Took forever but I finally finished. I don't claim to own anything but my OC's
I don't remember how exactly I got here.
I don't remember getting in the car.
Leaving Cold Oak.
I can't even remember who's car I rode in.
I can't… I don't… Did I ride with Dean?
Did I ride in the backseat of the Impala like I always do? Did Dean put Sammy in the front seat where he belongs, as if he were just sleeping? Or did he put him in the back while I was in Bobby's truck?
Does it matter?
Do I even really care?
No I don't care.
Not even a little bit.
Because what I do remember is the knife going into Sam's back and knowing, knowing, even before Dean's terrible, gut wrenching scream of "SAM!" that Sam was dead.
Because I was close enough to know that that knife went straight through his spinal cord but not close enough to stop it and then Dean was running and Jake was running and Bobby was running and everyone was running and I was just standing there.
And then I was running too, but not to Sam. I was running after Jake, after Bobby.
And Dean was in the dirt, clinging tight to his baby brother.
And I was running after Jake because Jake stabbed my Sammy, my puppy eyed brother and I knew that he didn't need me and Dean didn't need me but I could go after Jake.
I could run down that cowardly bastard and I could make him hurt. I could make him pay in ways that I couldn't make anyone else who ever hurt anyone I loved pay.
Only I couldn't.
I ran and ran and ran. I out ran Bobby and just kept running.
But he was gone. Disappeared into the night and the trees and the darkness.
All the while Dean screamed "SAM! SAMMY! SAM!"
And that hurt. That cut straight through me. Who I used to be. Because I knew.
And now I'm here. In this run down house that's covered with dirt and dust and grime and Sam is laying down on that old bed like he might just be sleeping. Like his blood isn't soaking through that shitty mattress and like Dean hasn't aged lifetimes in the last day.
Like they didn't just lose everything.
And my eyes hurt and my throat hurts which usually means that my body is trying its best to cry but that sure as hell isn't going to happen because if Dean, who raised Sam, isn't crying then I definitely don't get to. I don't get to grieve for someone who I helped raise for four years and then disappeared on. I don't get to do that.
What I do get to do is sit here on the dusty floor with my knees to my chest like a child, and I get to think. I get to think about the fucking demon blood that runs through me and Jake and that used to run through Sam but is now in the mattress.
And I get to think about all of those people who I couldn't save, or killed depending on how you look at it, and all of the times I screwed up and maybe if you had just been stronger Dad would have kept you around and then none of this would have ever happened and Shaun would still be alive and all of those people who's lives you intruded on would be happier and Jesus Christ Harley what is the matter with-
My head lifts up from my knees with a jerk as Bobby ambles in with a bucket of chicken.
I let out a soft whoosh of breath and let my head drop back down.
This is stupid.
Sam is dead and Bobby thinks that he can feed Dean fried chicken.
"Brought you this back." Like nothing happened and everything is all peaches and cream.
"No thanks, I'm fine." He is calmer than I would be.
Then again a piece of him just died.
Then Bobby goes "Harley?"
And I go "No," letting the sound is muffled slightly by my knees.
Someone sighs loudly and I sincerely doubt that it was Dean.
"You two need to eat."
I need to eat like I need a hole in my head.
I turn my head up enough to see, my mouth still covered. Dean drinks a swig of whiskey, which actually sounds really good right now-
God Harley, you selfish bitch. Get it together.
"I hate to bring this up, I really do, but don't you think it's time...we bury Sam?"
"Mala idea estúpida terrible." I mumble into my knees.
Dean turns and looks at Bobby with those awful, dead eyes. "No." he says.
"Well, we could maybe-" As much as I love Uncle Bobby he really needs to shut up right now.
"What? Torch his corpse?"
There is a pause.
"Not yet." Dean says in answer to his own question. Bobby bends down slightly.
"I want you to come with me. Both of you." Part of me almost wants to snort. While I may be manipulated, Dean would never leave Sam.
He says as much. I say nothing.
"Please." Bobby says.
"Oh, would you cut me some slack?"
"I just don't think you should be alone, that's all."
And he's right. Dean shouldn't be alone. Dean alone is going to do something stupid. I can tell.
One could make the argument that he is not alone because I'm here. Only I'm not.
