I don't own a bean

I don't own a bean!!

This is an angsty and slightly confusing death fic – sort of!

Blame Kripke!

The world doesn't end, frogs don't come raining from the sky, the sun rises in the morning as it always did and life, as we know it, goes on.

Bobby Singer always had the suspicion that this is how it will go down, good versus evil, light versus darkness, brother against brother. It was within their destiny and there was no stopping it.

The cemetery was dark and cold, gravestones ripped from the earth like rotten teeth out of tender gums. The stench of death was strong here, stronger than anything Bobby had ever smelt before, cloying and sickening in his nostrils.

He has everything he needs; charms, amulets, tattoos for protection. His guns are loaded with rock salt and colt, found again, is polished and ready.

There is only one precious bullet and he prays that he won't have to be the one to use it.

The Impala stands, still and glided silver by moonlight. There is dust on her hood and a long scratch along her flank. The tyres are threadbare and worn, the back taillight smashed and never replaced.

Dean always said he would haunt Sammy's ass if he ruined that car but Bobby can find no amusement in that scenario now.

Too much has gone down.

Ten long years to most normal people; an eternity for a lost soul in Hell.

Bobby doesn't know, never wants to know, what Hell might be like. He has heard the preacher talk of fire and brimstone often enough, but he knows that the torture and pain is often in the head of the victim and he realises that hell is of our own making.

The gaping hole left when the gates opened yet again, is black and empty. Bobby feels sick as he stares at the endless maw, thinks he hears screams but can't be sure. He wonders, frightened now and afraid to admit it, if the person who opened the gate was insane or just desperate.

He guesses he will never really know.

Sam Winchester is on his knees, his face covered in blood and dirt. His long hair is wild about his unshaven face and Bobby can see the silver in his hair, the harsh lines around his eyes, the slow trickle of blood from his nose.

Sam has used his powers once too often and the pain is taking it out of him. He is older now, his strength fading and Bobby hopes, prays, that this will be the end of it, that this will be the final act in a tragedy that has played out on this earth for far too long.

"Is it over?" Bobby is clutching the colt, fingers gnarled with arthritis, eyes misty now, hot salt in his throat.

"His soul is safe now," Sam speaks soft and barely there, his big hands coming up and clutching at Bobby's jacket, "he's gone."

"And the army?" Bobby can see, with his own eyes, the answer to that question, but he has to ask, has to know for sure.

"Destroyed," Sam lurches to his feet, blood pouring from his nose now, staining his face crimson, leaching the colour from his face, "I want to go home," he says, suddenly and unexpected and Bobby stares at him, puzzled.

Sam's home was always the Impala and Dean. When Dean went to hell, Sam went to pieces and spent years trying to free his brother's soul.

When Dean finally broke free, it was too late. He had forgotten his humanity, lost his soul. He crawled from hell in an explosion of fire, leading the second wave, a demon army that Azeal would have been proud of.

Sam, always so afraid of his own demon blood, had used his powers for the first time. Ironic, that he was using them to fight his own brother, ironic that he was using them for good.

When brother faced off against brother, it was inevitable but still so unexpected. Sam was meant to be the evil one, Dean the protector. Fate, love or just pure stupidity had changed their destinies and now, only one Winchester remained standing.

Bobby was determined to keep him there.

"Let's go home then son," he said, with a slight smile, pushing his cap from his forehead and releasing the tight grip on the colt, a sudden feeling of safety washing over him, erasing evil from this place of the night.

He held out his hand and Sam took it, a strong, even grip, eyes fixed on his, soft, sloe-like, the lost little boy emerging from the broken shell of the man.

"I saved him Bobby," he said, belief burning in his eyes.

"Yes you did son," Bobby hauled Sam Winchester to his feet, "you saved him."

So the world doesn't end and frogs don't come raining from the sky, the sun rises that morning as it always does and life, for us all, goes on.

End