Title: Going Down the Road Feeling Bad
Category: episode tag, angst
Rating: R, for language
Season/spoilers: S2, through Playthings
Summary: Another awkward conversation…Sam this time. Companion piece to Second Verse, Same as the First.
Disclaimer: The Winchesters don't belong to me, though I really think they should. I'd promise to love them and squeeze them and…probably fortunately for them, they belong to Kripke Enterprises and The CW. The title of this story is lifted from the traditional folk/blues song of the same name; there are many versions.
A/N: Because it's not that I don't realize Sam is going through some Really Bad Shit himself. All errors within are mine.
Going Down the Road Feeling Bad
"You promised me, Dean, and I know that it was shitty of me to do," Sam said. He wasn't even making sense. "But, god, I really don't want you to have to fulfill that promise."
His insides were all twisted up, sore as though something big and nasty had just beaten him within an inch of his life. It was a chronic feeling now; there was no actual monster to blame, no amount of alcohol that would produce this ache in his gut. What he was, what he could become was on his mind every single fucking moment of every single fucking day. Once, Sam had thought nothing could be worse than bearing the pain of Jess' death, facing up to his role in it. Now he knew how wrong he was. Ever since Dean had finally come out and confirmed what he…both of them had to have thought for a while, it was like a constant physical blow. There was his monster.
He might one day be his own monster, and Dean's.
"Sammy, I…"
Dean trailed off, and Sam was selfishly thankful. He really didn't have anything else he could say, nothing that wouldn't just make it worse. He knew Dean thought he was an ass for dumping that responsibility on him, but he'd had to do it. He had no choice. Sam had to know that if he weren't strong enough to overcome whatever fate brought his way, someone would be. Dean had already shown he wasn't willing to kill Sam without killing himself, though, and that ate away at him too. Knowing that by asking his brother to end his life he was also condemning Dean wasn't any easier to live with than monster, monster, monstermonster whispering in the back of his mind, always.
Maybe he should admit that he understood that, but it, again, wouldn't help Dean or him and he wasn't certain he could say the words out loud without crying. There was nothing, nothing he could see anyway, that either of them could do that would make this end well. From the moment he was born, someone or something had known how badly this would end. Something had reveled in that knowledge. Someone had planned for it.
He hated it. He hated that Dean had carried this huge weight for so long all by himself. He hated that Dean still carried this huge weight, that he'd put it on his brother's shoulders and couldn't take it back. He hated that he was still so damned mad at Dean for not telling him sooner. He hated that probably the whole time he resented his father so much, John, too, had known this horrible truth and wanted only to protect him from it the only fucked up way he knew how. Sam hated that, deep within his battered insides, he knew protection was a futile task anyway. He also knew Dean would argue that wasn't true. Dean, Sam thought, had to argue against the inevitable desperately because there wasn't anything else he could do. Lack of control was a severe injury to Dean, and so to both of them. Sam rubbed at his stomach, as if that would alleviate the ache this time for a change.
Oh, he understood Dean's pain even if Dean didn't think he did, and there was nothing Sam wanted more at this very moment than to take some of that away instead of add to it. His very existence filled Dean's life with pain, and had since he was six months old. Maybe before that, even. Monster, monster, monstermonster. He didn't know how to deal with this, any of it, except cling to the hope that doing good and saving lives would somehow combat whatever evil lived inside him. And even that idea, he knew intrinsically, wasn't logical. And he hated that following this path caused Dean more and more hurt.
He stared at the road, a slick and shiny blur of tar and asphalt stretched out before them for miles and miles. Everything blurred, more than rain against the windshield. Sam was horrified to realize he was going to cry anyway, no speaking required. He closed his eyes to ward off the tears and suddenly the collage of yellow eyes on Scott Carey's closet wall was before him. All that evil, watching Scott with two-dimensional delight, and waiting, just waiting for the right time to strike. Watching and waiting for him as well. His stomach roiled.
"Dean, stop the car."
"What?"
"Stop it, stop the car," he said louder, over the strident tattoo of rain against the roof. It sounded like pain. "I think I'm gonna puke."
Dean swore under his breath and maneuvered quickly to the side of the road. Sam thought he heard his brother say his name, but he couldn't be sure. The tires hadn't stopped before he was out and on his knees in the rough gravel. The air and the cold rain helped somewhat, but he still heaved a couple of times, emptying what little was in his stomach.
"Sam, what is it?" Dean said.
Sam hung his head, too spent and sore to pull himself together to respond. There was a hand on his shoulder and all he could think was a pathetic 'thank fuck Dean still cares a little.' It was all he had in this world that he could count on anymore, and it was too much. More than he should take, more than he could give. He shook his head, straightened up and leaned back into the hand on his shoulder. He lifted his face and let the rain splatter on him, wishing like hell it would wash everything away.
"A vision, what? Sammy…talk to me here."
He thought it ironic that Dean was the one who wanted to talk more now. Only, there wasn't anything he could say that didn't revolve around the demon and its plans for him and he did not want to unleash more shit onto Dean if he could help it. He'd done enough already, even if it was a necessary evil. Evil, monster, monster, monstermonster. Sam opened his eyes, glad to see Dean's face peering at him instead of a yellow-eyed demon, but also heartbroken. He doubted Dean knew that he looked perpetually wounded.
