Blood.
Welling. Dripping. Red.
Blood.
Slick. Coppery. Warm.
Blood.
Spreading. Tingling. Power.
Blood. Blood. Blood.
Sam clenched his eyes shut and clutched his head, face screwed in agony. He hunched over, trying desperately to push the thoughts away, to contain them, like he'd been doing every waking moment since he released the devil.
"Hey, man, you doin' okay?"
Sam startled and looked up, making eye contact with the man staring warily at him from across the fire.
Forcing a smile, he gave the man a short nod, hoping to stall any awkward questions. After a few seconds of staring, the man shrugged and focused again on the flames.
Sam glanced around at the three other homeless men sharing the warmth, but none of them even looked up. He released the breath he'd been holding, relieved there was no trouble, and settled more comfortably against the tire he was leaning against.
It had been six days since he had left Dean sitting at that picnic table. Six days since he'd said goodbye to the only reason for his existence and walked away.
Six days spent thinking about the gun tucked in his waistband and what it would taste like.
He'd spent each of those days in constant companionship with complete strangers, hitchhiking when he could and resting among those willing enough to tolerate him for a few hours when he couldn't.
Never allowing himself to be alone because he wasn't sure be could resist the urge to become intimately acquainted with a bullet if he was.
Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet, swinging his bags onto his shoulder and striding into the darkness. He didn't like the looks he was getting from some of the guys at the fire and figured he would get as much rest walking as he would sleeping in their vicinity.
He had only been walking a few minutes when he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.
Sighing again, he turned to face his pursuers, dropping the bags and grabbing the gun at the same time.
The two men, the fire-buddies he had noticed, stopped upon seeing the pistol. Sam could tell they weren't used to coming against weapons, both of their eyes showing wide and white in the darkness. He relaxed his stance slightly, confident they would be no trouble.
"Alright, fellas," he said, raising his voice slightly. "There doesn't have to be any trouble. There's nothing for you here, so just head back to the camp. Good?"
Both nodded, hands up placating.
"Sure, sure," one of them said. "We'll just get out of your way. We didn't mean anything by it."
Sam smiled slightly. Yeah, right.
"Go then."
They backed a few steps up before turning and walking hurriedly into the night.
Sam waited a few seconds, just to be sure, before lowering the pistol and grabbing his bags again.
Keeping the gun in hand, he continued through the trees, not relaxing until he reached the deserted road.
Hiking his bags further onto his shoulder, he walked on the edge of the asphalt.
Adrenaline left over from the confrontation kept his fatigue at bay for a while, but not long enough.
Before long, his thoughts were dragging as slow as his feet and the whispers grew louder.
Blood.
Thick. Sticky. Wet.
Blood...
"No!" He burst out, pressing his hands to his face. Hands and gun.
Gun that had been forgotten after the threat had passed. Gun that was warm from being held, heavy against his cheek.
Gun that would solve so many problems.
Sam wasn't blind and he certainly wasn't stupid. He knew what he had done. Knew what his actions had caused.
He'd seen the effect on Cas, on Bobby, on the world.
He'd seen what he'd done to Dean.
The "I just don't think I can trust you." The drinking. The whispered conversations and sidelong glances.
The raw disappointment after watching your brother end the world.
Sam lowered the gun, staring at it in the dim moonlight. Wouldn't it be so easy? Wouldn't it be better? To remove the stain of his existence from the world and everything, everyone, in it?
The muzzle felt strange against his temple, hard and painful, digging into his skin.
Sam Winchester, the boy king, the boy with the demon blood, Azazel's favorite and Ruby's plaything.
He closed his eyes...
Sam Winchester, the monster, the abomination, the mistake.
Took a deep breath...
Sam Winchester, the freak.
His finger tightened on the trigger...
Well, I'm a freak, too. I'm right there with you, all the way.
His finger twitched and he narrowly avoided spraying his brain along the road at the words. Dropping his hand, he whirled around, searching the darkness for his brother. He knew it had been in his head, knew those words had been spoken a lifetime ago in the front seat of the only home he'd ever known. But that didn't stop his heart from squeezing painfully as he looked around, tears of desperation and misery slipping from his eyes.
He sniffed and cursed. Damn. He couldn't even kill himself without acting like a wuss.
Tightening his grip on the gun, Sam again braced himself. Dean wasn't coming. He'd made that perfectly clear when Sam offered to leave.
It was time to do this. To end this. For Dean.
For Dean?
Sam stared down at the gun, imagining Dean's face when some police officer had the misfortune of telling him they'd found his baby brother, head scattered across some back road, rotting in a ditch. Imagined the punch that would surely smash into the poor bastard's face at the news. Pictured the despair in Dean's eyes as he tried to smother the pain and guilt with copious amounts of alcohol.
Because he would blame himself. Even with all the crap between them, Sam knew that Dean wouldn't be able to accept his death. They were still brothers after all, even when it didn't feel like it.
And Dean was and always would be the best of brothers. Sam's rock and his salvation, no matter the distance between them.
And he didn't deserve this.
Hell, Sam didn't deserve this. The easy way out. The coward's choice.
No, Sam had a long way to go in his penance and it would start by placing Dean first. By doing what Dean would want, for the first time in a long time.
Sam slid the gun back into his waistband, rubbed away the tears and started walking.
It was time to start paying for what he'd done. To push through the cravings and the pain. To start putting the world back together. To stop living for himself and start merely being.
For Dean.