Sam and Dean Winchester had dealt with many deaths. They saw it pretty much on a daily basis. The brutal, the gruesome, the tragic, the heart wrenching. You'd think two guys who had seen so much death would be used to it by now but of course they weren't and of course they wouldn't ever be. You could argue that the two of them are possessed by a heavy conscience and sense of moral obligation to put up with it as they do but the truth is in the tragedies that have befallen them since Sam's sixth month of living.
And the latest tragedy? Bobby on his deathbed.
The local hospital buzzed with activity. Life and death and all in-between existed in this neat little place of sickly coloured halls, squeaky linoleum floors and brutal cleanliness. A young doctor in a sterile white uniform and clutching a clipboard of statistics hurried past Sam as he manoeuvred the maze-like corridors with the ease of someone who had made the trip many times before. He wrapped his jacket around himself as though trying to hold the broken pieces completely together. It was a ridiculous idea of course but the deep rooted sorrow inside of him consumed all rationality and left all the damage. But he survived because that's what he and Dean did, survive. Having reached Bobby's room, he softly clicked open the door and when he walked, his footsteps were a whisper. He knew that right now Bobby wouldn't wake up to any amount of noise so the silence he went out of his way to provide was a pointless exercise but it just seemed as though there was some kind of ethereal sense about the room, that it was fragile and needed wrapping in quiet like an expensive vase in bubble wrap. The room itself was small, tiny in fact, with white painted walls that held a hint of pale lemon to its hue, interrupted by a solitary window and an open blind. Sam purposefully kept that blind open every day, purposefully let in the sun. He now occupied one of the two wooden chairs by Bobby's bed, one on each side, one for himself and one for Dean. Bobby, surrounded by snaking tubes that kept him alive, blended in with the pale room as though he were fading away into the ethereality of it all. Sam was the only splash of colour in the room. He put his head in his hands, knotting his fingers in his hair, as the tears laced themselves around his eyelashes and the slow beep… beep of machinery drummed against his head.
Sam looked up at the distinctive click of the door opening opposite him and Dean slipped into the room, clutching a paper cup of steaming coffee close to his chest. He sat in his chair beside Bobby, opposite his brother. "Why do you keep drinking that? It tastes awful." Sam pulled a face at the hospital coffee. Dean shrugged. "Made it Irish" his voice was as dead as his eyes were glazed over. Sam just nodded.
"Has the doctor said anything else?" Dean continued.
"Swellings down a little. They took him off sedation. Apparently he's fighting his tubes so they pulled them out and now he's breathing on his own"
A little animation poured into Dean's voice. "That's good right? Is that good?"
"Yeah, well, doctor said best case scenario but we've still gotta... prepare" Sam hated being responsible for the drop in his brother's expression, for the vacant eyes and the lifelessness that possessed him. God knows Sam felt it himself. And he hated that he wasn't just losing Bobby but Dean as well.
Dean kept his eyes on Bobby's pale face as a new fierceness took hold of him. "He's not gonna die!"
"He might."
"No."
"Dean," Sam raised his voice, breaking the quietness of the room, "Listen! We have to brace ourselves!"
"Why?" He asked roughly.
"Because it's real!"
Dean suddenly stood, his face strained as though he were fighting tears, and strode to the door. Sam followed him with his eyes and when he spoke, his voice was hushed, hurt.
"Where are you going?"
"I don't know. To get a coffee."
"Dean, you have some coffee already."
"Sam!" The name exploded from Dean in a sudden rush and Sam instinctively widened his eyes in shock, looking like a puppy in a puddle. Dean's expression relaxed into a deep sadness as fast as his anger had hit and the brothers looked at each other for seconds before he yanked the door fully open and left it slamming behind him. Sam knew better than to chase Dean when Dean did not want to be chased, and so he stayed, holding Bobby's hand, the skin beneath his fingers rough with calluses from hunting.
And he waited for what Dean couldn't.
Grief is the pinnacle of sadness. Grief is what plays in the deepest recesses of your heart and dabbles in the darkest corners of your soul, lurking in the shadows of sadness, just waiting to strike.
Sadness pushes you to the brink of the cliff with the world far below you; grief pushes you over and drops you insensible back into the world.
Sadness lingers with a nudge or poke where it can; grief is a roaring of forgotten happiness, so beyond twisted that it splinters in your skin.
You will never truly understand sadness until you feel the blunt strike of grieving, like the fierce strum of a violin string vibrating pure feeling throughout your whole self; loud and harsh and consuming at first until time gradually mutes it's thrum of agony although it will never stand still, for true sadness comes in the form of grief and grief comes in the form of true sadness.
Grief is the pinnacle of sadness.
Bobby died and Sam grieved.