I enjoyed writing Supernatural so much, and I loved the last episode so much that I decided to really
quickly type up another one. I'm giving up valuable nap time. So enjoy.
"I should've slept with her."
Sam peered at his brother as the picture curled in the fire.
Dean mumbled to himself again, and then stalked off upstairs. Anger swirled
This was too sad.
They had lost before.
Lost over and over and over – and they had survived.
But this time, this time there was no one. Jessica was gone, Dad was gone, the Roadhouse was gone, (everyone inside the Roadhouse was gone too), and Bobby is in a goddamn wheelchair. The whittling down didn't hurt, the small chipping into their lives, but now, there was nothing left and the emptiness hurt so much.
He should've been able to save them. Everything he had ever done was to help people. The lawyer thing, the hunter thing, the demon thing, it was all for their sake.
Jo and Ellen were dead.
Bobby was in a wheelchair.
Dean was upstairs.
And he was the Devil's human sinkhole.
Sam turned around and began cleaning his pistol.
Bobby watched the picture burn.
He had never burned a picture before. The pictures were to remember people by, so that when they died (and they all died eventually, eventually he would die to and he hoped someone would have a picture of him), he could remember all the good things. The good hunts, the good drives – the good drinks.
Multiple times, good hunters had died; doing good deeds for good people hurt by bad… things.
But Bobby could walk then, he could fight, he could help, he could do more than look at a damn book, or use a damn radio.
Their faces warped in the fire, crisp edges crumbling and dissolving, all the eyes looked out as the fire turned them black.
Bobby watched the picture burn and tried to wiggle his toes.
He should've just said fuck it and done something.
"Should've slept with her." Dean mumbled again.
Dean could deal with people dying. It was when they died on him and he had regrets with them.
Not about them, with them – there is a distinct difference. With his Dad he regretted not having more time. With Jo he, well, he regretted not having sex.
The kiss wasn't enough.
"To hell with self-respect."