"I'm okay," he said, and swallowed several times. Sour bile at the back of his throat, coating his teeth made him choke. "Really. It wasn't a vision. Don't know what hit me."
Dean clenched his jaw and glared in the way that meant he didn't buy it for a second. Sam put out a hand, asking for assistance to his feet before Dean could work up to another argument. He was pulled up easily, and he was once again amazed at how his brother could be smaller than him and yet so much bigger at the same time. He gave Dean a weak, watery smile. The rain running down Dean's face looked like tears, and the hollowness in Dean's eyes made Sam want to double over and spew again. They were so fucked up.
"Right, you look just great." Dean shook his head. "You going to be okay?"
Maybe. Monster, monster, monstermonster. No. Definitely not, not ever again. Sam stumbled back toward the car without saying anything. Dean followed, and they sat in the cold and dark and quiet, shivering, for a minute or two. He was scared, felt the irritation and anger roll off Dean in waves and Sam was so alone.
"We should probably get going," he said, shooting Dean a look he hoped would allay more conversation about his current state of ill-being. Allay everything, actually. "We might make it halfway to North Carolina tonight if we keep driving."
Dean pursed his lips, and Sam was sorry, so, so sorry that facing supernatural beings and the danger of being hunted himself were both better options than sitting around and letting monster, monster, monstermonster get him, but he couldn't stop. He reached to turn up the heat, pretending not to notice Dean noticing the tremor in his hand. Sam saw Dean's jaw clench spasmodically again, turned away so all he could see was the dark and wet of outside. Everything else…Dean was too much.
"I think we should stop," Dean said, still sounding upset and hesitant. Sam knew he didn't want this hunt. "I'm cold, you're cold. We should grab a shower, dry out, and get some sleep. A couple more hours probably won't hurt, and it'll give you time to dig into whatever Ash sent your way."
Sam didn't know what sleep was anymore, having pared down his already scant schedule to an hour, maybe two hours at a time. He was so tired, though, weary all the way through. He didn't know how his father had done it all those years, carrying the knowledge that Sam had the seed of some horrible thing inside him just waiting to grow, fighting to find any way to end it. Because he'd known for a little over a month and he was breaking, breaking.
"Maybe you're right." He looked at Dean again, and oh it hurt to see how relieved his brother was just for Sam agreeing on such a basic thing. "I could really stand to brush my teeth."
"I wasn't going to say anything this time. Until we get somewhere, pop a Tic Tac or gum or something."
"Funny."
He relaxed a little. That was the first Dean-like thing he'd said in a while. There was comfort in it, small but something tangible he could cling to that wasn't fighting demons and the desperation of saving lives. Sam hoped he could find a way to do the same, maybe when he could draw a breath without feeling any level of gutting panic. That had to happen soon. Right? He shivered, drew his wet jacket a little closer. He didn't feel any warmer. Dean turned the heat up just a little bit more. Sam stared out the window and tried not to think, about anything. He wished it would be as easy as flipping a switch. It wasn't. Monster, monster, monstermonster.
"Hey. Sam. Sammy." A hand on his shoulder, shaking. "We're here, if you're going to be sick wait until I get us a room and use the can."
He blinked, looked over but Dean was already out of the driver's seat. He had no recollection of them going far enough to find a roadside motel, and experienced that now-old sensation of panic, terror and sickness, like the demon was making him lose time. Sam doubled over slightly, pushed the door open and kind of rolled out of the car. It wasn't raining anymore. He watched Dean talk to the night auditor, watched him look up and see Sam leaning against the car, watched the concern and anger and pain dance across Dean's features.
"They don't have a mini bar," Dean said as he approached. Dean was still so angry with him, and he couldn't really fault him that. "Of course you probably wouldn't be tempted anyway, since we're not on the case yet."
One day, probably soon, he was going to be something not just any hunter would hunt, but one Dean would. He couldn't…how could he live with that? He had to.
"Dean…I don't…I don't want you to hate me," he said. "I can't…"
God, Sam didn't know why he tried to get anything past his tight throat. He leaned down slightly. Dean rattled with the keys at the trunk, yanked out both of their duffel bags. He moved over, tossed the bags at Sam's feet and stood at his side. Just having Dean that close helped ease the tide of misery rolling over him.
"I don't hate you, Sam, I could never do that," Dean said, and he sounded just like their father.
He glanced up, just to make sure, and Dean's expression was like he was out of his body, far off in a dull, scary way. He straightened slightly, reached out and grabbed for Dean's sleeve. Dean looked at him, eyes looking like they were filled with tears. He couldn't really be sure. His own eyes were hot and wet.
"But I'm pissed as hell with you. You…" Dean swallowed convulsively, looked away from him. "You made me promise…you…that…"
Sam wished he hadn't even tried talking. Talking hurt too much, and he wondered how long they could go down this road feeling bad without shattering. Every word Dean said made his insides ache worse.
Monster, monster, monstermonster.