Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: You're gonna hate me. I know it. But I promise, I have a plan. Sort of.
Death was a thing that never came particularly easy for the Winchesters. Born fighters, and known prey, the two brothers had had more meetings with death than most entire families, throughout the generations.
How many times had each of them stared the monster down, eye to eye, and been the victor set to walk away? How many times had their lives been spared, all at once, in the heat of the moment, by some unnamable, unknowable force – a bullet meant for one's heart turning at a pass, missing flesh entirely? A hurled object, heavy and solid and moving at a quick enough speed to spell certain death for any other man, slowed and dulled on impact.
But even with all that good fortune, all of luck's advances steadily bestowed upon them, they were never anything but cocky, consistently cheating the system, taking advantage of both good and ill will.
That healer in a tent, who was really no healer at all. Their own father, laying the foundation, setting the example, by laying down his sword and his life for his child. And Dean, even after earning two passes from certain death, trading it all in so his brother's heart might beat again. That deal too, like so many men like them are prone to make, was nullified, leaving both the lucky bastards alive and intact, weasels for another day.
They lied and they cheated, all under the guise of self-preservation. Ran from cops and feds set on locking them up, tossing away the key. Fought off all the many evil things that go bump in the night, sparing others, saving themselves, screwing with the balance. But what did they care? They were safe and alive, content in the knowledge that all had worked out for them. For the Winchesters it seemed, even in the ripest of situations, everything would work out in the end.
Only if that were really true, then they wouldn't be gathered around this gravesite today, wouldn't be drowning in heavy woolen suits among dozens of black-clad mourners. They wouldn't be forced to stand, tall and staunch, stiff and straight, as pillars for their wives, their remaining children.
If everything really did work out for them in the end, then this would not truly be her end.
The whole thing was insane, ridiculous. It almost made them want to laugh. Because they'd made it through everything, even that which was never thought possible. They survived ghosts, and werewolves, and demons. Vampires and black dogs and…car wrecks. They'd seen death first hand, Death Itself, felt its icy fingertips tug at their souls. And each time they'd managed to beat it back, emerge unscathed.
Not this time.
There were a million and one ways that they could blame themselves. They'd grown complacent in their perfect little world, they'd forgotten how awful life can be. And the universe chose this manner in which to remind them. And they'd cheated death themselves, so many times, no wonder she got so pissed off that she decided to go for someone they love – no, not even that word could describe it, what was felt, what will always be felt, for a child.
He should have said no that night, told her she had homework or chores or some sort of responsibility that outweighed the desire to have fun. He should have proclaimed distrust for that boy, ordered her not to see him, ever again. He should have taught her better, how to drive, not to speed, be careful. They'd said it every time one of their children left the house. Be careful.
But just saying the words would never be safeguard enough.
But she was a good driver, despite her age. She obeyed the rules of the road, slowed at yellow instead of slamming the gas, rarely tailgated, always used a signal. She was careful. And she had every right to have fun, a party once in a blue moon. Her grades were up, attitude in check – she deserved it. And so much of that improvement, it seemed, stemmed from her month-long involvement with that boy, Joe, the one they begrudgingly liked, if only because they always figured she'd go for someone so much worse.
But according to Joe – information second hand, of course, since neither Sam nor Dean could speak with him directly, being uncertain as to whether or not they could control the urge to break every one of his bones, rip them clean from his body – the party was not fun. Because they had fought, she informing him that it was over, saying simply, "Find another ride home," and leaving in a flurry.
Then she drove into a concrete embankment going somewhere around eighty.
She'd missed curfew before, on occasion, late by an hour at the most – a tortuous hour of what-ifs for her parents always resulting in a tortuous month of grounding for her. But she'd never been late while out with Joe, usually made it back early in fact. That was almost certainly due to her father's short but explicit talk with the young man, wherein, face stern and voice low and deep he had said, "I'm trusting you," the implication of which rang clear as a bell in the kid's head. Break that trust, and I'll break your neck.
She was only twenty minutes past curfew, just long enough for her parents to be angry but not yet truly worried, when the phone rang. And their world fell apart.
They told them there had been an accident involving their daughter, not even relaying what type, saying only that she'd been injured. They needed to come to the hospital right away. They could say no more over the phone.
He knew then, and so did she, though neither said a word, admitting the awful truth being akin to an even more devastating betrayal. Because, no matter what they might have known, what they felt was more important.
Hope, because the alternative was unthinkable.
There was no time to make any calls, foggy minds not even allowing them to think to. There was no healer to mend her broken body, no way to find one. There was no crossroad near enough to rush out to, beg for a trade they all knew wouldn't be honored in the first place.
There was nothing.
The doctors spoke in soft tones laced with practiced sincerity as they said, "We're so sorry. There was nothing we could do." Relaying images of television shows, actor doctors, not the real thing. It was all fiction. Only not.
