Hunteri Heroici

In the jeep driving down to Louisville, Dean had felt a sense of purpose. For the first time in a long time, he had felt good about what he was about to do. Well, good is a strong word. He had felt right, like a burden was being lifted. He'd known that no matter what, it was going to be over in less than 24 hours. No more camp, no more missions, no more croats or demons or Chuck looking at him with sad eyes telling him there were no more canned beans left. No more nothing. It was just going to be over.

He felt relieved when he sent Cas and Risa and the rest of his people off. His other self, all self-righteous and doe-eyed, had gotten so upset about that, but he knew what he was doing. Cas knew, too. Risa at least had an idea. It was the only thing they could do at that point. Or so they thought.

He should have known better. It was Lucifer. Of course he wasn't going to let them go with any dignity. Maybe he'd been a little doe-eyed himself.

Sam's face, Sam's voice. Like any asshole intent on ruling the world, Lucifer loved to hear himself speak, but Dean hadn't expected him to talk so much about Cas: Lucifer's brother, the only angel left on Earth, grace mangled and frayed and barely existent. Lucifer had talked about brotherly love, between humans, between angels. He'd talked about Sam. Dean had stood there, the colt in his hand, his finger resting against the trigger, unhurried. The devil's voice is sweet to hear, after all. And Dean trusted that he knew how things were going to end. He had been so sure. Even after everything, he had been so stupid.

And now he's here. Damp, spongy ground underneath his feet, the dark air heavy with moisture. A lost world, Lucifer had called it. Still infested with humanity, crawling with the spawn of Adam and Eve. The air smells like car exhaust, mixed with the rich scent of damp woods. The first thing Dean noticed when he opened his eyes were the lights in the sky—the artificial illumination of streetlamps, malls, shops, towns, electricity, life. He didn't understand it. He still doesn't now as he's stumbling through the forest, branches snapping into his face, one tearing open his cheek before he snaps it off and throws it aside. There hasn't been any life for years. There's not supposed to be any now. That had been the plan.

His boot crushes a low hedge as he breaks through the line of underbrush hemming the small clump of woods he's in. He raises an arm to shield his eyes against a glare, squinting to make out the shape of a gas station. The Casey's sign is illuminated, and there's a car idling in the parking lot—foreign, Toyota, your average handy town car. Definitely not a military jeep. A man exits the store, his clothes clean and whole, two styrofoam coffee cups in his hands. He opens the Toyota's passenger door and gets it, then the car pulls away. Dean can hear the engine, a muted, nondescript hum as you'd expect from a car like that. He hasn't heard that sound in years.

Lowering his arm, he notices that he's shaking. His breath is coming in short gasps, loud in his ears and harsh in his throat. He tightens the muscles in his right thigh, the straps of his gun holster pressing into his skin as he clenches his hand harder around the strap of the rifle resting against his back. The glare of the gas station lights, the unfamiliar smells and the sound of car engines and city life make it hard to think, so he remains standing there, muscles tense and shaking as he tries to regain control over his senses.