For the little things
I'm sorry for your pain
I'm sorry for your tears
For all the little things I didn´t know
I'm sorry for the words I didn´t say
But what I still do
I'm still loving you
(Tommy Reeve – I'm Sorry)
Disclaimer: None of this is mine and let's be honest if I were Erik Kripke or J.K Rowling I wouldn't work my ass off at school…
A/N: I know that that song is a little old but I heard it today in the car and was like: "Damn that song is just screaming for a dramatic ff." So yeah. The timeline? Whatever. I don't know, it could be after the apocalypse or in an AU. Whatever you like the most :P Be nice please and leave me some comments! :D
Sam peeled himself out of his dirty and bloodied jacket with a pained groan. He really wasn't all that sure, that all the blood on his coat was from the werewolf. He decided he didn't want to know, when he lifted his shirts and saw an already green and blue bruise on his abdomen.
Goddamnit.
Dean was probably already home with Lisa and little Ben, being tended too with care and love. Sam's throat closed and he coughed a few times while removing his boots on a small matt beside the door. His sight went slightly hazy and he fought the urge to just sit down, 2 meters from the door of thei-…his home; on the cold, tiled floor.
It didn't really feel like home anymore.
Leaning against the wall to get his bearings back, Sam closed his eyes and then opened them again with an annoyed expression. He didn't like to feel that weak after a rather simple hunt even if it had gotten a bit rough in the end.
He finally stumbled into the living room and nearly crashed into one of the many book-heaps that had accumulated themselves all over that particular room, without anyone to sort them back into their shelves. Sam managed to avoid them by a hair's breadth and instead walked into an old pizza still in its cardboard. Sam had thought it'd be better to just leave it in there, so he didn't have to clean the dishes later. So he didn't have to go in the kitchen and could just throw the remains into the garbage tin before the house.
But who was he kidding. He didn't go into the kitchen anymore these days without having a damn good reason. Like a knife at his throat or something like that. Probably not even then.
The kitchen was Harry's domain.
Or had been.
Sam plopped on the ground unceremoniously, not caring that he looked like a complete madman sitting there in the middle of the living room, on the ground with two perfectly intact couches on the other side of the room. He rubbed at his eyes tiredly and decided that his life was shitty. And he really would like to blame his Dad or Dean or someone but it was him that had messed up this time.
He looked up at the ceiling with the burning desire to smash something or to hit someone. He never thought that someone could have so much affect on him, to destroy him so completely.
Sam knew that he looked like hell. Dean didn't miss to tell him that on every occasion he found the last two months. His eyes were red-rimmed and blood-shot with the lack of sleep and his complexion was almost waxy. He didn't care enough to trim his beard so he actually looked a little bit like a cave-man.
At least that was what had told him Ben when Lisa had invited him over, to actually eat something healthy. Or just to eat something. He hadn't been too sure, with the way she had shoveled food on his plate every time it looked remotely empty. There had been pity in her eyes and Sam remembered feeling sick.
The rest was a bit fuzzy because as soon as he had been back from the happy, little family he had broken out the whiskey. Sam had drank until half of the bottle and his mind had been empty. There was also the minor memory that he had puked out the whole dinner later, after a little too much of the alcohol...
Sam was planning to do exactly the same thing this evening. That was, the drinking. He was still to sober to think about the throwing-up part.
He tried to stand up on shaky legs and walk to the shelf where he kept the alcohol without hurting himself and actually accomplished it. It was a small triumph for the Winchester but a triumph nonetheless. He didn't care that he had a few drinks with Dean at a pub already and poured a generous amount of Jack Daniels into his shot-glass.
He sat down on the black couch this time instead of the floor.
The evenings were always the worst, Sam thought much later, his thoughts slowly becoming hazy. He wallowed in the warmth the alcohol brought him and thought about how disgusted Harry would look when he could see what had become of Sam.
How his green eyes would flash coldly for a minute and how his whole body would stiffen in false indifference. The green-eyed man had always hated it when Dean and Sam drank, mainly because both of them would become even more aggressive than normal. But Sam didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think about the way Harry had looked at him before he had packed his bags and left. Didn't want to think about the tears that had run down the pale cheeks, or the desperation in Harry's voice.
He didn't want to.
Sam started to sob loudly.
