Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show Supernatural, including, but not limited to, Eric Kripke and the CW network. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.
A/N: Tag to 3x11 'Mystery Spot', 3x16 'No Rest for the Wicked', and 4x01 'Lazarus Rising'. Though I have indeed seen the first five minutes (or most of it – that YouTube vid is particularly poor quality and parts are exceedingly hard to make out), this remains pure supposition on what comes next in that show we all know and love combined with my take on what, precisely, Sam went through during those months following the first Wednesday back in Broward County, Florida. The title comes from Thousand Foot Crutch's album of the same name (don't own anything affiliated with them either). And yeah, I know its a weird style. Sorry.
The Art of Breaking
"Nothing in this place ever changes, ever… Except me."
Sam Winchester, 3x11 'Mystery Spot'
One hundred miles north of Four Corners, the Impala's radio played its last.
Sam may have gone through this before, but this was the one thing that didn't get easier with repetition. How many times had he been made to watch his brother die? A hunt gone wrong, a vision, an endless parade of Tuesdays… No, if there was one certainty remaining, it was that it never got easier. It got harder each and every time. That Wednesday… He'd thought that had been the last time, but even before the Trickster sent him back, the sight of Dean in that parking lot haunted his dreams.
He remembered the nightmares. Not visions – just run-of-the-mill nightmares. Sam would have preferred visions. At least he could try to do something about those. No, he remembered the nightmares from the last time and so he didn't even attempt sleep. That, at least, was different this time around. He wasn't going to fight the inevitable.
Bobby worried about him, but Sam wasn't sure why. He'd been though this before, and not just with Jess and Dad. He knew what to expect. He welcomed the numbness; it made him feel less hollow. Besides, if he were really honest with himself, he'd known for a couple of weeks that they weren't going to be able to stop the deal unless a miracle was involved, and Winchesters just weren't that lucky.
If there was one small bit of comfort to be had in all of this, it was that he knew he wouldn't have to live through it again. Dean was gone and wouldn't be coming back.
He'd been through this before, and he refused to go through it again.
Harsh sunlight did nothing to disguise the rough motions and use of sheer brute strength which ripped it from the console, multicolored wires trailing behind it in streamers of electronic viscera.
Driving anger had fueled his first experience at working without Dean. The relentless push to track down that damn Trickster and make him put things right had kept him going through innumerable hunts and fights.
This time was different, and not just because he couldn't watch his brother's pyre and so had buried him beneath a simple wooden cross. No, this time the driving need to fix things was gone. There wasn't anything left to fix.
He'd lost.
Sure, he entertained the momentary notion to track down Lilith and kill the bitch, but he doubted he'd be able to get that close to her a second time. He hadn't really believed Ruby when she'd told him how frightened Lilith was of him, but there hadn't been much room for misinterpretation of the look on her face before she fled. He had even gone so far as to use Bobby's magical demon locator tripod – more to placate the older hunter than to actually try to find her – but it didn't turn up anything. He wasn't quite sure what he would have done if it had.
He'd lost and he just plain didn't give a shit any more.
Nor did the dusty noontime sun hide how the metal box was driven into a chunk of blandly beige rock until the case broke apart and its innards fractured.
Before, Sam had taken Dean to Bobby's simply because he hadn't known where else to go. The pyre had been Bobby's idea; just a precaution because who knew for sure if the deal actually counted since Dean had died early? Dean's ashes had been picked up by a strong easterly wind and deposited over miles of South Dakota countryside.
Sam knew he couldn't watch that again.
They'd buried Dean in the clothes he'd worn most of his life. Bobby had tried to call up a smile on Sam by mentioning how if they would bury Dean in a suit, he'd probably find a way out of hell just to come kick their asses. Bobby knew it was morbid humor, but Sam hadn't said anything at all since Bobby'd found him holding on to Dean, a mix of blood and tears staining clothing and faces alike.
Before, Dean had burned with all his favorites right there with him; a warrior's funeral – woulda been a Viking one, but there weren't that many lakes near Bobby's place. This time, Sam knew what was coming – the dangers of hunting alone, if not the absence of drive – and so Dean was buried only with his clothes and boots and the silver Zippo. Sam pocketed the amulet and would have taken Dean's ring, too, but it wouldn't come off.
He knew he wouldn't need the lighter.
He'd had entirely too much of that particular element in his life.
Again and again the radio was bashed into the rock, fragments of metal and plastic sheared off to glitter in the alien terrain of the southern Utah desert.
He'd left Bobby's in the middle of the night, heading west. He turned south at about the same time the sun peeked over the horizon and then went east for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Every time he managed to drive through an area with cell reception, his phone wouldn't stop ringing and beeping and otherwise trying to capture his attention. The battery finally drained when he stopped to fill the car at about five that evening.
Sam had no idea where he was headed. That was what he told himself, but when he wound up in Austin, it wasn't a surprise. He'd been on this hunt before. Alone.
