As It Was - Dean Winchester

Part 75

Waking up hurt. 

It was as if my body knew what was awaiting me. Not the physical pain— that I could handle. But the bone-deep sorrow that held my heart in its fist was another thing. 

"She's awake," someone said next to me. I didn't want to register who it was, didn't want to open my eyes or acknowledge that I was... anything. 

"Will," a calloused but gentle hand rubbed my arm. Bobby. "You need to open your eyes."

"No." My voice was usually hoarse, but the words barely escaped this time. It was nothing but a whisper. 

A sigh. "Come on. We need to take a look at your eye." Sam. 

"No." I curled in on myself, ignoring the sharp pain in my back and face. "No."

"What do we do?" Sam questioned. There was something wrong with the way he said it. His voice didn't sound like his own; it was raw. He must have been crying. 

"We'll leave her alone for a while. She'll have to get up sooner or later."

I don't know how much time passed after that. It could have been minutes, hours, or days. But when I finally did crack my eyes open, fear made me tremble. Everything was black, and it took me a good minute to understand that it wasn't because the hellhound had made me blind but because it was night. 

I was in a motel room, my eyes finding the door connecting my room to another, even in the dim light. 

I got up on my feet, desperately needing a bathroom. I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I washed my hands. I hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, but now my hand reached out to the switch. 

One side of my face was slashed open by the hellhound's claws, deep wounds that I knew would turn into nasty scars. My eye had somehow been saved, but my bottom lip was cut open, held together with a single stitch that I supposed Sam or Bobby was responsible for. Dried blood made it hard to see the rest of the stitches, but I couldn't summon the energy to care. It was only a reminder of what happened, of my failure. 

Grief washed over me, threatening to cripple me, and I did not attempt to stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. 

I flipped the switch again, once again plunged into the dark. No matter what I did or tried to do, I failed. Dean had died because I had failed. 

Dean is dead. Dean is dead. Dean is dead.

I laid back in bed, turning to face the wall, and with that, it was as if the floodgates burst open. My body shook with violent sobs, and I gasped for air between each one. It was as if the world didn't have enough oxygen without Dean in it. He had been my drug, and now I was suffering the withdrawal. 

The door connecting my motel room with the other opened, and I briefly remembered the time that it had been Dean walking in, just like Bobby did now. The difference was that Dean had laid down in bed with me, pulled me tight, and told me that everything would be alright. No such assurances came from the old hunter. 

He placed a hand on my shoulder, offering comfort as he said, "Sam and I are going to bury Dean. I thought you'd want to join us." 

Another sob wracked through me as I met his swollen eyes, gulping down air in an attempt to calm myself. "Y-yes."

---

I stared at the grave, feeling every muscle in my body tense as Sam and Bobby filled the hole containing the wooden box made for Dean. It felt wrong on so many different levels. He shouldn't be dead. He should have had the opportunity to live a full life, and when he died of old age, he deserved a hunter's funeral. He deserved to have his soul put to rest. But it didn't matter if we burned him; his soul was already claimed for damnation.