The pungent tang of blood was the only thing he could discern. Usually, with nosebleeds, there’s a mix of mucus to dilute the blood and thin it’s trail. Granted, it didn’t make the dry Colorado air any more tolerable, or waking up at 2 AM with pink-tinted snot on your pillow any more fun, but it did make the nosebleed seem like an entirely human issue. It was banal - something he could fix with the tilt of his head and a wad of tissues stuffed into each nostril. The blood that poured in thick rivulets, following the contours of his upper lip, was strictly ichor. Syrupy and sticky, almost tacky like tar on a summer day - sticking to the soles of your shoes and embedding in the crevices of the rubber. The arm that had been previously cradling his elbow reached up to his face, he frowned, touching the area just above his cupid’s bow. His shaking fingers padded at the congealed blood, Sam’s eyes fixated on it, like he was genuinely confused how it got there. “I’m bleeding.”
His eyes glazed over and he alternated between looking at his stained fingers to blinking owlishly at the witch. “Where-Rowena? What’s going on?”
Sam curled forward where he stood against a sudden rush of pain in his abdomen. He was keening now, his blood smeared hands racking through his hair, matting the strands together. Blood loss, internal or external, he didn’t know, was making him disoriented. The pain though, that was grounding, was an anchor to lucidity. Once the wave eased enough for Sam to straighten back to his full height, some recollection had returned to his features and his trembling hand returned to stabilize his arm. The gun had never been lowered; hunter instincts or some shit.
He knew her better than she thought. Frankly, he felt she knew him better, too. Better than she was allowing herself to acknowledge.
On a hunt once, they thought it was some sort of Black Dog in the white mountain forests, in North Conway, NH, Sam had found a bookstore. It looked more like an old house than a store, a muted yellow exterior accented with purple and green shackles on the roof. At first glance, it screamed “come inside to be eaten by a Brother’s Grimm nursery rhyme”, rather than quant family operated bookstore - but Sam wasn’t all that into judging outward appearances. Plus, they had just ganked some nasty thing in the woods and this couldn’t be much worse. It was inside White Birch Bookstore that Sam got a copy of The Nightingale’s Song by Robert Timberg for a total of $3.
Inside, Timberg describes how Nightingales lay in wait for a shared partner before it sings. The means to do so are always present, scientifically the bird is capable from birth to produce the melody for which its species is now so famous, but until it hears the notes from another Nightingale, it’s mute. It shall never sing until it hears it first. “[McFarlane, North, and Poindexter were] akin to young nightingales, voices caught in their throats, awaiting the song of another nightingale. And, on finally hearing the melody, responding with vigor and enthusiasm.” Sam didn’t know it at the time, but in the way his stomach seemed to plummet as he read, his chest constricting in that daunting way it did before you cried, this touched a nerve. He had his brother, and he would always have his brother, but Dean had yet to sing the same song as Sam. His experience in Hell so different than Sam’s - Lucifer and the Cage so isolating, silent and inaudible.
Rowena, in the back seat of the Impala, hummed the youngest Winchester’s tune. Belted out a chord of familiarity and commonality that he had been waiting for since buying a used book in New Hampshire. Rowena, confessing her helplessness and vulnerability, hadn’t been doing so with the means to achieve an end. It hadn’t been to impress with power. Despite the magic in her bones and the petty drawl at which she hid her hurt, she was still terrified - and that joint trauma was the song at which Sam had earned back his voice.
Now, he knew the song at length. The music vibrating through his nerves like electricity and it was all thanks to Rowena’s admission; her first breath of his Nightingale’s Song.
“It’s-I only tried to help you,” His voice is fading. He can’t keep delaying the inevitable in the hope he can belay her. If he keeps talking, stalling, then she would reverse the spell - use her own free will to reconcile this. Sam had left the door open for her. No demands. Just a simple, you can do this, or you could not. He wants her to know that no matter the outcome here, she is not a monster. Sam believes she has changed for the better, and this does not negate that, does not diminish that good.
But, he’s waited too long, and he’s dying.
“I am sorry,” He starts, his throat burned raw. He resists the urge to cough, fairly certain he’ll vomit if he does. He’s also pretty sure he won’t be able to get back up after the episode. This needs to be done, as much as it’ll kill him. “I never wanted this.” He wants to reassure her - even if her mind is too far gone to hear it. Somewhere it must retain; he clings to that hope.
Sam gasped, breath a wheeze, and locked eyes with Rowena. “I wasn’t trying to save you. You did that, y-you know? You did that..Saved..saved yourself. I tried to beat fate, always try to, but it never works out, huh?” His voice was fading, losing vigor. He wanted nothing more than to lie down, the carpet looking all too inviting, but he was resolute, and he would not leave his brother behind. Wouldn’t go where Dean couldn’t follow.
