Post 4.04 'Metamorphosis" This one is short, but it's more of a tag than a complete snapshot. Expect something more substantial next time!
Now that they were done with the hunt and settled down in their motel room, Sam rolled over, facing away from Dean, and closed his eyes, reflecting of the events that had transpired not just now, but over the last few months. His head throbbed from injury and fatigue, and there was no denying that he wished Ruby was around to give him another hit of blood. He felt ashamed; he had just told Dean, not two hours ago, that he was done using his powers. At the time, he was convinced that he was, he was determined to stop, he was ready to do whatever it took to salvage the relationship with his brother that was teetering precariously on the edge of destruction. He wanted to stop, so badly he wanted to; but the desire, the need, the ache for his vice ran so deep that Sam was certain he wouldn't survive without it. How had they gotten to this point? How had he let things get so out of control?
For his entire life, Sam had strived to remain in control of his life, much to the dismay of his father, who also preferred to hold all the cards. In all actuality, his life hadn't really been his in years, not since he had left Stanford. First he was driven by the need for revenge, to catch Jessica's killer and get retribution. After the yellow-eyed demon was gone, he had to look for a way to save Dean. Now that Dean was back, he was being controlled not only by his need for revenge but also by his addiction.
He had never pictured himself as an addict. He wasn't as big of a drinker as his Dad had been, as Dean was. He wasn't into drugs, he hadn't even experimented with them in high school or college. He had always felt he had more self-control, more to live for, and that having vices would make it harder to remain focused on the end-goal. As it turned out, without Dean there was no end-goal and he had much less to live for than he originally thought. The demon blood had been a last ditch effort at doing something meaningful; a way to take down Lilith and get her back for taking his brother away from him. It was the only thing keeping him from life and death; giving him a purpose when all he wanted to do was give up and die. It wasn't an ideal vice, not something that was normal and had a 12-step program, but it was his only choice. Why couldn't Dean see that? It was using his powers or laying down to die. Is that what Dean wanted? For Sam to be so miserable and lonely that he wasted away to nothing? He had been alone and hopeless and this seemed like the best option. When he had died, Dean had went and made a demon deal, selling his soul. How was that any better than the way he was coping?
"Sam? You okay?" Dean asked, his voice gruff in a mixture of fatigue from the hunt and residual pain from getting slammed around by the rougarou.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut tightly, his heart clenching in a moment of anxiety-induced panic and sending a wave of dizziness through him. He didn't want to talk to Dean about this. He didn't want to talk to Dean at all. Dean knew too much, Dean knew him too well, Dean knew that there was evil inside of him. He hoped his voice sounded steady when he replied, "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Need me to check you over for a concussion or something?" Dean asked, and Sam knew it was his brother's way of trying to make amends. When all else failed, pulling out the big brother card made everything less tense and awkward. These were the roles they had played for the majority of their lives, these were the roles they were most comfortable in. When it was just them being brothers, there was little variation. Dean was the caretaker, Sam was the one being cared for. Very seldom did the rules change and even when their roles were reversed, both had enough practice to know what to do without making things weird. It was everything else that was completely screwed up.
Still, Sam found himself unable to relent and let Dean put on his big brother hat. The days of needing his big brother had long ago passed, at least that's what Sam liked to tell himself. Truth be told, he'd love Dean to tell him everything was going to be fine, to fix the addiction, to get rid of Ruby, his temptation. But Dean couldn't do any of that, and they both knew it. Letting him try, letting themselves pretend would only do more harm than good when both knew it was a farce. He was broken, plain and simple. Dean's death had broken him in many ways, leaving him alone and unable to resist temptation, fostering an addiction that had turned him into a monster. "If I didn't know you, I'd want to hunt you."
Nothing was right. He knew Dean hadn't wanted him to use his powers, but how could he not when he was saving people's lives by pulling a demon instead of stabbing the victim? How could this possibly be a bad thing? Sure, they were powers that came from Azazel, but did that mean they were inherently bad? Even if he was using them for good? How could he justify stabbing every demon they came cross? Trapping and doing an exorcism that put not only the demon but the victim through physical agony during the process? Wasn't it more humane to do things his way? Why couldn't Dean see that? Before Dad died, he had told Dean that if Sam went dark-side, Dean would have to kill him. Was this that line? Had he crossed it without even realizing it?
Sam's head ached and he pulled his pillow over his face, fighting tears that threatened to fall. He didn't deserve to cry, not now. He had completely screwed everything up, he was a disappointment to the closest thing to a parent figure he had ever been able to depend on. He hadn't saved Dean, he had started working with Ruby, he tapped into the darkness within him, he lied to his brother, he kept secrets, and now he was deeply aching for a hit of blood. He was nothing more than a loser addict making excuses for his behavior in order to justify continuing it. He was weak and he hated himself for it, yet at the same time, all he wanted to do was pick up the phone and arrange a meeting with Ruby. What was wrong with him? Why did he lack the self-control he needed to beat this thing? And why did he not really want to beat this thing? Why couldn't he pull demons and save people without actually drinking the blood? Of course, that would be too easy, and if there was one thing certain in life, the Winchester luck prevented the easy way as a solution to anything.
"You sure you're okay, Sam?" Dean asked, sitting on the edge of Sam's bed, "I'm worried about you, man."
