A/N: Seems I'm on a roll for angsty Sam one-shots. :shakes head: And it also seems to be ongoing, so I'm afraid you will all just have to grin and bear it.
This one is set at near the end of Season Three.
Again, contains strong language - don't like, then don't read.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. Obviously, I do not own Supernatural, Sam or Dean. Not even a teeny tiny knife or weeny gun.
Lyrics again belong to awesome Linkin Park, this time it's "Faint". (So I don't own them either. Sadly.)
~Broken Glass and Bloody Fingers~
I am a little bit of loneliness
A little bit of disregard
A handful of complaints
But I can't help the fact that
Everyone can see these scars…
"You want… Another?"
The bartender looks at him with something like disbelief.
He jerks his head up in something that vaguely resembles a nod.
"Kid, I don't think you should have -"
"Another." He answers and completes the sentence at the same time, throwing notes at the guy in front of him without looking up. His head's down now. He wants to see no one, or more importantly - no one to see him.
Don't know why he's complaining, though - I'm paying!"
A sigh, a shaking of the head and a muttered, "On your own head then."
He laughs - such a bitter laugh that it echoes in his mind. For everything's on his head now.
A glass slams down on the table. Seems the bartender is pissed at him.
Whatever. I'll take his anger any day.
He looks up into the eyes of the said pissed bartender.
"Thanks." Throwing in sarcasm as an alternative tip.
The guy stomps off to serve another, possibly depressed customer, leaving him alone with his thoughts and drink number…- Well, it's a big number - to keep him company.
He wonders, struggling through the sluggish alcohol - riddled haze that his now his brain, about why on earth would anyone want to come to a place like this. It's dark, dingy and with barely enough room to swing a hellhound.
If you could actually see one, that is.
Of course, the lovely attitude of the bartender, and infact, owner sure must bring in a lot of customers.
A brief smirk.
Not.
Then it hits him. People are here for the same reason as he is. Drinking away their sorrows where no one that they know can find them.
He looks at his drink; seeing his reflection on the glass. He hastily looks away.
He doesn't want to look on his own face. Not now.
Him being a freak and all.
And I am a freak…Look at what I can do, and why I can do it…
He quickly brings the glass to his dry and cracked lips and drains it in one.
It's been the pattern all night.
He glances over at the ever-so-kind bartender, but he is being carefully ignored by him, and gives up making eye contact after a minute or three.
Doubt wriggles into his mind.
It's 'cause he knows - he knows I'm a freak.
"Amen to that." A bitter smile, a shake of the head.
As someone in the far corner away from him lights up, his thoughts drift around quite like the smoke making it's way towards the bar and him.
It reaches his face and stings his mouth and nose.
He doesn't bother coughing.
Ever since he had found out what had really happened to him that night over twenty years ago; he had felt like this.
A freak.
Corrupted.
Diseased.
Impure.
When you discover you drank demon blood as a baby, courtesy of a vision with the demon himself, you do tend to think like that. And having thought like that for a while, he had left the motel, containing one sleeping Dean, headed for the refuge of a bar and turned to drink.
Good ol' Yellow Eyes…Messing up my already messed-up life.
He felt…Wrong. In every sense of the word. His blood was tainted with that same blood of his worse enemies; the things that he and his brother hunted. Care of the bloody Yellow Eyed demon, and his blood.
He places a shaking finger over the rim of the now-empty glass and without really thinking, begins moving it around.
"Kid, you ain't gettin' another. No more."
Whatever…
"Kid? Did you hear me? I said -"
Oh go away…
The head goes up while the rest of him slouches and slumps back.
"I heard." It's almost spat out.
A sigh and a curse. "Good. Then get ready to leave." He finally stomps off once more.
Sam mentally scratches his name off the Christmas Card List.
Yes, he doesn't believe in Christmas; doesn't like it, but the point still stands.
He doesn't really want to go…Not back to the "GreatSpaces" Motel at any rate.
Which doesn't live up to the name…
Back to Dean.
Who is probably worried sick.
But who really should be more worried and concerned about himself.
A snicker.
Dean's out there somewhere right now, worrying about me, not him. And he's the one going to Hell.
Literally.
He lazily glances at the bartender, who throws him a furious, yet slightly apprehensive look. Seems he's torn - doesn't know if Sam's a dangerous drunk or a mad one.
Hell, I'm fucking both!
Another snicker, plus a free smirk to the bartender who this time does not reply.
Sam pulls out his phone and peers with difficulty at the blurred screen.
Six missed calls, six new voice messages.
All from his brother.
So, Dean makes him feel worse because he's going to hell, and that is thanks to a bloody deal he made - just to bring him back.
It's not even the worse thing, because Dean has less than two months left now -
He only ever got a damn year -
And Sam can't get him out of it. Can't save him. His own brother. Who would do anything to save him.
