-Dying Wish; Chapter Three
Three more days have passed.
Three more long, painful days of Sam's continuous questioning about Dean's whereabouts and his 'important work', and receiving only lies as the answers.
Three lugubrious days filled with compunction, melancholy and agony for Bobby.
He stayed with his surrogate youngest throughout the day and night, never once abandoning his side for a second except when it was necessary. He watched Sam get worse over time; watched as he became weaker and weaker with each day to the point where he could barely even sit up anymore; could barely talk much without losing too much of his strength.
Could barely breathe.
And God, it hurt so bad, hearing him struggle to breathe so hard, even with that damn oxygen mask covering his mouth; and the constant fear of them stopping any second made a home in the pit of his stomach, weighing down his heart every living minute.
"Don'...don' think m'gon'a...gonn' las' long, Bobby." His whispers were more feeble than before, and so were his smiles, barely even showing a glimpse of his deep dimples. His voice was always strained, always so soft and light that sometimes Bobby would have to lean in to understand what he was saying.
And that also hurt.
It was such a huge emphasis on what's about to happen, what's getting closer to them with every minute that passed. Bobby feared that dreadful day, hoped, wished, prayed, that maybe somehow it wouldn't come, maybe he wouldn't have to see it, or at least it wouldn't be as close as it felt. He prayed for a few more days to spend time with him, to get through to Dean's cellphone and call him here and fulfill his youngest's dying wish.
But that wasn't gonna happen any time soon.
Because fate was cruel, especially if your last name was Winchester, or if you had any relationships with them.
"You just hold on, son. Just keep holding on."
.
Dean sits on the edge of his bed, clutching tightly at the sheets with his knuckles and fingers whitened because of it. He swallows hard as he glances over at his phone, which he had turned into silent mode days ago. Missed calls came from Bobby, reaching almost a fifty in the past four days.
He can't.
He just can't.
He can't talk to his brother, see him so soon, forgive him so easily. He wants to be furious with him for longer, he wants him to be hurt with his actions, the same way Dean was when he chose Ruby over him, wrapped his very own hands around his big brother's throat and choked him, and then left him all alone in that motel room, battered and bruised.
And that's why he'll keep resisting, keep fighting against the urge to answer the phone, to get in the car and drive all the way to his little brother.
He knows how selfish he was being, how ridiculous, childish even; and also a bit hypocritical, because after all, he was the one who taught his brother that no matter how bad your mistakes were, family always forgave you.
But for this once, just this once; he couldn't bring himself to care.
He just can't understand why Bobby wasn't letting this go.
.
"D-De'n 'ere 'et?" He whispers hopefully another evening, his eyes open in mere slits.
Bobby shakes his head, feeling a clenching sensation in his gut at the disappointed look on his face that he has already seen a thousand times these past few days, but still unable to get used to it. He had tried, God knows he had tried so much, but Dean still wasn't picking up his damn phone.
He still won't give up though.
Bobby may not be a Winchester, but if there was one thing he was good at doing; it was being as stubborn as a titanium wall. It was persevering.
"'How lon'?" He breathes out softly, his chest rising high, before falling low again; and the cycle continues. A stream of hard, gasping coughs wrack his body and suddenly penetrate through the short, hesitant silence.
"Not sure, kid." Bobby replies after Sam's head flops back onto the pillow, his voice numb and impassive even as the guilt gripped his stomach painfully.
Sam just nods wearily and sighs lowly, coughing slightly again. He lets his eyes drop shut; and for a minute, Bobby thought he fell asleep. But then he opens his eyes again, albeit half-mast, but still open none the less.
"Talk t'me." He exhales out, his breaths heavy and his voice a light whisper as he rolls his head towards him weakly, staring quietly at him with all the attention of a little kid about to listen to his favorite story again at night.
"Okay, uh . . . " He stops and falls silent, thinking on what he could tell him.
How about the truth? An irritable voice suggested in his head. It was his own again.
"Do you remember the first day your Papa left ya at my house?"
Sam, not wanting to spend any more of his energy on talking, simply shook his head slightly.
"Ah, of course ya wouldn't. You were only three, and your brother; almost seven. That boy was so protective of ya, and I remember that clearly. It actually kinda scared me, ya know." He admits and chuckles softly. "You somehow managed to crawl up on my chair and mess up some hunting research papers of mine with your crayons." He smiled with fond awe as the memories flooded his mind, a far-away look in his eyes as he told the story. "I got mad and scolded you for it, and you started crying."
"Damn it." Bobby muttered softly to himself, massaging his aching temples as he stared at the weeping toddler. He strode forward hastily as if in panic, folding his legs and kneeling in front of him. "I'm sorry, Sam."
The lightly voiced apology had no effect on him whatsoever as the infant continued to cry, his face flushed red and a wet mess of tears. "I'm sorry, kid." He tried again, and still no improvement.
"Sammy!" He heard a high-pitched and childish voice yell worriedly, and he looked behind him and towards the doorway to where Dean was standing. He watched as the young boy started running towards his baby brother, and when he reached there; he placed his hands under his sibling's armpits and picked him off the chair.
And with a hard, angry glare sent towards him along with the fiery protectiveness burning in his eyes for his brother, he exited the library room.
"He somehow managed ta' calm ya down later, and then came to me. He talked to me, lectured me. The kid even threatened me." He laughs softly at those past, cherished moments, shaking his head. "And you . . . you wouldn't even look at me. You'd just hide behind your big brother's leg whenever ya saw me. So in the end, I had to ask Dean what I had to do to make you like me. Said you liked chocolate chip cookies. So . . . " He stops when he risks a brief glance down at the young man, only to find him with his eyes closed, his breaths heavy and even as he snored softly.
He sighs softly, reaching up his fingers and brushing the bangs off his forehead, a small smile gracing his lips at the innocence.
The smile slowly slips away as he gazes quietly at his sickly-white face. "You just keep holding on, alright kid?" He murmured gently the same words he did just this morning, his voice laced with sorrow and grief.
Greetings to my lovely readers!
Okay, okay, I know what you guys are thinking. 'That's what you say after you keep us on waiting for three months?! You shameless person!'. Well, at least it wasn't six months, yeah? *nervous laugh* I swear I tried to get this chappie up but then life and my writer's block (seriously, I got stuck half-way through writing and every time I tried to continue it, all I could do was stare at my screen like an idiot!) got in the way and I had to set my priorities straight. I had 600 words written down that was just lying around . . .
And then one day I flew up into the sky on my little brother's toy aeroplane and met unicorns and they told me that if I didn't write the next chapter in a few days I'll die by a huge swarm of very unhappy readers? Yay?
Feed the writing monster with your reviews and it'll poop out the next chapter very soon (hopefully). Thank you for reading and reviewing, and also for all the amazing reviews and the amount of tags it got! I don't know what to say! This is only my second story and I'm already having a ton of support by you guys! You're awesome.
No haters allowed. Constructive criticism is welcome though!