Wetness piled on his forehead, the sickly sweet smell reaching his nose and turning his stomach. He could feel it gathering, gathering enough strength to start the long trek down from the top of his head, gravity pulling the stream into his eyes. He blinked rapidly, the liquid clumping in his eyelashes and obscuring some of his vision - not that there was much for him to see, exactly.
The night was dark, so very dark. It hadn't been dark at all when he had set out on this journey; it had been a bright day, just like any other. The sun had been shining, and he had felt so confident, do enriched by the weather, the company, the idea and plan for the day. He had been prepared, had done his homework, just like any other job.
Those jobs had gone quite differently.
Adrenaline had filled his system. His muscles were loose, his mind cleared of anything but his purpose.
His body was ready for the hunt.
Standing back to back, they had rushed in guns blazing. There were more than they had expected, were faster, stronger, better than anything they had faced before. Still, they held their own quite well.
Until half of the fighting company had died.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother fall. A sword ripped through his middle.
Time stopped.
The demon held for a second, relishing in the look of surprise coloring the younger Winchester, who let out a small cry for help, of desperation, of hope. It was a half-formed call for his brother, so like what he would call out in the middle of the night countless times growing up when he was afraid of the monsters under the bed or just outside the door.
It cut Dean to the core.
The demon slid the sword out in one swift motion, but not before twisting the handle once, ensuring the kill. Sam crumpled to the floor in a heap.
Dean let out a curdling scream, reaching out to his brother, his charge. His charge who was now lying facedown in a pool of red, his eyes still open, his mouth half-formed around his brother's name.
The demon who cut down his little brother soon found himself impaled on the knife his brother had given him years before: the knife from the demon they once trusted, who Dean had distrusted but trusted his brother enough to keep around for a little while.
As much as Dean tried to avenge his brother, as much as he tried to kill every single one of those sons of bitches that took away his tether to the world and everything he stood for, it was not enough.
A blinding pain sliced through him - one of many he had already received, but this one more potent, more stopping, more stabbing. He fell to his knee to feel another on his back, running through but missing anything vital. Enough to be fatal but not enough for the immediate death his brother received.
Silence descended. A ringing in his ears, blocking out anything and making his head pound. His face was cold, planted firmly against the concrete floor of the warehouse, but he could still see his brother. He reached out, the numbness in his fingers only a small thought in his mind, and tried to comfort Sam. Or maybe comfort himself, he did not know.
With what strength he had left, he pushed himself up, his hands nearly slipping in the puddle of blood he had created, only getting on his elbows before his strength gave in. He slammed onto the ground again, pain not even registering now.
Dean rolled onto his back, his arm flinging out and barely grazing his brother's clothes. He knew his time was over, and he could take some peace in that.
He had failed his brother for the last time, and if he had made it into the next day, he would have finished himself because of it. He took comfort in the fact that he had gone down fighting, that his brother didn't have to see him fail, that he had died with dignity.
The hand not in the bit of connection to his cold brother lifted to Dean's own chest, fumbling blindly at the cloth. His vision was blurred now. Only vague shapes and spots of light. He closed his eyes. His bloody hands found purchase, on a small object.
The amulet his brother had given him so long ago was clenched tightly in his hand. The object that had showed him just how much his brother trusted him; the material proof that Dean was everything their father should have been: his protector, his rock, his home.
Right now, Dean needed to be reminded, to be comforted, by that trust even if he was undeserving of it. His mouth tried to form a word, but it came out broken, no more than a breath of air. The name of his brother.
His last thought before he closed his eyes was simple. It was the absolute truth that he knew unconditionally.
emThere ain't no me if there ain't no you./em
XxX