Sam saw an image once, when he was in college and Jessica persuaded him to take an art class with him. An old house stood off to the side in a black and white photo, barren wasteland all around them. It had probably been a farmhouse at one point, and more than likely a home. Something that someone had lived in, something that had been a refuge for those within it.
The emptiness had felt like despair to Sam. The barren, hollowness in the photograph had resonated directly to Sam's idea of what despair really was. It left you feeling hollow inside, carved out, nothing left but dust and tears.
So it was ironic that despair, the heaviest despair he'd ever felt, was now because of the messy, trashed disaster in front of him.
The hotel room was destroyed. The ceiling was now cracked, and the mirrored glass had shattered every which way. Worse yet, it was everywhere: the beds, the carpeted floor, the furniture...there was no way of walking without stepping on pieces.
The glass from the lamps had also shattered, tearing huge chunks out of the cloth that surrounded them. The beds looked as if someone had taken a machete to them, and even the door looked a little wobbly on the hinges.
For all the mess, for all that was in the room, the most important thing was missing from it.
Dean.
He finally made himself move, the thought of his brother pushing him into the room. "Dean?" he tried, and his voice came out distorted and hoarse. He cleared his throat, coughed at the feeling of tender skin from the fight in the diner, and tried again. "Dean?"
No answer. Gingerly Sam made his way through the wreckage, his emotions a whirlwind inside of him. He could be fine. He said he was going out to get something with Bobby, right? He couldn't have been here, then. He was out.
What if he was here? What if something took him? Was there a codeword in his message? Did I miss him trying to ask for help? Oh god...
The bathroom yielded nothing, and for the first time since he'd arrived with Ruby, Sam was really starting to hate the red walls. If Dean had been thrown, or hurt, there would be blood left behind, something to tell Sam what really happened, and the walls weren't helping at all-
But the carpet was. There, near one of the beds, Sam could see blood sparkling on the glass. He hurried over from the bathroom, ignoring the glass that cracked and broke beneath his boots, and looked down. More blood than he'd originally thought, in a large expanse of square footage. About the right size for a body to be. Like the body of his brother.
Sam didn't even feel the glass as he sank to his knees, but his eyes still stung. He'd lost him. He'd gotten Dean back after four terrible months of booze, grief and pain, and he'd lost him. All because Sam had decided to go out and handle the demons at the diner, instead of watching Dean like he should've. He reached out with trembling hands to touch the blood on the glass.
It was real. Sam slid from his knees to sit on the floor, his eyes drifting over the mess around him. There was no way of telling what had happened to Dean. No way of telling what had taken him, where he was now. He'd at least had Dean's body before to bury, and now-
"Sammy?"
Sam slowly turned over his shoulder to where someone was standing in the doorway. He blinked, and the blurred image became Dean. Dean, who besides looking concerned, looked fine. He was alive.
"Sam?" Dean tried again, carefully making his way through the glass. "What are you...are you sitting in the glass? Sammy-"
"You're okay," Sam croaked. He didn't bother trying to clear his throat this time.
Dean stopped abruptly, eyes locked on Sam. Sam didn't even try to hide the fact that he was staring back. Dean was okay, and everything else could go hang itself. Sam didn't care. By some twist of fate, Dean was still alive, and Sam was still allowed to have a brother.
"Dean? What's going on?" Bobby's voice was heard from the doorway, but Sam didn't bother looking or moving.
The older hunter's voice did get Dean moving, and he crouched next to Sam, wincing as he took in Sam's knees. "Bobby, help me get him out of here." To Sam, he said, "Can you stand?"
Sam didn't think he could anything except stare at his brother, because dammit, Dean was alive. Four months of believing he was gone forever, and then having him back for...no, barely even a day, and Sam had been shoved back into the routine of four months of pain.
"Guess not." Two pairs of hands caught him under his arms and hefted him upright. "There's another hotel down the street," Dean continued, and Bobby gave a short nod before moving into the room. A gentle nudge got Sam moving towards the door, albeit slowly, but Dean didn't seem to mind. "Let's get you laid down somewhere that isn't covered in glass, okay? I gotcha, Sammy."
Sam could physically feel that it was true, and the hollowness inside him didn't seem as hollow as it had been. No more despair; hope had arrived. Any other thoughts beyond that were going to have to wait until he was able to think past Dean and alive and don't let go.
Still, Sam found himself staring at the room, at the mess that held so much but was still barren and desolate. Despair.
Yet one thing could twist the despair into fear and a little hope that from there on out, it wasn't going to be that way anymore. One thing could make him breathe easier and release the tension that seemed to have taken up permanent residence inside of him.
That same one thing that propped him upright while Bobby quickly dug through the mess for the duffels and bags. One thing that let him lean, and then held him tighter because of it. One thing that whispered, "I'm right here, Sammy," and for the first time in a long time, Sam believed it.
END