I can't fucking save my own brother, who saved me. God, I hate myself.
He stops moving his finger around the rim of the glass and looks at it.
Sees his reflection.
The face of a worthless, useless freak.
He suddenly smashes the glass, over and over and over again with his fist. Not pausing, not stopping - just constantly hitting. Ignoring the waves of pain that attack him.
Suddenly the atmosphere is tense; the bar stifling. The silence overwhelming - more so than what spoken words would have been.
He can feel eyes boring into him. He can hear whispers.
Great. Everyone knows I'm a freak.
The bartender is then at his side and yanks him up off the seat. It would appear he is no longer torn. He's made up his mind - Sam's dangerous.
A smirk. A quiet, bitter laugh to himself.
Could've told him that.
"Get. Out." Words laced with rage and even venom, but with a surprising tinge of fear.
"NOW!"
Or not so surprising.
Ignoring the now overwhelming urge to lash out at the man, Sam staggers from the bar; hearing glass shards fall and hit the floor.
Just what he himself longs to do.
Clumsily walking through the door, he barely has made it outside and a few steps down the street when he is on his knees being violently sick.
Good thing Dean isn't here…
Even thinking hurts, thanks to a god-damn thunderous headache.
Coughs, retches, and then when it's all over he leans back, exhausted. He's sitting on filthy ground, his head in his hands and doesn't care.
Wait…
His head feels funny…
Wet? It's raining?
Gingerly he takes his hands away and under the harsh, flashing neon bar sign sees that his right hand is coated in blood; dotted with glass.
Fuck.
The glass has even succeeded in slashing his wrist.
Suddenly the pain hits him with such intensity that he moans, and finds himself on his knees once more being sick again.
He picks himself up and tries to finish walking the length of the remaining part of the street, but after a staggering session, he collapses.
With a sickening crack resonating in the quiet night.
Combined with yet more crushing pain.
Apparently from his nose.
Blood pours down his face. He can taste it in his alcohol-soaked mouth; around his cracked lips. That sharp rich metallic taste makes him wonder.
This was me as a baby… But it would have tasted worse - like sulphur…
He laughs, but it sounds more like a sob.
How pathetic he must look right now.
A pathetic freak.
"Dean…" the cry; the word escapes from his now blooded-coated lips. It's a second nature - call for Dean in times of pain, danger… Dean has always been there, or raced to be there.
Always.
And now, thanks to him he soon wouldn't be.
"Dean…"
A cough, a painful sniff through a still bleeding nose.
But Dean would hate to see him like this - he'd think him a freak, too.
He curls up in a ball, bleeding, drunk and close to tears. How he wants his brother. He wants him now, so badly. His big brother who makes him feel better.
Please, Dean. Please.
He knows he really should try to ring him, but he also knows that if he did, he couldn't speak - drunk and bleeding and pained isn't exactly the most chattiest of scenarios to find yourself in - and anyway, he couldn't dial, as his hand and wrist are bleeding and are really just too sore. Besides, he doesn't want a bloodstained phone, thank you very much.
"Can phonesssss even work after being covered with blood?" A slurred question asked aloud, hoping for an answer.
Sadly, no one does.
Sam's about to try and find out the answer himself - he's digging in his pocket again, feeling the fabric become wet - when he suddenly hears the most beautiful noise in the world right now.
A car pulls up, engine running, playing Metallica on full volume. It's blasting out of an open window, and to Sam it sounds like an answer to prayer. Then he sees the outline of the Impala, and starts to feel a bit better.
"Sam?" A worried voice calls into the now not-quiet night.
Dean…You're here!
He must have realised that after ringing Sam (and getting no reply), and probably Bobby too, that the best place to look were the local bars. The one he had been at was pretty far out, but still local. Dean probably also knows that with the mood Sam is currently in, he would go to a far-out and dingy bar.
To hide in.
Hence why he had journeyed out this late at night to track him down.
Sam's about to answer, call out - something vocal, anyway - when in front of him stands one Dean Winchester.
"Jesus, Sammy? Is that you? How the hell did you get like this?"
Even a shouting, worried and freaked out Dean is perfect right now. Even if the relief is replaced with a touch of anger, it's still perfect.
"Dean… It's you!" He says joyfully, hearing the alcohol infect his tongue, making the words hard to say.
A pause, a sigh and the briefest of nods.
"Yeah, it's me Sam…But you didn't answer my question!"
I did, dumbass! It's me!
"It's me!"
"Not that question, you idiot!" A shake of the head.
Exasperated, now. But still worried, still concerned.
Oh, right... There was another question, wasn't there...
He'll blame the drinking, for that.
Another sigh, a rustle and Dean's next to him on the ground. Sam knows he must stink of drink and blood and sick but Dean doesn't say a word, he's just there, sitting on his hunches, looking at him.
