The Soul Burns Brighter Than The Sun

Chapter 24: Epilogue: A year, six months, and two weeks later

tw's: smut. blood kink (kind of), religious trauma type sex

When Dean was six and his dad put a shot gun into his hands, Dean was okay with it. He was happy to do it, actually, thinking, This means he trusts me. My dad thinks I'm a man. I am a man. So, Dean was content to sit there in their motel room with the shotgun, guarding Sammy while he slept. He was fine with watching Scooby Doo with the volume muted in case he heard a sound. After all, monsters were real, and their dad hunted them. He was a hero.

Besides, it was never supposed to be permanent.

At nine, his dad sat him down and said, with eyes finally bright, face finally alive, that he was close to the thing that killed their mom. So, when dad gave him the shot gun and told him to keep his nose clean and watch out for Sammy, again, Dean was happy to do it. He was a kid after all, and their dad was a hero. A superhero.

When Dean turned eleven, they weren't any closer to finding the thing that killed their mom. But Dean kept on telling Sammy that their dad was a hero, that he was doing important stuff, and they just had to be patient. This wouldn't be forever, and they could go home eventually, if they still had a home to go back to.

Dean was twelve and a half when he saw his first dead body. He had a zit on his chin, and his knees wobbled as he stood there, holding the flashlight, watching his dad lift the coffin lid of John Gutenberg and burn the man's corpse. It smelled awful, the burning of rotting flesh, the smoke from the liquified bag of bones and skin. Good job son, his dad had said. But Dean had just stood there holding the flashlight, petrified and scared. So so scared. Afterwards, Dean had thrown up in their motel bathroom.

It was Dean's fourteenth birthday when he killed something for the first time.

"Shoot it son!" John yells across the room, his father's voice thundering through the massive warehouse.

Dean whips his eyes from his father, covered in blood and grime, and to the creature, snarling loudly with crackles in its growls. He can see it twitching, can smell the rotting meat from its yellow and grey fangs. And still, Dean does nothing, his eyes wide and teary. His gun is trembling in his hands, shaking and uncoordinated despite the hours Dean's spent at the shooting range with his father, even though he's known how to use a gun as long as he's been able to write his name.

"SHOOT IT!" John bellows, and Dean jumps in fright at the sound. Not from the growling, not from the stench of the monster's teeth, and Dean shoots, striking the creature in the chest.

The creature falls to the ground, wailing and choking out blood. It twitches as it dies, its eyes rolling backwards in pain and blood trickling from its cracked lips. The creature doesn't die quickly, and Dean's too horrified to shoot it again, watching helplessly as the creature looks at him with a human sort of pain in its eyes.

John grabs him by the back of the shirt, and Dean almost drops the gun in surprise, in fear. "What the hell were you doing? When I say to shoot something. You. Shoot. It." John yells at him, spit flying in Dean's face.

"Yessir." Dean says, his voice no louder than a whisper. He clears his throat, trying again. "Sorry sir."

John shakes him again, his breath hot in Dean's face. "This is life or death, son. I can't have you hesitating."

"Yessir." Dean repeats.

And when Dean turned fifteen, he didn't hesitate anymore.

Eventually, the monsters began to blur together. All the motels and roads. The sketchy truck stops and the diners with suspiciously easy waitresses. Dean didn't know when he stopped thinking about how much he hated hunting, he just knew that the delusions of a picket fence stopped one day, and he never thought about wanting a normal life again.