[A collection of drabbles from the time Dean went to hell. Will be continued.]
[Disclaimer: Only thing I own's the story. Hell, and that's barely. I don't own the major plot, don't own the characters, well, you know how it goes.]
1. Sunrise.
Sam sighs, fiddling with the catch on his bottle. It doesn't open easy, but then again, these days, nothing ever comes easily. He laughs bitterly, spitting to the side as he walks up to the park bench, brown and green in all its glory. Moss growing like it's its right to be there. Like taking over the faded wood with it's presence is something that should be expected, wanted. Sam scowls and brushes it away with one hand, sitting down and watching as he raises his hand to his face. It's brown and green, mossy, but it's never really been clean.
He sits down, still watching his fingers, they flex, the dirt falling off, but still leaving a film of brown over his palm, streaked with green. Typical. Sam brushes it on his jeans, noticing the stain it leaves behind. Nothing about him is ever clean, it seems. Not that it matters. Not anymore. He fumbles with the catch again, biting off a curse as it nicks his finger, the blood making a steady path down his finger. It's red, almost too red, and Sam's eyes widen as his heart suddenly jolts 3 times too fast.
"Shit!" He fumbles with the bottle, dropping it and watching the coffee pool across gravel and crass, the steam even more noticeable due to the coldness of the morning. "What the hell's happening to me?" He raises his hands, running them through his hair, heart thumping and each breath getting stuck in his throat. Sam feels hot wetness down the side of his face and doesn't have to move his eyes at all to know what it is.
It's hot, it's hot, it's way too hot. And then Sam's on the ground, crying out, grasping at gravel, with his legs curled into himself. It's like he's been trying to hold on. But it's cold, too cold now, and he notices his shirt's wet where he's fallen into the coffee soaked grass mixture, and he can't help but start breathing again, his head pounds and he clutches at the ground before sitting up. The haze of the world becoming crystalline. He coughs, and it hurts, he feels the red hot liquid before it spatters from his lips, and coughs again.
"No," Sam stands, holding onto his head and pushing out images that are just coming back to him, things he'd seen as he lay curled up on the ground. "No," He shakes himself, glaring at the sunrise like it'll provide the answers.
"No."
2. Shards.
Sam throws a bottle against the wall, shards spray down, opening skin, freeing red rivers, he really should have looked before he let go, but it doesn't matter anymore. He spares a look for his hand, it's open, burning, and it should probably hurt, but it doesn't, he's more than a little numb.
"44 bottles of beer on the wall," He sighs wearily to himself, watching as blood trickles down his wrist, stains his sleeve, and still, he doesn't feel it. He doesn't feel much these days. "44 bottles of beer," His voice is cracked as he leans over the sink, spraying cold water onto his palm, and whatever, he can't feel that either, he can only feel the drips making their way under his fingernails, inside of him. But he still doesn't feel clean.
"Take one down…" Sam mumbles, reaching for the jack next to him, screw beer. He splashes it on his skin, and there, there's that little stinging burst he should have felt before. There it is. He turns the tap off, flexing his digits and bringing the bottle up to swill the contents in his mouth.
"Got no one to pass it around to," He laughs bitterly, probably a little hysterically to himself, and swings his arms as he walks into the bedroom, lying down spread eagled so he can see the rise and fall of his chest. Remind himself through the liquor haze that he is, in fact, still alive.
Even if there's no point anymore. It seems to be the family business.
3. Keys.
Sam watches the moonlight glint off her body, it casts sparkling shadows, shining and twisting, black and silver. He runs a hand down her side, fingers almost caressing the smooth black skin that encases her, cuts him off from the inside. She's beautiful, he realises, and it's only now that he understands it, only once Dean's gone that he can see just how amazing she is.
Sam chokes a little on his breath, sliding down against her, back pressed up against her sleek coldness and fingers clenching and unclenching in the gravel. She shouldn't be his. She should be Deans. She was Deans. She isDeans. Never his. He shouldn't have taken her, but he couldn't leave her, let her rot in the graveyard, let her tarnish and bubble. He couldn't -fuck- he couldn't do that to Dean.
"Dammit!" The word hurts to force out from between his frozen, chapped lips, and it gets stuck in his throat. It's been almost 2 years. 600 Nights, 559 Days, too many seconds to count but he'd number them all if he could. It's been too long.
His fingers make paths against the ridges of her support, tracing patterns into every crevice, savoring the friction against his fingertips. This is all he has left. The jingling in his pocket as he moves his leg, stands up tiredly and brushes his jeans reminds him. There used to be 6 keys. Now there's only 2. What's the point in having spares?
"It's just you and me now baby," Sam feels stupid talking, considering he's only talking to the icy night air, but he spills it out anyway, resting against her. At least he can see inside of her, know exactly what she's going to do. She can't keep secrets, she can't abandon him, he can fix her. He can even build her back up from the floor, with the help of Bobby, because hell, he'd never thought he'd need to know how to. He should have known better.
Sam sighs, Sure, he can fix her, he can treasure her, he can touch her.
But the Impala's a long way off from Dean.
[to be continued.]