I own nothing. The title and the summary come from a Breaking Benjamin's song called 'Unknown Soldier'.
This was betaed by the ever awesome, ever amazing... NewspaperTaxis. Thank you babe!
If there are still any grammar/spelling mistakes... it's all my fault.
"How do you wanna do this?"
"Quick 'n clean."
Sam had a feeling that 'this' will not go down neither quick nor clean.
Dark yellow light was spilling through a clean, huge window, the sun taking its last breath of the day…
"Son of a bitch!"
Thump-thump-thump-thump… the noise of heavy boots running down the hall.
"Get you ass down here!"
Thump-thump-thump-thump… the sound of heavy boots running down wooden stairs.
Thump-thump-thump-thump... down the hall, left, push the door open.
Aim with one breath in.
Pull the trigger with one breath out.
The room was bathing in black, oily blood that was shining in the very last sunbeams of the day.
Dean was breathing hard, slumped down a wall, his jacket pushed all the way up to his neck, his gray T-shirt stained with sweat.
He considered for a second, just one brief second, just how much of the blood is the creature's own and how much belonged to its victims.
In the end… it really doesn't matter. Everyone and everything is dead anyways.
There wasn't a wall that wasn't in some way or another splattered with little or big drops of foul smelling liquid, some of it running down a big screen TV and a wooden closet standing in the left corner, right behind the huge couch that was sprayed with the blood.
And yet… the creature refused to die.
Sam had his fingers stuck in its brown, silky fur, fingertips touching its hot skin, feeling its blood get soaked up by his jeans.
Its huge, pitch black eyes were looking right at him, unblinking.
There were no pupils in them, just two big pools of complete darkness, bulged out of their sockets.
Sam didn't see anything else of the thing; teeth, nuzzle, claws… his entire focus was on those eyes surrounded by thin, short eyelashes.
He was straddling it, pushing his knees into its ribs, or at least where a human's ribs would be.
He tightened his hold on its neck, feeling its pulse underneath his palm weakening, fading away slowly.
And when he couldn't even feel its pulse anymore under all that silky fur, he saw something that he never saw before.
A tear. One single, lonely tear run out of its left eye.
The tips of the fur over its cheeks carried the crystal clear tear all the way to its mouth, where it mixed with the blood seeping out of the corner of its open mouth.
The creature's eyes were filled with fear so fierce, he had never seen in his life. There was sorrow and pain and loneliness and fear and loss and I don't wanna die.
Sam hesitated; his fingers still clutching its fur, his eyes locked with the creature's.
He breathed. Didn't know what else to do. Should he comfort it? Should he say that everything will be okay? Should he… explain what just happened? What? Should he say I'm sorry?
I'm sorry, but I had to kill ya, because you were killing people? I'm sorry, but I had to kill ya, because you were a monster? I'm sorry, but I had to kill ya, because it's just how things are?
Should he say that he's sorry?
He killed a lot of things in his life but never got to see 'em take their last breath; never like this… it was always a clean shot, always merciful – or at least he tried to be – always to the point.
But here, now… looking into the creature's eyes, seeing a plea for please don't let me die, please written in them so clearly…
But that didn't stop Dean from putting a bullet right into its forehead, right above its unmoving right eye.
"That should do it."
The blood caught Sam directly on his chest.
The fear was gone, replaced by silent death.
"Yeah," he uncurled his fingers from its fur, "'m fine," stood up, dusted his bloody jeans with his cold hands, "let's go." And looked down at the thing that killed so many people, ripped them apart, yet when it come down to it, was afraid to die itself.
"Well, ok then. Let's clean this up and get going."
Dean's voice was coming from somewhere far, far away, the distance to Sam's ears making the words unclear. Sam nodded not caring if he just agreed to wash 'n wax the car every day.
That tear, that fear, that pain… it left an imprint on his soul. Made him wonder, just how many things that they've killed, he killed, were afraid to die too.
The eyes, the snot coming from its gray nuzzle, blood all over its long, mold smelling fur, and one tear driven out of its eyes by fear of dying.
Sam woke up, with sweat running into his open mouth.
He turned to his left, seeing Dean sprawled on his own bed, still wearing his clothes, his boots halfway on, halfway off.
He ran his hands over his face, pushing the sweat into his hair and got up.
Placing Dean's boots on the carpet and grabbing himself a beer, he sat on his bed with his laptop on his lap.
Sleep is overrated anyway.
"You look like crap."
Were the first words spoken after sitting in the car for three hours already, doing nothing but listening to the radio screaming out Led Zeppelin.
Sam swallowed: "Feel like it too."
Sam huffed. He wanted to ask Dean to define 'good', but instead he went for the truth: "You know… sometimes," he looked out the window on his right, his eyes resting on green meadows, "I wish I could see the world in black and white."
He expected Dean to answer right away, tearing his throat out for saying something like that, but the silence stretched for ten electricity poles and eight trees.
"No you don't."
When the answer came, Sam didn't know what to do with it, because it was so far from what he was expecting.
He didn't look away from the scenery passing by, didn't allow his eyes to seek out Dean's.
"Gray is a good color, ya know? Keeps you human."