Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 1: Five Years' Silence

You were nearly falling as you walkedthrough your front door and threw your keys on the small table immediately toyour right, the exhaustion from the eighteen-hour shift catching up to you. Slamming the door behind you, you made a slow pace down the entryway of your suburban house, dropping things along the way: first your backpack, luckily void of anything except a change of clothes, your lab coat, and your stethoscope, then you ripped your shirt off over your head and tossed it to the side, leaving you standing in your entryway with a simple undershirt. Your shoes were on the way off when the clock on the wall chimed, twelve hollow- and empty-sounding clangs that, had it been any other day, would have meant little to nothing to you.

Happy birthday, you thought to yourself, and even the small voice in your mind was less-than-enthusiastic about it. Trying not to let your mind stick on the date for too long, you were in the middle of pouring a glass of water from the kitchen sink when three strong knocks echoed through the house.

Slowly you turned off the water and turned your head to look at the front door, which was sitting closed and innocent, yet the mysterious knock suddenly sent shivers down your back and your senses into overdrive. It was midnight, not five in the afternoon; no one in his or her right mind should be visiting you.

All at once, any exhaustion your last shift left you was evaporated and was replaced, instead, with coursing adrenaline and a quickening heartbeat; faster than you thought possible, your hand dove into the nut bowl on the island of your kitchen and pulled out a small pistol, much smaller than you would have chosen five or so years prior, but a perfect size to be disguised in a nut bowl.

On sock-covered toes you walked to the door, the gun lowered but your arms flexed, ready to attack at any moment.

The knocks rang out again, but this time there was an urgency and speed to them. You felt your eyebrows crinkle at the sound while curiosity surged into your mind, but with a simple shake of the head you were back on task.

Now standing at the door, you reached out and, with the handle of the door in one hand and the handle of the gun in the other, you cautiously opened the door and peered outside.

What you saw prompted your eyes to pop open and the gun to nearly fall from your hands, but you simply shook your head and looked once again. It can’t be, can it? Not—

“I need your help,” A feeble voice answered, much weaker and softer than you would have expected from Sam Winchester. “I didn’t know where else to go, I couldn’t go to the hospital and—“

“Oh my god,” you said, then wrapped an arm around his shoulder and gently pulled him into the house. You were sure to be extra cautious since the sight of him was gory, even to you, and were it not for the nearly mechanical nature of your job you likely would have frozen then and there, your eyes simply exploring the shattered person that was standing before you.

Sam was much taller than you remembered, and even when you saw him on the TV you could never have gauged his height. His hair was longer, too, but the gash on his forehead and right ear were enough to distract you from his locks altogether. Several layers of clothing sat loosely on his person, and it was easy for you to tell that the darkness of the fabric did well to hide whatever disaster was hiding beneath. The shoulder of his jacket was gashed and a small sliver of reddened skin was visible beneath; similarly, there was a gouge missing from one of his undershirts on his right side that was dark, wet looking, but was hidden well from the side of the jacket that acted as a curtain; his face was smashed, swollen, obviously going to bruise, and as you walked him to your kitchen you saw that he was wavering as he walked, almost like a child who was only just learning to saunter. There was a weakness in his step, a feebleness, and every other footstep would allow a small moan to escape his lips as he struggled to keep himself together—both physically and mentally, you supposed.