SUMMARY: Missing scene, 10.21 Dark Dynasty, Sam's POV. Post fade out, the hour we won't get to see.
WARNINGS: Usual lingo, dark themes.
A/N: Guys, I'm scared. So I guess I'm trying to prepare myself with this...
The bloody footprints glinted off the grimy tile like lamplights on a foggy street pointing the way. The room was quiet. Silence permeating like death had come and gone. The tacky slime of crimson coated the bathroom door where the prints lead and Sam felt his stomach collapse.
"Oh god," he breathed. All coherent thought was immediately sucked into a vacuum and for a whole three seconds he ceased to exist. Then Dean's shoulder brushed against his and he jolted back to the horrible reality.
"Charlie," Dean whispered. Disbelief and shock etched the lines underneath his eyes as he shook his head in denial.
Sam's brain seemed to short circuit as he absorbed every detail of the gory scene in one damning onslaught. Charlie's boot clad foot hanging off the side like she'd been brutally shoved, tossed like a bag of garbage. Charlie's pallid, ghostly skin taking on a plastic sheen as her skin grew colder and colder. Charlie's half-open lips, as if her cry for help had been abruptly cut off. Charlie smothered in her own blood and insides. Charlie dead.
He stumbled into the tiny space, collapsed.
"Charlie," he cried, desperation causing his vocal chords to crack. He snatched her face in his palms, rubbing his thumbs over her cold cheeks as if the motion could return their warmth. Gingerly, he pressed two fingers against the skin below her jawline, waiting. No thrum of warmth. Not even a flutter. "Goddammit…" He felt an unbridled anger surging through his blood, consuming his sanity. This wasn't right. This wasn't how it ended for her.
"Charlie!" Sam slapped a hand across her left cheek, then back again, unaware of the soft, rubbery thudding as her head flopped back and forth, connecting with the cheap linoleum plastic-clad tub. "Dean," Sam jerked his wild gaze up to his brother. "Call 911."
Dean didn't move, didn't speak, didn't acknowledge that he'd even heard Sam, his gaze transfixed by the mangled body.
"Dean!" Sam cried, shuddering breaths hitching erratically as he held the corpse of their dead friend. He felt his throat closing up as wretched sobs racked his body. "Charlie, no… no. Jesus Christ, Dean, do something! Oh, god, please, no…"
Sam heard Dean's boot shuffle a step forward, felt the familiar presence at his back.
"She's gone," said a rough, grief soaked voice. It didn't even sound like his brother. So weary, disconnected and torn up. Defeated.
"No," Sam repeated, brushing the stray red tresses away from Charlie's face. "She can't be. She can't."
"Move."
Dean's barking command barely registered. Seconds later Sam grunted as he was abruptly shoved aside and suddenly Dean was kneeling in his place. His hands were shaking. His breaths were shallow and rapid as he examined the girl. For a moment, silence blanketed the tiny space like a hand hovering to stifle a scream.
Then Dean's shoulders slumped, his entire body deflating like a balloon as the enormity of the situation sank in.
"No," Sam choked, shaking his head in adamant denial. "No, she's not." He reached instinctively for his brother, crawling to his knees and gripping Dean's shoulder in order to push him aside, to prove him fucking wrong. In the blink of an eye he was flipped onto his back, spots dancing like snowflakes in a dark storm as his vision wavered and whirled. Then came the electric jolt of pain zigzagging up his spine and ricocheting throughout his skull, settling deep just above the bridge of his nose.
He felt the blood slithering over his skin, coating his lips, warm and tacky and metallic. He reached up to wipe his nose, his mind spinning, playing catch-up as the shock of the punch and who had delivered it registered.
Dean stood over him, chest heaving with a feral, animalistic fury Sam had never seen directed at him before. His fists were clenched at his side, flexing as if readying for their next assault. For a second, Sam was certain his brother would start wailing on him. But Dean simply stood, glaring and fuming with so much hatred that Sam wanted to crawl away and hide in the smallest space he could find.
"This is on you," Dean whispered, voice broken and strained, his teeth clenching and grinding with every word.
Sam couldn't even make himself look his brother in the eye.
"On me," Dean continued with a hoarse croak. Sam shook his head in bewilderment, finally glancing up.
"Dean –" his voice sounded pitiful to his own ears. Pleading. Desperate to tell his brother the truth.
"Don't, Sam," Dean turned back to Charlie's body. "Don't you fucking dare."
Sam swallowed, feeling as though someone had dropped a boulder smack in the center of his chest. He pushed himself to his feet and swayed as the world tilted, like it was teetering on a pile of Janga pieces. He grabbed onto the corner jutting out from the wall and watched as Dean leaned forward, tenderly fastening the top two buttons of Charlie's tattered over-shirt. The protective gesture sent Sam over the edge and he couldn't stop the tears from leaking stubbornly down his cheeks. In his mind, it cemented everything they had lost; the beautiful sister they had failed to save.
