Work Text:
Blood. Blood on his hands, drenching them, soaking into his skin. Staining not only his body, but his mind too. The empty shell of his brother lying in the dust, surrounded by the shattered remains of the lives they led; bullet casings and rock salt littered the floor, a knife still clutched in tightly in his cold hand, a 67 impala, its immaculate exterior a stark contrast to the old warehouse which witnessed the last time that Sam Winchester would fight for his life.