Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Nothing Endures But Change ❯ Say Goodnight, Not Goodbye ( One-Shot )

DISCLAIMER: I don't own our beloved boys or the show. Oh, and the creature that this fic will cover can be found in a lot of stories, so I just kind of threw a lot of different theories together for the purposes of this fic. The song isn't mine, either—it belongs to Beth Nielson Chapman, and whoever wrote it. It's a beautiful song, though, and you guys should check it out. But the plot…that's mine.

 

Oh, and also—Olney, Missouri really does exist, and it really is a backwater, tiny town with almost no population. The house is real too—I've never been inside, but I've been close, and it is freaky. Just…trust me.

 

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Say goodnight, not goodbye.

You will never leave my heart behind.

Like the path of a star,

I'll be anywhere you are.

 

November 2nd.

 

To most people, it wasn't an unusual date. It wasn't a national holiday, and it wasn't a religious holiday…really, it wasn't any kind of holiday. Most people spent November 2nd doing exactly what they did every other day of the year, and some forgot the date entirely.

 

But the Winchester family would never again be allowed that luxury.

 

Sam Winchester sighed heavily as he scrolled through another page of internet newspapers. “I still don't think we should go tonight.”

 

His brother turned a page in the small journal he was perusing, and didn't look up as he replied flatly, “If you don't stop telling me that, there's gonna be a much more exciting end to the evening.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but…”

 

“Sam.”

 

Sam frowned, all of his senses compelling him not to heed the warning. But they'd been going through this all day, and each time the argument had gone exactly the same.

 

Still, he couldn't help himself, in the end.

 

“Dean, I've been feeling like something is gonna happen all day. Something bad. And frankly, I'm surprised that you're ignoring my feelings now, when you usually go along with them.”

 

“No, I usually go along with your visions. Because then at least you know what you're talking about!” Dean pointed out, sitting up and putting the book aside.

 

“But I do know what I'm talking about! I don't know exactly how, I'll give you that, but I told you, if we go out tonight, we're gonna be walking into serious trouble.”

 

“And I told you that you only feel that way because…”

 

“No, that's not why!” Sam snapped, his anger rising along with a peculiar desperation.

 

“How do you know?” Dean demanded, and Sam felt a spot behind his right eye begin to throb at the question, repeated over and over again since they'd made their plan that morning.

 

“I don't know,” he said in frustration, and his blood began to boil as Dean mimicked him. Why am I so angry…? “Dean, you know I don't understand my abilities. I can't control them. But that doesn't mean we should just ignore them…right?”

 

Dean sighed. “Sam, we're in the business of saving lives. That's a little important, don't you think? Now, I'm going to go to that house tonight, unless you can come up with an actual reason we shouldn't. You don't have to come with me, but I'm going, and I'm done talking about it.”

 

And then he laid down and picked up the journal again, and Sam was left to worry.

 

In the spark that lies beneath the coals,

In the secret place inside your soul,

Keep my light in your eyes.

Say goodnight, not goodbye.

 

Sam's bad feeling became more and more intense the closer they got to the possessed / haunted / whatever house, and by the time the Impala turned onto the deserted side road that led to their destination, he could barely breathe. But every time he opened his mouth to say something, Dean shot him such an overly-intimidating look that the words caught in his throat.

 

He couldn't find it in himself to be really angry, though—he was preoccupied, and his preoccupation was quickly turning into an unexplainable fear.

 

Oh, stop being so ridiculous! he finally told himself firmly. After all, it wasn't as if the Winchesters wouldn't be watching each other's backs as usual. Sam would just have to be twice as vigilant tonight, was all.

 

So, to take his mind off the unfounded feeling, he mentally reviewed everything he'd found out about their job tonight.

