Authors note: All characters belong to Eric kripke. Slightly OC. Set after season three. Before season four.
The room was white.
Linoleum squares stretched across the floor in intricate patterns and bland crosses, while the walls remained obsolete behind an ivory shower and the dim glow of a lamp overhead. It was a safe looking room. Reflected sanctity, in a sense. Maybe even peace of mind.
"O-oh god…" Hunched over the ceramic sink, a lithe man scrubbed vehemently. The water is tepid, sluicing down Sam's hands like a map to the most lucid colors the white room had ever seen before, and Sam follows the rivulets with bleary eyes as they snake down the sink, and pause to pool along the grate. He's rubbing the soap over his hands again and again, letting the water become scalding as he tries to rid himself of the red. There's just… so much of it. He wants it all to go away.
Jesus. How could he have forgotten this in the first place? The pain he caused. The suffering. Sam cursed himself, knowing he doesn't deserve to forget. Can't. The smack of Sam's hands, one and then the other, against the wet edge of the sink echoes in the room, and Sam can't help but frown at the emotions he can taste in his mouth. The desperate, broken noises he releases, almost willingly, as he watches more blood dribble over his irritated palms. He's bracing himself now, acknowledging the waves of nausea that threaten to toss bile into the mess; before he's once again stooping over. Scrubbing his uninjured hands.
And for a while, that's all he does.
A figure slouches in the doorway, watching as the youngest Winchester cries. Green eyes. So bright, so loving. They pierce him from behind, remaining vigilant. Only when Sam nearly collapses into the sink does the dark male move forward, a small but sturdy hand flicking out to grab his wrist.. permitting the crimson splatter over his jacket sleeve.
"Sam." Dean's voice is like gravel beneath a turning tire, but Sam doesn't heed it, just keeps scrubbing his hands with soap. "Sam."
"It'll come out. It will! H-help me get it off!" Suddenly, Sam's pleading the idea, whipping his head in the direction of his brother. Dean. God, Dean. He stares back up at him, indifferent to what his baby brother wants for the first time in a long while. A smirk cascades over those full lips, emphasizing Dean's faded expression, making it hard for Sam to focus.
"Please," and it's breathless, maybe from the pain of holding himself against the sink, maybe a little fear that he really can't take everything back. Fix their circumstances.
"It's not going to go away, Sam."
"W-why?"
Dean's head bows, drips of red flattening his hair from an unknown source, arrowing down his neck, and Sam let's his brother tighten his grip on his wrist.. Even though it hurts.
"Because I'm already dead."
Dean's words are wounded as he takes the silence that drifts between them on his shoulders, like he always does. Sam cries louder, tears streaming down his face in discarded vengeance. He reaches out to touch his brother, seeing Dean in his favorite street clothes.. The clothes he was buried in… with the necklace given to him years ago dangling in the open air, for everyone to see. Crimson tides right over the edge of it, marring the mask with Dean's blood.
"D-dean… I… oh g-god. I'm sorry. Please!"
His fingertips graze the lapel of his brother's jacket, knees giving way as he tries to affirm that what his brother said isn't true, that none of it is.. And later, he's going to find the impala and Dean sitting someplace, waiting for him, as always. Demanding pie or a burger with extra onions.
"Sammy,"
He buries his face in Dean's pants, pressing his cheek against the older as he takes in the unmistakable musk of his brother's body. Dean always smelled like gunpowder and cheap cologne, clean and sleezy. He still does. And that makes Sam cry harder.
Until, he's gone.
Buckets of blood rain down on him from where his brother once stood, coating every inch of Sam in a puddle of it's mass while he sobbed, clinging to where his brother had held his arm. He pleaded for the other to come back, please, promising he'd save him, he'd do anything, if he just… came back.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
"Sam. Hey, wake up."
Nudging the boy's shoulder, the sound of a familar father-figure lingered back with a frown. Feeling him gape down at his face, Sam was keenly aware that anyone could tell he'd been crying. Screaming, too. From the way his breath came in ragged and sharp. He heard Bobby sigh then, crouching beside him as the Winchester stirred further.
''Come on, sonny. I ain't heard from ya' in five goddamn days. Open your eyes 'er somethin'!"
