A/N: Ummmm … yeah. S2(ish). I own nothing and I'm sorry for any and all grammar/spelling mistakes you might find.
Her name was Sunshine.
What the ...
Sunshine, really?
Really?
Because there was nothing sunshine-y about her ... her hair was long, glossy and black as the feathers of a crow, her eyes were dark brown, her skin was white as that of a porcelain doll, her fingernails were painted blood red, her voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard when she went on and on about killing him, drinking him up … yeah, yeah, bitch, heard it all before.
There was nothing warm and bright about her.
Sunshine?
Where had the world gotten, if monster were starting to name their kids with hippy names?
Jesus...
And then he killed her, one sharp machete through her white, almost translucent neck.
Now all he had to do was find his brother and off they'd go. Away from the dead, headless bodies that were lying all around him, like soldiers after a massacre.
But these weren't soldiers. They were monsters and the smell was already starting to get to him.
Sunshine. Really?
Jesus …
-:-
Sam was nowhere. He was nowhere and he checked everywhere. Every nook and cranny, he opened every door in this freakin' falling apart house, checked the damp basement, the garage with one and a half wall, under the mattress-less beds, the once-be closets, he even checked the broken cupboards in the kitchen if by any chance Sam managed to crawl in there.
But his brother was nowhere.
He had half a mind to revive Sun–freakin'–shine and ask her what the hell she did with his brother, but ... what was dead should stay dead, especially if the dead in question was a monster.
And besides, he shouldn't revive stuff without his brother there beside him, backing him up.
He shouldn't revive stuff, while ... bleeding.
He was bleeding.
Why was he bleeding?
Oh yeah.
She kinda scratched him with her knife. Well, stabbed him really, three times okay, but no need to be nit-picky, because he was bleeding. He was bleeding and there was no Sam.
Oh, and there was nothing sunshine-y about her teeth either when she dragged them down his shoulder, when she leaped at him, but missed her target when he twisted away and cut off her head.
That bitch.
His hand ... there was so much blood on his palm, it was dripping down to the fake Persian rug from his fingertips.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
He was sure that the panic and pure terror of 'where is Sam?' was making his heart beat faster, pumping the blood out of his wounds faster … but he couldn't stop it. Couldn't be calm.
He fell to the ground, into the pool of his own hot blood, feeling nothing. Seeing nothing. There was nothing, but …
… sunshine can't be seen in the dark.
-:-
"Dean!"
He had screamed for his brother, shouted and yelled, almost roared his brother's name, but there was no answer.
He had checked everywhere in the damn house, but Dean was nowhere.
"DEAN!"
His brother was nowhere.
"Dean! DEAN!"
His voice was already breakin' on the word; the one word he had spoken more times than any other word in his life. Dean.
And then he found him. Wished he'd came running into the room better prepared, although, what could prepare a brother to seeing his sibling, laying unmoving on his left side, among heads with blood matted hair, headless bodies and a room smelling of iron so badly, his lunch nearly made another appearance.
"Dean."
He stepped over two bodies, and had to kick a head with long, black hair away before he could fall down on his knees beside his brother.
His unmoving brother.
"Dean…"
He whispered, his voice thick with oh God, oh God, Dean, Dean.
But Dean was breathing, there was warm air hitting his palm when he checked, and Dean's heart was still beating against his finger.
"Dean…"
-:-
There was darkness and there was light and there was pain and there was nothingness.
He didn't know which he preferred, because sunshine was supposed to be bright and safe, not dark and twisted, and pain was always something that just was and nothingness meant death.
But sometimes … sometimes there was a touch. Hands. Careful and gentle, not meant to do any harm, even if they were trained to do harm. Sometimes there was a voice; he taught that voice to say words. He taught that voice to say his name.
"Sammy?"
"Yeah, 'm here."
"Wha' happ'nd?"
"You got stabbed, idiot. And got some scratches on your shoulder. I took care of it."
"Sam…"
"You're gonna be fine. Just get some more sleep, 'kay? "
"Did I …," he licked his chapped lips, "bleed all over baby?"
"You're such a jerk."
The tiny smile he got was worth the pain of speaking: "Bitch."
-:-
Sometimes … sometimes sunshine was all around him - a light even in the darkness - not just something that belonged to the day.
He'd bet the bitch didn't know that.
The End