Gone
By Red O'Toole
Gone. The truth and finality of the word seared into his heart like a red hot knife, severing it from his chest to leave a gaping maw of darkness - - emptiness - - a bottomless pit of despair, grief, and loneliness. His throat ached from the effort to hold back the wrenching sobs that silently wracked his battered body while tears coursed freely down his cheeks as he knelt beside the lifeless body of his brother.
They had both known from the start that there was no antidote, that to be bitten was certain death, but this was nothing new - - they had faced down death every day for many years - - it held no fear for either of them.
It had taken the two of them, fighting in the perfect unison that came from hundreds of similar battles over the years, to kill the flying serpent, yet it was too late as he saw a thin trickle of blood on his brother's arm.
It had been a mere scratch really, but enough for the serpent's venom to penetrate. It had done its work quickly, viciously, burning through his brother's veins, convulsing him in pain. There was no aid, no comfort he could give, only watch in helpless rage.
In a moment of clarity, just before the end, their eyes had locked. "It's okay," his dying brother had whispered as the light faded from his eyes and his laboring breaths ceased - - his body relaxing with an imperceptible sigh.
But it was not okay, nor would it ever be again.
Striking the match to light his brother's pyre was the hardest thing he had ever done. A hunter's funeral guaranteed there would be no coming back - - not through deals, divine intervention, or spell. As the flames leapt high into the night sky, a random thought crossed his mind: Who would give him a hunter's funeral? Who was left? The dark, empty future yawned before him.
No one was there to hear the rustle of wings in the night. No one saw the lone figure in the trench coat standing on the knoll surveying the battle field. His clear blue eyes studied the formation of bodies laid out in a rough circle, nose wrinkling at the stench of sulfur. His gaze focused intently on the figure sprawled on his back in the center. He sighed and his expression shifted to one of sadness - - or as close as an angel could get.
Another rustle of wings and he was standing beside the fallen hunter. He didn't need to check for a pulse - - he knew he was already gone - - he had come to honor his friend with the hunter's funeral that he knew was his last request.
He gathered the most aromatic woods from around the world to build the pyre. With great tenderness he placed the body on the pyre, anointing it with sacred oils before lighting the wood.
He watched stoicly as the flames consumed wood and flesh and bone, the aromatic smoke rising to Heaven, and, while he knew there was no need, that the Winchester brothers were at peace, still it was the one time he wished that he could cry.