dark is too hard to beat for kalliel
Title: dark is too hard to beat
Author: mariahlee
Recipient: kalliel
Rating: R
Warnings: canon character death
Summary: He told Dean hours ago that he was trying to do what Dad would want.
10.
The bottle of beer has long gone warm in Sam’s hand, but he forces down another sip anyway. It’s easier than trying to speak, than watching as people around them laugh and joke while he and Dean sit in silence. Dean’s not looking at him; he chooses to live in the bottle, draining three fingers worth of whiskey in one gulp before ordering another. Sam rips his gaze away and stares at the television without taking anything in. That white hot feeling of guilt bubbles up in his chest and his breath hitches; normally that would be enough to draw Dean’s attention but he doesn’t even blink.
Dean doesn’t look at him much anymore, and Sam can’t decide if that’s more painful than seeing the look of horror in his eyes.
Sam finally forgoes the beer and orders vodka on the rocks, ignoring the burn as he throws it back. Maybe he could be like one of those customers on TV, leave the bottle, dear bartender, and a pathetic sound slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. Dean shifts on his chair, intakes a breath, closes his eyes.
After Sam shoots his third shot of vodka, they’re joined by two other men; Sam doesn’t miss how Dean’s back straightens and his shoulders stiffen. Hunters, Sam vaguely remembers; Montana, the smell of gasoline, and the taste of bad lobster come to mind. Hunt for a kappa, maybe? Regardless, he doesn’t miss Dean’s discomfort, and he scoots his chair closer, ignoring the idea that that might make it worse.
“Winchesters,” one says. “Cold-hearted bastards. I mean, I give you credit, Sam. You did what you had to do. I respect that. Not many people would have had the balls to do it.”
Sam freezes. He can’t breathe.
“Shut up, Walt,” Dean mutters, his voice a little hoarse from non-use.
“I’m serious,” Walt continues. “Bastard like him able to look dead in the eye and -”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean repeats. His fingers tighten around the glass.
The other one - Ray? Ron? - snorts. “Weak little fuck now, aren’t you, Dean? Bet you wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
Sam stands so abruptly his chair falls over. “Shut up,” he breathes. “Or I’ll fucking -”
“You’ll what?” - Roy, his name is Roy - challenges. His lip curls. “Actually, I don’t doubt anything you could do now. You’ll do whatever it takes, yeah?”
Dean’s silent, spinning his glass around. The bar’s followed suit, and Sam’s very aware that they’re the center of attention. He forces himself to breathe, carefully, calm himself down, because if he doesn’t he’ll throw up or - or worse.
“Just go,” he says. “Nothing has to happen here.”
“Sure,” Walt says. “Sure. It’s up to you, isn’t it? You’re the one who pulls out all the stops, after all.”
Dean stands up at that, stands in front of Sam; his stance is a little sluggish, his gaze at the floor, shoulders slumped, but he’s standing.
“And you still hunt with him?” Roy says to Dean. “Damn, you are a loyal lap dog, huh?”
Dean intakes a breath and he finally looks up; his hands are shaking.
“All right,” the bartender says under his breath so that only they can hear him. “Don’t bring this shit in my bar, got it? Get out or I’ll fucking call the cops on your asses and they can deal with you.”
Walt smirks and shrugs, completely unfazed. “Sure, man. No problem.” He looks back at Sam. “Wouldn’t want to find myself on his bad list, anyway.”
Sam grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches, his face growing hot. He cracks his knuckles, loud enough that Roy jumps and looks down. Fear flashes in his eyes for a moment before it disappears, and he grumbles to Walt that they should go.
Sam watches them leave, his skin burning, shame flooding his body. He hears rather than sees Dean pull out his wallet and hand over some money to the bartender, then stands stock still as if he’s waiting for Sam’s move. As if he needs to be careful of not making the wrong movement around Sam.
Sam stares at Dean’s shoes, then turns and walks away.
It takes Dean an extra second to follow him.
9.
The motel is a step below where they normally stay, but they cleared out of the hospital as soon as they could, drove until Sam’s eyes burned, until Sam had to stop. He shuts off the ignition but neither of them move, only the sound of their breath for company. Sam had put in one of Dean’s Metallica tapes soon after they left although Dean had shut it off relatively quickly, resting his head against the window, looking as if he wanted to curl up into a ball but couldn’t because of his injuries.
His eyes never closed, only stared blankly at the rearview mirror.
Sam’s about to suffocate from the silence; his skin is too tight and there’s a throbbing behind his eyes that hasn’t gone away for a week.
“I know you want me to - to -”
Dean stiffens but he doesn’t turn; his knees start to knock together and he clenches his fists against leather.
“Dean,” Sam says, as if only saying Dean’s name will help, will make all of this go away, because that’s how it’s always been. “I - I can’t stop seeing it in my mind. The - the blood -”
“Stop it,” Dean spits. “Shut up. Just shut up.” He stops, winces, hand ghosting over his chest. Sam imagines the lines of scars crisscrossing over his torso, screaming reminders that make Sam sick.
Sam’s never done well with commands. “If the other option was for you to be -”
“Shut. Up. I swear to God, Sam.”
Dean’s voice is much weaker now, his shoulders slumped. He finally kicks the car open, barely managing to hide a groan, and steps out. Sam’s not sure if he’s allowed to follow until he sees Dean leave their motel door open.
Dean’s already in the bathroom by the time Sam manages to drag himself in, the shower on full blast. Any other time Sam would have knocked on the door, wanting to check the lacerations on his chest, but this isn’t any other time.
Now, he sits on the bed and tries not to cry.
