-- I'm back! Yeah, I didn't really intend to write this at first... but a reviewer said they wanted to hear my take on Sam, too, and I was still on my jazz from last night sooo I just couldn't resist. Anyway, it's basically the same time frame and situation, just from the younger Winchester's POV. I still own nothing, I still want Jensen for Christmas (don't we all?), and so on, and so forth... --
OMG! Reviewer reply time!
wild wolf free17 - Thank you
niyanna - Thanks for the support! I'm not saying you're wrong or anything, but Dean looks blonde to me... hence why I wrote that shrug
spootycup - Thank you so much! I'm glad you liked it I was a little worried at first that people would think I went too far with the angst, but you said I nailed it, so... thanks!
Spectral Scribe -Thank you immensely! You're comments really mean a lot to me... because, by what you said, that means I succeeded in everything I set out to do. I'm glad you liked it.
Sweet as the Punch - Thank you yeah, I needed the previous chapter, too. I think that anybody who really loves the brothers and their interaction needed more then what the show gave us... but, hey; that's what writers like you and I are for! Yay for FanFiction! Here's the second part for you .
Ghostwriter - Thank you, I'm really glad you enjoyed it!
Thank you guys, and anyone else who will review in the future, all to much. You guys are the most important part of the story!
Even though the music was blaring, the silence was killing Sam. He couldn't stand the distance, it made him want to cry out and pull at his hair... worse yet, he couldn't stand the guilt. Every silent second was another steady throb of guilt running through his veins.
God, Dean wouldn't even look at him! Didn't he believe what he'd said? The doctor made him do it... well, at least, that was the extent of what he'd said. He's only apologized for speaking cruelly to his brother, not for shooting him with rock salt and then trying to kill him. He couldn't, his throat wouldn't allow the words to pass.
Whenever he thought of what he'd done his throat got very tight and knotted up. He wanted to apologize again, he wanted to get on his knees and cry and plead for forgiveness, above all; he wanted Dean to understand.
But it was clear Dean didn't. Sam hadn't been able to get anything passed Dean's poker face since he was eleven, but when it was serious Dean's eyes always told the whole story... and Sam had never seen this look in Dean's eyes before. Little did he know he would have seen it before he left for Stanford, if he'd bothered to say goodbye to his brother and protectorate.
The look in Dean's eyes, the distance, the silence – not to mention the eerie sour milk color Dean's skin was taking on – all frightened him. Demons, ghosts, and the likes hadn't frightened him since he was thirteen, but all the factors listed above were almost more then he could handle, and yet he couldn't tare his eyes away.
Dean's eyes were so... emotionless. Something cold and mechanical was overtaking them, some dark humor no one wanted to hear. Sam wanted to break down, cry and tremble in a fear and grief he'd never before known, curl up in a ball and cover his eyes with both his arms.
Why was he unable to say it? Why couldn't he just say "Dean, I love you"? What kept his throat knotted for that, so even a broken whisper couldn't get through? Why? Winchester pride... or fear?
He remembered the asylum; he remembered everything clear as if it'd been just a regular day. Now he regretted admitting that to his older brother... but he already had, and it was too late to take the words back.
He remembered being so angry, so angry he had to clench his jaw to keep himself from exploding. His hands shook as he pointed the gun at Dean's chin. Now, they'd had some fight before, and Sam had been pretty damn angry at Dean before, but what was happening now... he was oozing pure, unchallenged rage. All his other emotions were out the window, he was so angry he couldn't even handle it!
He had to get the anger out of his system, and the only way he could think of was expressing it... although, it's not like he had a choice. The anger was so great it would have forced its way out, anyway.
It started innocently enough, doing something to inflict bodily harm on his sibling... even if that bodily harm came from a shot gun and blew this sibling of his through a wall. Then there was shouting coming out of his mouth, cursing and slurring; drunk with rage. And then the whole world had changed...
Dean had managed to silence him with his own set of words, and followed them up with an action Sam would never forget for all its horrors. Dean reached into his coat, slid a gun out of it, and handed it to Sam.
The rage prompted Sam to be more interested at first with the weapon. He could take a life with this... he could take Dean's life, the pillar of all that rage that was built up inside him at the moment. Where did his big brother get the right, anyway? They were both adults now; it was time to act like the team they'd been trained to be if they had to work together... but no! Dean couldn't do that! It drove him crazy, literally...
He pointed the gun at Dean's face. He wanted to pull the trigger, but he faltered. He didn't know what happened in that moment... maybe, just the tiniest bit of Sam's inhibitions was strong enough to shine through the inflicted rage... but it wasn't enough.
Sam pulled the trigger. Sam shot his brother... or he would have, if it'd been loaded. It wasn't, but that didn't register in Sam's rage-clouded mind. He pulled it again and again, but nothing happened. He was struck dumb.
He was glad he hadn't seen Dean's face in those tiny moments, or he knew it'd haunt him to his death bed.
