets the noise, eases the pain of constant endurance.
Until different pain breaks in, though not his own. A terrified scream of a terrified child. And two weak arms trying to pry Dean away from his favorite drug, from his love.
His love falling through his arms. Her body limp, head rolled back on her bloodied neck.
What has he done?
Her skin’s pale, near white in dim light. When Dean lifts her head up to look at a sign of life in her eyes, her eyes stare right back, cold.
Dean’s knees rattle against the floor.
Laid down like that, more akin to an apparition than a person, this cannot be her. This cannot be Lisa.
Lisa cannot be dead.
But he killed her. God, he killed her.
“No, no, no, no!”
He has to wake up. If he only gets to open his eyes, everything will be fine. He had this nightmare before, the nightmare in which Lisa was dead. Killed by a monster.
This is all it is. Another nightmare. Another monster.
But she never looked like this in those dreams.
“Come on, Lis. Come on, wake up, please!”
He puts one hand on her throat, blocking the narrow stream of blood from seeping out of her, the other on her chest, pressing on her ribs to a broken rhythm. Work, it has to work, it has to—
But the heartbeat that drove Dean crazy just moments ago is gone. Completely gone.
“Let go of her! Let go!”
He’s not alone there—not just with her. The grasp of small hands that failed to save has now turned into a hail of punches. They sting. Ben’s presence stings more.
He saw everything.
The murder of his mother. Dean’s mouth still dripping with her blood.
“Let go of her!” Ben repeats, like they’re the only words he can get out.
And Dean lets go of her and moves out of Ben’s way. There’s nothing else he can do. Lisa’s dead. She’s dead. He killed her.
Ben can’t do anything either. Not with his tears, not with his desperate cries, not with hands, trying to shake his mother awake.
Lisa’s blood smears on the buttons of Dean’s cellphone as his shaking fingers try to push the right ones. It’s the best thing he can do for Ben. He can’t let him stay with her body ‘til morning if he’s too shaken to get to the phone.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” asks a voice on the other end.
“There’s been an acc—” No. It was not an accident. “There’s been a murder,” he corrects.
His eyes move from Ben’s heaving form to Lisa, spread on the floor like a big, white-and-red rag doll that he’s leaving for the cops to clean up.
What a poetic ending to Dean’s little love story. The only ending he was ever gonna get, isn’t it?
“I—I murdered her.”
He gives them the address and pockets his phone. He’s got ten, maybe fifteen minutes of a head start. Maybe less. He needs to get moving if he doesn’t want to get caught. He has to flee his own fucking crime scene like it’s some damn hit and run.
He has to leave Ben. Leave Lisa.
They deserved so much better.
And Dean deserves prison. He deserves a guillotin. Maybe that’s why his legs fail to move. Maybe that’s why he’s stuck where he stands, unable to tear his eyes away from Lisa’s dead stare.
Until Ben’s snarled words don’t steal his attention, his face twisted with rightful wrath.
“I swear I’m gonna find you and kill you.”
Ben means it, Dean’s got no doubt about it. And it’s not the kill part that worries him, not really. Dean’ll be long, long dead by then. But Dean’s seen revenge, seen where that path leads and it’s ugly. Blood on Ben’s hands, hollowness in his heart—that’s the last thing Dean ever wanted for the kid.
But he’s already got blood on his hands and it’s all Dean’s fault.
“Don’t go down that road,” Dean pleads, but Ben won’t listen, of course he won’t. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
What else can he say?
And just like that, Dean leaves the love of his life dead on the floor, the distraught kid he once called his son by her side. He leaves everything that was worth living for, everything he destroyed.
And he runs.
He doesn’t get to drive far before the sirens pass by him. They’re not even that loud. Not when the sweet, sweet taste of Lisa’s blood subdues every other sensation. Well, he sure understands vampires a whole lot better now.
He forces his foot to stay on the gas pedal. He can’t stop now. Though everything inside him tell him to stop, to turn around. To see if they’re taking good care of Ben. If they’re gentle with Lisa.
But turning around would mean getting caught, and for Dean, prison, would mean never getting what he deserves for what he’s done.
So he drives. And drives, until the adrenaline wears off. And then it hits him, really hits him what he’s done. And then it’s too much and all at once.
He killed Lisa.
The weight constricts his chest, has him gasping for air, as his hands squeeze the wheel. The tears well up and well up and pour out of his eyes, his vision blurred, the lights of coming cars turn into streaks.
And his stomach revolts—his stomach filled with Lisa’s blood.
The gravel grinds and scatters under the wheels, as the car swerves into the byway and stops. Dean spills out of the seat and onto the ground, barely makes it to the side of the road before hurling. His fingers twist into long grass as the blood, the bile, the chunks of his last human meal come out in violent bursts.
He stays there until his stomach’s empty, until every last ounce of blood he stole from Lisa leaves his body. As if that could reverse what he’s done and bring Lisa back to life.
But it can’t, of course. It’s done, he murdered her.
His transformation’s complete; he’s a monster.
And as he finally wipes his mouth and gets up, the agonizing realization knocks him back down to his knees.
He’ll never get to come home to her. He’ll never get to see her smile or the wrinkle in her brow when she’s angry at him. He’ll never get to bury his nose in her hair as they fall asleep, never hear her sing along to the radio as she irons clothes, her hips swaying to the rhythm.
He’ll have to go on, in a world without her, even if it’s just for another hour, another night.
He’d give everything to bring her back. He’d give everything for another day with her.
And, oh God, maybe he can. Maybe there’s still a way to fix everything? More impossible things have happened.
With his back pressed against the Impala, sitting on the cold, cold ground, Dean folds his palms in a prayer, his eyes lifted desperately to the High Heavens.
“Cas, you hear me? I fucked up big time, I—I need you to bring Lisa back. Please. I’ll do anything, just come down here and bring her back.”
He prays and he prays until his voice goes hoarse from crying, until his tears dry up, until all the words wash into a whispered litany of bring her back bring her back bring her back .
But as Dean finally manages to get himself together, Lisa’s still as dead as she was.
And Cas never comes.