A/N: Thank you so much to ImpalaLove for reviewing the last chapter! This one is more Sam's POV.
Spoilers: 10x22
Lebanon, Kansas
May, 2015
After…
They burn the body.
.
.
.
Sam sheathes her in white, first. He sits on that bathroom floor, watches the pristine fabric stain red, and then darken where his tears fall. He hoists her out of the tub, lifts her wrists, ankles, then all of her. The wrapping is methodical. Or it would be methodical, if he weren't shaking so badly. His hands quake with each movement, with each sob, with each instance his fingers brush cold flesh. It all hurts. He can't see. His chest and throat burn, like he swallowed a mouthful of acid.
A light is flickering overhead, about to burn out.
He's done this before.
He lifts her one last time, out of the motel room and into the Impala. He's carried her, in the past, but she seems much heavier this time, like anvils are strapped to her feet. Sam is a sturdy man, but his knees nearly buckle as he takes her in his arms. It's not just the (literal) dead weight of her figure – it's more than that. His bones bend and sway, refusing to comply with his brain's instruction. He falls, just kneeling, crying into a sheet wrapped around a corpse. He's not strong enough to shoulder this alone. He's too weak.
"Please," he pleads with no one in particular, clutching Charlie to his chest. "I… I need help."
He waits. No one comes, no one answers.
He hears the whirr of a car pass by. Someone might come, someone might answer.
He leaves.
.
.
.
Then: Dean lifts her onto the pyre.
Sam tries to help, tries but…
Flames lick the shroud, turn it to blackened ash. It's morning, but the firelight still dances on their faces. The smell of skin burning is revolting. This is how they start the day off.
He thinks: We should say something, shouldn't we? People say things, at times like these. That's what people do. When someone dies, that's what people do. That's the normal thing. Charlie, she deserves for one of us to say something. She deserved better than this.
He says, "Charlie, you were… the best. You –"
"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up," Dean snarls savagely.
Sam doesn't even flinch. In all honesty, he's glad that he stopped his stupid, stilted speech.
"She deserved better than this," he says aloud.
"You're damn right she did."
"Dean, I –"
He leaves.
.
.
.
In his dreams, Dean laughs before the gunshot.
.
.
.
His brother is covered in blood. There are two bodies in the bunker, and his brother is covered in blood.
I need help.
"What happened?"
Dean's teeth are gritted so hard they might splinter.
"Charlie's dead," he spits, as though it explains everything. "Charlie's dead."
His vicious stare says: Why? Why? Why? Because of you.
He doesn't recognize this look, this unbridled hatred. He's never had it directed at him. It's like being run through with a bayonet – a crippling pain through the middle. His fists are clenched, white-knuckling air, trying to keep his grip on reality. Trying to hold on to what they were before this, what both of them used to be. He's trying to hold on to a world where Dean doesn't hate him, and Dean doesn't terrify him.
He rephrases, "What did you do?"
"I killed them," he answers matter-of-factly.
"Who?"
"The Stynes."
"How many?"
"All of them."
Sam swallows heavily. Anxiety coils up his stomach and into his esophagus, forming a lump in his throat.
He points to the library. "One of those bodies in there – that kid can't be more than seventeen."
Dean shrugs.
When their dad died, the Impala bore the brunt of Dean's rage. When Bobby died, it was turned on Leviathans; now, it's shifted to other people. Sam paws suddenly at his face, rubbing his eyes bloodshot. He let this happen. He let it get to this point. His voice cracks, "De-ean."
His brother stares at him again, eyes searing through him. "They killed Charlie, I killed them. Square," he says, like he's just proven two plus two equals four.
Sam shudders. Would he notice if Dean turned into a monster? Would he notice, or would his eyes have to go black?
"I'm sorry."
"Don't –"
"Dean, I'm sorry," he blurts out.
Dean sniffs and shakes his head, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "It doesn't matter," he laughs mirthlessly.
"It matters to me. It matters that you know – I know this is my fault. I know it is. I…" he chokes, unable to go on. "I know this is my fault, and I will carry it with me until I die. But… You have to stop. If you're angry, be angry with me."
He takes a step towards him, accepting the challenge. "Don't think I'm not," is his vitriolic response.
Sam looks almost relieved. "Good," he says, "so if you want to kill someone, kill me."
Dean backs down immediately, stricken. Sam hadn't meant to be taken seriously. His eyes narrow.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What is it? What aren't you telling me?"
The river shall end at the source.
"Nothing," he insists.
Sam felt this futile, once. Trying to shove his brother's organs back into his body.
"That's it, isn't it?" he murmurs. And more loudly, "That's how you cure the Mark. You've known all along."
Dean looks like he's hurting something awful, like his still-beating heart has been seized from his chest. He goes from aggressive to horrified in ten seconds flat.
Sam laughs, "That's it."
Dean punches the concrete wall and leaves it smeared with his own blood.
.
.
.
He wakes in the middle of the night and wonders if he would let him.
Who is he trying to kid? He would. He would make him.