Title: It's Never Safe.
Summary: Sammy went away a long time ago.
Pairing: Dean/Sam.
Warning(s): There will be graphic scenes later on I feel like, I'm not sure if this is too graphic. This is Wincest by the way, so, just a head's up on that.
Disclaimer: I own none of Supernatural. I just thought of a fic idea, and here you go. Hope you enjoy. This is a preview, I might add a few more paragraphs, or just add to this instead, I'll let you know if it gets any editing to it.
He coughed, that's all Sam's body let him do, in addition to the pathetic breathing he let out each five seconds. His face is cold, his cheeks started to numb. Sam had his cheek pressed firmly against the cool, slick flooring. Where his lips were, they were barely brushing the blood. The incapacitated hunter could actually taste the rust on his tongue already; felt how it slid down his throat. It tasted tart, much like Dean's beers, no matter which alcoholic honestly, it all tasted the same. Each one and everyone that he could think of.
In the moment of lying along, he remembered Dean drinking of all things. He's just like Dad. No. Don't feel like that, Sammy. But he wasn't Dean; he couldn't just not remember things, smile and pretend. It was hard to pretend. Sam isn't Sammy. He told himself that again and again. Sam kept his eyes closed. He only had moments in time to think, the brunette couldn't do much of anything else though since his legs had quick pains ripping through them when he tried to stir. With each breath still that ragged struggle, each sound seemed to surround it. A clack of a clock that was not on the walls, the whispered noise of blood that dripped from his nose. He realized a few minutes ago that his nose was busted, and for the most part so are other bones, like his fingers.
Sam looked more like a corpse in that moment of time, and he knew it. If anyone saw him, he'd most likely wake the next morning in the morgue, if he did not lost his mind before that. His heart raced, it pounded against his ribs that ached. It was like hell was reminding him of his existence, it's your entire fault, Sam Winchester, and it's your entire fault. It's your entire fault, he remembered. Yeah, it was his entire fault. Sam Winchester was the reason that Dean couldn't have a good life. He was the reason that Dean would always be kept on his toes. He was the reason that Dean would have to drink again, and Sam wouldn't be there to hide the knives from him.
If he could have cried without it hurting, he would have. Sam would apologize for his existence, for the hell that was their life, the pain that had begun with his birth. He couldn't feel his cheek anymore. The hunter let out a shaky breath, and pain rocked through him.
His mind screamed for someone to hear, but, as always, no one heard. None but the angels, and the demons that spread throughout the earth he called four walls. The impala was their home, right? Dean was home. Dean was-…
Bright lights had flashed and for a moment, he feared, today would be the day. Sam dies and Sam does not wake up. Sam Winchester will have joined his mother. But the lights dimmed all over again, with Sam's eyes at rest. He couldn't lift his eyelids; there was no actual will inside him to do that. But his thoughts scrambled, it had demanded him to find a logical solution, ideas that spread through him like the pain that shot through his nervous system. Self hatred, had been one of those ideas, yet he groaned. The first noise that had come out of him besides those slow, low, hushed breaths that left him.
"Sammy!"
That voice had been especially familiar. Where had he known that voice? The light still hadn't come back, and everything was still dark. Sam motionless still placed upon the floor, similar to a carcass, and hadn't stirred an inch.