He stood up wonkily and smashed his hands against the walls, the book-heaps and everything else that was in his near proximity. He threw down the weapons from the table and raged around the room for half an hour before he even thought about stopping.
When he came back to himself the room was a mess. He guzzled down a bit of whiskey from the still intact bottle of Jack and roughly wiped his mouth with his sleeve when he felt alcohol drip down his chin. In a sudden bout of anger he threw the bottle at the wall shortly after that and then grabbed his head with both of his hands.
Sam tore at his hair roughly, his throat dry and scratchy and his eyes puffy and red. He desperately looked for a way to get out of this whole mess but came up with no answer. Life wasn't a fairytale and Harry wouldn't suddenly stand on his doorstep again. The shaggy-haired man gave a defeated sound from deep within his throat and leaned his back against the very wall that was now wet with whiskey.
He slid down it slowly and buried his face in his knees. This would be the second time the last three days that he lay on the ground with a complete breakdown.
He wanted Harry back.
He wanted Harry to hug him when he came back from a hunt, with scars that ran far deeper than those on his skin. He wanted to eat Harry's special lasagna for his birthday. He wanted to argue with Harry what to do with Ben on their weekly Uncle-Godson bonding. He wanted to kiss Harry when the man was irritated because the ministry had done something stupid again.
He wanted to hold him at night and tell him how much he loved him.
But it hadn't been like that since long before Harry had gone. They had argued about everything, hadn't understood each other anymore. Hadn't understood themselves anymore.
They had been avoiding and dancing around each other with Sam sleeping on the couch and Harry in the bedroom. It had been a mess until they both had exploded. The explosion had been unavoidable and they both had roared at each other, Harry throwing a few hexes at Sam who had barely dodged them. They both had said things they didn't want to, but Sam's had been a hell of a lot worse.
And Harry'd had enough. He had looked at Sam with betrayed eyes and so much hurt…
But Sam couldn't live without the green-eyed man. He just couldn't. Maybe he was selfish but he just couldn't and wouldn't. He had been too much of a coward and now it was for all to see how much of a mess he had become.
Oh, he could see his faults but until now his pride had always been a big factor as to why he hadn't had apologized to Harry yet. Maybe he just hadn't been drunk enough until now or the desperation hadn't been that strong but he stood up slowly and walked out of the living room into the corridor to the telephone sitting there innocently.
Sam counted slowly, evaluating if Harry would pick up his phone or not.
It was around three o' clock in the morning….so it was around eleven o' clock in the morning in London now. Harry was probably already at work.
Sam gathered all of his remaining courage and shakily typed in Harry's old number. Probably that wasn't even his num-…
"Hello, this is Harry. Unfortunately I can't pick up my phone right now but if you want to, you can leave a message for me and I call you back as soon as possible! Bye!"
There was a beeping sound Sam didn't register because his entire being had started to hum with the sound of Harry's voice. He finally shook himself out his trance and slightly stumbled over his first words.
"…Har-.", Sam coughed.
"Harry.", he started again a few seconds later. "If you're there…just…please talk to me."
Sam waited for a moment and then started to talk again.
"Okay so you're not there. And if you're there I can understand that you don't want to talk to me. I just….I just wanted to say that I'm sorry." Sam started to tear up and his voice started to sound scratchy.
"I'm sorry that I nearly hit you and I'm sorry for the all those little things I should have known but didn't. I'm sorry for causing you so much pain. You don't know how sorry I am."
Hot tears were trailing over his face but the Winchester talked on. It was like a dam had been broken and couldn't be stopped.
"I'm sorry for everything I didn't tell you. How amazing you are an-…"his voice cracked. Sam had to pause for a moment to calm himself down again and then tried again.
"I'm sorry for not caring enough to really meet all your friends and your godson. I'm sorry for always being away on hunts and leaving you all alone, waiting if I make it back or not. I'm sorry for all of my lies and…." , Sam coughed." And I'm sorry for not telling you how much I love you every single day. I'm sorry for all of those things and I really hope that you can forgive me some time in the future."
The youngest Winchester sucked in one huge breath and then gasped out:
"I love you. That's what I'll always do."
Sam made to put down the receiver with shaky hands when a familiar voice said into his ear uncertainly.
"Sam?"