A/N: This is really different than all my other stuff...a new format that I'm not sure about, but seemed appropriate. It's Sam speaking here, saying everything he probably never will. I took some liberties with his character, but this is just how I imagine his pretty head would deal with losing people over and over again. Tell me how it worked?
Spoilers for S1-S4.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Frozen By Darkness
I can't keep doing this. I can't keep turning from flesh to stone and back again. My heart can't take it, and neither can my brother. Every time it happens, a little of myself stays frozen, stuck in time, dead. Dead like they are. Mom. Jess. Dad. Dean…Oh God, Dean.
He keeps doing this to me. How was I supposed to keep him alive when all the time I'd been turning into a zombie myself? No wonder he died. No wonder I failed. Corpses aren't that efficient.
Four months. Four months. 122 days until he showed up at my door. Until he started to defrost me. Huh, freezer burn had set in yet again though. Sorry Dean, your brother's not all there. Little bits and pieces turned to giant chunks. Out the window and lost to the wind. Lost forever, probably.
There aren't holes though. No, like Dean's newly healed body, to the casual observer I would seem perfectly normal. My soul intact. No harm, no foul.
Hah, that person was obviously blind. They failed to notice the shadows that had seeped in. Into my eyes and into my veins. But wait, that's always been there, hasn't it? Tainted from the start. Thanks, Mom.
No…I don't mean that. My mother loved me. I know she was just scared, right? Scared like Dad. Scared like Dean. Fear is a tricky thing though; it clouds your judgment and makes no apologies after the chips fall. Kinda like desperation.
Kinda like vengeance.
Lilith…I would have killed that little girl. I would have, if it meant saving Dean. I would have killed every one of her tiny innocent hosts. And I would have been okay with that. Greater good, right? I think we're entitled to a little selfishness once in a while. But…then Ruby showed up.
Ruby. I still don't know what to make of her. She confuses me, in more ways than one, and I can't wrap my mind around how someone, something, that's supposed to be so volatile could keep helping us out. Helping me out. Heh, but maybe therein lies the answer. She's a demon, Sam, come on! Dean's right. He's always right. And people always help their own.
So if I'm destined to be evil, to change, to turn, wouldn't it have started already? Wouldn't my eyes have turned black—or yellow or white or whatever the hell color freaks like me do—and my humanity become dust? Wouldn't Dean want to hunt me?
Oh, wait. He's already made his views perfectly clear. He doesn't want this imitation of a brother. He wants me, all of me, the Real Me. Doesn't he realize that's exactly what he's getting? This blood's been in me for a while, Dean. I've been lost for a while, Dean. I've been dying for a while, Dean.
Dean, Dean, Dean. But who can blame him? I wouldn't want a holy mannequin for a brother. And not holy in the "Alleluia!" sense of the word, either. Holy as in someone took an ice pick and started chipping away.
My brother doesn't understand. My brother doesn't want to understand. He thinks I can fight it. He thinks I'm strong enough. You're stronger than me. You are. Really, Dean? Am I strong enough to hold myself together? Am I strong enough to find the pieces that I've lost? Am I strong enough to care?
No. I'm not. When you died a thousand Tuesdays over, I died a thousand times. When Wednesday came, I was in shambles. Cold, dark, shambles. Then Thursday came and you…you were gone. And me? Where was your little brother then?
In the bottom of a bottle and the arms of a demon. I've sank so low, Dean, and I'm so sorry…I can't help it. I'm not like you. I don't have the strength to last thirty years in Hell. I know, 'cause I couldn't last one week.
You have angels watching over you, Dean. Who's got my back? Only you. I only trust you. You're my big brother. I don't know how to live without you. I don't know how to be without you.
And I can't even think of the last time I felt warm. Why? you ask? Because, Dean, I lied. I do know how to be without you. All I have to do is stop moving. I just have to remember the icicles in my heart. They're itching for company, Dean. Coldness spreads like fire. It moves slowly at first, turning the outside layers solid and smooth. One, two, three. Then BANG! The core is lost and all you see is tundra. Petrified. Cold and barren.
They're gone for good, Dean. All of them. What makes you so different?
I can feel the frost creeping up again. Waiting for the next time, the last time.
The center of Hell is made of ice, after all.
-End-