justforspite: (Jenny B&W)
[personal profile] justforspite

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under our knives: who will wipe this blood off us? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?”

-- Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Friedrich Nietzsche


Hell Remains

Without getting too heavy on the details, he knew he needed to tell his brother two things before he died. “I love you” was probably obligatory but he figured Sam knew that already, even if it had never really been verbalized. Love wasn’t something in the Winchester vocabulary, just something detailed by actions set out in the Winchester playbook. Probably number two in the playbook if he had to count them out; number one being kick ass at all costs.

The first thing he had to tell him was to keep fighting. Their world was dark and as much as he didn’t want to say it, Dean was sure God had packed up and left Earth ages ago. He was probably hovering over the little baby Jesus that was Luke Skywalker in that galaxy far far away just itching to pen a new gospel. The angels had proven to be less than stellar and if it had to be just them against all the forces of darkness, then it would be. Someone had to do it and if they were now the backwater of the universe and God was playing in a whole new shiny corner of creation, then so be it.

Hell, maybe Nietzsche was right, maybe Gott ist tot. He’d never say that to Sam though. Not that Dean had ever seen himself as the citadel of religious principles but the road Sam was on now pretty much precluded the admittance to there being no superior being weighing the scales of good and evil. Either fucking way, God or not, someone was in charge of the gates whether they be upstairs or downstairs. It could be flipping Barney the Purple Dinosaur or Freddy Fucking Kruger, all he knew was Sam was on a fast lane to the dark side and he had to start playing by the rules the Gatekeeper (whoever he/she/it was) had set. Be good; keep your nose clean; three hail Mary’s and a José Cuervo when you were depressed but above all, no damn demon blood.

The end of the world was pretty fucking nigh and if it did end on their watch, he wanted a ticket upstairs. He’d done Hell and one visit was plenty. Heaven could be the reception area to a dentist’s office with Rick Astley on permanent loop and the faintest smell of vomit and denture cleaner in the air for all eternity and it he’d take it, hands down.

He didn’t want Sam to go through what he’d gone through down there and maybe that was what he wanted to say to him even more than keep fighting and keep fighting the good fight.

Rolling onto his side, his throat burning, Dean thought about the words he should have said instead of ‘Don’t ever come back.’

“I don’t want you to go to Hell,” he wheezed, knowing it wasn’t nearly loud enough, knowing Sam was long gone.

Sam had believed, like a child. His morality, his goodness, was tied into the very ideas of right and wrong and the hard and fast line separating them. Then that goodness strayed his heart with compassion for that piece of whore-shaped shit. Dean ground his teeth. Next time he saw Ruby, he wouldn’t give her a second to even feel the knife in her back. When doubt blurred the lines between good and evil Sam was left open, exposed and it was his goodness that was hardest struck again by seeing the sorry-ass excuse for Angels that had crossed their paths. There was no nobility in them, no divine essence. Just the same kinds of failings and foibles found in every sorry-ass motherfucker. Sam said he didn’t know him, he didn’t understand him, but Dean knew him, better than he knew himself. He’d defined his goodness on the idea of goodness being something identifiable, something quantitative. All anyone ever showed him was the grey and that’s where he was now.

Except . . . the line did exist, even in the murky waters of the grey and Sam was on the wrong side. Hell was on that side of the line.

“Sam,” he choked, curling in on himself and calming the pain. I’ve seen Hell, I know Hell, You think I’m weak, you think you can handle it if you had to but you can’t. “Sam!” he screamed.

Silence.

Quiet.

Nothing.

No one.

Dean stared at the ceiling.

Maybe God was dead but in the end it really didn’t matter; Damnation remained.

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