I love that song! It's a song by Elton John and it's called "My father's gun." The song is just amazing.
So... my first songfic... and it's a tag to "In my time of dying." After John's death, the boys clear their father's truck.
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My father's gun
I grip the wheel tighter. We are about to enter into Bobby's yard and I've already sworn myself that I won't sit in that truck ever again. Dad's truck. And I have no doubt that my crying little brother has nothing against this plan.
Sam has been a sobbing mess for the first part of the ride. Well... since about 36 hours... with some breaks. This little shit.
It has been hard for me to not start crying.
"Dean..." And all of the sudden he reminds me of this sweet little boy, I've cared for my whole life and I hate him even more for that. "What are we gonna do with the truck?" He asks when I hit the brake, parking the car in front of Bobby's house.
"Fetching the weapons... and then... I don't know..." I shrug, sounding cooler than I am. "We don't need two cars. Maybe Bobby wants it."
"Dad is still in the hospital for the autopsy..." Sam weeps, watching me when we get out of the car. "And you're thinking about getting the guns out of his truck?"
Bobby, who has been following with his own car, gets out and passes us, heading into the house, without even looking at us.
"Sam... I told you that I'm not gonna leave the car anywhere. And I'm not gonna use it." I hate to sound that frustrated. "And by the way... you could have stayed in the hospital."
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From this day on I own my father's gun
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I walk over to the arsenal of the car, dad has shown us, opening it.
I close my eyes briefly. God... my chest hurts. My heart wants to explode.
Sam comes up behind me. I can hear him taking small, hitching breaths.
Something in me wants to console him, a huge part, to be honest. But there is also that small part, that just wants to shove him away. "Dean..."
"Fetch a hamper..." I order. I don't want to hear what he has to say.
"I don't know if I can do that." I know that he isn't talking about fetching a hamper. "I can't continue fighting... with his weapons... I can't just 'carry on his legacy' knowing he's dead."
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I'll take my horse and I'll ride the northern plain
To wear the color of the greys and join the fight again
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"Sam... please not now." I turn around to face him. "You know that we have to fight."
"He died yesterday... and you think about fighting." He yells at me. "And fetching the car... what's wrong with you?"
"I'm reasonable." I stand up straighter, raising my voice, hoping he would step back.
"No... you're not reasonable..." He just inches closer, his voice even louder than mine. "We've lost dad. You're just trying not to think about it."
He is right. I haven't even cried yet. Not like him anyway. He has begun to cry yesterday morning in the hospital and hasn't stopped. We have spent last night and a part of today in the hospital, sitting in my room, on my bed, backs against the wall. I can't remember everything of this space of time... Just one spot on the wall... I have been starring at it the whole freaking time long. And I could still remember the weight of Sam's head on my shoulder, his tears soaking my shirt, his hands gripping my arm, shaking both of us with his sobs. He has fallen asleep after hours of crying, though it was pretty restless. He has been whimpering the whole time, tightening and loosening his grip on my arm.
A few hours ago, after Sam has woken up, I have checked myself out. I've needed to get out of there. I've needed to get Sam out of there. And Bobby has picked us up, before we've fetched dad's car.
"I know." I shout back, a tear sliding down my eyes. "I know okay?" The 'okay' was barley over a whisper, my both hands at Sam's chest. He lets his head fall, a sob escaping his lips. "Damn it, Sammy... you have to see that we need to keep on fighting... and dad has pretty useful things in his truck."
"Dean... the fight is in vain..." Sam whimpers.
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I'll not rest until I know the cause is fought and won
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I turn around to the truck, before I see it. My dad's favorite rifle. I take in a shuddered breath, before I pick it up. It is an old 'Browning Rifle.'
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From this day on until I die I'll wear my father's gun
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"I called it big gun." I force a smile, looking up at my little brother, leaning against the truck.
"What?" Sammy shakes his head, touching the rifle. He is taken aback that I'm not arguing further.
"My seventh birthday." I recall one of my most treasured memories. "Dad and I were shooting. He let me use one of the rifles for the first time. Years later I realized that it was his favorite one... I don't think he remembered it... but I always thought it was a matter of trust that he let me shoot with his favorite weapon."
"I'm sure it is." Sam bites his lip.
"Sam..." I begin. "He trained me since I was seven years old... even younger... We can take a break to fix the Impala again. But we've come so far... we've lost too much to stop now. We need to concentrate on the Yellow Eyed Demon."
"Yeah... I know... you're right." He runs a hand through his hair, exposing his bruises. "I'm gonna ask Bobby to help us find the colt." With that he stumbles away. My mind tells me to shout after him that he should eat something. But my stomach laughs at me for that. How should Sam eat something now? He has nearly puked out the water, Bobby has forced us to drink.
I wouldn't be able to stuff myself with food neither.
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'Cause there's fighting there and the company needs men
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I turn around again, picking up things, letting them fall again. It's too tidy in there. I think I've touched everything when my hands contacted a little box. I pull it out.
We've got a similar box in the Impala. In there are family pictures, Dad's journals, old IDs we don't use anymore and random things we don't want to throw away.
I open dad's now with trembling fingers.
"Oh god." I cup my hand over my mouth. "SAM" I shout.
"What?" I hear him run over to me.
"Look at that." I whisper.
He stops right by my side, whimpering when he looks inside the box.
I catch him with one arm around his waist just in time when his legs give in. "Come on." I gently lead him to the driver's side of dad's truck, after I set the box down on the arsenal. He sits down and obediently slides over to the passenger side to make enough space for me to fit in. I turn on the light before a step out again, fetching the box and shutting the trunk.
"He kept them." Sam touches the box with his fingertips, when I get in. "All of them..."
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As soon as this is over we'll go home
To plant the seeds of justice in our bones
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"I can't believe it neither." I smile a sad smile.
In the box were photos of us.
And... more important all of the Christmas Cards, Birthday Cards and Father-day Cards we've made when we've been younger.
"I thought he had thrown them away." I fish one out I've made for Sam when he's turned two. It is blue with a big yellow 2 on it and in black, bold, letters it reads: 'Happy Birthday Sammy. I love you. Dean.' Of course dad has helped me writing that, but I remember that I has been so proud of this.
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To watch the children growing and see the women sewing
There'll be laughter when the bells of freedom ring
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"Wow... he kept even these." I look at the one he holds in his hands. I remember this Birthday Card. Dad received it with the mail, the first year Sam was at Sanford. It was a simple card, but a photo of us was glued on it. 'Happy birthday, dad. I miss you. Say hello to Dean. I miss him, too.' It has been the only card Sammy has sent.
"I wasn't even sure one of you read it." Tears were again on Sam's cheek.
I reach up and brush them away. "We did..." Well... I haven't been so sure back then whether dad hadn't thrown it away. But I've never doubted that he has taken a look at it.
"I miss him Dean." Sam lets his head fall. I look at him.
I can't answer to that. I can't even say that I miss our father, too.
I just pet the back of his head with my hand, letting him lean into my side.
Well... maybe tonight nobody will leave this car. But after that... I promise, neither of us two will get in here ever again.
Tomorrow we would get the weapons, fetch our dad's body... ugh... and then we have work to do.
For tonight... there is just us and a box full of memories.
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From this day on until I die I'll wear my father's gun
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The End
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A/N The part with the "Big gun..." (The Browning Rifle) is part of the "John Winchester's Journal"
"January 24
For his seventh birthday, I took Dean shooting again. He wanted to fire one of the big guns- that's what he called them. I let him shoot the Browning, but I steadied his hands..."
Loved that part.