Previously: Season 2, Episode 17 "Heart" , the one with werewolf Madison.
Chapter title is from song originally by Nine Inch Nails, which also has a pretty well known cover by Johnny Cash (amazing and chilling video). I'm partial to this particular cover by Aaron Gibson.
61
Hurt – Aaron Gibson
Sam.
Save me, Sam.
The .45 was heavy in his hand. He looked down at a curl of Madison's dark hair, watching her slender fingers wrap his hand around the butt of the gun, the scent of her floral perfume filling his nostrils. Her almond shaped eyes, the ones that he'd thought looked so exotic, once filled with hope and impish challenge, now wet with tears.
Please, Sam. I'm asking you to save me.
He needed both hands to hold the gun steady. He blinked furiously, clearing out his eyes, because he needed to be able to see. The safety was off, she wouldn't hear it, and it'd be quick.
He just needed to aim steady.
.
He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting straight up in the motel bed. The blue light of the television flickered over the Wild West themed walls. Dean glanced over at him from where he was lounging on the next bed and raised a questioning eyebrow. He shook his head in response, fumbling around the nightstand for his glass of water.
Save me, Sam.
He squeezed his eyes hard shut. He hadn't had that particular nightmare in years. Abruptly he got up, throwing off the covers, and headed to the bathroom. His T-shirt was soaked through. He'd have to peel it off and get a fresh one, but he put that off, letting the water run cool into the sink before he splashed some on his face.
Wake up. Wake the fuck up.
Muted grinding and smashing sounds came from the television. From the brief glance he'd had, it was original version Godzilla, deconstructing Tokyo. One of Dean's favorites, like that weirdly addictive daytime drama had been Maddie's favorite. Her house, her rules. He hadn't thought about that show in years.
Would it be like this,
…after?
An invisible fist contracted around his chest, squeezing all the air out. He huffed once. Twice. Three times. Four. He took another shaky breath and sat down hard on the closed toilet seat and put his head down between his knees.
He wouldn't think about it.
After.
He straightened up cautiously. Slowly. His abs ached. He peeled his sweat damp T-shirt up gingerly, looking at the thin line that was a blue-black bruise running horizontally beneath his ribs. He grit his teeth and let his shirt back down. He should have grabbed a clean shirt on his way to the bathroom. Dean would ask too many questions if he went and got one now, and the jig would definitely be up if he ducked back in here to change.
He put his head in his hands, trying to get himself squared away.
Help me, Sam.
His hands went over his ears, trying to shut out Madison's voice. Trying to shut out what he needed to do. He'd been so optimistic that things were at least stable. He'd been so hopeful they'd find another way. Then and now, and it all ended the same.
He couldn't do it.
Someday in the future, alone in a two-bit motel bathroom just like this one, waking up from the nightmare where he'd killed Dean. Flipping past some Godzilla remake number 22 on TV, thinking how Dean would have hated it. Not being able to change out of his shirt into a clean one, because nothing would ever be clean again.
He drew in a harsh breath. It would have been easier, then, back there in that warehouse, to have dropped the angel blade in his hand, and let it happen. Death or hell or heaven or nothing, did it matter? It wasn't this. Saving people, hunting things. How could this possibly be the right thing to do?
It sure as hell didn't feel like it.
Not then, not now.