When they heard, "She died on impact," – died? – followed with, "She felt no pain," they both sensed the ground give way beneath them, that small comfort being none at all.
The rest of existence – quiet murmurs from the corner of the too bright, too still corridor, the doctor's voice still echoing off the ecru walls, the beating of their own hearts, surprisingly steady despite being torn in two – fell away in that moment, left them as two marooned strangers on a desert island, the size and likeness of Hell.
He's the one who identifies her body, travels behind a too young intern at a too quick pace. He's the one who travels down, down, down, into the bowels of the hospital, where all their failures are stored, kept on ice to preserve the pain.
He doesn't break down when he sees her, pale and gray and still on the other side of the thick paned glass. He doesn't even notice the odd dent in her skull, the slight bruises that never got a chance to swell, cuts that were cleaned and could no longer ooze. He doesn't notice anything except the contour of her face, the gentle, sloping profile that's so like him, so like her, yet all her own.
He'd recognized her anywhere, the flesh and bones and sinew all perfectly mapped in human form, a relief of his love and his life, a beautiful embodiment of his all. His lips quirk into an oddly serene smile, because no matter how still and stiff and pale, she's still beautiful, still his.
The intern says only, "Mr. Winchester?" so quiet he can barely hear. And without turning away, he nods.
The funeral is four days later. Four days of living in a fog. Four days of too many phone calls – because they had wanted their children to have real lives, with school and friends and activities galore. So there are calls coming in, from teachers and coaches and parents of friends, all sounding devastated, all sounding relieved, because it wasn't their girl.
And there are calls going out, rough explanations to bosses and clients, explaining why work would be impossible. Making appointments and arrangements – coroner, funeral home, florist, police. And then there's family, of which there seems to be so little left. A message left for Jo. A heart wrenching call to Bobby.
It's four days of wandering the halls at night, pressing prone ears up against thick doors, straining to hear heavy shuddering breaths, the occasional slight snore. Silence.
It's four days of tearless eyes, pained and strained by all that's not let loose, choked back endlessly. Because it's a notorious Winchester trait. Strength, fortitude. Stubborn denial.
It's four days of people sneaking into her room when no one's looking, letting their fingers dance lightly over the stuffed animal remnants of her childhood, plaques and ribbons and trophies and rock band posters from an adolescence cut short. Her mother sits hidden in the closet, inhaling her scent from the clothes. Her father, late at night, rests precariously on the very edge of her bed, careful not to move, as though she were still sleeping right there beside him.
It's four days of hopes fading, dreams dissipating, plans breaking, and lives changing. Four days of trying to go on, thinking about breathing, forgetting the days when such a thing came naturally.
It's four days of fighting, arguing, about nothing at all. About the grass needing to be cut before people come over. About whether to wear black or bright colors, mourn or celebrate, as though any of them really had a choice. About where people should send donations, or flowers, or nothing at all. About anything and everything except the obvious: wanting her back, and having no way to get her.
It's Dean who finally speaks, once the four days are nearly up, dressed in that heavy woolen suit he hasn't even seen in years, buried so far back in the depths of his closet. He waits until he and Sam are alone, sitting in the silence that was once so easy and comfortable for the two of them to share, now pained and echoing of a loss unacknowledged.
"I can do it again," he says, voice rough with unshed tears, unshown emotion. "I'll do it again," voice firm with resolve, heady with the knowledge that he simply can't.
If either had known back then, decades ago when they tirelessly researched, finally found, a way to break free of his deal with the demon. If either had known that it would have resulted in an inability to ever forge another – because who would make such a deal with men proven to be unfaithful in keeping up their ends? If…
Sam shakes his head. No.
"We could try," he pleads, breaking with the effort to keep from coming apart.
But she's dead and gone, and as much as he doesn't want to admit, can't quite bring himself to truly believe it, Sam knows she's not coming back. There are no words good enough, true enough, right enough, convincing enough to travel through his lips. So he simply shakes his head again.
"Sam," he replies, a question, plea, and chide all rolled into one familiar syllable. When no response is heard, he looks over at his brother, beaten posture slumping him in his chair. "Sam," he repeats, louder, demanding, still resulting in nothing. He rises quickly, jumps up so fast and hard that the chair's nearly knocked out from under him, and with a face so tight and screwed and angry he yells, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Sam looks up, eyes half hidden under a curtain of consistently too long hair. And he says, voice soft and steady and firm despite its barely having been used for days, "My daughter is dead, Dean. My baby's gone." And then he too rises, though so much slower, as though barely capable of movement at all, and he traipses up the stairs. Up to the empty room on the left.
It's four days 'til the funeral, and then it's the rest of their lives.