He was just catching up.
Gleaming brown ribbons burst forth in an arterial spray when the cassette ruptured.
Each hunt that he found himself repeating was an odd mix of precisely what had happened before and new experiences.
Getting shot was as painful as ever, but this time the bullet hadn't hit a rib.
Just a fraction of an inch difference in how he stood and it lodged in his right lung instead.
He wasn't sure how Bobby found him; Sam hadn't bothered charging his cell again, but the older hunter showed up at the hospital and tried everything to make Sam listen to him.
The ribbons unfurled and puddled on the ground before the faint breeze picked them up and deposited them among the boulders.
Gutted. That was a good description of how he felt. Empty, hollow, without purpose. Too little sleep, and when was the last time he'd eaten a meal?
Stretched thin to the point of translucence.
Angry, too. Angry at himself for not being able to save his brother. Angry at Dad for placing too much responsibility on Dean. Angry at Dean for making the deal. Angry at the world for being such a fucked up place.
But still hollow, despite the anger.
One particularly adventurous strand made it as far as a long-dead scrub juniper before being snagged by skeletal branches and held fast.
Not knowing how, Bobby caught up with him at that hospital. Took him back to South Dakota. Kept telling him that he could stay long as he liked, that he shouldn't really be alone.
Sam stayed until it didn't hurt so much to breathe before taking off again.
There were still demons in Death Valley.
Traffic was sparse and had been for the last couple of hours, but an older man in a rickety old pickup slowed as though he meant to stop and ask if there was anything he could do to help, but kept on driving; much later, when he finally got home, he would tell his wife he'd seen death in the desert.
Too many things reminded him of Dean, particularly when at Bobby's place. Every time he rounded a corner, he half-expected to see his brother stretched out and watching television or raiding the fridge for a beer or spelunking for spare parts outside.
It wasn't quite as bad when he was on the road. Unless it rained. The rain always reminded him of Dean. It always had, ever since they were kids. He never really knew why he associated rain with his brother, but he did know he felt slightly more comfortable in the desert.
Dean had always maintained that the most fucked-up shit happened in Florida. That wasn't quite true in Sam's experience. For Sam, the strangest things happened out where the sun beat down with sadistic intensity and the horizon was either jagged mountains or it stretched on for-fucking-ever. A land ruled by sand and sagebrush and snakes where a person could start walking and disappear forever. Land that felt almost like a different world altogether and which could transform from shades of reds and yellows and browns to the most intense green in a matter of hours after one of the infrequent rains.
It had been a mix-tape; not the one with all of Dean's favorites, but one of the others, probably recorded after one too many beers.
Two months or eight, depending on how it was counted, without his brother had taught him to rely on himself. Sure, he'd been without his family when he was at school, but there was a big difference between being on opposite sides of the country and now.
He cleaned out the trunk while still at Bobby's, but hadn't gone so far as to reorganize the cache. The reason he told himself was that he just didn't have the materials to do so right then, but it had more to do with a rebellious little corner of his mind telling him he deserved the reminder of his failure. Just like how it said he deserved the broken radio endlessly looping the cassette until each and every note, beat, and lyric was etched indelibly into his mind.
The on/off switch had broken that night; fear and despair and anger and whywhywhy all making a contribution to the how. Too little sleep had jammed the cassette and the Impala always did have excellent speakers.
The one song he had always associated with his brother was on the tape, sandwiched between Supertramp and The Eagles. He would have shut the radio off if the knob was still there, or fast-forwarded through it, but when the eject button jammed, something broke inside and neither fast-forward or rewind worked any more.
If he'd been thinking clearly, he might have remembered to get it fixed, but as it was, the only times he really registered that it still played the endless loop was when he was miles from anywhere. Was it coincidence or cosmic irony that the one song he couldn't ignore always seemed to play when the road stretched on to the horizon without so much as a gas station to break the view?
One hundred miles north of Four Corners, the Impala's radio played its last; too bad the music wouldn't stop.
A/N2: Yes, this is another weirdo oneshot from my brain. Honestly, I don't wanna know where I come up with this stuff. If you're curious, (or, ya know, wanna make a copy for yourself) the cassette that got stuck in the radio was one of the 60-minute tapes (so 30 min on each side).
Side A:
Alice in Chains Sea of Sorrow
Godsmack I Stand Alone
Bad Company Movin' On
Ozzy No More Tears
Boston Peace of Mind
The Rolling Stones Laugh, I Nearly Died
Side B:
Ted Nugent Stranglehold
The Doors Alabama Song
The Grateful Dead Casey Jones
Supertramp The Logical Song
Metallica Wherever I May Roam
The Eagles Take it Easy
I think I've got far too much time on my hands, yeah? Anyway, I'd love to hear what you all think about this latest weirdo oneshot. Thanks in advance.