This is a short drabble. I will not be adding on to it unless poked and prodded.
Cobwebs
As the darkness shifts into the deeper corners, he sits on the edge of the mattress. The weight and pressure of his own burden weighs him down and lifts him all the same. He stares passively ahead at the blank corner with the trailing cobweb. He swore weeks ago to take the damned thing away, but he never bothered. He thinks about it, often, much like he's thinking about it now. The cobweb stares back with lifeless, threaded eyes.
Sometimes he hopes spiders will well up from the ceiling and floor boards. Then he could scream and have reason. Sometimes he wants the razor blade to be easier to free or the knives a little sharper than his neglect allows. Then he could carve some of the pain from his skin. Then he could do what they all said he couldn't because he was so much better and worth so much more. He sighs heavily and the cobweb shifts minutely, the shadows still momentarily.
Fate comes on swift wings, someone said at some time. He wonders why fate needs wings; is it a bird? Or is it brought by trumpeting angels in bright garb with brighter eyes? He doubts that because his fate had always lived in him. His destiny was seared on the underside of his skin where he couldn't see it, no one could see it, except for those who got inside. Dean got inside, but then Dean got away. He got away because he saw and was having none of it.
(or he got away because Sam got away. Sam didn't want to; he didn't have a choice. He just got so angry that he woke up somewhere else and didn't know how to get back.)
He thinks about a gun a lot. He thinks about how Dean loved cleaning them with care, making them gleam in their shadowed existence. He thought of all the bullets he outfitted for special hunts. He thought of the feel and weight of it as it stayed holstered in the back of his jeans, pressing to the meat of his lower back like a guiding hand. He thinks of putting one in his mouth, aiming up into his scrambled brain, and letting everything go. But it would only hurt for awhile because the bullets in the Colt aren't the bullets he needs to kill himself.
The last one Dean had used on Yellow Eyes.
So Sam waits out the night in a nameless town he had woken up in a month ago. By now, he thought Dean would have found him and that fills him with trepidation and regret. Trepidation because he knows he had intended to hide and, by being found, something he had been trying to avoid would come to a head. Regret because he knows that Dean will take him back no matter what Sam explains or says or tells. There's also a deep-pitted desire threaded in this trepidation and regret because Sam knows exactly what he wants to do if Dean comes here.
Dean should run, but Sam can't be bothered to communicate it to him.
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