This was difficult to write because of all the tense changes...remember I have no beta, so if it is confusing, that's all my fault. For the record, italics are Sam's thoughts. Please review, then go to my blog and I'll reply. No, the boys aren't mine...if they were, do you think I'd be wasting my time sitting here writing?
He could hear Bobby in the kitchen. The clink of a bottle against the rim of a glass. The scrape of a chair across the floor. A heavy sigh. A muffled sob.
At the last sound Sam turned over in bed, covering his head with a pillow. He didn't want to hear that. He just wanted to sleep, to fall asleep and forget the day. Frankly he didn't even care to wake up. Just drift into sleep and step into oblivion. He had never known a longer day, and he wondered if it would ever really end. His body was tired and his brain was numb, but his heart just wouldn't stop hurting.
This can't be happening. Dean can't be gone.
Bobby had found Sam in a pile on the floor, clutching Dean's still body. He collapsed to a seat in a chair, staring with shell-shocked eyes. The two of them stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, until the man of the house finally found enough balls to creep out of the basement. Bobby finally pushed himself to his feet and gently pulled Dean from Sam's arms. They quickly bundled Dean's body into the back of the Impala and bolted for the border. The sooner they left New Harmony behind, the better. Part of Sam, a large part, wanted nothing more than to burn the entire town to the ground.
They drove for hours, Bobby chasing Sam down the interstate. Sam drove like a man possessed, like he was trying to outrun the horror laid out in the back seat. The engine roared and Sam found the sound filled with fury, an anthropomorphic rage at the loss of its owner. Sam sobbed until his chest was numb, but even then the silent tears would not stop. Finally, when the gas gauge told him he could go no further, Sam pulled to the side of a deserted back road in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.
They had cleaned Dean up as best they could, washing away the blood and the gore from his chest and face. Bobby, eyes wide and wet, had tried to insist that he could prepare Dean for burial himself, tried to usher Sam away from Dean's corpse, but Sam stopped him with a stony look.
This is my time. It's my job. It's my penance. It's my fault.
Sam shuddered at the memory of dressing Dean in clean clothes, struggling with his cold, heavy limbs. When Bobby wasn't watching, Sam slipped Dean's favorite beat-up Zippo into his palm and closed his fingers tightly around it.
He'll need light when he wakes up.
Bobby had tried one more time to convince Sam that they needed to build a pyre for Dean, but Sam just fixed him with a steely glare and Bobby looked away, silenced.
I'll kill him before I let him burn Dean. I'll kill you, Bobby.
Before Bobby placed the lid on the rickety pine-board coffin, Sam had slipped Dean's amulet off and tucked it into his pocket. Bobby again tried to send Sam away, but Sam wouldn't have it. Bobby looked at him for a long, hard minute before picking up the shovel. The sound of that first shovel full of dirt thumping on top of the coffin nearly made Sam's knees buckle. But he bit down on his tongue and stood silently, back ramrod straight, watching as Bobby buried Dean.
I swore to him that everything was going to be okay. I promised him I wouldn't let him go to hell. The last promise I ever made to him, and I broke it.
Sam tossed the pillow away and fisted his hands. His mind kept returning unwillingly to Dean. It wasn't that he didn't want to remember his brother; it was just that when he did all he could see were the flames.
What is it like? No. Stop it.
He knew that he had to do something, to drag Dean from the pit by any means possible. But how long would it take? Every minute that passed was a minute of torment for Dean, a minute of agony. It made Sam sick to his stomach to think of it. He remembered Ruby's furious words, about Dean screaming, about Dean's flesh sizzling from his bones.
Sam rolled back over, his stomach turning a nauseated back flip as he did. He sat up and a flood of hot saliva filled his mouth. He stumbled from the bed, barely making it to the bathroom in time to vomit. He laid his forehead on his arm, tasting bile and acid, and wondered fuzzily how it was that he even had anything left in his stomach. He hadn't been able to eat since…well, since it happened.
He stood, turning on the sink. He ducked his head under the tap, taking a long drink of the cold, sweet water. Straightening, he stared at his face in the mirror. His skin was pale, marked by stubble, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. Dean's amulet, still stained red with blood, dangled from his neck and Sam grasped it in his fist, closing his eyes against his own reflection.
It had taken everything he had to walk away from the grave, to guide the Impala onto the highway, to drive away from his brother. He followed Bobby to South Dakota, to Bobby's quiet, rundown house, where they sat silently staring at one another across the dinner table until Sam wordlessly rose and retreated to the bedroom.
Sam turned away from the mirror, sliding a palm across his eyes. He looked back at the rumpled bed and shivered, not so much from cold as from loneliness. He always had a hard time sleeping when Dean wasn't in the room. He gave up, padded to the door and slipped out into the living room.
Bobby was passed out at the kitchen table, his head pillowed on his arm. Sam looked at him for a long moment, his heart clenching with sad fondness. Bobby had been there for them when no one else was, and he hadn't gotten much out of that but pain. Sam pulled the bottle from Bobby's slack hand and set it on the counter, then flipped the lights off, leaving the kitchen in darkness.
Sam walked to the front door and stepped out into the night. The sky above was speckled with diamond stars, and the moon cast a cool blue glow over the junkyard. Crickets creaked in the weeds and the wind rustled the overgrown grass in a quiet hiss. Stones bit at his bare feet but he ignored the pain. He padded across the dirt to the side of the barn where the Impala sat, a dark hulk in the moonlight.
He pulled open the rear door and stood quietly. He had spent the better part of an hour washing the gore out of the backseat, watching as Dean's blood tinged the bucket of soapy water a sickening pink. Now he slid into the passenger side and leaned his head against the back of the seat.
Dean's coat was hanging limp on the headrest of the driver's side. Sam leaned forward and picked it up, staring down at the worn leather, the frayed lining. Without intending to, Sam wrapped himself in the coat and stretched out across the back seat, drawing his knees to his chest. He could smell Dean's cologne and new tears burned his eyes. He buried his nose in the collar, inhaling Dean's scent and trying to imagine that Dean was stretched out in the front seat, dozing in the moonlight, just out of sight. Sam felt hot tears track down his cheeks and he huffed out a quiet sob.
Bobby found him there when dawn rose, curled in the back seat, wrapped in Dean's coat, with the tracks of tears dried silver on his face.