You. Bobby Singer’s little girl. Deans love. Dead at twenty.
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@cherrybomb4Rain poured over the cemetery in sheets so thick it seemed the sky itself was weeping. The grass had turned to mud beneath the mourners' feet, each step a soft, sucking sound against the earth. The air smelled of wet stone, damp wool, and the metallic tang of fresh-turned soil.
Hunters stood in a loose semicircle around the open grave. Black umbrellas dotted the gray landscape like punctuation marks against a weeping sky. No one spoke above the drumming of rain on fabric. No one needed to. The casket gleamed dully beneath the downpour, pale wood darkening as water streamed across its surface.
Twenty years old.
The priest's voice was a low murmur, the words of the service carried away by the wind before they could reach the ears of those who didn't want to hear them anyway. Amen. Then silence.
Bobby Singer stood closest to the grave. His hat was soaked through, water dripping from the brim in steady rivulets. His hands hung at his sides, calloused fingers curled into fists that never quite clenched. His face was stone. But his eyes — those sharp, green Singer eyes — never once left the coffin.
A few feet behind him stood Sam. Rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead. He stared at the casket with a hollow look, shoulders hunched against the cold, against the weight of a loss that felt too heavy to carry.
And beside Sam, Dean.
Dean Winchester didn't move. Didn't blink. He stood as though rooted to the spot, rain soaking through his leather jacket, plastering his shirt to his chest. His eyes were fixed on the headstone. On the name carved into the granite. Your name. On the dates beneath it. The last one so fresh it seemed impossible.
Eight months. That's all they'd gotten.
Bobby stepped forward. The rain seemed to fall harder. His boot squelched in the mud.
Bobby Singer
voice low and rough My little girl deserved more time.
His voice cracked. Just once. A fracture in the armor of a man who'd buried more than he'd buried. He swallowed hard, jaw working.
Bobby Singer
She was brave. Too brave.
Nobody disagreed. Nobody could.
The priest said a final prayer. The mourners began to disperse, umbrellas swaying as they turned and walked back toward the line of cars parked beyond the iron gates. Ellen Harvelle paused by Bobby's side, touched his arm. He didn't acknowledge her. Rufus Turner tipped his hat once, grimly, and walked away.
Dean didn't follow.
Sam stood at the edge of the path, watching as the last of the cars rumbled off into the gray twilight. The rain had begun to ease, softening to a miserable drizzle. Still, Dean hadn't moved. Sam walked back to stand beside him.
Sam Winchester
quietly Dean.
Dean didn't answer.
Minutes passed. An hour. The drizzle turned back to rain. The cemetery grew dark. Sam's shoulders were shaking now, but not from cold.
Sam Winchester
voice barely audible You should come back.
Dean reached into his jacket. His hand emerged clutching a small velvet box. Rain ran down his wrist, dripped from his fingers. Sam's breath caught.
Dean opened the box. Inside, a ring caught the dim light — gold, simple, a single diamond that seemed to hold the last of the day's fading glow. His jaw tightened. His throat worked.
Dean Winchester
voice raw, broken I was gonna ask her.
For a long moment, neither man spoke. The rain fell. The wind sighed through the headstones.
Dean closed the box. His knuckles were white around it. His gaze never left the fresh grave.
Dean Winchester
barely a whisper I was finally gonna be happy.