 

The creature they hunted was called a will-o'-the-wisp, reputed to be hanging around an old, abandoned house in small, out-of-the-way Olney, Missouri. The creatures were fairly common in folklore, and as such, turning up research had been child's play. The problem, though, was that the stories were all so drastically different that separating fact from fiction had been almost impossible, and so the Winchesters had no idea of what to expect to night. The only thing most of the legends seemed to have in common was that a will-o'-the-wisp could kill with a touch, and that no physical weapon could kill them—only magic, and a certain kind of magic, at that. With that in mind, they had come armed with a book of Latin incantations, including the Spell of Unmaking they would need.

 

The plan was simple—Dean, who would be unarmed for this excursion, since weapons were pointless, would distract the thing—staying as far from it as possible—and protect Sam as the younger Winchester worked the complicated spell. Personally, Sam felt that he himself had gotten the better end of the deal—the safer end, certainly. He'd tried to convince Dean to let him be the decoy, but it had been like arguing with a rock—only more pointless. So, finally, Sam had left off, and just vowed to himself to do whatever he could to keep Dean safe.

 

He just hoped it would be enough.

 

Sam was jerked out of his thoughts when a hand cracked, none too gently, over his head. He bit back a yelp and swung around to face his brother, who was glaring at him.

 

“We're here, Carrie,” the older Winchester snapped, opening his door. “Let's get this over with.”

 

Sam got out of the car without replying. In truth, he gave no thought to Dean's worse-than-normal mood—he knew the exact reason behind it, and he also knew that it was a miracle that his brother was saying anything at all.

 

But now wasn't the time to be thinking about any of that. Now was the time to think about hunting.

 

The Winchesters approached the house—walking through overgrown grass higher than their knees, thorns snagging at their clothes—cautiously, for two reasons. The first and obvious was the will-o'-the-wisp, and the other was that the house seemed entirely likely to fall down in a pile of splintered wood at any moment.

 

Dean walked in front—a given since they were kids—testing his footing carefully as he walked across the creaky porch to the door. The lock had long since rusted, and it broke easily under his hand, and Sa, followed him into the dark, dank place.

 

The house was exactly like most of the houses that the brothers had worked in their days—dilapidated, termite-infested walls and furniture, and a musty, heavy odor hanging in the air. Their flashlights did penetrate the black, but all it showed was that things were growing on the walls without help of pot or soil, and Sam almost wished for darkness.

 

“Come on, you stupid little cloud,” Dean muttered, breaking the silence. “Time for it to rain…”

 

Sam banished his fear as completely as he could, and opened the book he held to the page he'd marked. Then, every muscle coiled and tense, he followed his brother through the next room, eyes peeled.

 

They'd gone through two rooms before the `wisp decided to make an appearance.

 

It appeared as a flickering light, winking and floating slowly at first, and then faster. It didn't seem scary at all—in fact, it was almost cute, bobbing and circling there. But Sam didn't forget for a moment that the thing was lethal and even as Dean began his avoidance dance, he began the spell.

 

His chant began as a soft, lilting murmur, with the idea that it was supposed to grow in confidence with each repeated phrase. As had been expected, the `wisp targeted him immediately, knowing that he was the real threat, and also as expected, Dean kept himself between them, making himself as visible and irritating as possible.

 

The `wisp didn't seem to think much of him, but it went after him anyway, as if to show how easily it could dispose of him. Dean ducked and dodged and circled and invited death, and over and over again Sam nearly screwed up the chant and had to start over again in his terror. He only kept on track by reminding himself that Dean was as good as they came, and that this must be simple work for him.

 

But Winchesters were unlucky by nature, and it was bad luck that bit Dean in the end. It was bad luck that caused him to dodge just a little too slowly, that allowed the wisp to brush ever so slightly against his arm, that proved even Dean Winchester to be mortal.

 

Sam was almost finished with the incantation when Dean fell.

 

Don't you fear when you dream.

Waking up is never what it seems.

Like a jewel buried deep,

Like a promise meant to keep.

 

Sam had the most horrible feeling of déjà vu, and for a long moment he couldn't move. His mind, suddenly beyond his will, began to flash over the past—back to a dark basement in another abandoned house, and a pale, pale man lying in a puddle of cold water as if dead…

 

“DEAN!”

