Title: Burned Bridges
Summary: Six times Sam couldn't look back.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.
Spoiler Warnings: Spoilers starting from the last episode of Season Three. Definite ones for the latter half of Season Four, and for early Season Five.
Notes: Each one of these is exactly 100 words long. I made sure. Reviews are really appreciated since I'm still not really comfortable writing this fandom.
Hunt:The air around Sam smells like gunpowder, sweat, and blood. At his feet is the hunt, some kind of winged, man-eating dog, dead. It was his shot.
At school, he overheard his classmates talk about hunting –the regular kind. There was glee in their voices as they described the elk's dying expression, and as they talked about how their fathers congratulated them.
Dad nods at him, says it was a good shot. All business; nothing special. That's life.
As he burns the corpse, he vows it won't always stay this way. He doesn't regret or forget the thought for years.
Contact:"I'm going to Stanford." Sam's palms are marked with crescent shapes as he clenches his fingers down. "Never contact me again."
Dad is quietly furious. "Get out, then. And if you do, don't come back."
He thought he'd get an argument, but isn't disappointed at its absence. Wordlessly, he shoulders his bag and strides to the door. His hand tightens on the doorknob as he's about to pull it shut, but he hesitates, and then does what he swore he wouldn't and looks back to his brother. "Same to you, Dean. Don't contact me."
He doesn't wait for a response.
Revenge:Dean's blood is all over Sam, but to care about cleanliness now would be pointless. He holds his brother tightly, as though there were anything left to clutch onto.
He's not crying; that stopped sometime after the first hour. Maybe. He isn't paying attention to the time. Bobby came, saw and left. He should go find him.
"Dean…" his voice cracks as he gently starts to loosen his hold. "Dean. This isn't the end. I'll bring you back; I swear on whatever's out there that I will. And before –or after- I do that, I'll kill Lilith. Whatever it takes."
Blood:"Come on." Her wrist is extended, her eyes black and impatient. "It'll make you stronger."
"I don't know." Her blood is red as her namesake. "Kind of disgusting, isn't it?"
"Just once, Sam. If you hate it, we won't do it again."
He doesn't want to; has zero desire to go vampire, but he's got nothing to lose. He's too weak to defeat Lilith just as he is, and what harm comes from one try? "Fine." He takes her wrist before he can back out; presses his lips to it like a lover; tastes a coppery fire, and it's good.
Out:"You walk out that door, don't you ever come back."
Dean's voice is cracked and pained from the fight, but it's still Dean. He doesn't have the demon blood. He doesn't have an excuse.
His words are close to what Dad said when he left for Stanford, and their meaning –and their sincerity- is the same. The difference is that eventually, Dean will regret it. He's said it himself: he isn't like their father.
But for now, he doesn't care. So Sam walks out, and doesn't look back.
As the door closes behind him, he feels uncomfortably like their father.
Answer:It's hopeless.
The last of their allies is dead. Plague and Death are riding together, in an unstoppable, chaotic synch.
The sky is dark as he thinks of Dean, standing miles away. Their watches are coordinated –one word, said by two mouths at the turn of the hour.
The wind swirls around him as he pictures the faces of those he loved. They keep him strong as the darkness grows around him, a living presence.
Finally, it's midnight. Ground zero.
He throws his head back and yells above the wind to the evil that has finally tracked him down, "Yes."