Fic, Fic, you asked for it. *shames you all*
Alrighty then, you actually ASKED for this, *hee* so here it is. Comment or else I will send Sammy after you next!
One Shall Fall
Bobby Singer's old truck skids to a halt in the tall grass next to the quietly parked Impala, and Sam is out before he can stop the tires from spinning. 'Sam, wait!' He calls, but the boy is already running full tilt to the crossroads. 'Dammit, Sam,' Bobby growls. He reaches behind his seat, grabs his shotgun and follows the young hunter into the street.
The time is 12:05 AM.
Even from 100 yards away, Sam's anguished cry as he reaches his goal feels to Bobby like physical pain, and it tears the older man's heart in two. Bobby's steps slow, faltering as he sees Sam stumbling hesitantly towards the middle of the intersection. He doesn't want to be here, to see this. He doesn't want to be the one that watches John's broken son mourn. Not again. He doesn't know how to help Sam, in fact, he doesn't think he knows much of anything anymore.
But there isn't anybody else. And Bobby knows; Sam will need him. He moves slowly forward, edging to the boundaries of the intersection, trying not to intrude until it becomes clear that Sam has had enough. The night is warm and quiet, and the only sounds floating back to Bobby are the sounds of Sam's gasping breaths, quiet moans of sorrow and rare words, words like how could you and I'm sorry, God Dean, and the elder hunter shuts his eyes, and wishes he could shut his ears, too.
Sam! Hey! Hey, c’mere, c’mere, let me look at you. Hey, look, look at me, it’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, all right? Sammy? SAM!Hey! Listen to me, we’re gonna patch you up, OK? You’ll be good as new. Huh? And I'm gonna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you, I gotcha. It’s my job, right, watch after my pain in the ass little brother? Sam? Sam? Sam! Sammy! No. No,no,no,no no no no. Oh God. Oh God. SAM!
Dean's reaction had been so much more frantic, but then, he hadn't had a year to prep for something like this. Sam isn't making noises anymore, and Bobby finally gets up enough courage to look at the boys, his boys, huddled together in the center of the crossroads, and Bobby knows that he is a man who has seen death, but nothing he has seen in his whole life has prepared him for this.
Sam holds Dean's ravaged body in his arms, sitting much like they did in Cold Oak, only in the gravel instead of the mud and rain. Dean's blood flows freely into Sam's jacket, coating him to the skin. Sam has fallen into himself, rocking Dean back and forth, back and forth like a baby, rapidly as though the motion is what keeps Sam grounded, like if he rocks fast enough it will mean that he's the one that's dead, and none of this ever happened. Bobby hangs back, horrified at the sight, not knowing what to do. Sam's face is buried in Dean's shoulder, forehead resting almost clean to the bone, Sam's hair plastered to Dean's face with blood and sweat and tears.
Suddenly, Bobby takes a step back, left hand falling to the barrel of his shotgun as he feels a ripple pass through the deserted intersection. The trees begin to sway, but there is no wind.
Sam is rocking, rocking Dean in his arms. He clutches him tighter; if Dean had been alive the motion would have caused him pain. The tighter Sam holds Dean, the faster the trees move.
Rocking back and forth, back and forth.
Bobby curses as the trees begin to come uprooted from the ground; crossroads gravel whipping around the boys, tearing into him, stinging his skin.
Sam stops rocking. Everything falls silent.
Sam's eyes snap open.
Boom.
One Shall Fall
Bobby Singer's old truck skids to a halt in the tall grass next to the quietly parked Impala, and Sam is out before he can stop the tires from spinning. 'Sam, wait!' He calls, but the boy is already running full tilt to the crossroads. 'Dammit, Sam,' Bobby growls. He reaches behind his seat, grabs his shotgun and follows the young hunter into the street.
The time is 12:05 AM.
Even from 100 yards away, Sam's anguished cry as he reaches his goal feels to Bobby like physical pain, and it tears the older man's heart in two. Bobby's steps slow, faltering as he sees Sam stumbling hesitantly towards the middle of the intersection. He doesn't want to be here, to see this. He doesn't want to be the one that watches John's broken son mourn. Not again. He doesn't know how to help Sam, in fact, he doesn't think he knows much of anything anymore.
But there isn't anybody else. And Bobby knows; Sam will need him. He moves slowly forward, edging to the boundaries of the intersection, trying not to intrude until it becomes clear that Sam has had enough. The night is warm and quiet, and the only sounds floating back to Bobby are the sounds of Sam's gasping breaths, quiet moans of sorrow and rare words, words like how could you and I'm sorry, God Dean, and the elder hunter shuts his eyes, and wishes he could shut his ears, too.
Sam! Hey! Hey, c’mere, c’mere, let me look at you. Hey, look, look at me, it’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, all right? Sammy? SAM!Hey! Listen to me, we’re gonna patch you up, OK? You’ll be good as new. Huh? And I'm gonna take care of you, I’m gonna take care of you, I gotcha. It’s my job, right, watch after my pain in the ass little brother? Sam? Sam? Sam! Sammy! No. No,no,no,no no no no. Oh God. Oh God. SAM!
Dean's reaction had been so much more frantic, but then, he hadn't had a year to prep for something like this. Sam isn't making noises anymore, and Bobby finally gets up enough courage to look at the boys, his boys, huddled together in the center of the crossroads, and Bobby knows that he is a man who has seen death, but nothing he has seen in his whole life has prepared him for this.
Sam holds Dean's ravaged body in his arms, sitting much like they did in Cold Oak, only in the gravel instead of the mud and rain. Dean's blood flows freely into Sam's jacket, coating him to the skin. Sam has fallen into himself, rocking Dean back and forth, back and forth like a baby, rapidly as though the motion is what keeps Sam grounded, like if he rocks fast enough it will mean that he's the one that's dead, and none of this ever happened. Bobby hangs back, horrified at the sight, not knowing what to do. Sam's face is buried in Dean's shoulder, forehead resting almost clean to the bone, Sam's hair plastered to Dean's face with blood and sweat and tears.
Suddenly, Bobby takes a step back, left hand falling to the barrel of his shotgun as he feels a ripple pass through the deserted intersection. The trees begin to sway, but there is no wind.
Sam is rocking, rocking Dean in his arms. He clutches him tighter; if Dean had been alive the motion would have caused him pain. The tighter Sam holds Dean, the faster the trees move.
Rocking back and forth, back and forth.
Bobby curses as the trees begin to come uprooted from the ground; crossroads gravel whipping around the boys, tearing into him, stinging his skin.
Sam stops rocking. Everything falls silent.
Sam's eyes snap open.
Boom.