 

It was like a reenactment of that night—the only thing missing was the water. Sam could feel the memories pressing on him, weighing him down, suffocating him…

 

A pulse. There was a pulse. A faint, thready pulse, getting fainter, threadier…

 

Breathing. There was breathing. Shallow breathing, getting shallower.

 

An ambulance. There wasn't an ambulance. There should have been an ambulance, right?

 

But of course, there couldn't be an ambulance unless one was called.

 

Sam's hands shook uncontrollably as he drew his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. Angrily, he clenched his fist around the phone until he nearly crushed the thing, trying to stop the tremors. He shouldn't be this frightened…he hadn't even been this scared that night in the basement.

 

But now, all he could think of was the reading he'd done, and how despite all the circular, differing, confusing arguments, the majority of theories came down to one fact—the will-o'-the-wisp killed with a touch.

 

And it had touched Dean.

 

But not this time…not my brother…

 

The thought seemed to strengthen him, and as he spoke to the EMS dispatcher—the way he had done many times before but would never quite stop feeling wrong—his free hand remained pressed over Dean's wrist.

 

As if he alone possessed the power to hold that pulse in place.

 

You are everything you want to be,
So just let your heart reach out to me.

I'll be right by your side.

Say goodnight, not goodbye.

 

Because the part of him that could still think told him that Dean would murder him if he left it behind, Sam followed the ambulance in the Impala. It was lucky he'd had practice driving the old, stubborn car, because if he'd had to pay attention to the controls he probably would have been screwed. But as it was, he could steer and accelerate and control without any thought, and his mind was free to wander.

 

Of course, it didn't wander very far—it went straight to his brother, and stayed there. He couldn't get that face out of his mind—the white skin, the closed eyes, the abnormally still features. When Dean was sleeping, or even unconscious, his face was easy to read. Sam could tell with a single glance whether or not he was dreaming, and if the dreams were good or bad. But back in that house, Dean had been completely and utterly expressionless.

 

Sam felt an uncomfortable fluttering in the pit of his stomach, and to take his mind of it, as well as to get his thoughts in order, he began a mental list, which always helped calm him. He listed all of the things he'd probably need to do later, especially if Dean's hospital stay was to be a long one.

 

His old, reliable trick fell far short this time around, and within a couple of minutes he'd fallen back to brooding over the horrible turn of events. Just when he was sure he was going to heave from sheer anxiety, though, he pulled into the nearly-deserted hospital parking lot.

 

The crystal-clear part of his mind forced him to park carefully, to memorize the location of his brother's car, and to make sure everything was in order before he got out. After all, when Dean got out of the hospital—not if, his mind insisted determinedly—he would immediately check on the thing, and woe betide Sam if everything wasn't perfect!

 

So, he took his time with the Impala, despite everything in him that screamed for him to just dump the stupid car and run inside to start terrorizing the place even though he knew it wouldn't matter anyway. It would take the doctors a while to reach the diagnosis, and still longer for them to come find him.

 

Doctors took their time with things like that.

 

XXX

 

They took longer than even Sam, with his shocking amount of experience, could have predicted. He was in the waiting room two hours after it had emptied at eight-thirty, save for a single nurse who moved around the room and, after offering him a cup of coffee that he declined, left him tactfully alone. He sat silently, almost without movement. He didn't make any calls or get anything to drink or eat anything or get up and find someone and futilely demand news of his brother.

 

The nurse probably found his stillness a bit disturbing, but he didn't care. He just…waited.

 

And after what seemed like an endless waiting game, it paid off.

 

“Sam Reynolds.”

 

Sam's reflexes must have been kaflooey, because he'd had no idea that the doctor was standing right in front of him, until he spoke. But in a split second he was on his feet, his entire body tensed up as if for a fight even though this was probably one of the only comparatively safe places for a Winchester to be.

 

He didn't say a word. Knew that plying the doctor with questions would only annoy him and delay the forthcoming information.

