Fifteen bottles of beer on the wall

Summary: Post-NRFTW, Bobby POV.

Warning: This one is kind of graphic. Not for the faint of heart and queasy of stomach. Also, a crapload of angst. You have been forewarned.

Requiem for a Hunter

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine - Requiem Mass

Flies buzz around the still body on the bed. Calliphora vicina. Blue bottle flies.

Bobby knows they're laying their eggs in the soft, exposed goo of the open wounds. He can see the maggots, already a squirming white mass all over the ragged torso, feasting and reproducing on the decaying flesh. They congregate in places where the skin is already open, either naturally or torn by the claws and teeth of ravenous hellhounds.

They're crawling in the nostrils of the straight nose, and Bobby can see that the mouth, slackened in death, is starting to fill with larvae. The closed eyelids twitch, and he's reminded that if he is so inclined to pry them open, he would find, not green-hazel eyes full of life and smirking up at him, nor even those very same eyes clouded in death, but two eye orbits swarming with the maggots that seem to be filling the empty body with gruesome, false life.

They'd tried to sew the boy back together, painstakingly stitching the gaping wounds closed, but the skin had been torn in so many places, and the gashes had been so large, that the work was shoddy at best. Still, they'd spent many long hours passing the needle and thread through the cold, decaying flesh, in an effort to leave the man with some dignity, even in death.

Sam had been silent throughout the ordeal, quiet except for a few hiccups and sniffles. He hadn't said a word since Bobby had found him on the laminated wooden floor, sitting in a pool of his brother's congealing blood, rocking the cooling corpse desperately in his arms, as if he could will the soul back into the body by simply wishing for it hard enough.

The older man had allowed himself a moment of grief, removing the worn cap from his head and wiping a tear from his eye, before stepping over the already decaying body of the blonde that had housed the demon Ruby. Bobby didn't know what had happened in that room, but he knew it was bad, very bad.

Buzzzz

Dean, oh God…

Reaching down to the shaking shoulder, he whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sam," his hoarse voice breaking the spell the violent death had cast over the room. "We—" his voice failed, "We have to go. Sam. We gotta go."

Sam shook his head, and gripped his brother tighter, burying his face in the blood-drenched shoulder. "Go," he said, or maybe it was "No." "Leave us alone. Leave us alone," he sobbed.

Bobby didn't know what to do, short of forcibly pulling Sam up with one hand and trying to wrangle De-…the body with the other. Neither would come willingly; both would have the same dead weight quality. So he waited, waited to Sam to calm down enough to listen to reason.

The sound of far-off sirens was what shook Sam out of his trance. The heart-wrenching sobs trailed off as Sam finally looked up. Bobby took this as a sign that the boy might be ready to go now, and squeezed his shoulder again. "Let's go, Sam."

Sam's eyes slowly focused on the grizzled face before him. "Bobby?" he said, looking for all the world like a lost little boy. "Dean, Dean's gone. He's gone." Boy sounded like somebody'd run over his puppy or something, only worse. It was his brother, the one constant in his life, who was gone.

"I know, son," Bobby said gently, not wanting to frighten the kid. "We gotta go, Sam. Somebody called the police."

The wide forehead creased. "No police, Bobby. Can't…" He looked around at the lake of drying blood around him, bewildered. "The blood. Can't clean it up. Won't come out, like Lady Macbeth."

Bobby tugged on Sam's arm this time. "Let's go," he said, disregarding Sam's mumbling. "We'll have to leave the mess. I'll help you carry him."

This prompted a low growl from the boy, who wrenched his arm out of Bobby's grip and hugged his brother closer. "He's my brother. I'm gonna take care of him. It's my job now."

"Alright," Bobby said soothingly, hiding his nervousness about the rapidly approaching sirens. "You'll carry him. We need to get him out of here though, okay?"

This apparently sounded like a good deal to Sam because he nodded and got up off of the floor, slipping and sliding in the blood underfoot. Dean's head lolled loosely from its place in the crook of Sam's arm. The empty green eyes stared accusingly at Bobby as Sam passed by with him.

