SPN FIC: UNTITLED, T, DEATHFIC
Title: [ Untitled As Yet. ] [1/1]
Author: katieackles
Genre: Deathfic
Spoilers: Up to AHBL2
Warning: Canon death, by the bucket loads.
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Ellen, Jo. Mentions of Joshua, Originals.
Pairings: NONE.
Disclaimer: I don't own, don't sue, live long and propsper, yada yada.
Summary: It’s as if the saddest song he’s ever heard is playing in loop in his head, and their lives are mirroring it’s words.
Words: 2369
It’s as if the saddest song he’s ever heard is playing in loop in his head, and their lives are mirroring it’s words.
First, it had been Bobby; the most obvious target, and closest to the both of them. The bad news had arrived in the form of a phone call from Joshua, who had kept in contact with Bobby throughout the years. Sam had answered the phone, but later had not been able to recall a word that the older hunter had said to him; the words ‘Bobby’ and ‘dead’ overthrowing the entire conversation, melding into one and echoing around Sam‘s mind for days. Dean had taken it the worst; Sam had witnesses his brother’s walls crashing down around him, and Dean hadn’t put up any defence. He’d just sat, still, silent. Sam had sat beside his older brother and watched him fall apart.
The funeral had been on a Friday, but they didn’t go.
The next had been Ellen, with a shaky, grief-ridden phone call to Dean from Jo. Sam had been able to tell the moment Dean’s face fell; a poltergeist they say, though Jo’s still unconvinced, and Sam knows better than to believe that. This one hadn’t hit Dean so hard; Ellen hadn’t been as close to the boys as Bobby had, but it had still left it’s pain filled mark on them.
Her funeral had been on the Thursday, but Jo had told them not to come.
The last, and by far the worst, had been a tear-filled conversation with a young English med student from Nebraska, who had first introduced herself to them both at Elizabeth Young, and later, “Jo Harvelle’s old best friend,” a tinge of sadness in her tone, and tears in her eyes to contest her wavering voice. Dean had known the second those five words had spilled out of her mouth; Jo was dead.
There wasn’t a body left to bury, but they had promised to go to her wake.
Sam’s watching Dean as he slips his tuxedo on without a word, a stab of pain when he sees the dark red rose pinned to his lapel, and small envelope reading ‘Joanna Elizabeth Harvelle’ hanging loosely in his grasp. He finally turns to face his younger brother as he buttons the bottom half of his tuxedo jacket with his left hand, “It’s a sign.” He says, with little emotion or emphasis on his words.
Sam looks at him quizzically, “A sign?” he asks softly, because he doesn’t have enough energy left to muster anything but a whisper.
Dean responds with a simple nod, and turns back towards the mirror he’s standing beside. He straightens his tie, falling back into this silence that is so familiar between the two of them now. He doesn’t think that this needs explaining; it’s simple, and inevitable. Sam’s still looking at him, eyes tired and red from sleepless nights, when he turns back around, strides slowly off into the kitchen to find his keys. The motel room in which they’re staying is more of an apartment than a motel, a holiday house, really, but this doesn’t feel like any sort of holiday to either of them.
There’s a clinking sound as he gathers his keys and straightens his jacket once more, tucking the small envelope into his pocket.
…
The small church is bustling with people, and Ellen would have been proud to have seen just how many lives her daughter had touched. Sam notices that many of the young men and women in attendance are talking amongst themselves, each with a sad glint in his or her eye as they shared memories and anecdotes, stories, and heartfelt apologies.
Dean hadn’t expected Jo to have so many friends and loved ones, as blunt as that may sound. He knew that most of the hunters from the old Harvelle’s bar would be there, and a few of Jo’s friends from when she’d tried her hand at college, but the sheer number of mourners in attendance today is overwhelming for the both of them. Sam nods towards a few familiar faces from their short stay at the Roadhouse, as Dean notices a large, flower-covered alter in the centre of the room. He breaks away from his brother before Sam notices, and works his way towards it. He hasn’t allowed himself to cry, but as he sees the gold-plated plaque engraved, “Joanna Elizabeth Harvelle, April 7, 1985 - April 7 2008,” he felt warm tears gathering in his eyes.
She’d died on her twenty-third birthday.
Two weeks after Bobby, one week following her Mom.
He lays the crinkled envelope that’s been residing in his pocket upon the table, next to a small candle, reading in silver-glittered writing, “Jo”, and a small collection of wild flowers bundled together in a messy bouquet.
Jo,
I’m sorry.
Dean.
It was a simple note, but it was all he could think of to say. He couldn’t justify what has happened, nor could he fix it; the blood is on his hands, but he cannot wash it off, can’t make it right this time. There’s also a small photo of her father and his that he’d found flicking through the Journal yesterday afternoon; it’s not much, but it’s a memory, and he’s sure she would have liked to have had it.
There’s a few other people gathering around the table now, the tallest of the bunch chuckling at the gawky photo of her in the middle, and he wants to scream at them, ‘I was there for that. SAM took that photo,’, which he had, but instead, he backs away from the table, and leaves them to it. There’s an open door out the back of the church that he sneaks out of without too much concern; he can’t be in there right now, not with all those people who didn’t really know who Jo was; not who she really was. Had been.
By the time he returns to Sam, his younger brother has been looking for him for an hour, and the crowds have lessened. The potato salad bowl Sam had laid down on the food table as “their contribution” was emptied; although Dean found it beyond him how anyone could eat in a circumstance like this.
Sam doesn’t say much, a simple, “Bro,” and maybe the occasional, “You okay?” Although he knows very well that Dean is not.
It’s not Jo’s death, however, that has brought this upon him; nor is it Ellen’s, or Bobby’s. It’s the blood that has been shed because of him; as a warning to him, a sign, that it’s time to leave the house, abandon ship.
It’s his time to go, and he isn’t ready.
“It’s a sign,” he breathes, and this time, Sam knows what he is talking about. He doesn’t need to add the “they’re dead, because of me,” before he feels Sam’s arm falling heavily across his shoulders, because it isn’t only Dean who is going to Hell; Sammy is already there.