The next few moments were a horrible, bloody blur as the brothers transported the body as carefully as possible to the backseat of the car. Dean wouldn't look at him. He was openly disgusted any time he accidentally made contact with Sam's skin or they jostled together in their joint effort.
Neither bothered to tidy up the motel room. Neither bothered to speak. There was nothing to say.
Sam lilted into the passenger's side, heart breaking and resolve collapsing. Dean slid into the front, floored the pedal and they drove.
Sam's mind was shutting down. He was on autopilot. Numb and frozen over inside. He didn't understand how he could've let this happen. He couldn't wrap his brain around this terrible new reality.
His skin felt flushed and feverish in spite of the sleet-laden rain pelting down outside. Dean hadn't bothered to turn on the air conditioner. Sam lifted the hem of his undershirt to his nose and wiped at the congealing blood, catching Charlie's pale reflection in the rearview mirror. He felt his eyes stinging with tears.
Sam dropped his throbbing head against the window, rolling his forehead back and forth against the glass. Cloying waves of guilt washed over him, leaving him breathless, aching and sick. The feeling of panic intensified until he was seized with an overwhelming urge to hit something as hard as he could until he broke bone because maybe the pain would help.
He watched in fascination as his unsteady breaths formed convulsing patches of condensation on the chilled window. His phone buzzed against his thigh indicating that he'd received a message. Rummaging through his pockets, he pulled out the cell and unlocked the screen, squinting in the artificial light.
It was from Charlie.
Sam didn't need to open the message to know what it was. He glanced once more at the figure lying on the backseat. Her eyes were open just the slightest bit, glazing over, graying in the throes of death. He stared back, transfixed. They reminded him of the Mona Lisa – following him wherever he looked.
From buried depths, grief and despair rose up to suffocate him. Saliva pooled in his mouth as his guts heaved and the edges of his vision pulsated. Without really thinking he began clawing at the door handle, desperate to escape those unseeing, accusing eyes.
"What the fuck?" he heard Dean growl as the car jerked and swerved over towards the shoulder of the road.
Sam gagged reflexively, body jerking in automatic response as the door suddenly wrenched and swung open with a protesting creak.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, voice simmering with anger.
Sam ignored the underlying threat and staggered out of the rolling car. He immediately tripped and dropped to one knee before regaining his balance and stumbling a few more steps. Doubling over, he braced both hands on his knees and retched, unloading his stomach onto the gravel. It took several painful heaves before he was rid of it all and his insides finally began to settle.
In any other circumstance, Dean would've rounded the car by then, pacing restlessly behind him or bracing Sam's weight with a steadying hand if it looked like he couldn't hold himself upright, offering him a water bottle. Reassurance. Comfort. Protection.
Somewhere inside, a vulnerable, selfish part of Sam curled up and died when he straightened and felt the icy wind whipping at his back. The dregs of his remaining strength drained away like filthy suds. Depression and hopelessness seeped into his bones.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw the shell of his brother slumped in the car, arm still draped over the wheel, staring blearily ahead across the expanse of road. His stony expression was one of indifference. He was tapping his thumb impatiently, jaw clenching as if Sam had asked to stop because he needed to piss and not because he was about to lose his fucking mind.
Sam felt a fresh flood of tears brimming behind his eyes and sniffed, struggling to keep them in check. He coughed and wiped at his sour mouth, wishing he could turn around, run away and just keep running.
Instead, he forced one foot in front of the other until he reached the Impala. He placed a hand on the hood for support, swallowing back his reeling emotions as he dropped into his seat and slammed the door shut.
"Seatbelt," Dean said in a low, threatening tone.
It was so out of the blue that Sam swiveled his head to gape. Dean never once looked in his direction, his lips set in a firm line.
"Fuck, Dean," Sam blurted, overwhelmed by the onslaught of sorrow and self-loathing he'd been forced to confront. He could never blame his brother; that was not the intent. But with the overflow of guilty anger and nowhere to channel it he found himself lashing out at the nearest recipient. Of course Dean would take it as a personal affront like he did everything these days. Sam thought maybe he'd care later on.
Sam curled over, bowing his head between his knees and buried his fingers in his hair. Whether it was this physical manifestation of distress or Dean's own distracted mind, Sam had no idea. But thankfully, Dean left him alone, didn't direct another word to him the entire ride home.
Sam refused to allow his gaze to wander back to the rearview mirror again.
So he clenched his eyes shut, gripped his arms tight around himself and shivered, wondering what the fuck he was going to do now.
How were they going to survive this?
What now?
END