They got Dean settled in the back seat of the Impala, wrapped in sheets from one of the beds and several layers of plastic garbage bags to keep what blood was left in the body from leaking through and staining the seats of Dean's beloved car.

They went as far as they could before the danger of driving off the road became too high. They were tired, in both body and spirit, and adrenaline wears off after a while. They stopped in a small town in the middle of Illinois, where the 55 meets the 51.

Since Bobby had less blood on his clothes, he went and got the room, while keeping a very close eye on the younger man through the office window. He needn't have, seeing that the only thing Sam did was get out of the front seat to sit in the back with his brother.

Having paid and gotten the key, Bobby went around to the Impala to see if Sam would allow him to help maneuver Dean out of the car. When he opened the door, the smell hit him; the metallic tang of blood, the contents of the loosened bladder and bowels (Dean, had he been alive—and Bobby wished he was but if he had a nickel for every wish—would have been mortified to find that not only had he peed himself, but he'd shit his pants too), and the cloying scent of death. It nearly made him gag, but he recovered himself without Sam noticing.

Surprisingly, Sam accepted the tentatively offered assistance, and together, they hauled the body, still wrapped like a mummy but stiff with rigor mortis, into the room. Bobby, keeping an eye out for anyone who'd see and call the police on them, was thankful for the cover of the darkening dusk.

They put the body on the bed and stood there just looking at it. Then Sam reached out a hand and gently unwrapped the bags twisted around the still figure until there was only the thin cotton cloth left, hard and tacky from dried blood. When that too was peeled off, a dry sob erupted from the old man.

Dean, oh, Dean.

The boy who'd somehow wriggled his way into his heart, from the first moment he'd spotted the tiny kid with the sad green eyes hiding behind his Daddy's legs on his front porch. How long ago was that? Twenty-three, twenty-four years, wasn't it? Damned long time. Boy had grown into a man, a good man, and he'd died that morning. That ain't right. Young man like him, one of the best men Bobby'd ever known, dead, and an old codger like him still breathing, it ain't right. It simply ain't right.

Sam held the cold, dead face in his hands, brushing his thumbs over the slack features, rubbing at the droplets of dried blood from the arterial spray. The eyes were closed—Bobby hadn't been able to stand the accusatory gaze any longer while they were wrapping him up.

Once the plastic was off the body, the smell grew stronger. Bobby got the ice bucket and filled it with warm water, got a couple of the crappy motel towels and threw it in to soak. Sam had gotten a knife out in his absence, which gave Bobby a jolt before he realized that it was for cutting the clothes off of the stiff body.

The knife slid under the sleeve of the dark jacket, ready to slit the fabric when Sam's hand stalled. The knife shook, tearing a few threads. Bobby reached out a hand. "Give it here, Sam. I'll do it."

Sam shook his head. "No. I should do it. He'd want me to do it." He took a deep breath and went on.

When that was over, they could finally see the full extent of the damage done—on the front. They'd take care of the front first, then flip him over to clean up the back. Until then…Bobby draped a dry towel over the groin, untouched by the hounds, to give the boy a semblance of privacy.

He handed one of the towels to Sam, who took it without a word. Silently, they wiped the dried blood from the smooth skin. Bobby, too, was reminded of Lady Macbeth as he rinsed the red cloth in rust-colored water. This blood would likewise stain his hands and conscience forever. This blood, of which each drop was precious to him.

He could remember the boy, teaching his baby brother how to walk, shielding him from everything from bullies to monsters to even death. This boy, who had so little thought of his own self-worth that he'd sold his soul away to return to his brother the life he'd guarded so loyally.

They started stitching after the blood was gone from the surface. This part was familiar, something they'd done many times after numerous hunts. The only things different about it were that they didn't have to worry about giving the patient pain, and that the wounds didn't ooze blood as they pulled the edges closed with their black thread.

Bobby couldn't help thinking that if Dean was here, he'd make some stupid joke about Frankenstein's monster. Sam would counter with a comparison to the girl from that Tim Burton movie. If, you know, Dean wasn't lying here dead with his soul on the express train to Hell.

