Fandoms: Supernatural ONLY

Warning: Mwhaha, I like making people cry so be prepared!😈😈
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Don't You Cry No More.

It was supposed to be a simple hunt. A quick in and out, to gank the evil s.o.b and free any of the remaining alive hostages. Not this. God, anything but this. He cradled their heads in his lap brushing matted, blood soaked hair back from their closed eyelids. He hadn't been able to look at them, the empty blankness that had once been so vibrant and so full of the colours of the sky but were now misted and cold like a foggy morning. It had freaked him out, to the point where he had screamed and sobbed for what had seemed like hours, longing for them to wake up. To wake up properly. But it wouldn't happen, a numb realisation had informed him of that. Not that he'd wanted to believe it of course, he wanted them back.

Blood soaked through his clothes, icy cold, all he wanted was to put it back. It shouldn't be there and it certainly shouldn't be cold, it should be warm and in them. It was theirs after all. But now it surrounded him in a crimson puddle reflecting the light, soaking through his clothes and onto his skin. It was already congealed on his fingers and palms, smeared up his wrists and forearms, sticking with every brush through their hair. Bodies of the dead surrounded him within the wide destruction of the warehouse, each bathing in their own crimson pool but he didn't look at them. They were irrelevant to him. Only two of the bodies mattered.

He was still wearing that bloody trench coat. It had been destroyed more times than he could count, Dean had always brought him a replacement however, informing him that he wouldn't look like him without it. He almost laughed then as he stared at the item of clothing. The trench coat, the one thing that had remained consistent and never changing despite how much they and the world around them had. It was pretty much the first thing Dean had paid a comment to when they had first met, even if it was to make fun of the angel. He brushed back the long hair from Sam's face, strands snagging on the concealed blood coating his hands. It was still wet in places from the pool underneath them. It always had been long, all those times when Dean had threatened to cut it whilst the younger Winchester slept to make up for all the cake and pie "what's the difference" incidents. He never had. He supposed that truthfully it had never really mattered at all, long or short. What's the difference?

"Mom was right, huh Sammy?" Dean muttered wearily, his voice raspy from the screaming he'd done previously, contrasting well with the burning itch from his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks still damp with tears. He let his hand brush once more through Sam's hair before taking hold of the limp, lifeless hand that belonged to his baby brother. "She always said that there was an angel watching over us." He let his other hand hold Castiel's, grip tight as though the Angel would disappear if he did. It was too late though, he already had. Black scorch wings marking out where the Angel had finally and officially fallen, scalding across Dean's arms and legs. Cas had tried to push him away but Dean hadn't let him, Sammy was gone before Dean could hold him, he couldn't let Cas leave that way too. Not knowing that Dean was there, that Dean was always going to be there.

He ducked his head then, clutching onto the two cold bodies of his brother and his Angel. He didn't know  what to do, they'd won the hunt only to receive nothing but pain and sorrow. He couldn't just leave them. They were his family and they were gone. They had left him alone with nothing but two corpses, heart wrenching pain and scorch marks that would eventually scar to remind him that they had ever really existed at all. Shifting slightly, he clung to them. He couldn't let them go. He couldn't. They couldn't be alone, he wouldn't let them. He was always there, he wouldn't leave them alone. Not this time. Releasing his hold on both Sam and Cas momentarily he searched around where he was sat, looking for his mobile and gun. He set the phone out on the floor in front of him, the number he'd typed in already dialling, the shrill sound of the dial tone echoing through the quiet room.

Next he moved his mind onto his next task, checking his gun. It was a mindless and numb task, something to momentarily distract him from the empty coldness inside of him as he waited for them to pick up. He shook out the remaining bullets. One. One bullet left. He returned it to the gun, clicking each section back into place and placing the object in his lap. There was even blood on his gun, he noted. He didn't know who it belonged to, he didn't really care. It had served its main purpose for the night. The phone finally answered, a soft click echoing from the receiver before a person's voice followed. Dean let his eyes focus on the person's digits that flashed on his screen: 666. "Dean. What do I owe for this pleasure?" Crowley. The only person Dean had left. The only person that could ever tell this story to anyone. "He's gone..." Dean stated, voice crackly as his eyes began to burn once more. "Both of them... Cas... S-Sammy..." There was silence on the other end, a slight static on the line making the phone crackle. There wasn't a need for words both men knew this day would come and they both knew what it meant when it did.

Dean fiddled with his gun, hands shaking as he raised it ensuring that the safety was off and finally pressing the cool metal against his temple. "I guess this is goodbye then Crowley." He wrapped his free arm back around Cas and Sam, "I won't leave you again." He whispered pressing his lips first to his brother's head then the angel's.

BANG!

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There was no tiny coloured umbrella or plastic pitchfork in Crowley's drink that night as he sat in the dark bar that he and Dean had once visited such a long time ago. Instead there was just an empty glass and a half empty bottle of whisky besides him on the table. It all seemed so far away now, the times he had spent with the Winchesters and their Angel. Making deals, pinning them against one another every so often, even going as far as befriending them. He was the only one left who knew of their story, the many times they had saved the world and then destroyed it again in their attempts to save their loved ones, their family, in that 67 Chevy Impala they called home. He was the only one left to tell their story and tell it he would.