FIC: 3 Words - 3 drabbles (SPN, GEN)
Witchofthedogs gave me three words...I give her three drabbles.


After the fire is out, all that's left is the clean up. There's water on the street and the scent of smoke hangs in the air. The investigators asked all their questions and politely demanded contact information. The neighbors have long since gone back to their homes, and the murmurs of horror and fascination have faded into the night.

Sam sits on the curb during all of it, bloody smears on his forehead and his face still damp.

Dean brings him coffee and a blanket. He makes no apologies, no promises.

Sam finally breaks when the dawn does.

Dean doesn't.


Sam's lip is split and bleeding. He can feel the rise of a welt on his cheek, and his tongue pushes at a loose tooth. Beneath him Dean has stopped struggling, stopped fighting, his body still taut and trembling with anger and rage and helplessness.

The brick wall behind the bar is cold, hard and damp.

They saved four kids today, they were too late for the fifth.

Dean relaxes in stages and Sam cautiously eases his grip. Dean faces him and wipes the blood from Sam's mouth.

"I'm sorry."

Sam lets him go. It's not his forgiveness Dean needs.


Sam wakes by himself in the room and struggles to his feet. It takes him a moment to realize Dean's not there.

His bed's not slept in. His bag is gone. The keys to Impala are on the night stand.

There's a note though, in Dean's neat hand, set beneath the bottle of pills Sam has to take every day.

I won't bury you, too. Is all it says.

Sam is still on crutches and it takes him an hour to pack the car.

It takes him six more of driving and looking to realize that Dean is really gone.