I suppose this two-shot should be called missing scenes - plural, as we deciced to spend that nightmare 24+ hours with Dean while he tries to come to grips with Sam's death. Basically, we've covered the time from hug to hug.
I know there have been a lot of missing scenes from the finale, both part 1 and part 2. All I can say is - just have a look.
Now, this wasn't all my effort - I had an awesome, and I mean AWESOME co-author on this, but she has requested to remain anonymous. So, out of respect for her wishes, I have done just that. But seriously, this project wouldn't have got off the ground without her help, and her input.
And when I got her bit of Part 1, I laughed, I cried, I threw my arms up in the air, and I did a happy twirl on the office chair, because it just blew me away. Sis, your talent is truly awesome, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for consenting to do this with me. I think I shocked you a little when I first suggested it, back all those weeks ago, but you rose to the challenge beautifully, and you produced a piece that is just poetry.
This was inspired by that picture of Dean leaning in the doorway, watching Sam's body, and it sort of grew... It was originally going to be a one-shot, but we being the enthusiastic writers that we are, well, it sort of - blew out into a two-shot, and we thought - what the heck - let's go with the two-shot.
So, Part 1 is all ready. Part 2 will follow shortly. I do hope you enjoy it.
Bless you all,
Disclaimers: We don't own them - wish we did. If we did, she'd take the tall one and I'd have the shorter one. Problem solved. See? We can share...What Am I Supposed To Do
– by Mizpah & AnonymousAHBL2 Missing scene – from hug to hugSong: Open Your Eyes – Snow PatrolPart 1“All this feels strange and untrue
And I won't waste a minute without you
My bones ache, my skin feels cold
And I'm getting so tired and so old.”
Dean’s world stopped. There, on the cold muddy ground, with the thunder rumbling in the distance as a counterpoint to the rapid thudding of his heart, his world stopped. He cradled the still, limp body to his chest and began to rock, unaware of the night, the coming storm, and the damp soil under his knees. With one arm wrapped across the bleeding back, the other hand gently supporting the lolling head, fingers tangled in the long shaggy locks, he rocked, back and forth, tears streaming unheeded down his face. Footsteps approached rapidly, slowed, faltered, and finally stopped, and still he rocked, his grip tightening, unwilling to let go, unable to look into the still, dead face. He’d failed. He’d been too late. He closed his eyes and pulled his brother crushingly close, desperately trying to feel one more heartbeat, one more breath. But the life that had been his to nurture and protect was gone, ripped from his world in an instant of blinding pain.
Cold raindrops spattered into the desolate street, and lightning sheeted across the sky, heralding the approaching storm. Boots shuffled against the damp ground, and a calloused hand came out of the dark to rest on his shoulder.
“Dean, we gotta move.”
He opened his eyes, stared down the length of the muddy street, and continued his rocking, tilting his head to press his tear-stained cheek against his brother’s wavy hair.
“Dean.” Bobby Singer shifted his feet again, cradling the shotgun against his shoulder as another flash of lightning threw the abandoned town into stark relief. His quarry had escaped into the woods after his treacherous attack on Sam, but the seasoned demon hunter hadn’t stayed alive all these years by taking anything for granted. He looked down at the Winchester boys, and his eyes burned. “Dean, the storm’s comin’. We gotta get to shelter.”
Dean only held tighter to his baby brother’s body, settling Sam’s head more comfortably against his shoulder as he rocked back and forth.
Bobby pressed his lips together, his throat constricting as the grief hit him full force. It had been a shocking blow, losing Sam, just when they had come within sight of the young psychic after twenty-four hours of desperate searching. He’d seen the cracks start to appear in Dean’s armour the longer Sam had been missing, knowing the demon was involved. And now Dean had broken, shattered into pieces on the cold damp ground as he hugged his brother’s body to his chest. The elder hunter frowned, rubbing a shaking hand across his jaw. He tried one more tactic. “Dean, it’s starting to rain. We gotta get Sam to shelter.”
Dean blinked slowly, and his crushing grip loosened ever so slightly. Get Sam to shelter…protect Sammy…
He shifted his position so that he was kneeling at his brother’s side, and he let Sam fall back against his outstretched arm. He stooped, threading the other arm under his brother’s knees, and then he pushed himself to his feet, holding the lifeless body and gazing empty-eyed at his friend.
