AN: Hello there! This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction *sweats nervously*. English is not my first language and this story is also not beta'd, so I hope it is not too terrible with all the mistakes I probably have made.
I wrote this story to vent some feelings, because it has been already nearly a year since that episode aired.
Despite my amateurish writing, I hope you enjoy!
He was in the library of the bunker, cleaning up the big mess of books and papers. Organising, putting everything back in order. It helps, getting some distraction from all the thoughts that jumble around in his head. He coughs when dust clouds the air, prickling his dry throat. He has to do this, do something, otherwise, he would go crazy. There are so many things they have to do, people they have to save. Mom, Jack and all the others stuck in that depressing, horrible place full of death and war. It's all going round and round in his head. They are ready, almost, to go to that parallel universe and save everyone, to close the rift, to save the world, again. For now, they are waiting. And doing nothing isn't something he can do right now. So he cleans, stacking book after book.
Then his eyes fall on a paperback book, just a small book among all the others. It shouldn't be anything special, it shouldn't be, but it is. And suddenly his mind isn't full of jumbled thoughts anymore, it is focused, like a laser on one thought, repeating itself again and again. It hurtshurtshurtshurts. His lungs won't respond even when he desperately tries to drag in some air. Dizziness hits him and he stumbles backward, knocking over a large pile of neatly stacked books. They hit the ground with a bang, and a strangled sound escapes his throat.
"Sam?" His head whips up, Dean is standing in the doorway, brow furrowed in worry. He wants to say something, anything, but can't. His throat is tight like someone is squeezing it shut, and his chest is on fire, burning with something he doesn't want to think about, but can't stop. His thoughts are going in circles. Repeatingrepeatingrepeating.
And suddenly his brother is nothing more than a blur, like water paint art, his unshed tears causing the colors to merge into each other. He squints against the bright light coming from the hallway. Then his brother is there, gripping his arm, sounding worried. Again he tries to say something. Something like: "I'm okay" or "don't worry," but his vocal cords refuse. And why should he even try? When nothing he says will bring her back. Not ever. But maybe he doesn't have to say anything at all, not when strong arms embrace him and a hand uncharacteristically cradles his head. Dean.
He doesn't want this, not the comfort, not the pain, not the grief. It shouldn't be like this, not again. Not ever. What he wants is to scream. To reject the strong arms holding him close. But he has no choice and the tears spill over, harsh and hot streaming down burning cheeks. He has no choice and so he cries.
There is no catharsis, no relief. Only painpainpainpainpainpain. He doesn't know how long it takes before he calms down, he doesn't care. He should be mortified, but he only feels exhausted. Numb.
"Are you okay?" The question pulls him from his thoughts. Dean's voice is a little husky. "Yeah, sorry," he croaks out, vocal cords finally obeying him again, just a little. "Don't be, it's okay, Sam," comes the replay, Dean's arms tightening around him. He's just so tired. The only thing he wants to do now is sleep.
0000
Later, after downing the glass of water that Dean forced on him, he's ready to go to his room, to sleep. But before he retreats, he looks back at the table and reaches out, fingertips touching the cover of the little paperback book. "I'm sorry," the whisper escapes him. "I'm so sorry. I-I couldn't do anything even though I should have been there, been there for you." He squeezes his sore eyes shut, imagines of her dancing on his eyelids. Bittersweet memories of what was, wonder about what could have been. He will cherish them, the memories. Forever. Because she deserved so much more than what she got. So, so much more.
"Sam?" He looks up, Dean, again standing in the doorway is looking at him, face soft with empathy and understanding. And Sam looks back, eyes going over the ASL dictionary one more time.
It wasn't fair, but he would keep her memory alive, for as long as he lived. For her. Because she deserved more. So much more.