Crisp white light dappled the golden floors of the Judgement hall, large pillars standing tall and proud under the high ceiling. Shadows loomed across the tiles, casted upon a lone figure that sat leaning heavily against one. The hall was empty, the only sound was the soft chirping of birds in the daylight. A soft breeze blew silently past the pillars, ruffling Sans' hood as he sat silently.

His legs were pulled to his chest, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his hands cradled in his lap. His head was lowered, his shoulders set stiffly against the marble. There were few scattered bones lying about him, some tipped with blood, others shattered. A pile of dust was the last remains of his Gaster Blaster, who had fought with him till the end, till its life had been ripped away, like so many before him.

A pool of red liquid dripped from Sans' jacket, each new drop disturbing the puddle and making it ripple with a shimmer. A red scarf was laying in the pool, soaking in it. A small movement came from the huddled silhouette, and he looked up slowly, his face tense with rage and sorrow.
Crystal like tears fell from his eyes, and his mouth was grim, dark forbidding bags under his eyes. He inhaled shakily, grimacing as a sharp pain racked his body. Blood dripped from his mouth, and as he shifted he revealed a large gash across his torso, the blue fabric of his jacket ripped and stained with blood.
Clenched in his hands was his brother's scarf, the one he had made for him so long ago for a costume party, the one he had worn since, calling the outfit his 'battle body'. Sans chuckled softly at the name, smiling weakly as he remembered all the good times he had with his brother and their friends. But that was all gone. They were all gone. And they would never come back.

He closed his eyes, more tears rolling down his bony cheeks as he let out a crippling sigh, so full of pain and relief that one would wonder how a simple skeleton as this would be capable of carrying such an agonizing burden.

The smile tightened, as did the grip on the scarf, and Sans opened his eyes once more, staring down emptily at the scarf. His own words rang through his head, but this time in Papyrus' voice, small and squeaky as it was as a child. He shook his head, raising a hand to wipe his face with his sleeve.

"That's right, Pap.." He whispered, his weight lifting as his body began to fade to dust.

"Big brothers don't cry."