Bobby took a step closer to the boys, and held out his arms. “Here, I’ll…”
Dean backed away, fear twisting his face. “No!” He snarled, his voice strained and harsh. Shifting his precious burden in his arms, he finally gazed down at his brother’s face. “I got him.” Not taking him away from me
“Okay.” Bobby held up his hands. “Okay, Dean. Let’s get him out of the rain. Come with me, son.”
Bobby hurried ahead, glancing back repeatedly to see if Dean was following. It broke his heart to watch the young hunters – Dean stumbling along, doggedly carrying his dead brother, his face twisted in grief; Sam lying limp and still, his dangling arms and legs swaying with each step, like a broken doll. Bobby ducked into the first house they came to, instructing Dean to wait outside while he searched the place.
It was while he was checking out the fourth house that he heard Dean’s quiet murmur, and his chest tightened in sudden fear.
“It’s okay, Sammy, I gotcha. I’ll fix this, you’ll see. Just like I always do. I gotcha, I gotcha.”
Bobby strode out onto the sagging porch. “Dean – come on. We can wait out the storm in here.” Stepping back, Bobby stared at the younger man’s face as Dean passed him. The only surviving Winchester was pale and drawn, his eyes glassy, as he carefully manoeuvred his brother through the doorway and into the small bedroom.
Dean laid Sam’s body gently onto the filthy mattress, and straightened the long limbs. “There you go. We’ll be okay, now. You just rest, okay? I gotcha.” He turned to the demon hunter hovering in the doorway. “I need some water.”
Bobby glanced from Sam’s still, pale form to Dean’s tense, tear-streaked face, and he cleared his throat. “Dean, Sam’s…”
“I gotta clean him up. He’s all muddy. I need some water.” Dean insisted stubbornly, his voice breaking.
“Okay, boy. I’ll get you some water.” Turning reluctantly to search the kitchen of the run-down house, Bobby discovered an old rusted bowl and stepped outside. A minute’s scouting found an old wooden barrel half full of rainwater, and Bobby scooped some into the bowl. He swallowed, forcing down his fear as he returned to Dean’s side, wordlessly handing him the water.
“Okay, Sammy. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” Dropping to his knees, Dean pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it into the water, and tenderly cleaned off the mud and dirt from Sam’s face and hands. “Okay, that’s better. See, I told you I’d take care of you.” As he put the bowl down on the floor, Dean noticed that Sam’s right shoulder was misaligned. “Hey – what’s this? What happened, little brother?”
Bobby leaned forward to examine the young man’s body. He remembered Sam cradling his arm as he’d begun walking toward Dean. “Looks like it’s popped.”
“No, no, no – we can’t have that. Help me get him up.” Dean pulled on Sam’s jacket, sitting him up. His hand swept forward to cradle the lolling head as he glanced at his friend. “Bobby – help me, dammit!”
“Dean – Sam’s dead. You know that, right? Sam’s gone. He can’t feel anything.”
“Fine – I’ll do it myself.” The grief-stricken hunter slowly lowered his brother back down onto the mattress, and took a firm grasp of the misplaced shoulder joint, snapping it back into place with a quick movement of his hands.
Bobby backed away toward the door, his eyes on the brothers – one dead, one broken beyond repair. Gonna lose both of them
…His mind whirled. He didn’t know how to fix this, or even if anyone could.
“There. All fixed.” Dean placed his hands on either side of Sam’s face. “See? I fixed you, little brother, just like I promised. Sammy?”
The demon hunter dropped onto a chair, put his elbows on the dusty table, and pressed his face into his hands as his eyes filled with bitter tears. Dean’s voice carried softly to the elder hunter’s ears – broken, scared and desperate, like a lost little boy.
“Sammy? I fixed it. Sammy? Sammy…please…”
Bobby threw his cap across the room as a clap of thunder drowned out Dean’s gut wrenching sobs.“The anger swells in my guts
And I won't feel these slices and cuts
I want so much to open your eyes
Cos I need you to look into mine”
* * * * *Dean chewed on his lower lip as he glanced at the list on the table before rolling up the plaid flannel shirt and stuffing it inside his dad's duffle bag. The thirteen year old sighed as he looked around the small kitchen with the narrow windows and the worn out wooden floor. The tiny house was almost suffocating for three people, but then Dean knew that they would be leaving shortly after his dad returned from his hunt that he was preparing to leave on. Zipping the duffle closed after making sure everything was packed, Dean walked into the small living room and set the bag by the front door. Dean swiped at the strands of hair that stuck to his forehead, its dampness reminded him that he needed to take a shower, the front of his T-shirt dirty and stained from going through his father's training with Sammy earlier on that morning. Casting a glance at the closed bedroom door Dean walked over and sank down onto the worn sofa, picking up the remote control to flip through the few channels on the television.
