Fic : To Those Who Wait

[eviltwin]

Author: eviltwin
Fandom: Supernatural FPS
Pairing: None
Rating: Gen.
Wordcount: 2000

Warning: Death
Beta: Kelly (bloody_adorable@lj)
Summary: Dean is an injured paratrooper. Sam is a combat medic just trying to get through D-day and find his brother alive.
Disclaimer: None of the following is true and no profit is made from this work of fiction.
Notes: WWII AU fic, written for the challenge on the
working_blue community. Yes, some of it is vague. I did research, but as it is simple fanfic I didn’t want to spend hours wading through history sites to get every single fact historically accurate. Let’s face it, most films about WWII don’t get everything completely right so I’m not going to worry too much about a piece of fanfic…

To Those Who Wait

Dean can’t remember the last time he slept. But he remembers the confusion of the landing; the noise of the gunfire, the flashes of light from both below and above him, and the searing pain of flesh being torn apart by shrapnel. He remembers trying to run, staggering, pushing himself up from the ground so many times that there is dirt embedded in his skin and beneath his bloody nails. He thought rationally from the moment he hit the ground and cut his parachute free, which seems so long ago, knowing he had to find some shelter and figure out where he was and possibly find the rest of his regiment. He’d made it to one of the small villages that are dotted around this part of Normandy and picked his way around it near-silently until he had found what he needed. An old ruined church that looked untouched by everything but the weather.

This is where he is now. He wonders how the rest of his regiment is doing. He wonders that as he digs through his first aid pouch and tears the packet of sulfa powder open with his teeth, spitting quickly. He has thrown his jacket over his feet, gritting his teeth and thumping his head back against the wall to distract himself from the pain in his arm as the material pulled at clotting blood. He sprinkles the powder over the holes in his arm, teeth firmly clamped together, and groans at the fresh wave of pain.

Dean wishes he had some morphine. Just to ride this out until death takes the pain away. He thinks about his brother. Wonders where he is.

Sam’s thoughts are incoherent enough on normal days, but today is far from normal. This is the day he’s been waiting for, everyone’s been waiting for, and it’s nothing like they expected it to be. Nothing like they were trained for. Training grounds are easy; this is the hardest thing he’s ever done. He can’t concentrate. Everything’s jumbled. A mess.

When he kneels at the side of an injured infantryman and digs out a morphine syrette, one thing is pushed to the front of his mind very suddenly. One clear image: Dean. He knows Dean’s regiment was landing near here, knows that his brother is probably only a matter of miles away from his own position right now. He hopes that his brother has survived, but his gut tells him it’s unlikely. He’s surrounded by dead and dying; it’s all he has known throughout this war. He doesn’t resent that. He chose to be a medic after all. But he never wanted the dead or dying to be his own family. Selfish, he thinks, though he has already had to deal with the news of his father’s passing. It’s still fresh, only happened a few weeks ago. He wonders if Dean knows. Part of him hopes not.

The soldier grabs at Sam’s arm, dragging him from his thoughts. He hunkers down next to him and sets his mind to the task at hand. The rudimentary field surgery that might, might not, save this young man’s life.

Dean startles awake, gun rattling as he tightens his grip around it. He’s not sure what woke him and is pissed that he fell asleep in the first place. His arm and shoulder are still bleeding. He bandaged it as best he could, but the blood is soaking through. Dean thinks he doesn’t have much time. He wanted it to be quicker than this; he wanted to go like his Dad went. He wants to be less of a coward, but he can’t bring himself to end this with his own gun. He knows that the reason for this is that he has half-convinced himself that he still has a chance.

His left leg is shaking and he can’t stop it. He tries anyway, clamping his good hand around it to hold it as steady as he can. There’s a noise from somewhere in the dark recesses of the church and he tries to push himself into the wall against his back, breath coming in short bursts. He whispers pleas under his breath. He’d rather die from blood-loss than be shot in the face by an over-eager enemy. It isn’t an enemy, however. Just a rat, scurrying between the broken pews. It pays Dean no heed whatsoever, single-minded in its own mission for food. Maybe it recognises the uniform, he thinks, and knows it’ll get shot at if it comes within six feet of him.

He watches it for as long as it’s in sight, unable to relax his muscles. He never wanted his war to be like this; holed up away from the world and waiting. If he had been able to choose, he would have been at his brother’s side and fighting with him. Saving lives. Sammy’s doing what he was born for, Dean thinks. He was always meant to help people, just like he always did for Dean when they were little. His mind drifts back to those times, reminiscing. He recognises this as his life passing before his eyes, but it’s not a sudden flash. He has enough time, he thinks, to consider every deciding moment. Every path he and his brother took growing up that brought them to the here and now.

The little moments that don’t seem to mean anything until they’re stacked up against the rest of your life. Sammy looking at his brother’s busted knee and grinning because he could fix it. He gave Dean Iodine and band-aids, and Dean gave him a bloody nose for making it hurt even more. The weird thing was, Sammy never hated him for that. Dean wishes he would show up right now. He wouldn’t even punch him this time.

