After Heart
HEARTBROKEN
Just wait here, Sammy plead, tears dripping down his face.
Dean was doing his best not to feel anything, but that never worked when it came to Sammy. It pissed him off, what the world was doing to his little brother and he had never felt so helpless in his entire life.
Dammit, Dean winced, hearing the shot. Then everything went deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he approached the doorway, steeling himself.
Sunlight streamed through the window, mockingly. Despite the yellow glow, the apartment was deathly cold. Sam knelt in the middle of the room, supporting Madison's dead weight easily. Tears continued to run down his face and the sharp smell of blood was unmistakable.
Sam's gun fell silently to the carpet, making the soldier in Dean wince. He knew he should reprimand the kid about that, but Sammy couldn't hear him anyway. The younger man had gathered Madison's body and was cradling it gently to his chest. He was whispering something in a hoarse and desperate voice.
As Dean stepped closer he recognized the Latin benediction. The desperate prayer wrenched his heart.
Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine / Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord
et lux perpétua lúceat eis/ and let
perpetual light shine upon her
Requiéscant in pace. Amen/ May she rest
in peace. Amen
Familiar words, though Dean never spoke them with the conviction that Sam did. It was that belief which made Sam's voice ring true and powerful, made demons flinch. Jim saw Sam's potential and had been grooming him for the ministry even as a kid. The Pastor saw them all as soldiers of God. John had alway downplayed that aspect, his own feud with the almighty made hunting an act of rebellion rather than obedience. Dean didn't go in for the deep mystical explanations. He used the rituals that worked. Hunting for him was a practical, day to day, down and dirty kinda thing. Hunting was his job, not his destiny. He wasn't idiot enough to accept the shitty hand they had been dealt.
As usual, Sammy's God refrained from comment. You little idiot, who
the hell has been looking out for you except me? Dean thought at his
brother. As if in response, Sam's drowning eyes sought Dean's in the empty room. Yet again it was up to Dean to pick up the pieces.
Madison's blood was seeping into Sam's clothes, but Sam was still holding her broken body. Gently, the two of them laid the body on the couch. Sam arranged it carefully, brushing the stray locks with broken tenderness. Before Dean could say anything, Sam retrieved the gun, deftly wiped it for fingerprints and used a handkerchief to place it in Madison's cooling hands, letting it fall naturally by her side. Dean hated that his little brother knew what a natural suicide looked like, but didn't have time to dwell. He knew they had a limited opportunity before some other neighbor would be in to check on the gun shot. He started wiping the room, erasing any trace of their presence. Couldn't do anything about the scratch marks in the bedroom and Dean hoped their wasn't too much DNA evidence on the bed but, out of respect, he refrained from bringing it up.
Sam seemed to be going into shock as Dean pushed a clean shirt into his hands and he mechanically shrugged out of his his blood stained clothes, running a self conscious hand over his red eyes and dripping nose as he pulled the proffered T over his body. His ragged breath was calming as Dean bagged the discarded shirt and buried it deep in their luggage.
"You ready?" Dean asked, not wanting Sam to sink into himself. Sam's haunted look didn't disappear, but he sniffed once, then nodded firmly and took his bag from Dean's grip. They were silent as they covertly made their way from the apartment.
Dean sunk gratefully into the driver's seat, shooting Sam a concerned look. Sam caught the look, but turned away as more tears surfaced. He was surprised when Dean's hand briefly gripped his neck. The action reminded Sam of their father. Silent empathy and brief physical contact had been the hallmark of their childhood. Again, Sam struggled to control the tears as Dean pulled into traffic.
"We're going to be okay," Dean said, with a big brother's finality, the kind that had ended Sam's nervous anxiety as a kid. Sam couldn't help but believe him, even though his own heart felt ripped in two, broken beyond repair. He nodded his acceptance through the tears and, to avoid having to talk any more about it, chose one of Dean's tapes and slipped it in, turning up the volume to drown out his cruel self-recrimination. He felt his heartbeat adapt to the crushing bass, feeling wretchedly alive.