Each time, though unsurprised, he was tortured from the realization that no, he was not in control. His choices in life meant nothing when he was destiny’s plaything. He had foolishly thought he had a voice - had a semblance of freedom to his name.
bullet wounds were ugly & never pleasurable . they entered near neatly , barreling away what was in their path , then exited with a violent burst . they were messy . never healed gently , always leaving behind stains . her life wasn’t one spent unharmed . though different from his ( less meticulous first aid , less gritted teeth through fish hook stitches & more growled out incarnations through huffs of breath , more biting through lip at the twisted feeling of flesh forced to heal over ) she too had times post skirmish that she spent in agony as she ruined the tiles of hotel bathrooms . she knew the sickly , thick stick & crust of her own blood on her hands & the time it took scrubbing under cold water to get the stain of it of her skin . they both shared another plot of common ground in knowing the jerk of a bullet crashing through them . she knew how to be shot . pulling a trigger , however , was solely his expertise . perhaps that is what decided their roles in this moment , why he was deliverer & she receiver . she was so focused on knowing what it was like to be at the receiving end of a barrel , she underestimated how well he knew when to fire .
such a silence the sound of a gun can make . it brings a deafening ring , a rolling hush that’s preceded by it’s pain much like lightening before thunder . the impact throws back her right shoulder , causing her to stumble backwards off balance . as she gains footing again , her eyes melt from villain to innocent . color , the pinks that tint her pale cheeks & compliment the vibrance of the flames trapped in her hair , fade & hollow out . her hand trembles on it’s path to the growing damp feel at her shoulder & presses to the fabric of her dress to draw out the crimson now soaking black fabric . gaze drifts downward , to see the dripping proof painted on her fingertips . things seem to be a spinning , sickening blur that all near mutes the pain roaring ‘round the wound . this is worse than the others . something off the bullet has already taken course to destroy what she is .
in her gaze , as it makes it’s return to her shooter’s face , the poisonous red that had veined itself pulls away in retreat until only the rightful green remains . chaos fades to clarity . first thing her own mind in rightful control recognizes in front of her is a face she trusts , was supposed to trust . she can feel her heart again now ; it’s beginning to splinter .
power brought no happiness , no lasting satisfaction . this fact comes draining back into her gut . a junkie often hates their life . they can chase the high , they can even achieve it , but there will always be a crash . once that crash came they would always then realize that the high , after everything , was just a fleeting feeling & never as good a second time .
rowena spent her life chasing the high of power . she achieved it . even after everything , she had still hoped in it . she had to . power was all she pursued , the only light at the end of the tunnel , & she had to cling to the belief it would bring some portion of the satisfaction she so hungrily craved .
she’d won . she’d made it . those who wronged her were long dead & she’d beaten them . she could revel in bliss of accomplishment .
power fixed nothing . everything done to her never changed . her entire life , for a simple shred of success . after that , her life hadn’t had another meaning in so long there was only haze in where to direct herself next . having power , no matter how much , would always be pointless without reason to use it . now she had nothing beyond it , she’d paid it all away , & poison nearly had her pay more .
realization comes in blotches of harsh color back to her mind , starting with the red of the blood around his mouth . there was a time she would have gladly killed him , this much has been said before & she knows it to be true , but now a sense of guilt & panic lines her stomach . ❝ n - no , i --- ❞ she tries to step forward , tries to splutter out some explanation for what she’d done , but blood loss , as well as a burning sensation in her leg she would suspect was a hidden enchantment being snuffed out by the bullet , only brings her crumbling forward at his feet .
coughs painfully rack her body , splatters of blood from her mouth match the shade of lipstick she’s wearing . she’s fading fast & she can’t be sure if that’s from the blood staining her dress & now pooling on the floor or an effect of the winchester’s craftsmanship in their witch killing bullets . her head feels as though it’s draining , though , & there’s a chill beginning to engulf her . a hand goes back to meekly press at the wound .
she can’t see him anymore , she can barely see anything as the world begins to blot out to black , but she still knows he’s there . knows he’s there & knows she feels afraid & that his presence is something to cling to . her last thought is seeking that comfort , her last breaths are used calling out to it .
❝ sam --- ❞ a choked whisper . it’s afraid , it’s broken , it’s near a pleading that he might save her . her breath hitches moments after , then stills . her weight heavies to becomes dead & limp . somewhere , fate was laughing at her cruel prophecy come true .
