Fragments of Tomorrow (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 5)

Fractured Requiem

Bobby's Point of View

It's been weeks since the fight, and the weight of those weeks feels like a leaden cloak, draped over my shoulders. The once-familiar safe house now feels like a prison, each creak of the floorboards echoing the uncertainty that grips us. Dean's been lying in the makeshift infirmary, a ghost of his former self. It's a place we never thought we'd need, but here it is—our desperate attempt to save him from the abyss Crowley left behind.

Each day blends into the next, marked only by the rotation of who sits by Dean's bedside. I'm on watch now, but even after all this time, I can't get used to the sight of him lying there, pale and still. We've all taken turns—Sam, me, Castiel, and even a few of our other allies—each of us hoping that our presence might somehow bring him back to us.

I shift my position in the creaky chair next to Dean's bed, trying to ease the ache in my back. My eyes sweep over the room: IV drips hum softly, and the scent of antiseptic fills the air. Dean's breathing is shallow but steady, a small comfort in the sea of uncertainty. The bandages on his wrists are a painful reminder of how close we came to losing him, and every time I look at them, I feel a pang of guilt. If only I'd seen the signs earlier, if only I'd been able to stop him before Crowley's hold was too strong.

The thought of Dean giving up entirely—especially after hurting Sam—is a fear that gnaws at me every waking moment. We all hoped it wouldn't come to this, that he'd be able to fight his way back, but it's hard to ignore the reality that we're walking a fine line between hope and despair.

I rub my tired eyes and glance over at the wall clock. It's late, and the safe house is quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the occasional murmur from the infirmary. I know I should get some rest, but every time I try, the thought of Dean alone in the room, vulnerable and lost, keeps me from sleeping. I need to be here, need to be ready if he wakes up, if he needs anything. It's a role I've played many times before, but this feels different—deeper, more desperate.

I hear footsteps behind me and turn to see Sam entering the room, his face a mix of exhaustion and determination. He's been relentless, refusing to leave Dean's side for long. I can see the strain etched into his features, the weight of worry that seems to hang over him like a dark cloud. It's clear that this is taking a toll on him, but he's holding on with a fierce determination that I admire.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam says softly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He steps closer to Dean's bed, his eyes scanning his brother's still form with a look of deep concern.

"Hey, Sam," I reply, forcing a small smile. "How're you holding up?"

Sam shrugs, his gaze never leaving Dean. "Just another day, I guess. I don't know how much longer we can keep this up. We're all running on empty."

"Yeah," I agree, leaning back in my chair. "We've all been through hell, and we're running on fumes. But we've got to keep going, keep hoping."

Sam nods, but his eyes are shadowed with a heavy fatigue that speaks volumes. "I just don't get it. He's been like this for weeks, and every time we think there's a chance, something goes wrong. I can't shake the feeling that he's giving up."

I can't argue with that. Dean's condition is precarious, and the fear that he might not come back from this is a constant presence in our lives. It's hard to imagine the toll it's taking on Sam—seeing his brother like this, knowing that he was hurt by Dean himself, a reminder of just how deep Crowley's influence ran.

"Maybe he's just...holding on until he's sure we're okay," I suggest, though my voice lacks conviction. "Maybe he's waiting for something."

Sam shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears he's desperately trying to keep at bay. "I don't know, Bobby. I keep thinking about how he looked at me—like he was already gone. I thought I was going to lose him right then and there, and now...now I don't know if he's ever coming back."

"None of us do," I say quietly. "But we've got to keep fighting. He needs us, whether he knows it or not."

We fall into a tense silence, the only sounds the beeping of the monitor and the soft shuffle of our movements. I can see the strain in Sam's posture, the way he tries to hold himself together despite the crushing weight of fear and exhaustion. It's clear that the trauma of what happened—Dean's attack, the lingering influence of Crowley—has left its mark on all of us.

"Why don't you take a break, Sam?" I suggest gently. "Get some rest. I've got this."

Sam hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Alright. But I'll be back soon. I need to be here."

"Of course," I say, patting his shoulder. "We all need to be here."

Sam walks out, leaving me alone with Dean. The room feels emptier without him, and the silence seems to press in from all sides. I glance at Dean again, taking in the sight of him lying motionless, and a heavy sigh escapes me. I wish there was something more I could do, some magic cure that would bring him back to us. But all I have is my presence, my hope, and my resolve to keep fighting for him.

Sam's Point of View

The safe house is eerily quiet as I step out of the infirmary, the hum of the IV drips and the beeping of the heart monitor fading behind me. The exhaustion I feel is overwhelming, like a physical weight pressing down on me. I've barely slept in days, and every waking moment is filled with the nagging fear that Dean might slip away from us for good.

I lean against the wall in the dimly lit hallway, trying to steady my breathing. It feels like I'm walking on a tightrope, teetering between hope and despair. Each time I look at Dean, lying motionless with those haunted eyes, I'm reminded of the terrible possibility that he might never recover. The memory of his attack still haunts me—seeing him lash out in that moment of darkness, knowing it was Crowley's influence, is a burden I can't shake.

The others are just as worn out as I am. We've all taken turns sitting with Dean, but the strain is starting to show. Bobby's been a rock, a steadfast presence at Dean's side, but I can see the toll it's taking on him, too. We're all holding on by a thread, trying to stay strong for Dean, even as we feel ourselves unraveling.

As I make my way to the kitchen to grab a quick bite, I pass by a window and catch a glimpse of the moonlight filtering through the trees outside. It's a stark contrast to the darkness that feels so prevalent inside. I've always found solace in the quiet of the night, but tonight, it feels more like a reminder of how far we've fallen.

I pull open the refrigerator and rummage through its contents, grabbing a bottle of water and a sandwich that I barely have the appetite for. I take a seat at the small kitchen table, my thoughts drifting back to Dean. It's maddening to think that we're so close to losing him, that everything we've fought for might unravel because of the damage Crowley inflicted on his mind.

The guilt is suffocating. I keep replaying the moments leading up to Dean's collapse, wondering if there was something more I could have done, some way to prevent this. But deep down, I know it's not just about me—it's about Dean, and the battle he's fighting within himself.

I take a sip of water, trying to quench the dryness in my throat. The silence of the house is a heavy reminder of how much we've lost, and the uncertainty of Dean's condition makes it feel even more acute. I can't shake the feeling that we're on the brink of something, something that could either pull us together or tear us apart.

The kitchen door swings open, and I look up to see Bobby walking in, his face drawn and tired but resolute. He must have seen me through the window or just come to check on me. Either way, I appreciate the gesture. We're all in this together, even if it feels like we're drifting apart.

"Sam," Bobby says, his voice carrying a note of weary concern. "You should get some rest. You're running on empty."

"I'm fine," I reply, though I know it's a lie. "Just needed a break. Dean...he needs us."

"Yeah, he does," Bobby agrees, taking a seat across from me. "But we can't help him if we're all falling apart. You know that."

I nod, feeling a pang of guilt. He's right, of course. We need to be strong, for Dean's sake, but it's hard to stay strong when every day feels like an uphill battle.

"Have you had a chance to talk to Castiel?" I ask, trying to shift the focus. "Has he said anything about Dean's condition?"

Bobby shakes his head.