I'm here but I'm not here, here. I don't think I can even get up off the floor right now.
I am of no use to anyone.
"I gotta admit, I could use your help."
I could really use a bottle of bourbon and a time turner right about now so I can go so far back in time that none of this could ever happen but that ain't gonna happen.
Dean snorts softly.
"Something big is going down."
Do I care? Does Dean care?
"End of the world big!"
"WELL THEN LET IT END!"
I saw this coming but flinch anyway.
"You don't mean that." Bobby says quietly.
Only he does. Because when someone you love, someone you truly, deeply love dies, you do not care about anything else.
Meteors could strike Earth and wipe out the entire human race and you could give absolutely no fucks.
Dean knocks over a chair. "You don't think so?" he says just as softly "You don't think I've given enough? You don't think I've paid enough?"
I think he's paid too much. I think Sam's paid too much. I think Bobby's paid too much. Dad paid to much. TJ paid to much. Shaun paid too much.
The Winchester's have paid too damn much
"I'm done with it. All of it." There is a slight pause. "If you know what's good for you, you turn around and get the hell out of here."
I jerk a little as he screams "Go!" and shoves Bobby, hard.
"I'm sorry." Dean says after a second.
"I'm sorry. Please just go." I get the feeling that he means me too, so I shove myself up on shaky legs, swaying only slightly.
Bobby glances over at me. I wrap my arms around my middle, tightly.
"You know where I'll be." Bobby says turning to leave. I follow and say nothing.
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Bobby's house smells just like I remember it did. Like old books, and whiskey, and motor oil and a little bit of sweat. When I was little I thought- knew- that that is what home smelled like.
And home is where you were safe.
Part of me always knew from the moment that I stepped in that we were safer here than we were with my father in any of those shitty motel rooms.
Uncle Bobby was always Uncle Bobby.
We were five, our Mom was dead and our Dad was...busy. Sammy was just starting to get good at toddling around and was kind of hard to keep up with. We, Dean and I, were supposed to be in school. Instead Dad signed us up for long days in cruddy motel rooms and preschool for hunters. None of us could read, so we took turns making up wild stories to keep Sammy interested.
I used to think back to the good days when Mom and Dad read us stories and felt truly awful for Sam.
And then one day Daddy dropped us off at an old salvage yard for two weeks, introducing us to a mister Bobby Singer "You'll be staying with him for a while be good and look out for Sammy." And then he was gone.
Bobby put us in a room up stairs and set up Sammy's Pack and Go crib.
For dinner he made us chocolate chip pancakes and listened as Dean and I made up a Special Sammy Bedtime Story that had something to do with dinosaurs (me) and Batman (Dean). The vast majority of the time we would fill in each other's sentences, which was what we were best at.
And Bobby really seemed to enjoy our stories.
He laughed at the funny parts and smiled at the rest. And oddly enough, it didn't feel awkward like it did when Dad was around to hear us. I didn't feel as silly.
He was Uncle Bobby and his house was Home by the time Dad came back.
And that was that.
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Eventually day turns to night and night turns to morning and then afternoon and I sit in the same place on Bobby's old couch with my nose buried into book after book, looking for things about demons, That Yellow Eyed Bastard, sigils, etc.
And they are fucking everywhere. Everywhere except southern Wyoming, where everyone is circling the wagons around one large chunk of land that no one sets foot on.
Because that makes sense.
The house is quiet except for the heavy turning of pages and the occasional mention of something that could be helpful or may be important but honestly probably isn't.
Bobby makes a pot of black coffee that he doesn't drink but I do.
I hate black coffee, I always have.
When I was a kid I drank it to stay awake, my equation being caffeine plus bitter taste plus hatred equals insomnia which equals more study/homework time which equals good grades which equals college which happy life.
A flawless theory until I got sick or wasn't allowed to have coffee. And I didn't factor in exterior circumstances.
You'd think that after all of these years that my tastebuds would stop with the 'I hate you' routine but even now as I take a sip and hold it in my mouth I kind of want to spit it out.
But I don't. I never do.
I work my way through almost an entire pot of coffee and only move to go to the bathroom and get more coffee or books or my laptop.
Bobby drinks beer and occasionally tries to get me to eat something, I say no every time, he huffs, and we go back to reading quietly.
There is nothing to say.
