Disclaimer : I do not own Supernatural. Yet...
Warning : Spoilers? Maybe. This is a very dark little piece that came to me after watching The Benders. It may or may not be considered graphic, but it is dark. At least, in my opinion. It deals with un-fun stuff that's probably not going to make a lot of people happy...cos really, it's twisted. But what can you expect from me?
Summary : What if Sam hadn't survived? Would Dean make good on his promise?
---
He killed the father first.
He was the cause.
The reason his Sammy was dead.
He was a hunter, the man had said, his rancid breath warm on Dean's cheek, after sending his boys away with the orders, "Shoot the boy. Do what you want with the bitch."
The boys left quickly, excited, and when the man turned back, Dean was there, meeting him with a crash of the chair he had previously been tied to.
"So am I," he spat, as the old man fell to his knees.
Fire in his eyes, he tilted the man's head back and in one savage twist, snapped the man's neck, an effective death, slower than he would like, but satisfying even still.
Advancing on the girl next, whose wide eyes were focused on her father, he wrenched the knife out of her hands, the knife she'd held to his eye, a knife she'd done God knows what else with.
"Daddy?" the girl was saying in that goddamn creepy voice. "Daddy!"
He slit her throat, spinning her around, forcing her head down and pulling the knife effectively across her slender neck.
Letting her body drop to the ground unceremoniously with a dull thud, he left the house, through the rain, to the place his brother's body now lay.
He kicked the doors open with a bang, not caring how much noise he made, and was greeted by the sight of Judd and Lee standing over Kathleen's body.
They looked up in surprise as he stormed through the entrance, hell fire burning in his eyes, face completely blank, covered in their sister's blood, holding her knife as the only opposition to their guns.
One brother shouted to the other, who raised his rifle.
Dean struck before he could fire a round, swiftly kicking the legs out from under the older and sliding the knife easily between the other's ribs.
Going down hard, Judd's fingers closed around the hilt of the knife, looking up with wide, disbelieving eyes.
Lee cried out, watching his brother fall, his rifle facing the ground.
Dean grabbed the barrel of the gun, easily pulling it from the man's grasp, bringing it up and catching him in the chin with the stock.
Lee fell, and Dean was on him in an instant, beating with force he barely felt, watching the man's face melt away into a mask of blood and bone.
Turning the rifle on the stabbed brother, who still clutched at the knife with numb fingers, Dean shot once, dead center.
Discarding the gun, panting, arms hanging limply at his sides, Dean approached the body.
As he picked up the limp shell of his brother, Dean cried.
Not tears of regret.
No regret at the massacre on his hands.
Because all that mattered was the blood on his hands.
Sammy's blood.
His Sammy.
Gone.
Avenged, but gone.
"If you hurt my brother I will kill you all. I will kill you all!"
Dean was not one for idle threats.