Beneath Shattered Bonds
Sam is in some dingy restroom at the gas station where they stopped for fuel. The moment they stopped, Sam scrambled out of the car, needing space for a bit because he couldn't breathe. Yet, now that he's alone, with his heartbeat loud in his ears, Sam still cannot take a proper breath. He coughs and feels the pull of muscles in his chest. The air feels too thin in his lungs.
Sam sighs, his reflection stares back at him in despair, eyes clouded over, and his fingers twist around the sink in a white-knuckled grip like it's the only damn thing holding him up. Dean didn't kick him out. He didn't stick a knife between his ribs. Sam thinks his brother should (Sam's like a disease, after all. Black tendrils curling tight till it's too late and you're stuck. And the only way to be free is to cut it off in one sharp chop), but another part of his exhausted brain screams that Sam doesn't deserve that. Sam needs to get out there and clean up the damn messes he made.
Time ticks on like it always does, relentless and unforgiving (and Sam wants to shout: "Stop, please, stop, I need time"). But Sam doesn't yell. He stays motionless instead and pictures the hands of the clock going round and round, a taunting echo accompanying its endless trajectory of circles: Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. Sam should probably go back to the car now - leave his little hideaway and join his brother for the last bit of their trip before they stop at some no-name motel for the night (not that Sam will get much sleep tonight, but his brother needs rest). If he takes too long, maybe his brother will take off and leave Sam behind (Dean should, his mind whispers. Oh, Dean should do so much worse). God. He really needs to get a grip and get out of this damn restroom. But Sam cannot move, his limbs heavy and stiff. It's a hazy thought, but Sam thinks if he lets go of the sink for even a second right now, he will collapse and never get up again - tumble into the dark and deep below. (And his fingers won't stop shaking. No matter how hard he squeezes the ugly yellow ceramic.)
Sam's body refuses to move. He cannot get the words Bobby told him out of his head. It was maybe the demon talking (reckless, selfish, arrogant), but his brother had remained quiet through it all (You're a monster, Sam - a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back). And Dean was right. He'd been right all along. The situation Sam's in right now proves it all too well. Dean warned him he was going down a dark path (slippery slope, brother), yet Sam didn't listen because he thought he was doing the right thing, anger burning hot, ready to take on the world. And look where that has gotten him - where that has gotten the world. Right there and then, in some filthy restroom with only his own reflection to accompany him, the doubts and regrets heavy in his stomach, Sam wishes oh so strongly that that werewolf would have gotten him on that grim hunt when he was 12. Dean should never have made the deal to bring him back. His brother should have heeded John's warnings and put a bullet in him the second Sam showed signs of going dark.
Sam thinks of the knife in his duffel bag and imagines how good the pain would feel if he sliced through his flesh, warm blood running down his arm, dripping onto the grungy tiles below. He shivers, pushes the nails of his left hand into his wrist, and relishes in the ache blooming there, the blood welling up in the half-moon-shaped indents, red and hot. Tears prick at the back of his eyes. He pushes harder, and Sam wishes it would hurt far more.
Maybe Dean didn't kick Sam out and left him behind at the side of some lonely road, but Dean has always been Sam's home. No fancy motel had gotten even close to that. And his brother said: "You chose a demon over your brother" and "I can't trust you anymore." And that's the plain truth - that's only fair. Sam deserves it. Hell, Sam deserves so much worse. Sam, the freak high on demon blood, trusted the demon Ruby over Dean and released the Devil into the world. Of course, Dean has hit his limit of how much of Sam's shit he can take. Maybe Dean didn't kick Sam out to fetch for himself, but in a sense, Sam's still standing stranded at the side of gloomy asphalt, his only companion miles of barren grasslands that reach as far as the eye can see and the voices of shame and self-hatred echoing in his head (and Sam deserves so, so much worse).
A knock shakes Sam out of his thoughts, sending his heart into a burst of rapid vibrations he feels all the way to his fingertips, his hand falling away from his wrist. Dean's muffled voice sounds through the thin door. "Sam, have you fallen asleep in there? I give you five minutes. Otherwise, I will leave your sorry ass behind, you hear me?"
Sam croaks out something that resembles a yes, and Dean's footsteps fade into the distance. Sam lets out a long breath that shudders out of him, his fingers fumbling as if they are full of pins and needles. Despite it all, Dean is still there waiting on him. Despite all the shit that has happened throughout the past months, Sam is still alive and breathing, wallowing in self-pity in a dirty restroom. But Sam can work with that. He has to clean up his messes, and he will. So Sam grits his teeth and finally pushes away from the sink, wipes his eyes, wipes his wrist with his sleeve, and swabs at the blood there, unlocks the door.
As Sam steps outside into the sharp cold of the night, shivering against the chilly wind that blows, his gaze falls on Dean leaning against the car, arms crossed against his chest, eyes on the ground. Sam still feels like he's choking on the regret and guilt attempting to consume him whole, yet seeing his brother leaning against the car waiting on him uncoils something in his chest. He swallows. There is work to do.