Author: CaffieneKitty PM
Dean's thoughts. A little postep tag for Season 2 Episode 1 In My Time Of Dying SpoilersRated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst/Tragedy - Dean W. - Words: 472 - Reviews: 10 - Favs: 5 - Follows: 2 - Published: 10-07-06 - Status: Complete - id: 3187082
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N:Post-Ep tag for Season 2, episode 1, In My Time of Dying. Spoilers of course. Nothing new, I'm sure.
Disclaimer: If I owned them... well.
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Dean stood in the doorway with Sam, watching their father's body, waiting for John to sit up and- and anything. Doctors and nurses efficiently did paperwork, disconnected machinery. Dean felt his own lungs inflate, deflate. Some nurse or doctor or some damn person got in front of him and started speaking about nothing that mattered anymore.
"Go away," he told whoever it was, and they did.
He could feel Sam behind him. Why could he feel Sam behind him? They weren't on a hunt. He should be no more aware of Sam than he would be his own shadow. Sam was miserable, pale, shocky. Sam needed him. But the person he'd told to go away was talking to Sam now, and Sam was listening. Dean left the doorway, and went to the bedside.
Dad had no right to be dead. It wasn't allowed. Dad just was, like air, like the ground under Dean's feet. He wasn't allowed to not be. How dare he be dead. How dare he go where they couldn't follow him. How dare he leave Dean like this.
Sit up, Dad. Please. Sit up and freakin' talk to me. I need you to tell me what to do.
Dean stood and stared gripping the bedrail, watching his father's unmoving chest, waiting for breath that never came. He felt Sam come to stand next to him. Dean was aware of every person who entered and left the room, every doctor, nurse, orderly everyone walking past in the hall. But he was more aware of Sam than he was of any of them, of even his own heartbeat.
Sam was. Sam is. Sam would never ever die. Nobody else was allowed to die on Dean Winchester, ever again. No matter what anybody said.
"What do we do, Dean?" whispered Sam.
Dean clenched his jaw. Closed his eyes, closed out the sight of John's body on the hospital bed, the room, the hospital people, the machines, everything. Make it all go away. I can't deal with this.
But Sam was still there. The shift of his jacket as he kept breathing, the warmth from Sam's hand gripping the bedrail next to Dean's, the smell of soap and coffee. Dean turned to face Sam before opening his eyes, and could not meet his brother's lost and helpless gaze for more than a few seconds.
Dean turned toward the door. "We get out of here, and we take him with us."
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(end, another short one)