Who? Dean Winchester, [open?] What? Cranky!Dean's morning run, pointedly not thinking about things. Where? Camp Chitaqua, trail through the woods When? Morning of The End plot. Rating? Mild?
With every day that passed, it was getting closer and closer to the end - the real end, the end of the end that had been dragging on for years, now. Sometimes, he wanted it to happen - he wanted it to just be over already - but he knew that wasn’t anything good, that wasn’t something he could just let happen. They had to keep fighting - Lucifer couldn’t be allowed to win, and Dean had to see it through to the end.
He’d caused this, after all.
Or, okay. He hadn’t caused it - but he hadn’t stopped it, either. He’d had the chance, but he’d balked at it, he’d been worried about his own well-being, his family, the planet if this angel that wanted to take him over had free reign... but he’d learned, he was still learning, always learning just how bad it could get, and he was pretty sure saying yes to Michael would have been a lot cleaner, quicker. It wouldn’t have left the world sick and dying, it’s people barely managing to survive while demons and infected tore them apart.
Dean rarely let himself have a moment to sit and think about these things - because the more he thought about it, the more tempting it was to let someone else see this through, to just grab a gun and hike off into the woods and end it all - and he wasn’t too keen on continuing the train of thought he’d found himself aboard, just now. He scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing and standing. He hadn’t slept last night, he’d spent the entire time staring at maps and charts and making plans, and his eyes burned, a gritty feeling to them that didn’t seem to want to go away.
It was early, but he knew people were already getting started with their days - there was a lot of work that went into running a place like this, all kinds of tasks that needed to be done. He could hear the steady thudding of someone cutting wood, a couple of trucks or jeeps’ engines running, and he sighed and tugged his jacket on, not bothering to change his clothes - it wasn’t like it even mattered how many times he wore the same thing - and his boots had never come off because you had to be ready, you had to be able to just up and run out the door, sometimes...
...Outside, the air was damp, cool. Dean tried not to let the thin tremors the chill air forced through him show, managed to do a damn good job, because that was how he worked, he’d been pretending to be completely fine for years, now. The camp as a whole had to see him as a leader, someone to look up to and trust, and nobody was going to trust him to keep them safe if they knew how weak he really was.
With a yawn hidden under one hand, he headed off for his morning run, keeping his mind purposefully blank - not thinking of what needed to be done today, not thinking about how he’d managed to go another night without sleeping, without dreaming, not letting lyrics to old songs he used to love run through his head. He counted his steps as he ran, kept an eye on the markers in the trees that pointed out where he was and where he was going, and he steeled himself for another day that would try to tear him apart.