The Night Watchman
Summary: A snapshot of the elder hunter at his post. Set season 7.
No specific spoilers for any eps, and no warnings for any dirty words or the like.
A/N: In a writing rut and trying desperately to get out of it, hence the drabble.
Disclaimer: Ya know, I die a bit inside every time I have to write one of these. *sniffle* I do not own the Winchester boys or anything of the Supernatural writing nature.
All is quiet in the room. The clocks themselves have seemed to cease their ticking. They know not to disturb the scene. It must be silent, save for the breaths they take. One counting the breaths of the other, only those soft intakes of air and the steady thumping of their hearts to mark the passage of time.
He has taken up his post for the night. He is diligent in his watch. Most would not recognize this stance from this man, a statue, so unlike him to the untrained eye. Many know him only as a pretty face, several others know a little more than that. Those he saves know him as a distant hero. Scores of creatures and men know him as a hunter, a fighter. A stone cold killer. Only a few know the truth about him, the complex core underneath the shields. Hunter, of course he is. Fighter, always. Bred into a killing machine, perhaps. Years of constant combat can do that to a man. To those who see him truly, though, his compassion far outweighs his brutality. He's driven by passion more than anything else in the world, a passion to protect, to save. To right the wrongs and to prevent the evils from spreading too thickly around the world.
And now he goes to perform his oldest duty. He is here to protect, to guard. To watch over his most precious charge. Aching muscles from too little movement are ignored as he keeps his station beside the bed. His eyes graze over the white bandages that adorn his charge's body, no longer spattered with blood. A face that was previously twisted with pain and fear is now calm, relaxed. Eyes reflecting too much anguish and burden lie closed.
He waits for them to open again. And ponders how he got here.
They have so little left. Family lost, friends come and gone, enemies made and vanquished at costs too high to bear. But they do bear it, pushing forever onward because there is no way to turn back. They forage on as a unit, creating disasters and cleaning them up and emerging from the wreckages with a few more scars on their bodies and souls.
He wonders how things would have been if they had never joined up again. If they would have been able to live separate lives. Part of him thinks so much could have been avoided. Family could still be alive. The world could keep spinning without the added holes in it. But a much larger and wiser part knows it never could have stayed like that. The universe has its ways of dragging those who want out back in. Destiny is a tornado that rips through lives and the only way to survive it is to become an even larger force of nature and face it head on.
So they did. They ripped up the rulebooks and wrote their own stories. And even though there are so many parts he wishes he could erase, he knows now that there is no way to do that. All that's left is the path ahead.
He doesn't want to travel alone, though. He needs his brother beside him. Selfish, perhaps, but he doesn't care. Unhealthy and dangerous their relationship may be, but it's all they have to cling to when the rest has been washed away.
And so, here he is. Waiting and watching. Thinking. Not praying, because he doesn't pray. He can't, not anymore. Not after all this. But hoping, maybe. He can still hope. His brother has taught him it's alright to keep a little bit of hope in the bottom of the box.
So he does. He hopes and waits, breathes, thinks, ponders. Feels the time tick by and lets it go without a second thought, waiting to be reunited with all he has left.
Until, finally, the eyes open.
"Hey, Sammy."