Summary. . . . . . . . . . Dean reflects, as Sam is hurt once again, on some words of wisdom.
Disclaimer. . . . . . . . . Sam, Dean and John, do not belong to me. Neither does the song lyrics at the beginning, they belong to Martika and come from her song Toy Soldiers.
A.N. . . . . . . . This is a special little one shot for my Sis, Darksupernatural, and for her own toy soldier. My prayers will be with you this week Lil Bit as hubby heads for his op, and I'll see you in a weeks time with a box of tissues and two shoulders to cry on if you need to.
To everyone else reading this, thanks for taking time out to stop by, and if you could, please send I quick prayer darksupernaturals way this week. Thanks, Peanut x
Step by step,
Heart to heart,
Left, right, left,
We all fall down,
Like toy soldiers.
Bit by Bit,
We never win,
But the battle wages on,
For toy soldiers.
That's what Sam used to say we were, just a couple of toy soldiers in Dad's game of war against anything that stood in his way of victory, and the defeat of the thing that killed Mom.
Pliable, malleable, pushed into whatever position the player needed us to be in, used but then forgotten like the poor guy Sam had stuffed into the Impala's ashtray, easily broken.
Well I always had a ready and conditioned stock of answers to his thoughts. Answers like "quite whining Sammy" or, "you know what's out there" or my all time particular favorite, "Dad loves us in his own way." All of them fell easily and quickly from my lips whenever I heard that tell tale rise of my little brother's voice.
Until that day.
The day when everything was torn apart.
The day that I finally saw through the conditioning and saw that Sam had been right all along.
We were just soldiers.
We were just pliable, malleable, pushed into whatever position the player wanted us in, used but then forgotten like the poor guy Sam had stuck in the Impala's ashtray, and oh so easily broken.
It was Sam's turn to be broken that day. Sam's turn to be thrown about like he weighed nothing more than a green piece of plastic, and not the growth spurt filled out teenager he was. Sam's turn to bounce down stairs like a hastily flung down plaything. Sam's turn to lie there on his stomach, so still, so stiff, so silent, one leg bent, his arms extended, his hands still clutching his sawn off shotgun, sniper like, if it wasn't for the trails of claret that leak from his body to pool around his frame.
Dad, of course, had blasted out a warning as I had placed my foot upon the first stair, his friend Caleb watching with a look of incredulity. "We need to finish the job" were his exact words, when all I could think about was my baby brother battered and broken lying beneath me, bleeding and in pain, and all alone. I'd turned back of course, you just didn't disobey the man, well not if you didn't want to pay for it later, but try as I might I couldn't concentrate on the hunt, something that could in the end be costly to us all. In the end the pull of my hurting sibling won out over the hunt, Dad and Caleb could deal with the spirit, it was weakening as the night grew on anyway, Sammy needed me more. Breaking ranks I ran. Sam needed mending, Sam needed strength to battle, Sam needed me. I would fix this. I had too, life without him wouldn't be worth living.
It was close.
Too damn close.
Sam battling hard to keep from entering that great big toy box in the sky. His shattered body at first rejecting all attempts to mend it, but I wouldn't give up, I wouldn't give in, and I think he could feel that, knew that I needed him, that I wouldn't let him go without a fight, hell a war if it came to that, and slowly he began to respond.
Dad of course, sensed when Sammy had won the battle, dragging me away from the room as nurses changed sheets, and washed down a body covered in ugly green bruises and angry red surgery sights making him look even more like the toy soldiers Sam always said we were. Dragged me away and into an empty stairwell, reaming me out for getting my priorities wrong, for not putting the hunt first.
I just stood there, took it all in like a good little soldier's supposed to, nodded and appeared submissive beneath my superior's gaze, but inside things were different. You see, I now realize I was wrong, and Sammy was right.
We are soldiers.
We are just pliable, malleable, pushed into whatever position the player wanted us in, used but then forgotten like the poor guy Sam had stuck in the Impala's ashtray, and oh so easily broken.
But we're also like a unit, stronger when together, and when one of us is broken the other will always be there to pick up the pieces, molding them back into place until they are whole once again.
A.N. . . . . . . . . I hope that you enjoyed my little ficlet, and that it didn't come off as too drabbly. Catch you all soon, Peanut x