Holy Ground

A Supernatural Fan Fiction like all the rest. Takes place pre-show.

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Blood soaked the knife, up the blade and staining the handle. It was a fatal wound, tactically made to kill. Sam's fingers pressed the wound, the training he'd had meaning nothing. He was desperate, feeling the rhythm of her heart slowing, faltering, fluttering. Her eyes stated up at Sam's face, seeing the blood on his lips and the tears in his eyes. Her lips tugged themselves, ever so slowly, into a small smile.

Dean held her hand in between both of his palms. For the first time since Mary died, he prayed. To every angel and God and force who would bother to listen. He couldn't take his eyes off her face, despite the hollowing cheeks and closing eyes and paling lips. His heart had left his chest, maybe sunk to his stomach. It wasn't like death in an old cowboy movie. Those had sweet music playing in the background and sunsets and the blood was redder.

Sam's words were trapped in his throat. His cracked voice could hardly make a sound. "She's gone," he said firmly, just for Dean, punching the sounds out with his tongue. His brother was the strong one. The one who shot the gun first and asked questions later. Dean didn't cry and hug and worry. He certainly didn't need Sam to watch out for him. So why was Dean crying? Why did Dean look hopeless? And Sam realized he must look the exact same way.

He watched his older brother lean down, hands around the corpse's fingers, and touch his lips to her cheek. His lips moved, forming words no one would ever hear, too quiet and too sweet for living ears. Then he shook his head and closed his eyes. This was the future. Death and blood, all because of the Winchesters.

"Dean. She's dead."