Ok guys, bear with me. This is my first go at Supermatural fic, and I would appreciate it so much if you guys could review for me. I'm contemplating putting this same story up in a different style, so I would like to know what you think about it.
Ok, well, read on my pretties!
He had eternity to destroy the monster that had killed Sammy
Eternity
Dean held on to consciousness by the tips of his fingers.
He sat in the back seat of his Impala, gasping for air as his broken ribs deflated his lungs. His father lay dead in the front seat, slumped over the wheel, leaning against the horn. The blaring of the horn faded into the background as he zoomed in on Sam. He was pressed against the window, blood dripping from his lips, arms bent at strange angles.
Dean jumped when he heard a sound, the slamming of the door.
The truck driver sauntered up to the Impala's back window, leaned down to look at Dean, and grinned. The eyes flashed black and then gold. The demon hissed and laughed, looking at the forms of the Winchesters. It peered at the body of John and shook its head sadly. Turning its gaze to Sam, the truck driver's smile lit up his whole face. He clicked his tongue before turning to Dean.
"You didn't do a very good job, did you?" the demon asked. "Look at him, all broken and bloody. But I guess you'd rather not, huh?"
Chuckling at the sight of Dean trying to move his weak and pain filled body, the demon walked away from the Impala. Once it reached the truck door, it turned and blew a kiss at Dean, then climbed back into the truck, before releasing its host, whose body fell against the large steering wheel, adding the sound of its horn to that of the Impala's.
Dean struggled to sit up, to get to Sam, but his mind couldn't handle the pain that his body put it through. His fingers slipped, and he fell into unconsciousness.
It's all your fault.
What have you done?
It's all your fault.
One little task Dean. That's all that was asked of you. Look after your little brother Dean. That's all.
Dean woke up in the hospital, blankets tucked in at his waist, machines beeping. He opened his eyes and stared around. He had no idea why he was in hospital, lying there half-naked and attached to all the machines.
The demon, finding them
The gun, shooting dad
Driving away
The crash
The demon laughingSammy!
He dragged back the blankets and tried to stand, but his legs gave out on him. He fell to the ground, pulling the IV stand down on top of him. Grinding his teeth with the pain in his broken but unset leg, Dean crawled along the ground until he came to the cupboard along the side wall. He found his tattered and bloodied clothes washed and folded up, so he put them on, struggling with the pants. Using the IV stand to haul himself up, he made his way to the door, each lance of pain from his leg emphasising a word.
One.
Little.
Task.
He got as far as the door, before a nurse saw him and tried to badger him back into bed, threatening him with permanent damage to his leg if he put his weight on it. He asked for his brother but got no response. He asked again and was told to get back into bed. He asked a final time before punching the nurse in the face and shuffling slowly around her prone form, crunching her fingers beneath his good foot as he went past.
Finally he found Sam, lying in the middle of a group of machines, hooked up to every one of them.
Dean shoved his way through them until he reached Sam.
I'm sorry Sammy, so sorry. I'll kill it Sammy, I promise. How could I have let it hurt you? I promise I'll kill it Sammy, if it's the last thing I do.
Dean passed out soon after, his malnourished body falling to the floor with a thump. When the doctor came to check on Sam, he found Dean lying on the floor, bleeding from where his head had struck the stand of a machine, his leg swollen from premature use. When they also found out he was the one who had knocked the nurse unconscious and left her in the middle of the corridor, they decided it would be best to sedate him.
Dean? Deeaaannn? Where are you? Dean, I'm hurting!
He ran as fast as he could to get to Sam in time, but it just wasn't fast enough. He was ten and Sam had wandered off sometime during the night. They were camped out in the middle of a forest, their dad had left early that morning, not even realising Sam was missing. Dean had been told to sit tight, but Sammy was missing. He looked for signs that might tell him where Sam had gone, but it had rained during the night, which worried him even more.
Sam! Sam! Where are you?
Sammy!
He'd heard crying, and had raced towards it. He'd found Sam sitting at the bottom of a hunter's trap, ankle sprained, maybe broken from the ten foot drop.
Dean! I knew you'd find me!
Sammy, hold on, I'll get you out!
So Dean had raced back to camp to get some of the strong rope to pull Sam out of the pit. He slung it over his shoulder and made his way carefully back, not wanting to get lost now that he'd found his brother. He crept to the edge of the pit and peered inside. Sam was lying down, ankle stuck at an odd angle.
Sam? What are doing? Sam, wake up! I'm coming down to get you!Dean had tied the rope around the closest tree and then around his own waist, before lowering himself slowly down into the hole.
Dean? Sam had whispered.