 

But really, in the end, he didn't need the diagnosis, or the words that followed it.

 

All he needed was to look at the doctor's face.

 

XXX

 

He walked into Dean's room a few minutes later, looking for all the world as if he'd wandered in there entirely by accident, he seemed so dazed. Just inside the door, he stopped, and looked, like he was waiting for some sort of signal.

 

He'd known what to expect, and though the sheer number of machines was slightly disconcerting, it didn't faze him. Nothing could bother him now.

 

After a long moment, Sam left the spot he'd seemed rooted to, and moved in slow, measured steps over to the bed.

 

Dean looked exactly as he had hours ago, when he was loaded into the ambulance. No color had returned to him, but he wasn't any paler, either. In fact—Sam tried not to feel creeped out—Dean was exactly the same as he'd been since the `wisp touched him, right down to his facial expression.

 

It was like something had imprisoned him, frozen him in time.

 

For a while, Sam just stood there, as if close proximity would “unfreeze” his brother, and bring back color and movement to lifeless limbs. But when time passed, and no change occurred, Sam sighed and, shoulders slumped with defeat, pulled a chair up to the bedside, preparing for a long vigil.

 

He should have realized that by taking a seat when he had nothing to do but sit was a stupid notion, because it opened his mind up for anything that wanted to dart in and take over. And, of course, tonight there were quite a few things willing to make themselves at home in his thoughts—chief among them being the diagnosis the doctor had given him only minutes before.

 

The doctor had delivered the news in the form of many complicated words said in even tones, as is the way of doctors. That was okay with Sam—whatever form it was delivered in, the gist was the same always.

 

Dean was dying. Actually, he was well on his way down that road already. Sam had no idea what the `wisp had done, but obviously it had done what it was supposed to do. Dean was shutting down, and quickly, too. Already he was on heavy machinery just to keep him alive, but that wouldn't work for long, and every minute that passed was just one more minute that his heartbeat slowed, one more minute that his breathing grew shallower, and one more step toward death.

 

Now, one thing had surprised the doctor. Surprised him quite a bit, actually, to the point where he even allowed some emotion—that of confusion—to color his tone. That piece of information that apparently rocked the poor doctor's carefully-ordered universe was simply this: the rest of Dean's organs remained in perfect working order. The machines that he was attached to only supported his heart and lungs—his kidneys, liver, and even his brain were fully functional and healthy. That wasn't supposed to happen if your heart failed.

 

“It's truly remarkable,” the doctor had said, and Sam had felt a hot fury leap up inside him.

 

He hadn't physically hurt the man, but his voice had dripped with sarcasm with his reply. “Well, I'll be sure to let him know his liver is remarkable before he dies.”

 

Because seriously, what did it even matter? The bottom line was that Sam's brother was dying, and vital organs weren't much use to a dead man.

 

The ways of it may have been mysterious, baffling, but the end result would be the same. Sam would have loved to indulge in the hope that the continued functioning of his organs meant something, but the life he'd been forced to lead had pounded a sense of reality into him that he never could quite shake. He'd shaken it once, had dared to challenge the Fates, and that way had turned out to be merely a more roundabout way to Evil, instead of a direct route to Good.

 

And though part of him didn't care, though that part screamed to do whatever he had to do to save his brother, he simply…couldn't.

 

He had paid attention to that voice inside before, but…never again.

 

Never again.

 

It was the most painful vow he'd ever made, but he'd made it and now he wouldn't ever break it. Dean would never want him to break it, and nothing else was important.

 

Suddenly Sam felt as if he'd lived centuries in a few hours—felt older than time itself. He felt drained of energy, drained of hope—he only wished he felt drained of thought, too, and emotion. He was so tired of feeling this way…

 

And yet he knew that not feeling would be wrong, too. It would mean that he was either dead, soulless, or on his way to becoming evil himself—all things that Dean certainly would not want.

 

Feeling like he was quickly reaching an abrupt end to his sanity, Sam did the only thing he could, the only thing that had ever really helped when he was little and scared and lonely. He reached out and slid his hand carefully into his brother's.

