Author's Note: This is just a short little fic that stuck in my head until I got it out on paper. I thought I'd venture out into the world of fanfiction once again. My last endeavor was a very long time ago, when I was but fourteen years of age. It was brief, but at least it was fun. It's been a long time since I've been addicted to a fandom that inspired me to write fanfic. My necessities of life are now food, drink, cash, and Supernatural. So here goes.
Disclaimer: I totally do not own Dean and Sam. Duh.
Silence and cold. The combination of the two had made everything so final. Otherwise Dean wouldn't have believed in the finality of everything that had happened. Feeling his father's cold hand and listening, hoping, praying-dear God please say something-he knew that John Winchester was dead. Dead. His father was dead. Not dead like his mother or the way he could somehow sense death in other beings but something darker. He couldn't explain it in words, it was just a sick feeling he had in his stomach whenever he thought about his dad. His final words to Dean, the strange emotional display that was so unlike John, all coupled with his sudden stroke and disappearance of the Colt spelled out something that Dean didn't want to acknowledge.
Dean stood alone, staring at the empty hospital bed of his father. Sam was absent, not a big surprise. Not that Dean was complaining. He would lose it completely if Sam were to walk in right now. A dark flood of memories bombarded him, both sweet and the bitter. All vivid, in color, and in his mind now.
Dad pushing him and Sam on the swingset after dinner every night.
Mom and Dad laughing when Dean had dumped his goldfish in the toilet because he had wanted more room to swim.
Dean, Sammy, and John all huddled on the hood of the Impala, the smell of smoke and charred wood pungent in the night air.
"Daddy it's okay, please don't cry."
Being on the road, constantly. Nothing but endless road, the inside of the car, and loud guitars for years at a time. Bad motels, skid row hotel rooms without plumbing, always being hungry.
Smashed windows, yelling, the constant bickering and fighting. "Maybe Dad would be in a better mood if he didn't get 75 percent of his blood out of a tequila bottle, Dean."
Sam leaving them all for Stanford. Sam leaving Stanford to go "road-tripping" with Dean.
"Don't be scared, Dean…"
"Time of death, 10:41…"
Dean shut his eyes tightly against the unwanted barrage of images. He turned and blindly ran out of the room, desperately trying to make it out of the hospital before he lost both control and his mind. Dean ran and ran, barely scraping past angry nurses and doctors yelling at him to please walk, this is a hospital, young man. He stopped outside of the main entrance and quickly glanced around to make sure that Sam wasn't watching. With shaking hands, he reached into his jeans pocket and retrieved a cigarette.
Never mind how bad it was for you, or how angry Sam would be. How angry Dad would be. Dean didn't care. His nerves were shot to hell, and old habits die hard. He struck a match and lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply. The first drag was rough, but each succeeding one was smooth and soothing, calming him somewhat and numbing the pain ever so slightly. He heard footsteps behind him, undoubtedly Sam, and didn't bother to stub it out.
"Since when do you smoke?" Sam couldn't say he was shocked at the picture of Dean smoking but there was something about it that nagged at him. Dean looked away, but not out of guilt. "Since now. I used to, you know. In high school. But one day Dad caught me and beat the hell out of me for it. So I quit. Every once in a while I smoke one or two. Not really a habit, I guess," Dean exhaled a long puff of blue smoke into the cold morning air. "So, Sammy. What now, huh? My car's gone, my tunes are probably melted together in that shoebox, where to?" He got the quiet response of Sam's wide eyes boring down into his own. Sam cleared his throat. "I wish I knew what was really going on in that thick head of yours, Dean. You big jerk…" A ghost of a smile appeared on Dean's face. A specter of a happiness he wouldn't truly feel for a very long time. "You know what we have to do, Sammy." Sam nodded and turned away. "I'll call Bobby."
Author's Note: Enter Everybody Loves a Clown. Please review! Suggestions and constructive criticism are very much welcomed.