Yeah Sammy, I'm right here.
Dean? You promised you'd always take care of me.
Dean stopped and stared down at his brother. He'd begun to shiver, and a cold sweat formed on his skin.
Sammy, I promise, I will always look after you.
Sam's eyes shot open and he looked at Dean with hate. His gold eyes flared.
Dean, I'm dying! How can you say you looked after me? I fell down a hole and now I'm dying! You promised you'd always look after me Dean. Always
Sam sat up suddenly, and pointed at Dean, who was hanging halfway down the wall of the pit.
Was it so hard Dean? To look after your little brother! That's all you had to do. One little task Dean, just look after your brother!
Sam was shouting now and Dean was crying.
Sammy, I promise, I'll always look after you. Always, always, always!
He started to lower himself down the hole again, but Sam kept shouting at him.
You failed Dean. It's all your fault! First mum died, then dad went crazy and now me! You're letting me die Dean! It's all your fault!
Tears kept pouring down Dean's face as he tried to keep a grip on the rope with his shaking hands.
Sammy! I am looking after you! I always did! I always will! Daddy's not crazy Sammy, he's just a little bit sick. Sammy, don't yell at me. I love you, I'd die for you, I promise I would! I'm trying Sammy, I am, I'm trying my best, but you ran off. I can't look after you if you run off. You just have to stay put Sammy, I'm almost there, I promise.
You're trying! You think you're trying your best?Sam was standing now, unhindered by his hurt ankle.
Your best Dean! Well it isn't good enough! Look what happens when you try your best? I die Dean, I die!
Dean had let go of the rope and had dropped to the ground. He stood in front of Sam, his eyes red from crying, tears still coursing down his face.
Sammy? You're not dying Sammy.
Yes I am. Sam had replied. I'm dead.
Sam's eyes, which had been gold, suddenly fluttered closed and he fell forward into Dean's arms. He twitched and jerked and blood started coming out of his ears and mouth. Dean cried and held him and tried to pull him up the rope to the top of the pit, but no 10 year old can do that. He cried and screamed for daddy to come and save Sammy. He'd never felt so helpless. After a while, Sammy stopped twitching and stopped bleeding. He stopped breathing too. Dean whimpered and felt for his pulse, checked his breathing and then his eyes, which had turned green again.
Sammy was dead.
I tried Sammy, I really tried. I promise I tried. I was looking after you, I was! I tried my best to look after you! But
Sam's words echoed through his head
It wasn't good enough.
Which is exactly what had worried him.
The doctors watched Dean worriedly. He was straining against the restraints and was crying and screaming in his sleep.
I tried Sammy, I really tried. I promise I tried.
They'd had to move him to another room because he was scaring the other patients. It had been two weeks since he had been put on a script of heavy sedatives, but it wasn't working as well as planned. He should've been close to a coma, not even twitching if they cut off an arm. But instead he was having dreams. Intense dreams. Dreams he never woke from, no matter how upset he got in them. Every time a hand brushed him, he would reach out for it and whisper.
Sammy!He sat next to Sam at the hospital, watching him, holding his hand. He laced his fingers through the ones of his baby brother's and sang in a cracked voice. He sang nursery rhymes and lull-a-byes, and watched the rise and fall of Sammy's chest. He stroked his face and watched for a flicker of life beneath the eyelids, but they were still. He left Sam's side twice in three days, to use the bathroom three doors down the hall. He didn't eat and he didn't drink and he didn't sleep.
He cried and he whispered and he sang.
On the fourth day, Sammy's condition changed.
The machine monitoring his heart ceased its incessant beeping and began a monotonic drone. Dean leapt up and yelled, yelled for a doctor to come.
He'd never felt so helpless. He began crying, tears pouring down his dirty, unwashed face. He kept screaming for a doctor to come as he pumped Sam's chest, in an effort to bring him back to life. The doctors charged in and watched Dean pump at his brother's chest for five minutes, ten, all the while whispering.
Come back to me Sammy, come back.
I'm so sorry Sammy. So sorry!
Sammy, my baby, come back.
They tried to gently pry him away.
Dean stopped pumping and crying and turned to the doctors. He looked at all of them standing around, and then back to his dead brother. He screamed and threw the closest doctor against the wall.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he pushed his face right up against the sweaty face of the doctor.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing standing around? Do something! Help him!" He lifted the doctor higher against the wall and kept screaming, until his words became incomprehensible.
He ran out of words, out of things to say to the men who had stood and watched while his Sammy died. He staggered back to Sammy, and heard the doctor quietly ask the nurse, "Time of death?"