 

In the past, whenever he'd done that, Dean had rolled his eyes as if he thought Sam ridiculous, but at the same time he would hold the small hand tightly in his, and that alone would anchor Sam when all he wanted was to run.

 

But now, Dean's hand remained limp and still, and the reassuring grip just wasn't there. It was as if Dean was already gone, like he'd already left him. But instead of letting go, Sam's grip only got tighter at the thought, until he nearly crushed the lifeless hand he grasped.

 

After a while, though, the first panic faded, and Sam just sat and held onto his brother, nurses and doctors and time passing unnoticed. He didn't realize how many hospital staffers looked at him pityingly when their jobs made it necessary for them to intrude, and he was dumb to their conversations with each other and mute to their murmured apologies.

 

Or at least, he was for the first hour or so, and probably would have been for much longer, if one particularly clumsy nurse hadn't come in and immediately dropped everything she carried at once and caused such a crash that Sam was brought rather rudely out of his reverie.

 

“Uh…I…I'm really sorry, I swear I didn't mean to…”

 

More out of habit than any actual thought, Sam felt himself going to help her as she tried in vain to mop up her mess without the help of any sort of rag. They were napkins on the small counter by the door, and he handed them to her as he knelt in front of her. She looked up at him for a moment, then suddenly blushed a deep shade of red for some reason, and fixed her eyes on the puddle.

 

“I'm such a klutz. Seriously, it's a curse. I'm surprised they haven't fired me yet. I don't know what I'd do if they did fire me, but I wouldn't blame them, and—”

 

“It's okay,” Sam cut her off, already seeing that she was a rambler. “What is this, anyway?” he asked, making his voice as friendly as he could under the circumstances.

 

She blushed again. “Oh…just a sandwich and some coffee…for…uh…you…”

 

Sam was surprised, but he didn't let it show. “Oh. That was really nice of you…”

 

“Well…I…uh…just went off the clock, and I thought…before I went home…” She got redder and redder with each word, and Sam marveled at the fact that she hadn't yet run off, if she really was as shy as she seemed. He was still more surprised when she composed herself, tossed the napkins, and held out the hand she wasn't holding the sandwich in, with a frank, if quiet, “My name's Ami.”

 

Sam took the offered hand and said, “Sam Winchester.”

 

“Oh, I know,” she replied, and then looked so surprised that Sam knew the words had escaped her without permission. “Well, there's been quite a stir about you tonight,” she said quickly, her skin tinting pink again. “Because people don't get why you…well, why you're so quiet.” Then she looked still more surprised, but of course she didn't solve the problem by clamming up. No, instead she tried to fix it by talking still more, and faster. “I heard some nurses talking and they can't understand why you're so…calm. Everyone on duty tonight knows what's happening in here by now, and…well, to tell you the truth, they're all kind of creeped out by you. And I can't believe I'm telling you any of this and it's probably not making you feel any better, but I just thought you should know what people are saying about you…”

 

By the end of her speech, poor Ami's face seemed to be on fire and she seemed to want nothing more than to run. But she didn't, and Sam found himself liking her for that. And he liked her even more when she realized that none of her apologies had been made in the form of token condolences.

 

“Look, you wanna sit with me for a while?” he asked, surprised at himself for asking it but not regretting the idea.

 

Ami didn't even attempt to refuse, and it struck Sam that there was absolutely nothing false about this girl. For some reason, he thought of Sarah then.

 

Ami sat in the chair against the wall on the other side of the bed, Sam took his seat again, and…silence ensued. Neither of them made any attempt to instigate conversation, and when Sam snuck a glance at her he was relieved to see that she didn't seem to expect him to say anything more. In fact, her eyes were locked on Dean almost as firmly as Sam's had been.

