Good morning! Am just BARELY getting this posted...i am going to be scrambling to get to work on time. There were SO many great ways this theme/prompts could've gone. Really love how this turned out tho (COMPLETELY not like anything i'd originally planned lol). Hope you enjoy!

No. 19: BROKEN HEARTS

prompt options: Grief, Mourning Loved One, Survivor's Guilt

setting: season 2

The thud of something hitting the floor in the bathroom brought Sam out of the half-doze he'd fallen into. Blinking heavy eyes, he focused his attention on the sounds from the bathroom. Dean was muttering not quite under his breath. The shower was running. Must have dropped something. Shampoo or soap maybe.

Sam closed his eyes again.

A truck rattled by outside, loud with the window open. The AC didn't work in this crappy room. Hadn't been a problem at first, but an unexpected heatwave had hit the area and now it was a problem. There was a slight breeze drifting through the window and Dean had actually gone out and bought a small fan to try to help.

The fan was oscillating on the desk to the right of the bed. Every time it turned his way, it made Sam shiver, but when it turned away, he choked with the pressing heat. Only the sheet was over him and it was too thin and too heavy all at once.

He shifted, not sure if he was trying to avoid the fan or catch more of its cooled air. A stab of pain through his head left him biting back a groan. Moving. Bad plan. A wave of nausea swept over him.

The pain made the room fade a little bit, but then something else got brighter.

The faces of the three people they hadn't been able to save flashed through his mind. Three innocent people. Wrong place wrong time. Caught by a vicious monster straight from their worst nightmares. Two of the victims had been taken a few weeks ago which was what had brought him and Dean to town in the first place. The other had been taken the day after he had been.

He'd watched all three of them die.

There'd really been no hope for the first victim; she'd been dying by the time Sam had regained consciousness. Tied up in a basement straight out of a cheesy horror flick, he'd watched her die while trying to sort out what the hell had happened. Blood all over his face, a raging headache, he'd been helpless to do anything.

For any of them.

The fan's cool air drifted over him and he shivered, fumbling with numb fingers, trying to pull the sheet more tightly around him. Every little movement was a fresh bolt of pain in his head. If he kept moving, he was going to start throwing up again. It was like being in the basement again. Trapped. Unable to move.

He'd seen people die before. Innocent people. Not so innocent people. It wasn't the first time he'd felt helpless. Wasn't the first time they'd been too late to save everyone.

Despite the agonizing headache, for the past two days he'd relived the twelve hours he'd spent tied up in that basement. Tearing each minute apart. Assessing everything he'd done or not done. Trying to study it all with cold, impassive analysis. Logically, he knew they'd done their best. Illogically, he blamed himself.

The bathroom door opened.

A moment later, he sensed movement at the side of the bed. Dean had put one of the chairs next to the bed and he always sat there rather than on the edge of the bed. The sensation of the bed dipping had been enough to start up fresh waves of nausea and vomiting the first day and Dean hadn't done it since.

"Sam?" Dean's voice was soft. So soft. "Just checking."

He tended to keep his words to a minimum. The less conversation, the less noise, the less everything the better.

Sam didn't respond. No need. Dean knew he was awake. So he kept his eyes closed, tried not to throw up, and let Dean work.

His voice soft, his hands gentle, Dean had been incredible the past two days. It had been a long time since either of them had the misfortune of receiving such a severe head injury. They were both well versed in dealing with them, though, and Dean had done everything in his power to make Sam as comfortable as he could. They'd considered moving to a different motel because of the heat, but the mere thought of being in a moving car had triggered a harsh bout of vomiting. So Dean had done what he could to make the room a bit more comfortable.

Sam flinched a little as Dean carefully unwrapped the bandages around his wrists.

"Sorry," Dean whispered, gentling his touch even more.

The pain from his torn up wrists was a good pain. It was pain that proved he'd tried. Tried to get free. Tried to defend the others. Tried to save them.

"Hey." A brush of Dean's fingers over his cheek. "That bad?"

Another tear ran down his face despite his tightly closed eyes. He'd tried but he'd failed and three people had died and he was still alive and why, why, why was he still alive?

"Sam." Dean sighed heavily, brushing away more tears.

He knew, of course he knew, that this wasn't about the physical pain.

"You gotta stop this," Dean said, returning to rebandaging Sam's wrists. "You did everything you could. We did everything we could. We can't save everyone, but we do save a lot of people."

They hadn't saved anyone this time. Anyone but themselves.

"We were too late for those people, but we saved a lot of people in the future. People that monster would've taken. Would've killed if we hadn't taken him out."

Dean's fingers touched his hair. Sam wanted to beg him not to redo the bandage on his head. There was no way he could tolerate that right now. But Dean didn't touch the bandage. Just featherlight rested his hand on the other side of his head.

"Sammy, you're worrying me here, man."

He'd suggested the hospital a couple times, but Sam had refused. Couldn't afford to have questions asked about the bruises and torn skin on his wrists. If it hadn't been for that, he might have agreed just for the remote possibility of decent painkillers. He'd taken a quick glance in the mirror yesterday when Dean had helped him to the bathroom. Dried blood still in his hair, black bruising all down the side of his face, dark circles under his eyes, and skin so pale he looked as dead as the people they'd left behind in that basement. No wonder Dean was worried.

"It wasn't your fault," Dean said, his hand not moving. "It was not your fault. I need you to get that through your cracked head. And you need to get better, ok? Because there's a lot of people out there who need us. Who need you. So we need to get back out there, saving people that still need saving."

He was right. Of course he was right. And someday the guilt from what had happened two days ago would fade. Fade, but never disappear.

Because every single person he'd failed to save would haunt Sam to his dying day.

But he wasn't dying today. And his brother was worried. And Sam really wanted to get away from this hot little town filled with nightmares.

So he fumbled blindly until his fingers touched his brother's wrist. He gave a little squeeze and heard Dean's shaky exhalation. Relief.

"Ok, Sammy." Dean's voice sounded shaky, too. "Let's get you better."

For the sake of everyone out there who still needed saving, Sam would just have to get better.

hope you enjoyed! this is one that I for SURE want to write the rest of the story to!

tomorrow's theme/prompts: No. 20: TOTO, I HAVE A FEELING WE'RE NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE, Lost, Field Medicine, Medieval