Sorry for the wait on the update. I have no excuse. :( Please don't punish me by not reviewing.
He kept seeing it in his dreams, the blood blooming bright like a poppy on Dean's shirt. There was no sound, only the Technicolor gore seeping across Dean's chest, spreading and spreading until it was all Sam could see, until he suddenly thought he would drown in it.
Sam swam slowly back to consciousness, the crimson fading to black, first hearing the tip-tapping of rain on the roof. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was, because the bed in which he slept was too soft and smelled too nice to be a motel bed. He opened one eye, taking in the gray light of a rainy day. The cat had moved to the crook of his knees and she raised her head, staring at him with half-closed eyes. A knot formed and swelled in his chest, just as it had every time he woke from sleep ever since…ever since it happened.
He slowly sat up, passing a hand through his hair, and glanced at his watch. He'd slept for almost four hours, which surprised him a bit. Sleep hadn't come easily lately. The same dream always stole his peace, and left him feeling as weary and drained as if he hadn't slept at all. He felt lucky if he tacked up a whole hour. The cat chirped a purr and pressed against his hand, demanding that he pet her. He did so, stroking her soft fur and knuckling the sleep from one eye.
A low roll of thunder grumbled and the cat leapt from the bed, tail held high. Sam caught the rich aroma of pot roast and his mouth began to water. His recent diet of candy bars and whiskey suddenly seemed foolish, so he stood and stretched. As he stumbled down the stairs, he could hear clattering in the kitchen.
Stella was draining a pot of potatoes in the sink, the steam rising around her like fog. She glanced at Sam and blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. "Be useful and set the table, bub." As Sam started setting out plates and glasses, Stella dumped the potatoes into a bowl and started mashing them up with a large glob of butter. "You sleep okay?"
Sam made a noncommittal sound and began to lay out silverware. The table was already laden with a small beef roast, tender and falling apart, with rolls and corn and salad. Stella handed him the bowl of potatoes and gestured for him to sit.
Sam sank into a chair, taking a deep pull of the smells rising from the table. He wasn't quite sure how Stella had pulled such a meal together so quickly, but he was suddenly glad she had. He could barely remember his last real meal. His stomach gave a grumbling lurch and his mouth began to water.
Stella wheeled in across from him and flicked the brake on her chair with her thumb. Sam picked up his fork but stopped short when Stella bowed her head, eyes closed. Sam looked sideways, uncomfortable and, inexplicably, angry. After a short moment Stella opened her eyes again and, ignoring the tear that tracked down to her chin, she scooped up a huge spoonful of potatoes and slapped it onto Sam's plate.
Sam speared a hunk of roast and served Stella, then dropped some onto his own plate. Under the table, Pip bumped his leg, an unsubtle reminder that there was a hungry dog in the room. Sam forked up some meat and started to chew, but it turned to sand in his mouth as another tear dripped from Stella's chin.
"Sorry," she said gruffly, swiping the tear away with the heel of her hand.
Sam swallowed a sigh and took a bite of potato, though the pleasure in it was now lost. Pip bumped him again, so he cut off a square of roast and slipped it under the table. Pip's whiskers tickled his palm, and Sam could hear him smacking his lips, relishing the treat.
"When he pukes that up, it's all you," Stella said, raising an eyebrow. She paused, then asked again, "So didja sleep okay?"
"I guess. The backseat of the Impala isn't exactly a five-star, you know?"
Stella's mouth quirked. "I know it ain't my place, but you need to make sure to take care of yourself. You're lookin' rough."
Sam took a long pull on his beer and found he wished it were whiskey instead. "Yeah."
Stella looked at her plate, pushing some corn around with her fork. There was a long pause, and then she gusted out a breath. "Don't know about you, but I'm damned mad at him."
At the mention of Him, Sam's stomach twisted. He shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it, but somehow the words found their way out. "I didn't understand how Dad, how Dean, could look a demon in the face and make a deal. I didn't understand it, and it pissed me off. It went against everything Dad ever taught us." Sam looked at Stella with pained eyes. "I get it now."
"You're not gonna do something stupid are you?" Stella put down her fork and reached across the table, but Sam didn't take her hand.
Tears stung at Sam's eyes and he took a long pull at his beer, trying to swallow down the pain. "I let him down. I promised we'd find a way to save him, and I let him down."
Stella blinked away some tears of her own, the corners of her mouth twisting. "He wouldn't think so, Sam." She ran a knuckle under her eye. "He'd understand."
Sam looked down, breathing back the roar of rage that swelled at the back of his throat. "I have to get him back."
"You can't go being foolish like they were, Sam. Whatever mistakes they made, they made to save you, and to throw that away would be a wrong they couldn't forgive." Stella pushed her plate away. "This life done you a bad turn, Sam, but we all go to bones in the end."
"But we don't all go down to the pit, do we," snarled Sam in reply, but almost immediately felt ashamed. He looked away, staring down at the beer bottles lined up in front of him like little soldiers. He knew his anger wasn't for her.
"Don't think so highly of yourself. It ain't becoming." Stella's face was calm and smooth, but her eyes were like hard, cold diamonds. "We're all bound for that pit, I'd say. We've all sold our souls, living this life."
"He didn't deserve it!" Sam slammed his fist on the table, tipping his bottle over. Neither he nor Stella made any move to stop the beer flood from spreading across the tablecloth. Pip pressed himself against Sam's leg, eyeing him nervously. "He died in that house, on that cul-de-sac of the damned, and for what? For what?"
"For better or for worse, he died for you, boy." Stella's face softened. "Dean ain't the first friend I've lost. And he probably won't be the last. But that don't make it hurt any less. When it stops hurting, I'll know it's time for me to quit this world, 'cause it means part of my soul has finally given out on me." Stella reached across the table again and this time Sam slipped his hand into hers. "You can't stop the pain, but you have to fight, Sam. You have to go on, because otherwise they win."
Sam shook his head, anguished. "From the time that he was four, Dean never had a normal life. Never had a home, was never just a regular guy. He put everything into hunting, he gave up on normal. All he ever wanted was to fight for people, to save people. And now, in spite of all the good he's done, all the people he's saved, he's in hell. It's so unfair." A sob found its strangled way out of his throat.
"Of all the people he saved, he couldn't save himself," said Stella quietly. "I know."
It was like a dam had opened in Sam, and all the things he had been hiding came rushing out with unchecked power. "He's the first thing I think of in the morning, and the last thing I think of at night. I know he would want me to cowboy up, to keep going, but I don't know how. I don't know if I can."
Stella squeezed his hand and leaned forward to catch his gaze. Her eyes were hard. "If you can't get him back, then the best thing for you to do is make his sacrifice worth it. You go and kill as many of those bastards as you can. You make them pay for every drop of blood they've spilled. Make them pay."
And in that moment, something inside Sam broke, a switch flipped, and he somehow knew that things were going to change.
"For anyone who is alone without God and without a master, the weight of days is dreadful."
-Albert Camus