A groan. Bobby thought he'd mistaken it, but halfway through, Sam let out a strangled gasp. Dear god. Sam really was more messed up than anyone had guessed. Sam almost considered asking Bobby to leave so he could collect himself for a bit, but stopped as soon as he saw Bobby's face, smeared from the ache in his eyes, and completely tortured at the sight below him. Sam seemed startled to say in the least, looking up at him with a blank rendition of what he used to be. Maybe he didn't even really see Bobby standing there, maybe he did. Either way, it seemed the gray haired man planned on waiting for some sign of life before speaking.
"Your comin' with me, kid. Ellen's worried sick 'bout ya. Says it'aint right for you to be sittin' in some cracked up motel without...."
He slurred off, watching Sam's face drain of color, and his eyes narrow into slits. Crap. Bobby was suddenly worried if he actually said HIS name, he might slug him. Or do something worse. Sammy knew it was no secret Bobby was bothered that Sam still hadn't managed to get so far as admitting Dean had died three months ago, lest, do anything about it. In all honesty, it probably irritated him more than bothered. He understood he needed to get his brother back if they were going to stop Lilith. If they were going to do anything about all those demons. He probably wouldn't do much otherwise. But, he didn't know how. How to do anything. All that training over the last year to prepare Sam for a life without Dean... meant nothing. Sam couldn't remember. He noted Bobby murmuing something about a secret sanctity, finally seeming to understand why the two Winchester brothers were so priceless together when Dean had been alive.. and how they balanced each other out in more ways than one. Dean was the protector. Born to keep Sammy alive, sane, and happy. Sam was the one who held all the rest. The brains, the comfort, the understanding. Both were stubborn sons of bitches.. but Bobby never would've guessed the self-loathing, self-sacraficing persona ran between them as well.
"I don't... I don't want to go."
"Sorry. Ellen's orderin' it."
He twisted away, curling into himself on the motel's bedspread. Bobby nearly growled at Sam's inability to care about anyone but himself at this time, and hastily snagged the kid by his arm and heaved him into a sitting position, much to the howling dismay of the boy. As soon as he let Sam go, he started glaring at him, clutching his forarm subconciously- it's not even where Bobby had grabbed him, he realized -before huffing, and moving to get up.
''Don't....stupid.....she said......"
Blinking, Sam couldn't help talking to himself, although it may have been awkward for Bobby. It had become a bit of a trademark for him since Dean, er, you know. Then again, aside from that little consistancy, everything about Sam was practically robotic. From the way he moved with brisk, cold movements to the way he sometimes spaced out when no one needed him for anything; becomming expressionless, unable to snap back to reality for hours on end. The only thing that let anyone know he really hadn't snapped was the formentioned mumbling, admitting snippets of whatever he thought no one else really needed to understand, just hear. He never told anyone most of the things he repeated were remarks Dean use to make, or little jokes that never ceased to make him laugh. Even now.
"Uh... kid?"
"I'm almost ready."
Sam was still holding his arm. And although it seemed Bobby was use to a lot of things, this wasn't going to be one of them. Sam stiffened up when Bobby approached him and tentativly brushed his hand along the spot he held, not even caring that Sam winced or tried to shy away from the contact.
"Lemme see it, boy."
"No, I just..."
"Lemme see!" Rolling back the sleeve, Sam tried to gauge the reaction. The most he could catch was when Bobby's eyes widened. Probably something along the lines of 'what the hell?' His hand spanned out over the purple-tinted bruise, watching as his fingers aligned with those on Sam's skin in automatic horror. "Sam..?"
"It's nothing." He promised. Bobby didn't look like he was buying it. But, instead of pressing, Sam expected he'd let it go. Always did. He didn't tell Bobby that he remembered most of what happened the first few days after Dean's death, how he caught on to Bobby physically restraining himself from tying Sam to a chair after he'd attempted various forms of silent suicide, of contact with the crossroad demon that was no longer there. Mainly it was because it scared the fuck out of him to remember. He'd heard Dean's screams so many times since that night, he imagined that where he could eventually learn to block it out, it was still going to end up haunting him in the end.
That thought, as small and misunderstood as it might be, caused his stomach to clench and twist. The idea of remaining this hurt over his brother's death had never been what he envisioned for their lives. Especially after the year ended. For him, there had been that small distinction between strength and misery. For him there were no shades of gray in said line, but after remembering Dean's screaming, his last breath, the distinction became harder to make. Each side smudged around the edges, layers of darkness coating it's surface. His head ached with it all and he wished that he could make it stop, step away from his body. He'd believed nothing could touch him as deeply as Jessica and Dad's death, but then exactly one year later, here he was. Mourning the loss of his brother. The brother who'd fought with his life to keep Sam alive. The same brother he believed would never leave him. Who'd always be around to smile, and point out some hot girl in public at an innapropriate time. He couldn't believe anything could make the pain he felt worse.. but seeing that look on Bobby's face did it.
