Thanks to Starliteyes for looking this over for me.

Broken

Chapter Five

"There has to be something, Bobby?"

"No, Sam. There's no cure for lycanthropy."

As soon as the sun rose, Madison had made a frantic call to Sam's cell phone, asking him to pick her up at some random street corner. He rushed her back to her apartment, watching as she shivered beneath his tan jacket. As soon as they returned she raced to hide in the shower, but Sam could hear her sobs over the running water. That was five hours ago and he had been on the phone since.

"Dad's journal said that severing the bloodline might work."

"Might. The truth is Sam that no one has ever come back from being a wolf. It's impossible to reverse it."

"Bobby." Sam's voice cracked on that single word, and from the corner of his eye he could see Madison's tear-stricken face.

Sam could hear Bobby's heavy sigh, and he imagined that the crotchety old man was rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"Sam, have you called your brother yet?"

Bobby was tentative, and it was a direct contrast as to what Sam knew about the man. The subject of the brother's falling out was a touchy one that no one wanted to get involved in.

"No." Sam's reply was monotone. He was still looking at Madison, trying to swallow down the hard lump of bile that was expanding in his belly.

"Sam," Bobby sighed again.

"No!" Sam responded sharply, his eyes skirting away from his lover. "Dean doesn't want to hear from me. He's made it clear where we stand."

"Has he?" Bobby sounded tired, and Sam wondered if the old man was staying up nights wondering about their fate. It seemed unlikely, but Sam was hard-pressed to guess what the man thought about.

"Yes," Sam snapped out. "Now can you help me or not?"

"No, Sam, I can't. There is nothing anyone can do for that girl 'cept put her out of her misery."

Sam snapped the phone shut without saying goodbye. Madison was standing next to him, but he couldn't quite meet her eyes.

"I don't remember anything. I probably killed someone last night. Didn't I?" Madison's voice was soft and fragile. It bore down on Sam until his head hung below his shoulders. He was slumped in a chair, his elbows braced on his knees. His gun was sitting ominously on the table next to him, the slide shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight.

"There's no way to know yet." Sam replied, while staring intently at his hands that dangled between his knees.

"Is there something we can try?"

Sam's first inclination was to reassure her, to promise that he would stay with her and help her through this, but he knew they would be lies before they even passed his lips. His heart constricted in his chest, and he could hear Dean's matter-of-fact voice in the back of his head.

"I could lock you up, but some night you'll bust out and---"

"I could kill someone. Another innocent person. My friends, my family. Maybe a child next time. No one would be safe." Madison was staring at the floor now, and Sam could see her tears falling to the ground.

"Stop it, don't talk like that." Sam was reaching for her, but she was moving away towards his gun.

"Sam. I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt you."

She picked up his gun, and turned towards him. He stood up, his face drawn so tight that he thought that it might shatter.

"Put that down." His voice was rough with unshed tears, and it was all he could do to force the words out.

"I can't do it myself. I need you to help me."

She had no idea what she was asking him to do. He couldn't kill again. There was no way he could pick up that gun, aim it at her chest and pull the trigger. He just couldn't go through that again.

"Madison, no." His words were strangled and he had to fight the urge to step away from her. She offered him his gun, grip first, her small hand wrapped around the silver barrel.

"Sam. I'm a monster."

She was so close to him that he could smell her body wash and beneath that the salty tang of her tears. He could taste her fear and sadness in the air like it was a permanent part of her scent. He didn't want her smelling like that for the rest of her life. He couldn't stand the haunted look in her eyes when she thought about her potential victims. It broke something fundamental deep inside him when he saw how defeated she was.

All of Bobby's sources had been scoured, but Sam couldn't accept defeat.

"You don't have to be. We can find a way. I can. I'm going to save you." He placed his big hand over her small one which was wrapped around the gun. He wanted so badly to protect her. To save her from herself-- from him. She needed a hero, but what she got instead was Sam Winchester, father killer and fuck-up. She deserved so much more.

"You tried. I know you tried. This is all there is left. Help me, Sam. I want you to do it. I want it to be you."

She tried to push the gun toward him, but he resisted.

"I can't," he choked out. She had no idea what she was asking him to do. There was so little of his soul left after his father, shooting her would take the last shredded remains. If he killed her, he would have nothing left. No father, no brother, and no soul. There would be no point for him to go on. He wasn't even a hunter; he was just a glorified murderer.

"I don't wanna die. I don't." A single tear rolled down her face and spilled off the point of her chin, landing on his hand. It was warm and wet, just like blood. "But I can't live like this. This is the way you can save me. Please. I'm asking you, Sam."

Even as he was shaking his head, he was taking the gun from her. He wanted to say no, to scream it as loud as he could, but he couldn't force the word beyond the burn in his throat. He wanted Dean to be there with him so badly. He needed his big brother's comforting presence, his aura of confidence. Dean would reassure him that he was doing the right thing.