"Don't." Sam retorted dryly, unable to put on a happy facade for his brother, barely able to pull off indifferent. He was torn between wanting to rage at his brother for making him feel guilty and shaming him into stopping his quest to take down Lilith and feeling so completely ashamed that he wanted to bury himself in a hole and just quit. Neither was an option, so he opted to continue lamenting in silence and hoping Dean would leave him alone for once.
"We're cool, right?" Dean asked after a moment, "I apologized…"
Sam remained silent, not knowing what to say. He was well-aware that Dean apologized, and he had promised to stop using his powers and he had already forgiven Dean for hitting him...twice...but forgiving Dean did nothing to make him feel better about his own failures. Dean wasn't the problem here, he was. His sick blood habit and inability to do anything without royally screwing it up was the issue. Sure, he wished Dean would understand where he was coming from, but he knew that wasn't an option. He had always known that wasn't an option; Dean saw things in black and white, with no patience for grey areas. Sam practically lived in the grey areas lately, so it was a subject they'd never be able to even discuss rationally, much less agree about. Explaining his reasons, his logic, the circumstances...none of that would help the situation because Dean was incapable of seeing those hazy areas that fell between wrong and right.
He was pretty sure their relationship would never be the same again.
While Dean was in hell, Sam had imagined getting his brother back daily. He had never imagined, though, that things would be so different if Dean returned. He thought they'd still be brothers, that they'd be able to pick up where they left off like they did after Stanford. He imagined Dean may come back changed, but would still be his brother underneath it all and they'd fall into a routine. He envisioned himself giving his brother a long hug, having a few beers and doing everything in his power not to let Dean die again. Instead, he was sneaking off with Ruby, Dean was dealing with angels, they weren't ever on the same wavelength and there was so much distrust and secrets between them that Sam wasn't sure they'd ever be able to recover. It hurt so badly to think that even though Dean was back, they'd never be like they were before.
"I'm not mad at you, Dean." Sam finally replied, feeling the tension growing in the room and wanting to prevent Dean from blowing up again, "I'm just...tired."
"You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
Both boys knew it was a lie. Sam felt Dean rise from the bed and a few seconds later he could hear the sink running as Dean got ready for bed. Pillow still pressed tightly to his face, Sam's mouth filled with saliva, the prickling need for a hit of blood now increasing to the point where he could nearly imagine it on his tongue, coating his mouth and teeth with a tangy, bitter taste. He imagined it sliding down his throat, sending warmth throughout his body in the same way that alcohol numbed his brother when he wanted an escape. He could imagine the tingling that would fill his body as his senses became hyper-aware, the rush of energy and the clarity of mind once it hit his system. He missed it terribly, he had made a mistake saying he'd stop.
He dug his fingers into his pillow, moaning lowly. He needed it. Not just wanted, needed. It was becoming harder to think as he allowed his thoughts to drift solely towards the blood. He needed to find Ruby, he needed Dean to go to sleep so he could find Ruby. He needed a fix or he was going to lose his mind. His body ached for it, and he realized in this moment that he was truly a slave to his vice; but right now he wanted it so badly that he couldn't be bothered to care about the fact that it was an addiction, something disgusting that needed to be avoided and not given in to.
The pillow was pulled from his face roughly, despite Sam's best attempts to leave it in place and thus block out the rest of the world. He looked up to see Dean standing over him, a cup of water in one hand and some pills in another.
"You look like you have a headache." Dean commented as Sam stared dumbly up at his older brother, "Take these and get some rest. Tomorrow will be better."
Sam silently took the pills, recognizing the move as another peace offering and a show of concern. He managed to summon a slight smile before swallowing the medication, not really needing painkillers but not wanting to reject Dean's offer of support. It was important to their current level of functioning that they did that they could to maintain whatever small level of peace and order they had managed to string together, so the gesture needed to be reciprocated with compliance or it would all unravel. Sam vaguely wondered when things had gotten this bad, when they had reached the point where all of their communication had to be in gestures to prevent fighting, lies or miscommunication.
Even though his brother was back, he felt even more alone than he had in his entire life.
Sam laid in bed, resisting the urge to shift restlessly as Dean settled in to his own bed for the night and turned off the light. He couldn't stop thinking about it, the draw and temptation calling out to him like a siren beckoning with its song. He knew he had to resist; he told Dean he'd stop. He had promised himself that he would stop, that it was a dangerous slope and he wouldn't be a monster that had to be put down like Jack Montgomery. But it was...so….hard.
It didn't take long for Dean's breathing to even out as his older brother gave into the beckoning slumber that was calling both of them, but Sam refused to allow himself the escape of unconsciousness. He couldn't think about anything other than the warm red substance that had made him feel alive again after he thought he would never feel anything other than emptiness and pain when Dean died. He lasted only ten minutes after Dean had fallen asleep before slipping out of bed and to the door, careful not to make any noise as he walked outside of the room.
He pulled out his cell phone, calling a familiar number, "Hey, Ruby, it's me. Can we meet?"
With one last look towards the motel room, Sam felt a wave of shame and disgust wash through him. He was so weak, so pathetic, so unworthy of anything from his brother other than hatred. He was just a useless junkie who only cared about getting his next fix, regardless of the cost. Dean was right, he was a monster. It only took Ruby a few minutes to arrive, and Sam gave her a half-smile before glancing back to the faded wooden door.
"I am so sorry, Dean."