He threw up.
''Shit! Sam..." He turned away from the elder, clasping a hand over his mouth as he tried to keep from collapsing onto the ground. When did he become so weak? Bobby was off getting towels the instant it hit the ground, coming back in a flash to pull Sam's hair from his face while tossing the first cream-colored cloth over the rancid puke and using the next to wipe Sam's mouth. Said brunette remained absolutely still through the entire process, his eyes clamped shut, pretending it was Dean taking care of him, not Bobby. Dean had always known exactly when Sam was going to be sick, even prepared for it on a few ocassions before Sam knew himself.
Dean always had him figured out like that, though.
"I'm... ugh. Fuck, sorry."
Bobby didn't say anything, just helped move him to sit back on the bed. Sam opened his eyes and to Bobby, it looked like he was smiling at him in thanks. Weird, right? But to Sam, he was looking beyond the real looking glass to a broken window that focused in on Dean's profile. The damage inflicted on his brother lay hidden in the flickering shadows that played across his skin. Dean was mouthing something to him, his hand reaching out to feel Sam's head. To check his temperature. Bile rose in his throat again as he recalled what Dean sounded like when he said his name, even in a whisper.
"Sammy."
The image faded. Sam's thoughts reeled, and his eyes watered. Dean died for him. That's why he wasn't here now. It was all his fault. He was the one who beat him down all these years and emotionally fucked him over. What was he supposed to think about that? How it wasn't worth it? There had been a moment when Sam almost couldn't help laughing because he finally thought this nightmare was over. That everything was okay. Dean was checking his temperature, cursing him for not eating enough meat, or something.
Bobby gave him a questioning glance as he removed his hand from Sam's head. "You okay, kid?"
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled having this conversation and he shook his head, trying to clear away Dean's image. "I'm fine."
Nodding thoughtfully, Bobby slipped one arm underneath Sam and drug him upwards. Sam allowed himself to be carted out the door, falling shamefully into the old sportscar Bobby drove just a few feet away. The interrior was a lot like the impala's when he looked hard enough, and that made him sink back against the door in disgust. Sam sucked in a chilled breath then, waiting as the other retreated to get his bags himself, loading them in the trunk not minutes later afore clambering in on the other side, revving the car into gear.
Sam snorted. You know, Dean use to do that. Rev the car. He loved to show off, and that was the most natural way of doing it. Everyone use to turn and look when he was behind the wheel, though most usually missed how Dean would slip one hand from the steering wheel, to rest on his thigh. The car would usually roar a second time, tearing up the road as they began bickering about some nonsense that didn't even matter at the time. Sam bit down on his lip when he remembered how Dean's fingers use to tap out a rhythm against the worn denim stretched over the muscle of his leg, disrupting the music's tempo.
"Sam?" The bile rose back up in his throat, coating his tongue with a bitter flavor, one of salt and ash. "Are you listening?"
Sam nodded, not really understanding. All he could hear was his brother's shitty music in his head, and see how his brother's lips twitched whenever he knew a particular line of the song. "We're going to get him back, Sam. One day, we really will. But you can't keep..." There was no emotion in Sam's face as the words tumbled out, filling the car with it's pregnant meaning. "But you can't keep doing this. Doesn't do him any good."
"I'm sorry," Sam's voice cracked, quiet, and broken. "Okay?"
Bobby sighed. "Just have faith, Sam. Demon's will use this weakness against you if you keep it up."
Anger rose from the pit of his stomach. "Stop, Bobby. I get it." he braced himself, clenching his fists. "I don't even care about demons anymore. They can take over the world for all I care."
Eyes focused on the racing blackness ahead of them, barely lit up in the flickering light of Bobby's headlights, the elder shook his head. "You sound just like him."
"What?" Sam was frozen. Did he just say what he thinks he said? Couldn't. Bobby wouldn't do that.
Running a shaking hand through his hair, Sam realized that something was wrong. His gaze shifted to the expression on the old man's face, analyzing the furrowed eyebrows and the subtle wheezing he made.
"Forget it, Sam. We'll talk more 'bout it when we get to Ellen."