Dean dropped to his knees next to the body of his dead baby brother, Sammy, his Sammy, and wailed. He broke down, gripping the white sheets, fumbling until he found Sam's hand, crying all the tears he'd never cried for himself, for Sammy, or even for his Momma. Dean Winchester rocked back and forth next to the hospital bed, held Sammy's hand and screamed.
And screamed and screamed and screamed.
Dean watched them cart Sammy's body down the corridor under a non-descript white sheet and felt nothing.
But hate.
For himself.
I'm so, so, so sorry Sammy. I can't do it. There's no reason. It didn't kill you Sammy, I did. I'm so sorry baby. I don't think I can live long enough to kill it Sammy.
I'm sorry.
Watching them burn Sammy's body was some comfort. Momma had burned. Daddy had gone crazy from the fire. Sammy had burned.
It fitted perfectly.
So many mourners. All Sammy's friends from school. Poor Sam had died in a car crash. Such a pity, he was such a bright boy, he had such a promising future. Such a pity.
Dean was the only one left. He was the last of the Winchesters.
It fitted perfectly.
Dean should burn.
It fitted perfectly.
Dean left the funeral early. He had to have enough time to make it home.
Home.
Back to Sammy.
Dean drove to their old house. It was deserted, empty. The last woman that had lived in the house had moved out because she didn't feel safe there anymore, even after they'd gotten rid of the poltergeist. He parked the car out the front and locked it, shoving the keys in his pocket. He walked slowly up the drive, watching the windows that were staring at him accusingly.
You let him die, Dean. You let him die!He pulled at the front door, but it was locked. He even tried the front window. It was locked too. Regretfully, he kicked open the door, the bang echoing up the quiet street.
Walking through the old house was almost like coming home again. Almost. There was no Sammy. No Sammy at all. And it was all his fault.
I only had one thing to do. One little task. Just look after my little brother. That's it. And I couldn't do it. I failed.
It's all my fault.
Dean walked upstairs, glad that when the house was rebuilt, they'd stuck to the original layout. Without even realising it, he'd ended up in the nursery. Sammy's room. Where his Momma had died. Where his Daddy had gone crazy.
He opened the window, then sat down on the floor in the middle of the room and cried.
And cried and cried and cried.
Then, he stopped. He stood up. He moved to the corner, where a few old chairs and an old wooden table sat stacked in the corner. Then he pulled them apart and threw them to the middle of the room. The table was a solid thing, and he couldn't break the top of it, regardless of its age, so he dragged it over to where he'd been sitting earlier and placed it gently to the ground. Then he sat on the table top and arranged all the chair legs and braces around him, forming a rough circle. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and set it on the ground in front of him, before opening the canteen he'd filled with gasoline and tipping it over the wood.
It's not enough. It'll burn slow. You'll burn slow.
I know.
Dean Winchester picked up his lighter and flicked it open, watching the flame dance before his eyes. He lit the gasoline and saw the path he'd spilled it on take quickly, while the wood around it began to smoke.
You'll burn slow.
I know.
He sat back and watched the flames leap and dance and thought of Sammy, his Sammy, who he'd failed. He thought of all the times Sammy had been hurt because he hadn't been there to save him.
When he was seven, Sammy had tripped over and broken his toe on a stone. Dean had been 'too busy' to go looking for the butterfly that had flown past the window earlier.
You'll burn slow.
I know.
When he was eight, Sammy had had a bad dream and had thrashed about until he'd knocked his hand against the bedside table and smashed the glass of water sitting there, cutting his hand so badly he'd needed four stitches. Dean had been 'too grownup' to share a bed with his little brother and had decided to sleep on the floor instead.
You'll burn slow.
I know.
When he was nine, Sammy had wanted to go to the park and had swung himself higher and higher on the swings until he'd fallen off and broken his arm. Dean had been 'too cool' to go to the little kids' park, so was watching Sammy from the baseball diamond across the road.
You'll burn slow.
I know.
Through the years, the injuries from Dean's neglect had got worse and worse. Sammy had suffered broken legs and arms, none of which Dean had been there to prevent. The most recent injury, a broken heart, Dean had been unable to mend.
It's all your fault.
Dean had let Sammy die in hospital.
You'll burn slow.
Good.
Dean sat in the circle of flames and didn't even whimper when they started cooking his toes.
When the flames leapt to his fingers, which were rested on his knees, Dean looked into the flames and saw the demon that had killed them all. All the Winchesters that mattered.
Except Sammy, Dean had killed Sammy.
It had to be destroyed.
Dean had to be destroyed.
Dean looked into the flames and saw the demon and smiled.
If it's the last thing I ever doEternity
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please puppy dog eyes