Five Times Sam Spent The Night Alone
Disclaimer ~ It's Eric Kripke's world, I'm just playing in it. If the boys were mine, there would be hugging... and more of those lovely towel scenes ;)
Author’s Note ~ I've been wanting to do a Five Times story for a while now. This was originally just a longer version of #3, but it slowly turned itself into this.
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I.
Sam wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep for. The sky seemed to be getting lighter, and that worried the five year-old. Dad promised they wouldn’t be long when he tucked a blanket around Sam while Dean poured a salt ring around the Impala. Dean and me have to burn a couple piles of bones, and we’ll be right back. Dad could’ve handled it alone, but Dean had wanted to see how a salt and burn worked. But it was almost morning now, and he was still by himself in the backseat. Snuggling farther into the Impala’s warm leather, he tried not to cry. Sam stared out the window at the tall trees that sheltered the car from view and waited.
He’d find out a few hours later that the spirits had been much more aggressive than Dad had anticipated and had given the two older Winchesters some trouble. Dad hadn’t been willing to risk Dean’s life knowing his youngest would be safe till morning, when they’d be able to leave the safety of their own salt circle, and then the woods. Sam did cry when Dean crawled in beside him, hugging his big brother and begging him not to leave him alone anymore.
II.
A twelve year-old Sam sat tucked between the toilet and the bathtub, sawed-off balanced across raised knees. He chose the bathroom because it was windowless. Dad and Dean had lined the motel room with salt, but Sam felt safer in the smaller space. They’d never let him stay behind before tonight. Dean had protested, but in the end their father had agreed that Sam was old enough to be on his own for a few hours.
They’d warned him they could be gone till morning if they ran into trouble, and it was pushing dawn now. Sam knew the cops were watching the cemetery closely, believing mischievous teens were responsible for the broken headstones and torn up grass instead of a pissed-off ghost. Sam hadn’t wanted to deal with dodging the authorities when he could be safe at the motel. Now, he’d give anything to be crouched in a ditch or behind some bushes with his dad and brother. The thought of what the spirit could do to his family made sleep impossible. He’d tried, but the room was too quite without his father’s snoring and too empty without Dean pushing and prodding him in his sleep and stealing the covers.
Sam knew he should get into bed. If they came back and found him cowering in the bathroom like a child, he’d never hear the end of it. But he couldn’t get his legs to work. He was exhausted and afraid, so he stayed put until he heard the door open some time later. He stared up at Dean, who was covered in dirt and looking irritated, and let his brother haul him to his feet.
“You look like shit. Go get some sleep.” Sam nodded, passing off the shotgun and leaving Dean to shower. He crawled under the covers, ignoring the disapproving look his father shot at him. He didn’t need a lecture. He knew he wouldn’t be staying behind again any time soon.
III.
Sam was pissed. He’d walked all the way to that scuzzy bar to drag Dean back to the motel, and he wasn’t even there. It didn’t surprise him that the twenty year-old had been stupid enough to drive himself back, but it bugged the hell out of him. Rounding the corner of the crumbling one-story building, he stopped, hearing an all too familiar sound. It had to be Dean. Who else would be blasting AC/DC that loudly at three in the morning? Dean didn’t have the room key, Sam did. He was probably entertaining himself until Sam let him in. He shook his head, laughing to himself as he approached the Impala. Then Sam realized the car was bouncing in a way that had nothing to do with the stereo’s bass.
“The fuck?!” Sam stood frozen in place, staring through the old Chevy’s back window in horror. An unknown, topless blonde was straddling Dean, no doubt grinding his ass into the leather seat. Sam’s seat. Well, isn’t that just lovely? He would kill Dean later. Right now, he was going to bed. And he’d be the only one doing so. No way in hell was he going to let Dean into the room after that. If he had no problem fucking some girl in the car, then he could damn well sleep in it. Dad wouldn’t be impressed if he found out Dean had ditched Sam to go drinking and womanizing. He was laid up at Pastor Jim’s, nursing some broken ribs. Dean knew he wasn’t supposed to take off on his brother.
“Dammit, Sam! Lemme in! Sammy? Sammy, I know you’re in there! I know you can fucking hear me! Open the god damn door before I bust it down!” Dean had been pounding on the door for a good ten minutes. Sam rolled his eyes and pulled the covers over his head, drifting off to the sounds of his brother screaming death threats.
IV.
Sam had gotten a room with two queens out of habit. After eighteen years, it was one of those things he did without thinking. He spent the entire night staring at the empty second bed, fighting the urge to do something stupid like cry or call Dean. Or worse, pack up and head back to where he knew his dad and brother were still staying. His father’s angry words had hurt, but it was the empty look in Dean’s eyes when Sam had tried to explain himself and say good-bye that really tore him up inside. Stanford was something he had to do for himself. He knew that. He just wished he could make his family understand.
Part of him wanted to try and make things right with them, but a bigger part of him just wished they’d both go to hell. What right did they have to make him feel like shit for wanting more for himself than living like a nomad and killing things for the rest of his life? Sam had considered trying to convince Dean to come with him, but talked himself out of it. For some fucked-up reason, Dean seemed to want to keep living the freakish lifestyle they’d grown up with. Well, fuck him. Sam didn’t need either of them. He rolled over to face the wall, his back to the other bed. He’d be just fine on his own. He had to be now. He had a bus to catch at nine am, and he’d have no one but himself to count on after that. Sam let the tears come and wished for sleep.
V.
Rubbing his dry, tired eyes, Sam reluctantly snapped the closed. He hadn’t been able to come up with anything to help Dean yet, but after two days his body was screaming for sleep. Vowing to only rest his eyes for an hour or so, he set the computer and his stack of papers on the nightstand and switched off the lamp. Stretching out on top of the covers so as not to get too comfortable, Sam glanced over at the unoccupied bed to his left. It was a move he regretted instantly. The crush of fear and hopelessness threatened to drown him. He swore he wouldn’t break down. If he did, it would be as good as admitting that there was nothing to be done for Dean. And that just wasn’t an option. Sam wasn’t going to let his big brother die.
He was all too aware of how bad Dean’s condition was. Each time Sam went to visit him, there seemed to be less Dean to visit. He was unnaturally pale and looped on pain medication, too out of it to even try to be a smartass about the situation. They were running out of time, and they both knew it. Sam sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and forced himself to chill out. He stared at his brother’s empty bed and pictured him as he’d been only a few days ago; sprawled on his stomach, an arm hanging off the bed with his fingers grazing the carpet, snoring softly. Sam checked to make sure his cell phone was fully functioning in case the hospital called. Lying back down, he conjured the image of healthy Dean up again, doing his best to ignore the oppressive silence and stillness of the motel room.
“I’ll find a way to fix you, Dean,” Sam whispered. “I promise."