Title--Waiting.
Author--Spellbound
Rating--T
Summary--Sam's thoughts during that most memorable drunk scene in 'Playthings' written for SupernaturalSam SFTCOL(AR)S. For the Round Three Secret Santa Summer Exchange. I hope it meets your expectations!
Warning--950 words of rambling angst. It's a little choppy, but I figured Sam wouldn't be thinking all that clearly when drunk. So, yeah. Supposed to be like that. Also, once again I fail at dialogue. shrugs
Notes/Disclaimers--The characters and situations do not belong to me.
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Dean is sitting on the bed, weapons spread over the blanket--each perfectly cleaned and checked. Not loaded, of course. Those are on their person. Just in case.
It's a sign of anxiety, when Dean does this, Sam noted. The older brother sighed and began putting the extra weapons back in the duffel bag, and continued to check the pages of text that had been laid out to read.
Sam is on the laptop, face lit by the dim light of the LCD screen, idly clicking another page. His eyes quickly scanned the page before deciding that it had been no help and trying another source. From the sign on the vase and the post, they identified as a mark of Hoodoo magic, they had somewhat of a lead. But now, looking for the meaning, the way to dispel whatever it was at work here.
And, looking at the history of the hotel, they found no traces of any sudden deaths-until quite recently, actually.
Which was what didn't make any sense. He would find something, there had to be something.
This was Sam's gig. Research. Always had been, and always will.
Not that it had helped in finding Ava.
The thought that had been nagging at his inner monologue for some time, finally broke through the barrier that had been protecting his mind since she disappeared in a trace of sulfur. Angry at himself, he shook it away-trying to focus on his nonexistent findings.
There was no time for that, not that Sam was going to give up on finding her. He had flat out refused to believe that cute, bubbly, Ava was dead. Or worse with that Yellow Eyed Bastard.
His hands shook in silent rage of the thought of it. Just the thought of it. Just one more reason to kill the son of a bitch. For mom, for Jess…and for dad.
Dad. Three months in Hell.
At that very moment, a scream erupted from the hall, loud and terrified. "Oh God, help!", breaking the silence and the young man's mournful thoughts. He tore his eyes off of the screen, meeting Dean's own, who wore a look of 'now we're onto something…'. The older brother opened the door, peering out into the hallway. Sam's heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Susan's voice, strained and consoling reached their ears as she tried to calm down the maid.
Dean was gone a few moments, voice muffled by the door. A second later, he stuck his head in. "What happened?" Sam asked.
"There's been another death. Stay here, keep looking. I'm going to go check this out." And he was gone. Leaving Sam to his ever turning thoughts.
Guilt. Pain. Fear. Anger.
He could see things. Before they happened. Visions of things to come. Sometimes he could stop it.
Yet they hadn't stopped this man from dying. They didn't save everyone. And he should've found a way to save this man, who had done nothing wrong but simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
But no. Another person he couldn't save. Another time he had been too late for.
The more people he could save--maybe the better his chances of staying Sam Winchester were.
In the corner, a glint of something caught his eyes as he paced, running his hands through his already unruly hair. Upon further inspection, he realized they were crystal jugs and glasses. They held alcohol.
Without thinking, he took a glance out of the window, leaning against the cool glass. Dean was talking with Susan about what happened. He could hear the sirens of the ambulance, the red and blue lights flashing. Watched as they loaded the body into the vehicle.
--
The alcohol burned his mouth, his throat on the way down. He coughed. This is some strong stuff…he thought, taking another large drink of it. Whiskey.
Sam had never been very good at holding liquor. Two glasses and he was gone.
The guilt was still there. One more person he couldn't save! "damn it…" he muttered, shaking his head. He was falling apart at the seams here, barely keeping himself together. He needed more to drink. Sam refilled his glass.
Destiny. Words uttered under a tree by a lake a month ago. A secret divulged and a father's last request.
A warning.
"I might have to kill you Sammy." the worlds rang clear, as if Dean were standing in there, speaking them. He had to look and make sure.
And then, Scott's voice on a stolen tape--"he's building an army." And he would cease to be human.
"Gordon was right." Sam said to himself, slurring. He barely noticed the tingling in his mouth that seemed to spread through his whole body. All he felt was the numb fear.
Dean. What if--what if Sam didn't know him any more? If he hurt him? His only family in the world, and he promised to save, protect. But what if the demon's pull was too strong?
It wasn't the first time he had thoughts like this. He had them with dad,
While completely psycho, the other hunter was right.
He took another glass, this time the drink was different. How long had Dean been gone? He would come back to quite a sight, his brother completely hammered.
Sam laughed at the thought.
Swaying a little, he glanced back now at the mostly empty jugs. They seemed to glint evilly back at him. Shaking off the hallucination, he turned back. There were two chairs-where did that second one come from? "Well that's weird…" the room seemed to tilt, and he found himself sitting on his arse. The second try was a little more successful.
And he waited.