Chapter Four
---------------
"We are afraid of the enormity of the possible."
-Emile M. Cioran
---------------
Dinner ended up being...
There are so many words that could go there. So much to drag out, to explain.
But let's just go with honest.
Dinner was tragic.
It was a serving of the unbelievable for an appetizer.
A large helping of brief hope and irrefutable pride, for the main course.
Dessert was bloody and frightening.
And when it was all over - only one brother walked out alive.
---------------
It was nearing two in the morning when Sam and Dean left the Cineplex, and Bob Evans was, undoubtedly, closed. So they walked around for a little while - loving, more than either would ever admit, the warm weather - searching for an all-night diner.
Because back country roads and small towns were their domain, and they knew there would be one.
And they'd been right.
Small establishment.
Cranky waitress.
Only two other occupants - and even that was a lot, given the hour.
Greasy food.
Home.
And they'd been happy.
Until the man came in.
Tall, unshaven, long, greasy black hair and wearing biker boots. Sam had seen him, Dean had smelled him. "Someone should tell him his B.O.'s not very restaurant friendly," the older man had grumbled, not even turning in his seat to get a look at him. Sam smirked and focused again on his burger.
Seconds later the foul smelling man had drawn the gun. Sam's eyes went to him, and obviously some sort of distressed looked passed over his features, because Dean's expression became suddenly hardened as he turned - reflexes lightening quick from years of training.
"Money," the man's tone was low, but demanding, he had the weapon pointed at the skinny, bleach-blonde woman who had served them their food. Her eyes were round and already brimming with frightened tears. "Now!"
"Just do what he says," Dean instructed when the woman stayed still - seemingly frozen - and Sam remained calm - as much as he wanted to panic, he couldn't. Was taught by John Winchester how to react in any given situation; and while this certainly wasn't typical of their life, it possessed all the same core factors of the situations they were used to.
Something was attacking.
Something needed to be gotten rid of.
And someone needed protecting.
Dean was just trying to figure out how to that as smoothly as possible, and Sam figured he ought to help out.
So his gaze darted to the other two patrons still seated on the other side of the diner. They were two women, one slightly older than the other, with incredibly similar features, and Sam guessed; sisters.
Only the older one, with long brown hair, a worn face and a scuffed leather jacket, didn't look nearly as frightened as the younger one did. In fact, she wasn't watching the impending robbery at all. Her eyes were focused solely on Sam.
She looked something like suspicious.
"... don't have the key to the safe..." the younger brother heard the girl at the counter say desperately, and was brought back to that side of reality.
"Like hell you don't!" The man barked, and Sam looked at Dean for guidance.
Only Dean looked a little lost, and it was then that Sam remembered he wasn't packing. No guns, no knives, no weapons at all. They had had nothing to hunt, nothing was supposed to go wrong.
The man raised his gun higher and cocked the trigger.
The Winchesters stood.
They couldn't let an innocent girl die.
They just couldn't.
What happened next was a blur of motion. Events so thoroughly compounded together that it was next to impossible to dissect the thoughts of any one person.
Especially the brothers, because they were acting on instinct, and instinct alone.
Just as the man was about to pull the trigger, Dean lunged, tackling him to the floor; and Sam grabbed opportunity when he saw it, flying to his brother's side and kicking the man in the ribs as soon as he hit the dingy tile and then turning back and motioning for the waitress to duck down and call the police.
Dean continued to pound on him, and the man could do little but defend himself, holding up his hands as a pathetic shield. Sam rounded his attention back to the fight and was just about to move around his body, to stomp on his hand and make him release the gun, when it happened.
It was as if this man were somehow drawing energy from the unrelenting attack, taking in Dean's strength only to use it against him; because in one moment, when his brother had lifted his arm to get another hit in, the man darted his head to the left, throwing the eldest Winchester off when he went to strike.
He managed to gain enough leverage to sucker punch Dean, so hard and fast that Sam could hear the crack of his jaw - which was saying something, considering how loud the waitress's crying had become.
It was enough, and he managed to get another punch in at once - not noticing his own broken face. Sam was stepping in, ready for combat already.
But the man saw him.
Dean was on the floor, having moved the fight away from Sam at some point, now too many feet away to do anything.
Sam was standing, eyes locked with a madman.
And the madman lifted his gun in slow motion; smiling a dangerous yellow smile.
Then the gun went off.
---------------
"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity." -Gilda Radner
--------------
It was only broken fragments of recollection after that.
Exploding pain as stars danced in his direct line of vision.
More pain as he made contact with the floor clumsily.
A yell, "Sammy!"
Some screaming, loud cracks, another gunshot.
Sam could put together what happened, but was too focused on the blood to take much interest in it. His hands were over his stomach, and they were red.
Covered with sticky, bright red...blood.
Then Dean was at his side.
"Hey, little brother," his voice was shaky, and Sam tried so hard to focus on his face - those green eyes that never lied. But he couldn't, and it was hard to try, too hard - so he just went for sound. And touch.
Because he was resting against Dean now, his strong hands were over Sam's, trying to stop the flow of blood. He didn't know how he got in this position, but was glad for it. So grateful that he wouldn't be alone.
"Call 911!" Dean shouted orders, not at Sam, so the younger man knew he didn't have to listen.
Then there was more pressure over the bleeding and he finally saw - towels, already stained with blood. The diner floor - bloody. The madman...
"Is he dead?" Sam managed to croak, although he wasn't sure why that'd be important.
"I don't know, Sammy," Dean's arms encircled him and Sam felt like that warmth was driving away a little of the rapidly spreading coldness. "Hey, little brother, stay awake."
"'m'awake," he mumbled, closing his eyes all the same. "'m'old."
"You're losing a lot of blood," his voice was so scared. Sam had never liked it when Dean was scared - it threw his whole world off kilter. "But it's okay," he managed, "'Cause an ambulance is coming, and I'm your blood type, remember? How convenient dad always thought that was? So it'll be okay."
"'m, sorry," he muttered, although he wasn't really sure why. The word alone floated around, but God, was he tired.
"...nothing to apologize for," Sam started when he realized Dean's voice was fading in and out. "You gotta stay with me, alight kiddo?"
He fought to hold onto Dean. Fought so hard...
"I love you, you fucking bitch. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Something strong tickled the far reaches of his subconscious, but it was too far away to help him now.
"...gonna fix this. Dad told me to...gonna be alright."
"...'ove you too..." Sam gasped, "...'jerk..."
He heard Dean chuckle a little, and Sam knew he was crying. He'd meant to say something else too, but couldn't remember what it was in time.
Because the world was fading, Dean's protective embrace was disappearing, and the whole scene - despite his closed eyes - was tunneling. His brother holding him, the crying waitress, a fallen madman.
The sisters. The younger one had her head buried in the thin black leather jacket of the elder, whose expression was some surreal mix of disbelief, doubt and...hope.
Then it was all dark, and he was gone.
TBC...