"Do you have everything packed son?" John asked as he walked out of the bedroom, his journal in his left hand.
Dean nodded "Yes sir," His gaze faltered sliding from the television to his father before setting the remote down and heading over to where John was standing gathering up the research papers laying scattered on the small counter that separated the kitchen from the living room "Dad...about Sammy." There was a heartbeat of silence, during which time Dean could feel a blanket of tension settle over his father.
"Dean, we have already been through this. Your brother needs to handle this on his own." John replied, his eyes scanning the papers quickly as he gathered them.
"I know, " Dean answered still with a worried look, "But Sammy isn't like us dad, he's sensitive...maybe I should..."
John drew a long slow breath, then released it "Dean," He interrupted before turning to look at his first born "Listen son, I know what I'm doing, you just have to trust me on this." John replied, resting his hands on his son's shoulders and giving him a reassuring squeeze.
"Okay...I guess." Dean looked reluctant, torn between his urge to comfort his brother and his unwillingness to disappoint his father.
"Look son, I already searched the closet and there isn't anything there. Then again, I think you knew that already, didn't you?" John asked as he looked deep into Dean's green eyes "Dean, we have protected Sammy his whole life, he needs to learn not to let fear get in the way, just like I trained you."
"If you say so." Dean whispered, glancing at the bedroom door again.
John sighed "I have to get going," gathering up the rest of the papers, John walked over to the front door leaning down to grasp the straps of the duffle "All the salt lines are down and keep the door locked Dean," John turned "If I don't return in two days and I don't call then..."
"Call Paster Jim, I know dad. Don't worry, I'll take care of things on this end." Dean replied.
"That’s my boy." John responded, his mind already on the hunt that he was leaving on before he went out the door.
Dean's gaze from the window followed his dad's car until it was out of sight before he turned to go back over to the sofa. Sitting down, he leaned his head against the back and closed his eyes. The thirteen year old lived in a cold reality of a world where he knew of the things out there in the dark, he had learned at a young age that life was one formidable challenge of the things his father hunted, one you had to beat for losing was not an option. Automatically, Dean's gaze darted to the bedroom door again before he sighed and got up, heading towards the door and opening it. He paused as he saw his nine-year-old brother sitting with his back pressed against the headboard of the bed, a pillow pulled tightly against his chest. Sam's hand trembled as he held the .45, his arms braced on top of his bent knees. Dean saw Sammy's lips tighten and watched as he swallowed hard to fight back the tears streaking down his rounded cheeks but his gaze never shifted from the bedroom closet.
Walking into the room, Dean went over to the small dresser pulling the middle drawer open and ruffled through his meager selection of clean clothes, shifting to look at his little brother "Hey, are you okay?" he asked softly.
Sam sniffled and nodded, clearly struggling for control "You're not supposed to be in here," his breath hitched. "Dad wanted you to sleep in the living room tonight."
Dean walked over and plunked down on the lumpy mattress of the second twin bed "Yeah, well who's going to tell him, I'm not, are you?" he asked.
Sam glanced quizzically at his brother "No, but..."
Dean shrugged "So don't worry about me being in here." he paused, again scrutinizing Sam's face and seeing the distress. Dean felt like he was torn between a rock and a hard place. On one hand he didn't want to disobey his father's orders and knew that Sammy had to learn their way of life, but on the other hand he had been protecting his brother since he was six months old. Studying his brother as he held the 45 clenched in his hands, Dean could sense the frazzled state Sammy's nerves were in, wondering for the hundredth time if Sam would be capable of what his dad was training them to do when his little brother was having such emotional trauma about the imaginary monster in their closet, nonexisting as it was. Casting his gaze to the salt line in front of the closet Dean made up his mind.
"Okay squirt, scooch over and make room." Dean told his brother quietly as he moved over to stand beside Sam.
Sam's brows rose in surprise "What?"
