Disclaimer: Supernatural and certain characters belong to Eric Kripke and Warner Brothers. No profit is gained from this writing, only, hopefully, enjoyment.
In this place, he stays and damns them all anyway.
Sammy's stabbed and ripped up the spine with some rusty piece of metal. Guy who does it bolts the other direction, Bobby hot on the trail. Dean runs and runs, calling for him to watch out when it's already too late.
He's still calling for him when Sammy's body's nothing but burning, smoldering meat, when it's nothing but what was and what is now ash.
He never stops calling, not even days later when the sky's flowing black with demons, a week and the stories are all over the news stations, a month and folks are dropping like flies, three and he hasn't been outside in 56 days, six and there are just three of them left here. Dean never stops.
He just doesn't say anything. No breath to spare. No room. Sammy would understand. Sammy'd get it.
Sammy, Dean is calling, and that's when little Chelsea suddenly takes that telltale deep inhalation in his arms. Seven months, eighteen days, more than twelve hours and some odd minutes later, Dean looks down at what used to be a little girl with brown Shirley Temple curls and two dimples and what is now a demon with a new lease on life and. . .
"Well, hey there, cutie. What'ssa matter, Dean? Cat got your tongue?"
Bout damn time.
And then he sees those cute as pie dimples, and Chelsea's demon hitcher is sticking her fingers through his ribcage.
Sammy would understand, is the thing. He was stabbed in the back, never even had time to scream. Never said a word. Truth is. . . truth is, Sammy'd already been gone by the time Dean had reached him.
Never had time, no breath to spare. Not a word. Sammy'd understand. Dean lets his eyes close tight, doesn't even bother with a death rattle.
Sammy, he's calling. And he never says a word.
No breath to spare.
Sammy.