 

Sam fell easily back into his reverie, and for a while he was content to just sit there and think. About Dean, about tonight's events, about the terrible irony of everything happening tonight. And as he did, the warmth he'd felt upon meeting Ami began to fade, until it was gone entirely, and all that was left was a deep, black pit, where all that existed was despair and tears and the weirdest desire to—

 

“Today's the anniversary of my mom's death.”

 

—Say that.

 

What on earth had possessed him to say something like that?

 

But Ami didn't reply, though Sam could feel her eyes boring into him.

 

And for some reason, he kept talking.

 

“Yeah. November 2nd, 1983. That's the night she was…murdered.” Why he'd used “murdered” instead of “died,” as he usually did, Sam didn't know, but the word seemed right. “We…me and Dean and our dad…we've been looking for her killer since I was six months old. Then the same…guy….killed my girlfriend Jess, and we still didn't find him. And then six months ago, my dad was killed in a…uh…a car accident. So Dean and me kept looking.” He paused for a moment, trying to suppress the lump in his throat, but it was useless. He didn't stop, though—he was determined to have this out whether anyone was listening or not. “And now…now this. Now Dean. The last person I have in the world and he's…” Sam choked over his next words. “It can't be tonight, it just…it can't.”

 

If Sam had looked at Ami right then, he would have seen an expression that would have interested him greatly. But he didn't, and so it didn't matter.

 

After a while, Ami stood up, came around the bed, and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, and for a few minutes they stayed that way, as still as if they'd been pained into a picture. Then Ami said, “I have to go,” and sounded truly regretful.

 

Sam nodded, and said, “Thanks. For…everything.”

 

“Maybe I'll see you again sometime, Sam Winchester.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

But both of them knew that this would be their first and last meeting.

 

But before Ami left, she turned around, and looked at Sam, who was still staring at his brother and so didn't see that all traces of the earlier shyness had vanished as she spoke.

 

“Don't worry, Sam. Nothing endures but change.”

 

You are everything you want to be,

So just let your heart reach out to me.

Keep my light in your eyes.

Say goodnight, not goodbye.

 

Sam had always had a childish love of Disney and DreamWorks animated movies. Maybe it was their innocence, or the fact that they always had a happy ending, but he never got tired of watching them. John disdained the practice and Dean mocked him mercilessly, but still Sam watched them whenever he could.

 

In the late nineties, a new DreamWorks had come out, The Road to El Dorado, and it had quickly become one of his favorites. He'd never been able to buy a copy for himself, but he saw it enough to remember every detail through the years—one quote in particular.

 

He found himself recalling it now, years later, in this hospital room, watching his brother, and oddly enough, it did make him feel better, if only very, very slightly.

 

The clock turned to eleven-thirty, and the monitors continued their steady patterns of bleeps.

 

Eleven forty-five, and still no change.

 

Twelve midnight, and Dean kept breathing steadily.

 

At 12:01, Dean died.

 

Sam felt…something…leave the room. It was impossible to pinpoint, but he didn't need to hear the loud reports of the machines or the scurries of doctors and nurses to know the truth. He saw as still as a stone while they did their thing—hardly noticed, actually—and then they left so that he could “gather himself” and he was alone.

 

For a few minutes, Sam did nothing at all. Then, quite suddenly, he leaned over and picked up his brother's still-warm hand, and said, “Thanks for waiting. It doesn't make anything better, but…thanks.”

 

 

Dean didn't answer, and so it was real.

 

Friends never say goodbye.

 

So Sam didn't say goodbye. Just pressed Dean's limp hand to his forehead, and whispered, “Goodnight.”

 

XXX

 

No one saw the nurse Ami leave the building. In fact, if anyone had checked the roster, they wouldn't find an Ami on the list at all.

 

But it didn't matter, because her duty had been done, and her words would continue to hover in the back of Sam Winchester's mind.

 

Nothing endures but change.

 

Say goodnight, not goodbye.

 

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AN: It's kind of short, and it's not my best writing, but it's there anyway. And I've got an idea for a sequel, so if anyone—even one person—votes for it, I'll write it for you guys!

 

Review, please!