Sam’s been on his feet for hours. He’s lost track of the time of day and only knows that it’s night once more and his job is harder because of that. The red cross on his uniform gives him some kind of immunity to fire, but he knows that isn’t absolute. A German soldier won’t fire at him knowingly, but if he is tired enough he may not realise. Sam is fairly sure that they are all that tired right now; he feels ready to drop himself and it is only the thought of finding his brother that keeps him going. He has treated one of Dean’s comrades, surprised when he recognised the regiment’s insignia on the soldier’s uniform. He asked him about Dean Winchester and the young man’s eyes had widened in recognition.

“You’re the Hunter’s brother? We..we call him the Hunter ‘cause of the way he finds ‘em. The Germans..”

“Do you know where he is?”

The soldier just shook his head, grunting in pain as Sam bandaged his leg tightly.

It was the only time Sam managed to speak to somebody about him until he found him.

Dean can no longer feel his arm. That’s good, he knows, because the pain would be excruciating. Now it can’t be a distraction to him. He wants to think in clichés. He wants to see a vision of a beautiful girl smiling at him. He wants to feel the sun on his face one more time. He wants Sammy to find him. He doesn’t want his subconscious to remind him that he will die soon and that he won’t get any of those things, even though he always knew, somehow, that he was destined to die young.

Sam is pushing himself now, lungs burning with the effort. He’s following a few others, glad that the need to stop is less. There are a few bodies he notices, but they aren’t with the allies and he looks once and doesn’t look again. It’s a clear morning and they’re heading for a quiet village, houses spreading out in the near distance. It looks deserted, but Sam’s learnt that appearances mean nothing in this war. Half-dead soldiers can survive and the sanest minds can be driven to distraction by the need to be constantly alert. They’re about half a mile away when they hear a couple of shouts, followed by a single gunshot. They continue to advance, running between cover, and somehow Sam knows.

Dean hears them coming. He can’t move or see them, but he can hear at least. He’s dealing with the fresh pain, eyes screwed tightly shut. He plays dead well, he thinks, but he was so close to it anyway that it wouldn’t have mattered to them. He’s nearly there. Just a little while longer and the waiting will be over.

“Dean? Dean!”

Confusion overtakes him. Sammy? He’s hallucinating. Has to be. Auditory hallucination, a symptom of delirium caused by loss of blood. He’ll force his eyes open and see his brother and he’ll know it’s not true. But there’s a shadow over his eyes and there’s a weight on his chest and he can’t see. He feels warm air against his cheek. A slight pressure, heavier, against the side of his head. Someone’s holding him and, in his feverish state, he thinks, Mom? He relaxes completely, sure she will keep him safe just like she always did when he was a small boy. She’s cradling his head, sobbing. He knows it isn’t fair. He knows.

“Dean, hold on. Just hold on, please.”

It’s Sammy’s voice, all right. His little brother found him. He never thought he really would, but he’s here. Dean can hear him, even if he can’t find the strength to respond. If he could, he’d say sorry. Sorry, man. Can’t do it. Letting go’s just…It’s easier. And Sam would tell him he’s an asshole for not even trying, and maybe he is. But he’s right. He wishes he could be stronger. He’s always been strong to his little brother. Always been his hero.

Not this time, Sammy-boy. Not any more.

Sam feels it; when that last shred of life is gone. He clings to his brother, ignoring the stares of the others. They all know. They all know how painful it is to lose someone you love and respect, but that doesn’t mean they can care about someone else’s loss. One of them tells him they have to get going. Lays a hand on Sam’s shoulder only to be shrugged violently off. He feels like a broken man. Twenty-two years old and his world lies shattered around him. Dean told him, when they last saw one another, that just because they call it warfare, doesn’t mean it is fair. He knows that more than ever right now.

“Sam, we gotta-”

“I know.”

This is so wrong. Dean shouldn’t have had to do this on his own. He shouldn’t have had to face death down and realise that he couldn’t win. Sam should have got here sooner, got to him faster. Helped him survive this. That’s what he trained to do. It’s what he promised himself he would do if anything like this ever happened.

“Sam.”

He nods, looking up. Nobody says a word as he lets go of Dean, slowly lowering his body down. He knows, despite wanting to more than anything, that he cannot take his brother with him. He knows that the men following may recover the body for a proper burial. He knows that it’s a burial he himself may not survive to see.

Sam slips a hand behind Dean’s neck and pulls his brother’s dogtags up and over his head. They’re crusted over with dried blood, which he ignores. He tugs them on over his head and they join his father’s and his own. It’s all he can do, he thinks. The only part of Dean that he can keep with him now.

He kneels over him and touches his face just one last time. Swallows. Stands. Follows the other men to the door of the church. Looks back at Dean just once more before heading back out into the war.

Whispers, “Bye, Dean.”

end.