The time trickles by until a knock comes at the door and Bobby rises out of the easy chair to get it.
The book is out of my hand and I'm off of the couch before the next words are out of Bobby's mouth.
"Its nice to see you up and around." I practically run to the door, whipping myself around the corner.
What. The. Fuck.
Sam is standing in the doorway, smiling and breathing and alive. He towers over Dean all innocent while Dean is white faced and guilty looking.
Dean spots me from where I stand frozen in the hall and for half a second we make eye contact. "What did you do?" My eyes ask, "What the fuck did you do?"
He looks away.
Sam claps Bobby on the shoulder and thanks him for patching him up. Patching up his severed spine.
The boys come in past Bobby.
"Hey, Sam." I say, jumping on the bandwagon of lies that Dean and Bobby are on.
Sam didn't die, he just got hurt and Dean didn't do something to bring him back from the dead, no sir.
"Well, Sam's better and we're back in now." Dean says "We're back in it now, so what do you know?"
Bobby explains the whole Wyoming shabang and asks Sam for some fresh eyes before not so subtly directing Dean outside. I follow because there is no way in hell that I'm missing whatever explanation he has for whatever he did.
We move deep into the heart of the Singer Salvage Yard before Bobby snaps like a kit-kat all "YOU STUPID ASS WHAT DID YOU DO?" He asks it again 'what did you do?' getting more violent the less Dean answers.
"You made a deal." It's not a question.
He made a deal. He made a fracking deal with some demon bitch at some crossroads in the middle of fucking nowhere and they gave him ten years for the rest of Sam's life and-
"How long did they give you?"
Dean shakes his head slightly before forfeiting the silent game that he seems to be playing.
A year. As in one single, solitary year. 364.4 days to live before he gets torn to shreds and thrown on the rack.
"'Damn it, Dean!" I say, running my hand through my hair. "Just- God Dammit."
"Which is why we gotta find this yellow-eyed son of a bitch. That's why I'm gonna kill him myself I mean, I got nothing to lose now, right?"
Bobby grabs him by the front of his shirt.
"I could throttle you!"
And then Dean makes a half-hearted hell joke.
And I turn on my heel and I walk away, because I'm done. I don't want to hear anymore. If I hear anymore I will lose my shit, here and now. I'm weaving through the cars and trying to block out the words about how now his life can mean something.
It doesn't work.
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"Hey, lady. Do me a favor. Put that gun to your head." Dean glances over to Harley who hasn't even twitched from her stance with her handgun trained on that Jake kid's chest. She seems to be the calmest of the whole group, face void of all emotion. Just breathing without one single twitch except to move her glock enough to follow its target.
It's Ellen that raises her gun shakily to let the barrel rest at the side of her head.
"See, that Ava girl was right. Once you give into it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn."
Harley snorts slightly but doesn't turn away from Jake. Hatred and shame are prominent in her eyes.
"Let her go." Sam growls.
"Shoot him." Ellen says, voice shaking slightly.
"Gladly." Harley says, finger tensing on the trigger.
"You'll be mopping up skull before you get a shot off." Jake says mockingly, turning to Harley.
"Isn't that right?" She does not move or respond other than to narrow her eyes slightly.
He smirks. "Everybody, put your guns down." He looks over to Ellen. "Except you sweetheart."
Bobby's drops first, then Dean's, then Harley's, and finally Sam's.
"Okay," Jake says "Thank you."
There is a split second that everyone stays frozen until Jake suddenly bolts for the door and everyone but Sam goes for Ellen.
It doesn't take long for Ellen to be unarmed and for Sam to unload a clip into Jake who is obviously not going to survive after the fourth round.
He keeps firing.
All the while the star on the door keeps spinning around the colt, around and around and around until clank.
"Oh, no." Harley says "Bobby is that what I think it is?"
"What?" Sam asks looking up from Dead Jake, "What is it."
"It's a devil's gate."
Responses to the death of The Yellow Eyed Demon is probably going to be in the next chapter. I'm so sorry it took so long to update this chapter. Writer's block sucks for everyone involved. Spanish translations 1. So stupid. 2. Bad, stupid, terrible idea. Please R and R, and if you see any grammar mistakes or other errors please PM me. I already updated a few things but I'm not sure if I fixed it all.