I didn't plan this. I'm not sure what happened. I hope you like it.
It was dark. So dark.
He couldn't see. He didn't know where he was going.
He just knew it was away, somewhere. He didn't care where he ended up, as long as it wasn't where he'd started.
Images flashed in his eyes. Blood splatter. Fists flying. A hole in the ice.
The only person who cared about him, dead on the ground.
So he was running.
Branches lashed at his face, so maybe he was in a forest. It didn't matter. The incline was steep, but he was trained to hike well. He kept going, he wasn't sure for how long. At some point, still well before dawn, he fell asleep on the cold, hard ground.
He woke to hail. It struck him on the arms, and the lash of pain woke him.
It wasn't dark, not really. The clouds were just dense and heavy, and they covered the sun.
He covered his head with his arms to stave off the worst of it, and kept going. The hail turned to rain. His arms were bloody, and the rain washed it away. But he could still feel the blood. He felt dirty. How could he still be alive? He deserved to die. He should've died.
More then he wanted to die, he wanted to get as far away as possible. So he kept going up. He must've been on the slopes of a mountain.
It got steeper. Sometimes he had to use his rock climbing training, but he always managed to keep going. It was dangerous, especially with the wrong shoes and no rope, but he didn't care if he fell.
If he fell he would die. It wouldn't be a problem. It would be nice to be dead. Dean was dead.
So he kept climbing. He was weak from hunger and thirst, so he ate berries and leaves. He drank from a stream. Maybe some of those things were poisonous. Maybe they weren't. He didn't know, and it didn't matter.
Days passed. He was still climbing up and down nearly impassable mountains. He still hadn't died.
It was night. The moon was close to full. He was an omega. His once a month heat started.
It was nasty. He lay on the ground and didn't bother moving. It was agony. He might've screamed a little. He certainly cried a lot.
He hated his heats. Not just because they were a painful inconvenience, though they were. The heats were the biggest evidence he was an omega. If he wasn't an omega, Dean would still be alive.
John wouldn't hate him. They would still be a family. A wrecked family, but it would be better than this. Dean wouldn't have had to defend him when John got angry. Dean wouldn't have fallen through the hole in the ice.
On the third day he was strong enough to get up. He started climbing again. He kept climbing, and he traveled farther and farther into the uncharted wilderness.
He found, as days passed, it was easier to hike in the night than the day. He became nocturnal. He was asleep in the hottest part of the day, and he climbed all through the night. Since he had caused his brother's death, he deserved to live in the dark.
It was like a little death, staying in the night.
As time passed, his hair grew and his clothing fell apart. His posture was more like an animal. He hadn't spoken in weeks, and in a way he forgot how. His thinking simplified to just hiking.
A cluster of mountains hid a sheltered dell. He was trying to climb through the cluster. He fell.
His leg scraped against the rock wall. Twigs caught in his long, mangled hair. The wind rushed past his face.
He hit the ground.
His legs hurt. His foot was twisted at an unnatural angle. A cut on his chest poured blood across him, and it covered the leaves beside him. His head had bruised where it hit the ground.
He wished he was unconscious. He couldn't move. He just lay there.
It would've been convenient if he'd just died there, but his luck held up. The wound on his chest managed to clot, and it slowly scabbed over. He was a bloody mess, but if he didn't get infected, he'd live.
He thought his ankle might be broken. It wouldn't hold his weight.
It was so engrained in his mind. He had to keep going, so he started to crawl. He didn't make it far.
He collapsed. He couldn't move. His head pounded mercilessly.
It was still deeply night. There were no traces of light from the far off sunrise. The wind picked up. The air grew cold.
He shivered, where he lay on the ground. The wind was enough to mask someone's approach. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He tensed. But he whimpered at the pain the tension produced in his ankle.
He had fallen, so his position was awkward. He couldn't see around himself because of the angle. It was dark, and the darkness made it even harder to see.
He sensed someone standing above him. Breath ghosted over his neck. He shuddered.
His throat was dry, so his voice came out rough.
"Who are you?"
It was a moment before he heard a reply.
"Lucifer."
Lucifer's voice sent chills down his spine. He tried to turn around to see Lucifer, but pain lanced through his leg. He gave up.
"The fallen angel?"
It was a moment before Lucifer answered his question.
"I'm no angel."
He didn't have anything to say in reply.
"Tell me your name."
He didn't want to. He didn't have a name anymore, in a way. There was no one to call him by it, so he'd lost it when Dean died, the night he fled to the forest. But the command in Lucifer's voice left no space for refusal. So he answered.
"Sam."
The silence hadn't gone on for long when he felt cold fingers against his throat. They cut off his airway, strangling him.
He tried to push Lucifer away. He wasn't strong enough. His resistance weakened as he lost oxygen.
What little he could see in the darkness faded into black.
I don't know if this is a one-shot or not. Does anyone want to read more? If two or three people do, I'll probably continue this, so... review if you want me to keep going.