From then on, it was a little bit of a blur. He remembered Dean saying something about the gun not being loaded, and then twisting his arm and beating him down into the darker reaches of unconsciousness. The last thing he remembered was Dean apologizing to him. Jesus, Sam had shot Dean and Dean was the one to apologize for a damned sucker punch!
When Sam woke up he was himself again, and it took more then a minute for what had happened to register... but now, as he sat passenger side in Dean's '67 Chevy Impala, it was all far too clear, replaying in stunning horror on the TV set that was his mind's eye.
Now it seemed Dean had spotted the "Star-Lite otel", as he swung through the opposite line (which was, thankfully, empty) into the parking lot with speed and precision to turn the best of the best Hollywood stunt drivers green with envy. Sam instinctively grabbed the dash.
Sam noticed Dean's stiffness at pulling the key out of the ignition, and it sliced through him like a knife in the dark. How bad were Dean's injuries, really? He knew his brother would never admit to any form of pain, he'd learned that easily enough over the years, and he also knew there was no way in hell Dean was going to show him! Even if Dean needed his help, Dean wasn't going to ask for it... not tonight. Sam knew his big brother well enough to know that.
Now they lumbered off between the reception office, the stairs – which Dean walked up very slowly – and then their door where Dean fumbled with the key. Sam tried to glance over his brother's shoulder to see what the problem was, but Dean was slumped over trying to hide it from him. Again, pain stabbed at Sam's heart and guilt washed over him like a black, murky waterfall.
When the door was open, Dean slipped off into the bathroom without a word. No conversation had passed between them since Dean had groaned about just wanted sleep, and Sam hated it that way!
Sam sighed miserably, before crossing the room to the bed closest to the bathroom and dropping down on the side of it. He removed his shoes, pants, and jacket, before crawling into the bed and resting his back against the headboard. He picked the remote up off the nightstand and turned on the TV, scrolling through all sixty channels absent-mindedly.
Dean hated him now, Sam knew it. There's no way Dean would ever forgive him... but he hadn't meant it! Sure, Dean ticked him off on a regular basis, but that never meant that he would want to kill him. Sure, he'd entertained the idea a time or two as a teenager, but he'd never been serious! He loved Dean... he really, really did.
Sure, Dean's favorite pastime was poking fun at him, Dean's choice in music was stuck in the 80's and, frankly, sucked; Dean was a cocky bastard and almost never shut up for longer then two seconds, and a pervert, and they disagreed entirely on how one's life should be led, as they disagreed on almost everything, but damn they made such a good teams! They were their own flesh and blood, and Dean's negative traits were never really something Sam let get to him...
Sam loved his irritating, cocky, perverted, 80's metal-loving, smartass brother. Given the opportunity, he wouldn't change a thing about him... so how could he have shot him, you ask?
It's normal and natural for siblings to argue and fight, and to get pretty damn pissed off in the process! The doctor exploited that, and turned childhood rivalry into something intolerable and curable only by homicidal actions taken to indulge the rage. The doctor who was supposed to help people become sane literally forced him into insanity!
Without Sam noticing, tears had collected in his eyes. He whipped them away with a vengeance, the back of his arm gleaming afterwards where the salty drops had smeared together. There was a mirror on the wall. He got up and looked in it momentarily. There was still a tear collected in the corner of his eye. He whipped it away with the back of his index finger, before stumbling back to bed and repositioning himself.
He didn't hate his brother enough to kill him. He didn't hate his brother at all! That son of bitch undead doctor had used him, exploited his emotions into something dark and unnatural... now he only had to hope that Dean would realize this, come to terms with it, and come back to his baby brother.
Speaking of Dean, the bathroom door began to creak open. Sam's eyes shot to it, and stayed on Dean's figure as he staggered out of it, begging him to speak... but still, there was no sound. Dean crossed the room, threw off his clothes, and went to bed... his back to Sam.
Another stab of pain and guilt rolled through Sam, drenching his senses. He shivered in its wake. His eyes stayed on his brother's back, silently begging for at least a muttered "g'night"... but nothing came, and the hotel room suddenly seemed so dark and even heavier with silence then the car.
Sam flicked off the TV and light for Dean's benefit, before slinking down under the covers and lying on his back. He watched the passing car's headlights come through the window next to the door and spray yellow shapes a crossed the ceiling, and wished to die.
Yes, Sam lay there in so much pain without a psychical wound on his body. He wouldn't sleep tonight, because he couldn't face the dreams... he knew they'd be of Dean, he knew they'd be nightmares taking him back inside the asylum again. He could hardly handle the memory sanely; a nightmare he feared could push him over the edge.
Sam lay very still, trying to focus on something else, banish the pain... but nothing helped. Finally, he dropped it all like a heavy load of glass wear he'd been carrying in his arms for a far distance, letting it fall to the ground and shatter. In his weakness and in his anguish and turmoil, he felt he wanted to die... in that impossibly long night, he could have embraced death at any hour.
Lord, save him... 'cause nothing was ever going to be the same. Dean would never forgive him, and he knew he'd never forgive himself for that. The brothers Winchester were separated now, an emotional roadblock and not another single lane in all the world. The only thing that united them... was their acclaimed deaths.
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