Work Text:
Just say you hate me.
Those words rang through Dream’s head as he, once again, stood in front of Church Prime, the wronged king standing behind him and those he once considered his best friends scattering to the wind.
They’d set a TNT trap in front of Eret’s castle in a failed attempt on the king’s life, killing their own instead. Once word reached him, he’d rushed to join the destruction he knew Eret would rain upon them. When the retaliation was more than they’d bargained for, they had fled to the Holy Land. One long argument later, here he stood, mentally exhausted after it all.
He’d never expected Sapnap and George to be on the side of terrorism. Quackity, sure, that man was a loose canon. But Sapnap? George? He sighed and turned to leave, letting Eret and her knights sort the rest out for themselves.
Just say you hate me. Those words haunted his every breath. Why couldn’t George see? He’d done it all to protect him—imagine if he’d been in that house went it burnt down.
Just say you hate me. His thoughts swarmed in angry circles as his boots carried him along the Prime Path. He was protecting them. Everything he did was to protect them. How couldn’t they see that?
He walked up the blackstone stairs, past the Nether portal, and through the dark canopy of the tree farm into the wider world. He needed time alone, time to think. Besides, it wasn’t like anyone would come looking for him. Not now, not after everything he’d done to them. He wasn’t sure where he was going. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t care.
Deforested hills turned to flowers at some point, petals crushing under the heavy alloy of his boots. His mind swirled around Sapnap and George. You don’t care about us, about anything other than Tommy’s discs. Tommy, that dumb kid who needed to be taught a lesson, that actions have consequences, that what was happening was a natural cascade. He was bound to be where he was now eventually.
Flowers turned to birch, and day turned to night. Tommy deserved it. He deserved the worst punishment he could give him, a fate worse than death itself for daring to stand against him, against the Dream Team themselves.
Just. Tommy and his stupid fucking discs. Eret and their worthless crown.
Say. Quackity and his plots. Wilbur's death.
You. Sapnap and his ignorance. George and his blindness.
Hate me . Forest turned to river turned to ocean turned to cold beaches as the sun rose and fell countless times. He didn’t know where he was anymore. He didn’t care where he was anymore, as long as he was far away from everyone, from anything that could break his facade of indifference. He climbed out of the boat and onto the sand, the weight of his netherite armor causing him to sink in the weak ground. Still, he trudged onwards into the approaching spruce. His stomach wailed for sustenance and his throat cried for water, neither of which he was keen to give. In his angered attempt to shield George from the hatred that dethroning Eret had caused, he’d pushed him away. He’d pushed them all away.
I don’t give a fuck about Spirit. I don’t care about anything.
He didn’t need them, anyway.
Short, dark green grass was dusted over by frost as night once again fell on his thought-driven travels. The cold sunk into his armor, biting him through his hoodie, adding on to his mounting discomfort. He didn’t care. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care. He repeated the words to himself dozens of times—”I don’t care”—as he trudged through the forest. Wind had picked up, and dark clouds overhead threatened a snow storm.
He’d done everything for George, for Sapnap, for Bad and Callahan and Sam. As snow began to fall, thoughts wandered to the early days of the SMP, before Tommy and Wilbur had to come and fuck everything up for everyone. The wind threw a branch into his face, cracking the mask and leaving a gash on his head. Sweat had pooled under his mask where blood did now as he painstakingly placed bricks and trapdoors and leaves. Flaming arrows shot between friends in playful fights where they now exchanged angry words and disgusted remarks. Harmless conflicts over misplaced fish and foxes where wars now started over burnt down houses.
Where did he go wrong?
He continued to drag himself through the blizzard, wind whipping his hood down and throwing snow into his hair. Every step seemed more difficult than the last as snow built up on the ground, as he finally let the weight of it all settle in his heart. He’d gained everything he wanted—power, control, a name that struck fear into those who heard it—at the ultimate price.
Just say you hate me . With those five words, he’d lost everything.
The storm had long died and countless days of dragging his feet through snow and ice had passed by the time Dream collapsed. His vision was blurring, darkness pulsing at the edges. It was during one of those moments that his vision was swallowed by black when his legs no longer cooperated with his urges to keep pushing forward, and he tripped over the built up piles of snow. Blue-tinged hands broke his fall, but not enough to keep his face from landing in the snow and reanimating the sharp stings of pain from the frozen blood on his face. For a moment, he just sat there. The all-mighty Dream, a name that ushered hushed whispers of coming bloodshed and rumors of immortality, had been brought to his knees by snow . He couldn’t help but cough out a laugh at his own, pitiful state. Starving and dehydrated and frostbitten, defeated by the damn weather.
He dragged himself, crawling through the snow, to a spot beneath one of the tallest trees that had remained mostly untouched by the blizzard—only a few inches of snow where everywhere else had two feet or more. He was bound to be here eventually. Dream, the bloodthirsty and power-hungry god who sought himself to be the judge, jury, and executioner of anyone who dared stand against him. Dream, abandoned by his best friends and left to wander the world alone. This was just the natural cascade, what happens when you forget why you started.
He sighed and leaned his head back against the bark of the tree. Maybe that was the difference between him and Tommy—Tommy never forgot what he'd started for. Dream couldn't remember why he did anything. His own motives were locked away from him, behind lust for power and craves for chaos.
Sunrise turned to sunset. He felt his grip on consciousness slipping, the cold spreading from his limbs into his body. He deserved this. He deserved to die alone, to the forces of nature he thought himself to be one of, to fall victim to the gods he'd challenged. Tears pooled and silently fell down his cheeks and he pulled his knees to his chest.
“George, Sapnap” he whispered to himself, voice coarse and broken from nearly a week and a half without water, “Don’t miss me.”
He let his eyes close. He wondered for a moment what he’d see. Would he see Wilbur and Jschlatt, waiting for him at the gates of hell? Would he be swallowed by void? Would he meet whatever gods put him on this forsaken SMP? Or perhaps, the cruelest of all options, would he wake up again in the spawn forest, blank of any construction, and be forced to live this all again? To live through every word, every action, every mistake that brought him here, and die here, countless times over, never learning his lesson?
A half-hearted sob shook his chest, and he cried. He cried for everything he’d lost, for everyone he’d hurt, for his deserved, slow and painful death. With one last, frozen breath, his body finally fell still.
One day, George, the sun will set, and my time will rise with you, as the new king.
He was free.