"Sammy…" Softly. The tone of voice that's reserved for times like this.
"Sammy… What the hell happened? Look at your nose! How much did you drink?" A hand lightly touches his nose - it's cold and gentle and Sam relaxes into it. It's much better than an icebag, because it's his big brother doing the soothing.
He struggles to find an answer - his mind is going too slow; too sluggish. His tongue seems heavy, like lead or something as it's prevented him from speaking. But, after several swallows, he manages a sentence.
"I fell…My nose went crack when I went smack!" He's quite pleased with himself.
And for some reason, he giggles at his answer. Dean raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
Silly Dean has no sense of humour.
Dean's talking to him, gently and carefully prising him off the ground, leading him over to the car door. He's not really listening to Dean - he's simply too out of it - but he's just content to hear his voice.
However, Sam picks up on a "Shit, Sammy - look at your hand! Your wrist! What the hell…" and a "How much did you drink?" with an "I'm never letting you out of my sight to go drinking again" thrown in for good measure.
He looks at Dean's car. His precious car.
His big brother is actually letting him into his car; the thing he worships and is practically in love with even though he's dirty - inside and out.
He then looks to Dean, because he seems to have stopped talking; wondering if Sam's with it or not.
"Sammy? You okay? Feel sick?" Questions fire out much like bullets from a gun -
The Colt! The Colt could kill me 'cause I'm a freak -
That quick; that rapid.
A slow shake of the head, even though it makes him wince slightly. Damn, his head hurts…
"I'm…Not gonna be sss…" He stops for a second, concentrating, "Ssssi…Sssic…Sssick." A little giddy smile.
Sam Winchester is officially the smartest man alive.
Dean looks at him with a curious look, though looking as if he's trying not to grin.
He desperately needs to hide his worry under a mask of humour.
"Yeah… He is, I suppose - but only when he's not drunk and talking in third person…"
Oh, I'm talking out loud…
"Are you okay, Sam?" Like a dog with a bone, Dean's not letting go - of Sam, and of the question said Sam hasn't answered yet.
"I'm not gonna be ssssick." Slurred answer this time as opposed to a slurred question.
"But you're not okay." Quietly, yet with an underlining tone of, "Don't even argue - admit it."
Such a mere understatement.
"No, I'm not…"
Words suddenly tumble out.
"Dean…I'm a freak. A dirty and wrong freak… Am I a freak? 'Cause I think I'm one…I am, aren't I?"
A brief session of swearing cuts through his own rambling session.
Silence falls.
"Sam, Jesus Christ….No, you are not. You are not a freak, and never you say that again!" Shock, grief…Dean's face changes.
Like a chameleon…Dean the chameleon…
A snicker. A smirk.
"Sammy, don't think like that!"
"Dean - I am a freak! Look at me; at what I can do-"
"Shut it, Sam. We are not having this conversation. Get in the car." The words sound much harsher than intended, but Dean's hiding how much pain he feels. His little brother…How could he think like that?
Sam remains where he is, though swaying and hiccupping slightly, he still manages to look stubborn.
"I am a freak…I'm corrupted, Dean! Like a demon -"
"Sam. You. Are. Not. A. Freak. And, not a demon either." Dean glares at him - though his eyes are pained - "You know what you are, though?"
The question stuns him.
Christ, no…Don't let Dean say he thinks I'm something worse than a freak.."
Yet the answer stuns him more.
"You're my brother, Sam - my little brother. Not a freak. And you never will be." Such determination; such forcefulness.
Such love.
The hands go on his shoulders and Dean looks him right in the eyes. Sam swallows the huge lump that's suddenly grown in his throat.
"I'm…Not a freak?" Chokes on the words.
A firm shake of the head. The green eyes are sincere. Then a bright smile that to Sam, brings light to his dark world.
"Well…Some could say that you're a freak because you're a walking talking encyclopaedia of weirdness…."
Silence.
He laughs, this time with no trace of bitterness or anguish. It's quiet, faint and sounds on the verge of tears; he knows this but he laughs and Dean laughs too.
Trust Dean. Only he could help me like this. With a smile, a joke and a laugh.
"Come on then, Sasquash. Back to the motel room and then I can patch you up."
Door opens, he is placed inside with such care - like a newborn baby being placed into a cradle.
Dean hops in and starts the car.
"Dean…? Thank you…" He yawns, and with one last hiccup, places his head on the window. He's about to close his eyes when Dean looks back at him and smiles that watt-like smile once more.
"No prob, lil' bro."
And then the car's away and Sam's eyes close. Before he slips into slumber, he smiles.
A proper smile. And feels more than a bit better.
Thank you, Dean.
No idea about this one, either. :face palm: Review?