Just a little one shot idea that came to me just before going to bed, but I had to write it down before I forgot it. So here it is and it’s in Sam’s POV; hopefully it doesn’t suck. Winchester Angst ensues…
Warnings: Just a few swear words
Disclaimer: I don’t own Supernatural, Dean or Sam Winchester…if I did I’d be a very lucky girl
there's a song i think called flowers on the wall or something like that...i can't remember tho it's a country song...but i don't own that either...i just like it lol...
He just sits there, acting as though there’s nothing wrong-something is wrong. I have my back up against the motel’s wall. The room is small; the door’s paint is chipping away, the flakes embellishing the floor. The puke green curtains hang, faded from the sunlight, while more than one of the windows have a crack in them.
I sigh, glaring at Dean who doesn’t stare back at me, but stares at the television screen which illuminates the room. It makes Dean’s face look more ghostly and distant more than ever and I sigh, only louder this time.
“What, Sammy? What do you want?!” Dean snaps.
His tone takes me by surprise, but I know what I’m going to say. I’ve rehearsed it in my head more times than I would care to count or remember.
“You’re dead in a week, Dean, and you don’t give a crap.”
Dean’s tone now is softer, “I tried, Sam-we tried. There’s nothing and if there were I wouldn’t have done it. There’s no way I’m seeing you like…” he trails off, his thoughts getting the best of him.
I can’t feel any compassion towards him right now, “So what? You’re just gonna sit there and die in some crappy hellhole? You’re just gonna give up?”
“What else is there to do?” he asks me, his eyes now looking up at me, pleading.
His question takes me somewhat by surprise. I cross my arms and take a deep, quivering breath. I look down at my feet, trying to think of something to say but the room falls silent of conversation until he speaks up again.
“1,578.” He tells me.
“What?” I ask.
“Last night, I couldn’t sleep,” a light, but somewhat strangled laugh escapes his lips, “so I counted the flowers on the wall.”
I look around the room, taking notice of the flowers on the wallpaper.
“I kept on thinking…” he starts, turning of the television and the room falls dark. I heard him gulp, “I kept on thinking about what Hell would be like, what Dad would say to me if he saw me now, and leaving you behind. What’re you going to do? Would you be able to move on?”
I un-cross my arms and stare into the darkness.
Dean takes a shaky breath, “Sammy…you’re the strong one, you know? You always have been. I mean you…” he trails off, “you had a life; you left dad and hunting, you had the strength to do that. You’re the strong one, you can move on.”
I try to think of something to say, but all that passes my lips is his name. I hear the bed creak and shuffling footsteps; the light turns on.
His eyes are red and glassy, darkness had placed itself underneath his eyes, and his face is pale. He’s on the verge of a breakdown and I’m scared. Dean never shows weakness hardly ever in front of me and now he looks as though he’ll fall apart.
I remove my place from the wall and walk over to him, trying to think of something meaningful to say to him.
Dean looks to the digital clock on the nightstand, the red numbers reading 3:55 am.
“Every minute that passes I feel this feeling of dread in my chest and desperation,” he says quietly.
I sit down on my bed, looking at my folded hands in my lap, fighting back the lump in my throat. I’m trying not to show emotion, but it’s not working. Dean sits on the adjacent bed and breathes heavily. He buries his head into his hands and I can barely hear the quiet sobs that wrack his body.
He’s scared. I’m scared. We’re both scared and broken.
“Dean,” I say softly.
He looks up and runs a hand over his face trying to rid the tears.
“Dean,” I say again, trying to find words, but I’m at a loss.
He looks again at the clock- 4:02 am, every minute inching closer to his demise and every minute closer to the worst day of my life.
My knee is bouncing up and down and I’m gnawing my bottom lip. Dean’s staring down at the dull faded green carpet.
The room is completely silent while we try to come to terms.
“I think we should get some rest, alright?” I ask, knowing that there wouldn’t be any rest tonight.
“Yeah,” Dean gulps hard again as he crawls into his bed, tosses onto his one side facing the wall and not me; a rare occurrence. He pulls the blanket up around his shoulders and feigns to be asleep.
But after a moment, I hear him stir, “Sammy, I…” he says.
I understand, “Yeah, man, you too.”
I lie my head down on the pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Stray tears find themselves running down my face and I wipe them away hastily.
“Dean’s dead in less than a week.” I say repeatedly in my mind, trying to find a way to deal. There isn’t.
He’s been gone now almost a year. I'm sitting here, trying to cope.
tell me whatcha think...? dont' like me cuz i killed dean again?
i need a new pastime....lol
I really don't understand why I keep torturing myself by reading these fics (and writing them) where Dean is about to run out of time on his deal. :cry
But yours was really good. :cheer
I normally don't like the ones from Dean or Sam's pov, but I really liked this one. :D
Even though it did make me tear up a bit... *sniff* lol
awwwww thank you...it means alot :D
Sad Sad story
I liked it