Dean would still love him no matter what.

Sam choked on the thought. Dean didn't love him anymore. Not since that night six months ago when he shot their dad. Sam was positive that the only reason Dean hadn't killed Sam out of revenge was because they were family. Dean revered family above all else, but when Sam shot their father, he shattered everything.

Sam made it a habit to bitch whenever Dean had called him Sammy, but secretly he reveled in it. He knew that it was his big brother's repressed way of saying, 'I love you.' But since that night, Dean hadn't once called him by his nickname. In fact the only time Dean did say Sam's name was to spit it out like a curse.

There was no love waiting for Sam once this day was done. And neither would there be salvation.

He wrapped his large hand around the grip of his pistol, his finger naturally curling around the trigger. Madison stood unwaveringly in front of him, her eyes locked with his. Sam could see his reflection in their dark depths. To himself he looked like a demon in angel's robes. Madison thought he was her savior, but Sam knew the truth. He was her destroyer.

He lifted the gun until the barrel was pressed just above her breasts, directly over her heart. She never flinched, as if she knew that she had to be strong for him. It made him sick that in the end, it was his victim that showed nearly inhuman courage in the face of his cowardice. His hand shook, and the barrel of the pistol brushed delicately against her skin.

Madison lifted her hand to brush her fingers over the wound on his cheek that her claws had inflicted. Her eyes were soft, and a small smile curled up on her lips.

"It's okay, Sam. Everything is going to be okay," she reassured him, and his heart shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

"I'm sorry," he choked, suddenly unable to breathe under the weight pressing on his chest.

"I know," she whispered, her eyes bright with trust and acceptance. She swiped the pad of her thumb over his full lower lips, her touch softer than butterfly wings.

Sam shuddered at her caress, her words skittering down his neck. Almost without warning he pulled the trigger and he jumped in shock at the retort. Madison's big eyes widened and her mouth sagged open as the bullet furrowed its way into her heart. Red mist exploded from her chest in a blossom of color, spraying over everything. Sam felt droplets of blood splatter across his face and hand, warm and wet, just like tears.

Madison fell backwards, but Sam sprang after her, catching her before she could hit the ground. He knelt on the hardwood floor, cradling her in his arms. Her death was instantaneous, her eyes dimming before she even collapsed.

Sam buried his face in her neck, his sobs echoing in the silent apartment. He could feel the silken slide of her hair against his cheek, and smell her scent of melon, salt and blood. He held her tight, trying to keep her warm even as her body grew cool. He sat with her for hours, rocking her back and forth. She stared sightlessly up at the ceiling and when her eyes turned milky Sam shut them for her. Her body stiffened in his lap, and the blood began to congeal into thick pools of blackish sludge on the floor, but he still couldn't pry himself away.

He dug out his phone, staring at Dean's name for hours on the display. He wondered if he called Dean, if his big brother would come and help him clean up out of family obligation or if he would ignore Sam completely. Sam sobbed some more, rocking himself more than Madison.

He wished he could hear his brother call him Sammy just one more time. Just once more before he died.

The shadows in the apartment deepened, and Sam glanced out the window banked by white lace curtains. The night sky was dark, and Sam's skin crawled. The week of the full moon had waned, and a new month had begun. Madison could have lived another three weeks before her next cycle, but instead Sam had shot her through the heart like a cold-blooded murderer.

Stiffly, Sam wedged himself off the floor, fumbling with Madison's body. Riga mortis had set in, making carrying her corpse awkward and clumsy, but he managed to shuffle her into the bathroom and into the tub. Methodically, robotically, he cleaned the blood off the floor with some towels, and wiped his prints from every conceivable surface. Lastly, he stripped the sheets from the bed he and Madison had shared, tossing everything into the tub over her body.

He found some salt in the kitchen, and he poured the whole container into the tub. Sam figured that if anyone was going to haunt him it would be her. She wouldn't mean to of course, but it would never be more deserved.

He found some colored oil in a decorative wick lamp on the mantel, and he poured it over her body. With his knife he disabled all the smoke detectors, and gathered all of his belongings by the door for a quick getaway. Silently, he lit a match, flicking it into the tub. He stood back as the fire flamed to the ceiling. The smell of burning silk sheets and human flesh rolled over him and his stomach rebelled violently. He fell over the toilet, retching loudly over the burning blaze.

He puked for nearly as long as it took for the fire to burn. When it was over he sat back on his heels, and stared at the unrecognizable black mass that used to be Madison with watery, bloodshot eyes.

Sam was cracked wide open to the world. He was broken on the inside, and even if he managed to put himself together again, he would never be the same. His despair opened the door and it was easy for something black and twisted to slip inside. It swallowed him whole, and he allowed himself slide down an oil-slick tunnel of misery.