With another shudder, Bobby went back to work. His eyelids drooped, but he kept working, knowing he wouldn't be able to rest anyhow. The needle flashed in and out of the cold flesh. In, out, in, out, in…

The first fly arrived at midnight. Its buzzing broke the silence in the room. Two pairs of eyes watched as it landed on the tip of Dean's nose. Beady multifaceted eyes stared back at them. The fly washed its face and lifted itself onto its front legs so it could wash its back two legs. The transparent wings shone iridescently in the lamplight.

It's a blue bottle fly, a carrion fly.

Bobby knew enough about corpses—freshly dead, long dead, don't matter, he'd seen 'em all—to know that there was nothing he could do to keep the flies from coming and landing and multiplying on this new and fertile corpse.

He shooed it away anyway.

Buzzzz

The flies buzz, a swelling and undulating chorus.

One fat maggot spills out of the mass of its brothers and sisters swarming in Dean's mouth, and lands on the stubbled cheek. It wriggles helplessly on the prickly surface, until, unable to find purchase, it slides down the jaw and plops onto the plastic covering the bed.

Bobby eyes it with distaste.

Sam's been sitting here for days, watching his brother decompose. Another day and the neighbors will start complaining about the odor. The room already smells like one of the many houses they visit in the course of their job, the houses with the ripe, rotting corpses inside.

Bobby decides it's been long enough. "Sam," he says, voice rough from whiskey and disuse. And grief. Can't forget that one. "Sam, it's time."

Greasy chestnut locks shake. "No, not yet." Sam sounds like a zombie himself. Lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of brother will do that to you. "I can't yet."

Bobby sighs. "He's starting to stink up the room." He's already thrown up in the bathroom three times. The buzzing's giving him a headache. "He- Heck, Sam, he started smelling two days ago. We gotta…take care of him."

"I'll take care of him." Sam's voice is harsh, fierce. Sam sounds like his brother.

Bobby shifts on his feet. He takes his hat off, scratches his head. "I'll—I'll go get wood then."

"Get boards."

"What?" Bobby steps towards Sam, puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. The movement causes a black curtain of flies to rise up before settling again.

Sam holds Bobby's gaze steadily. "I said, get boards. I'm not burning my brother."

Bobby sighs. "Sam, he would have wanted—"

Sam stands. "You don't know what he would have wanted," he bellows. "He never said. I say we're not burning my brother. When I find a way to get him back, he'll need his body."

"Sam."

Sam goes back to his vigil. "Boards, Bobby."

Bobby gets boards. Pine, nice solid pieces.

Sam puts the coffin together. Bobby puts out a hand to help but is waved away. Sam makes a cross too, to go over the grave.

They bury Dean a quarter of a mile off of the highway, and only four feet down. "Just in case he wakes up before we can get him out," Sam explains.

Sam doesn't put in the last boards until they're ready to put the dirt back in. Bobby tries to hand him nails to secure the lid, but Sam shakes his head and grabs the shovel.

The sound of the dirt hitting the pine boards is one of the saddest things Bobby's ever heard, although he can barely hear it over the sound of the buzzing. Most of the flies have deserted the body, though their larvae were still wriggling on the body (and in it) when they put the lid on. Even so, Bobby can still hear the adults buzzing.

"He was a good man," he chokes out, and hurries away to the car, leaving Sam to have one last moment alone with his brother.

The flies buzz. They're not really there; they're in his head, and nothing he can do will quiet them. And so he drinks. Drinks enough that the nefarious buzzing in his head hums along with the buzz of the alcohol.

The flies drone on. It's a shit requiem for a hunter, but it's all Bobby's got. Requiems are meant to grant the dead eternal rest (Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine), and if it's one thing Dean Winchester ain't getting right now, it's rest.

Bobby shudders and takes another drink as the flies buzz louder in his mind. Sometimes he thinks he can hear a familiar voice chiding him for letting Sam slip out from under his watch; other times, he thinks he hears a pain-filled cry underneath all the buzzing. He doesn't want to listen closer to find out.

The flies buzz. Bobby drinks.

I heard a fly buzz when I died - Emily Dickinson