"You heard me," Dean answered grabbing a pillow and setting it against the headboard. "Slide over." Settling himself on the bed, Dean leaned back so he was lying beside Sam. "You know Sammy, there really isn't anything in there. Just some clothes and stuff, but sometimes when it's dark it's easy to mistake a coat for something else."
"I guess." Sam tried to ignore the butterflies that were having a field day in his stomach, keeping his gaze on the white painted door, the gun still shaking in his small hands.
"Here, give me that before you shoot your foot off or something." Dean retorted as he gently pried the gun from his brother's fingers and set it on the small stand by the bed, making sure it was still in close reach so Sam would feel at ease.
"You know Sammy, dad started training me to fight when I was seven. He just wants you to be able to protect yourself in case we get separated during a hunt. But you don't have to worry about that because I'll always be there right by your side." Dean whispered, nudging his shoulder against his brother's.
"Why can't I just look things up in dad's books Dean, I don't think I'll be any good at hunting." Sam declared, his hazel eyes still wet making his long dark lashes clump together.
"Sammy," Dean answered in a quiet, frank tone "Dad needs us both to do our jobs. One day we're going to find the thing that killed mom and we need to be ready for that. Besides, dad's helping a lot of people right now, don't you want to do that too?"
"Yeah, I guess," Sam whispered moving down on the bed to get more comfortable, stretching his shorter legs, "Hey Dean, tell me about mom some more."
Dean lifted his left arm and draped it over his brother's shoulders, taking a deep breath to hide the tremor in his voice, "Well, I was the best big brother right from the start, " Dean smiled a faint smile, his eyes misty from the memory "You were about two weeks old I think, mom just put you in my arms after showing me how to support your wobbly head, and then she just backed away."
Sam yawned, leaning into his brother's side "Then what happened?"
"Well, let me think. Oh yeah, you just stared at me for awhile, I think you were trying to figure me out. Then you just started pumping your arms and legs and gave me this funny toothless smile."
Sam snickered "Because I knew you were goofy even back then." he giggled out loud when Dean reached his right hand over to Sam's stomach to tickle him.
"Hey, I'm not goofy. I'm superman and you know it. I'm stronger than all those cartoon heroes you watch," Dean smiled as he coaxed another round of giggles from his brother "Come on, admit it, I'm superman, let me hear you say it Sammy." Dean smiled.
"All right, I give...you're superman," Sammy gasped between giggles as he snuggled back into Dean's side, his head resting on his older brother's upper chest "Hey Dean? What you said earlier about always being there in case I get in trouble, when I'm bigger than you, will you still mean it?"
Dean opened his mouth to reassure him "Sammy, I'll always be here to protect you, that’s what big brothers do. But you're never going to be bigger than me."
"Dad said I would be bigger than you because I like to eat all my vegetables." Sam whispered, his eyes starting to droop from exhaustion.
"Well, that's just dad trying to get you to eat that nasty stuff.'' Dean pulled his left arm tighter around his brother "Besides, in my big brother handbook it says I will always be bigger and you will always be the little brother, it's in the rules." Dean responded softly knowing Sam was on the verge of falling asleep.
"If you say so Dean." Sam murmured, his breath evening out to a slow steady rhythm.
Dean fell silent, his fingers gently running through the thick locks of his brother's hair. He could actually feel the minutes ticking by as he watched the shadows on the walls given off by the lamp on the nightstand. Staring at the closet, Dean sighed as he rested his chin on Sam's head "I'll never let anything hurt you Sammy, that I can promise you." he whispered as he set in for a long sleepless night.
* * * * *
Dean woke with a gasp. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance as he gazed blearily around the small, shadow filled room. He was surprised to find himself sitting on the floor with his back resting against the rusted bed that held his dead brother. Pushing himself up off the floor, he absently brushed his hands down his jeans as his eyes sought out his brother’s grey, still face. He reached out, pressing the back of his hand against Sam’s cheek. The young hunter’s skin was cold to the touch, and Dean thought crazily about getting a blanket, before reality crashed down around him and his eyes blurred as the tears welled in an unstoppable flood. Sam would never feel the cold again; never feel anything again. Swiping the back of his other hand across his damp face, he gently stroked Sam’s long bangs, pushing them away from the dead psychic’s brow.
Bobby watched silently from the doorway as Dean placed Sam’s long-fingered hands neatly across his chest. The shattered hunter turned toward him, glassy green eyes swimming with unshed tears. He scratched at his beard, and glanced over his shoulder before extending a hand to the grief-filled boy. “Come sit down, Dean.”
