A/N: Guess who's back and trying to write again! This idea just came to me, and I really wanted to try and write it. Emphasis on try. I apologise if this story is crap, or not to your taste. I haven't had anyone proof read this, so any mistakes are purley my own.
I own none of the characters, they belong to Kripke. Lucky bastard
Warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Swearing, blood and violence
Cold Oak. That's all he could think of. The two situations were practically identical; the injury, the weapon. This time however, there were two major changes:
Sam died in Castiel's arms.
Dean was the one who'd killed him.
Considering his heritage and his age, there were only a few times in his long life where Castiel had felt completely and utterly helpless. This was one of them.
Pinned up against the dungeon wall, he could only watch as Sam was backed into a corner by the demon; his weapon long since gone in the struggle. He could hear the youngest panting, taking in long, heaving breaths to try and quell the sheer terror building up inside of him (for himself or Cas was a mystery). Cas once again cursed Metatron, for stealing his grace, and leaving the angel essentially defenceless.
The tears in his eyes were out of frustration as well as sorrow.
A soft thud caught his attention, as he saw Sam's back had hit the opposite wall, giving him nowhere else to turn to. No escape. No chance.
Like the Winchester he was, he stared the danger in the face. He looked at the knight with a look of fear, pleading and, worst of all, a hint of resignation. His eyes bore into that of the demons, as if trying to see past the hell and find the person within.
The person who just so happened to be his big brother.
"Dean…please. It's me, it's Sammy. Come on, man, please. You've kicked hell's ass before, I know you can do it again. You have to fight this! Please!" Sam choked out, his voice clogged with emotion. Normally, that tone mixed with the famous puppy dog eyes would be enough to turn Dean from a stoic badass into a doting mother hen, would remind him of the little boy who he'd raised, and would make him reconsider whatever he was doing that was clearly causing his baby brother distress.
However this wasn't normal.
This wasn't even close to normal.
Dean simply grinned. A twisted, fucked up version of his normal smile. "Sorry Sammy", the usually loving nickname sounding un-naturally cold, "but big brother aint home. No use crying for him." He pulled the first blade from his waistband, coal pits never leaving hazel eyes.
Castiel's struggles became more frantic. He could feel Dean's concentration on holding him slipping, all the energies focusing on Sam. His stolen grace would be enough to knock Dean out, but nowhere near the strength needed to heal even a paper cut, let alone a stab wound. Meaning that he had to move. And he had to move now.
He was drawn back to the fight (if it could even be called that. Murder was probably more accurate), where his eyes caught Sam's momentarily. Cas tried to convey everything that needed to be said, that he was trying, that he wasn't giving up, that he was so so sorry. Somehow, the message had gotten through, as Sam returned the look with one of his own, the look that he normally used on victims that were being interviewed; it's okay, I understand, I'm not angry. He even managed that infuriating sad smile of his, confirming what they both already knew:
Sam Winchester was a dead man.
As if hearing their silent communication, Dean gripped Sam's left shoulder and roughly dragged the man in closer so his mouth was beside Sam's ear. And then he spoke two words in a harsh whisper that seemed to echo around the dungeon. Two words. Two small, twisted words that made Castiel's stomach drop impossibly further.
"Night Sam."
And with that, Dean stabbed his brother.
A/N: DUN DUN DUN (i hope). If you're interested, then I'll be uploading the rest very soon. This will probably be about 2/3 chapters long. Feel free to leave me a review or a criticism, and again I apologise if this is terrible. Until next time...