Dean gestured vaguely toward his brother’s body. “Sammy…”
“I know, son.” Bobby stepped into the room, placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder and guided him out to the table. “You’ll just be out here. You won’t be leaving him.” He sat across from the younger hunter, watching as Dean tried to rebuild his crumbled defences. A few tears trickled down Dean’s pale, freckled cheeks as he stared at the floor, his hands clasping and unclasping spasmodically. “It’ll be daylight soon.”
Dean nodded jerkily, his eyes straying to the darkened doorway, and what lay in the room beyond.
Bobby scrubbed the weariness from his face and stood up, drawing Dean’s eyes to him. “I’m gonna go and get us something to eat. Do you…?”
“No. I’ll stay here,” Dean whispered. He cleared his throat, and handed the Impala’s keys over to the demon hunter. Bobby shook his head and pushed the keys back.
“No, I won’t need the Impala. My truck is a few miles from here – I’ll go get it, then I’ll go find us some food. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”
Dean’s gaze returned to the tiny bedroom, and the still figure lying on the bed.
“Sure.” Dean closed his eyes, listening to Bobby’s fading footsteps. Pushing himself to his feet, he walked slowly to the bedroom, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb. His face tightened into an emotionless mask, as he looked at his little brother. “Why you, huh? Why did it have to be you? It should have been me. Not you. Never you.” His hands curled into fists, his short nails digging painfully into his palms. “Not supposed to be you,” he whispered.
* * * * *“Tell me that you’ll open your eyes
Tell me that you’ll open your eyes
Tell me that you’ll open your eyes
Tell me that you’ll open your eyes”
He’d found a bottle of Jack in the back seat of the Impala. Twisting at the cap, he broke the seal and took a long swallow as he walked back to the abandoned house where his brother lay, cold and silent. He wiped his lips, standing at the foot of the stairs for a moment. His bleak gaze roamed the deserted street. It was full light, and had been for a couple of hours. Bobby still hadn’t returned. Bobby’s truck must have been farther away than he thought…
Dean speculated. Doesn’t matter – I’m not goin’ anywhere
. Boots thudding hollowly on the warped timbers, he climbed the four steps to the porch and kicked open the door. “Hey, Sammy, I’m back.”
Dean returned to his place in the bedroom doorway, and took another swig of whiskey. His eyes grew sombre as he gazed at his sibling, and Sam’s gentle voice echoed in his head. “There’s so much evil out in the world, Dean, I feel like I could drown in it. And when I think about my destiny – when I think about how I could end up…”
“Yeah, well, don’t worry about that, all right? I’m watchin’ out for you.”
“Yeah, I know you are. But you’re just one person, Dean.”
The tide in the bottle lowered again. “You know, I saw your face when we found you. You looked – I don’t know…” Dean shrugged, his brow furrowed as he remembered. “You looked relieved – happy to see me, I guess. But I kinda wonder, you know, if there was somethin’ else…” He closed his eyes. “I mean, you looked – hell – like you…Sammy, did you think I wouldn’t come for you, is that it? Huh?”
Dean’s eyes flew open, and he strode to the table, putting down the bottle. He spun back to the bedroom, anger blasting through his tall frame. “Was that it, huh? Was it? You didn’t think I’d come back for you? You didn’t think I’d save you? Was that it? Is that what you were thinkin’?” His fists clenched as he loomed over his brother’s still frame. “Damn you, you son of a bitch! Don’t you just lie there and tell me you gave up! Don’t you do that!”
The mid-morning light bathed Sam’s pale face, highlighting the angry reddened bruise on the left side of his jaw. Dean’s anger vanished as suddenly as it had risen, and he choked back tears as he stroked his brother’s hair. “That’s what you thought, wasn’t it? That you weren’t gonna get out of this one. That you weren’t gonna get saved. That you were all alone – that I wouldn’t find you in time, or maybe – maybe – you didn’t even know if I was even still alive…” The stricken hunter swallowed convulsively, and pressed his trembling lips together in a tight line. “That was it, wasn’t it? You thought – you thought the demon – that I was gone…dammit, Sammy…I’m sorry – I’m so sorry…”
Dean straightened, swiped the back of his hand across his eyes, and returned to his place by the door, taking up his silent vigil once again.
* * * * * This post has been edited by mizpah on Sep 19 2008, 01:01 PM