8.
If he thought finishing (don’t say job don’t say job) what needed to be done would give him closure, he’s dead fucking wrong. And yet he moves, he breathes, he keeps going, because there’s still one thing he’s got left.
For the first time, Dean’s doctor looks satisfied, nodding his head at Sam when Sam is about to head into his brother’s room. “Looks like things are going well. Fought just enough, I suppose. Didn’t think he would have managed it.”
The lack of sensitivity would normally make Sam flinch, but he can only stare through the door at his brother. Dean had managed to stay awake for most of the day; he had spent the previous four sleeping almost constantly. When he’d wake up periodically, he’d look around, confused, before his eyes darkened, shuttered closed, and he turned away. He’d never respond to Sam’s questions about how he was feeling and after that, Sam stopped trying.
“Can we leave soon?”
“I’d recommend a few more days,” the doctor says. “I want to make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”
It’s not the answer Sam wants to hear, and it must show on his face because the doctor withdraws a bit. Sam needs to get out of here, he’s never fucking coming back to Jefferson City (or even Missouri) ever again.
“One day,” he says. The doctor shakes his head in disapproval.
“It would be a mistake.”
“One day,” Sam repeats, more forcefully this time. He can still smell ash on his skin. “He’ll heal better at home.”
He almost laughs when home slips out of his mouth, but the doctor clearly sees his point because while Dean is out of the woods, he’s not healing as quickly as he should be, the hospital’s detrimental effect obvious.
“One day,” the doctor agrees. “You come back here if anything happens, understand?”
Sam nods, not trusting himself to speak, but they’ll never come back.
By the time Sam makes it into the room, Dean is staring at the ceiling, his fingers toying with the bedsheets.
“Doc says you can go home in a day,” Sam offers for lack of better thing to say. Dean makes a soft sound in answer but he doesn’t look Sam’s way. The room screams silence; it’s never been like this for them, or not since Dean found Sam’s Stanford acceptance letter, anyway.
Then: “Where.”
Sam blinks. “Where?”
“You know. The body.”
Sam swallows. “I. I took care of it.”
Dean turns quickly, pale face going whiter. The movement must have pulled at his stitches but he doesn’t even wince. “You what?”
“It’s done.”
Dean stares, his throat working, breathing heavily. There’s no hatred in his eyes now, only betrayal.
7.
Sam burns the body on a Tuesday.
Sam burns the body on a Tuesday, and it’s muggy, the heat almost suffocating. When he lights the match and steps back, the ashes fly into his mouth, his eyes, and he nearly turns away to vomit. He remains still, gaze fixed firmly ahead, watching. He owes this much.
It takes a few minutes to realize that the sounds of desperation and horror are coming from him.
6.
Dean’s sleeping when Sam visits him the next morning, right at 11:01 am. He looks better than he did the day before; he’s breathing more easily but he wheezes every now and then. Color has returned to his face but he’s still too pale.
Sam isn’t sure how long he sits there, watching; time dances away from him now. He thinks about talking, there’s nothing and everything to say, but it doesn’t matter, Dean wouldn’t hear it anyway.
The burden of what he still has to do squeezes his chest in reminder and he blinks, blinks again, because he can’t break now or he’ll never be able to do it. Calm, deep breaths until he goes still, loose, limp.
Sam embraces the numbness, stands to his feet and walks out of the room, side-stepping Dean’s nurse along the way. She clucks under her tongue in disapproval, whether of him leaving before visitors’ hours are over or because he didn’t say good-bye, he doesn’t know, but he couldn’t care less.
It takes several minutes to find the car; he forgot where he parked it, forgot the drive over, even.
He drives. He has to do it now or he never will. He has to do it without Dean. Dean can’t see this. Something he’s done dozens of times before but never on his own, and never something like - something like -
5.
Dean hasn’t woken up yet. Sam stares at his chest, at the angry red marks dancing along his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Sam manages. He blinks; his vision is blurry. “I’m sorry. Just - please. Please don’t hate me. God, Dean, please don’t hate me.” He touches Dean’s hand, a little cold, too cold. He wonders how cold the body is in the trunk. Withdrawing, he scoots back just enough that he’s out of reach, and he counts Dean’s slow breaths to gather his wits.
It doesn’t help, nothing helps, the images replay in his mind until he can’t stay in the room any longer. Watching Dean’s still body, face white against the sheets, eyes circled with black, is too much. It’s all too much. To his everlasting shame, he turns and walks out.
It’s tempting to take a cab home, to leave the Impala alone in the parking lot, but he trudges to her anyway. Her door creaks when he opens it, and she doesn’t start for the first few tries.
“I know,” Sam mutters. “I know.”
Dean’s blood still coats the backseat; he avoids the rearview mirror as he puts the car in reverse. Stomach in his throat at the resulting thump from the trunk, he swallows it down and hits the gas.
Please don’t hate me. Please.
He hates himself enough already.
4.
When the doctor finally comes to speak to Sam, he says (a little surprised) that Dean pulled through the surgery and he’s in recovery.
“May be touch and go through the night, we’ll see. I won’t lie to you, but he’s not fighting it. You understand what I’m saying?”
Sam nods and counts the tiles on the floor, noting the scuff marks, skipping them over. He nods again just to be sure.
“You can see him in an hour or so,” the doctor continues, sounding more hesitant now. “If you like.”
Another nod before he finds his voice. “Will he wake up soon?”
The doctor frowns at him. “Wake up soon? Did you listen to what I said, son? I hope he wakes up at all.”
Sam’s breath freezes in his lungs. The doctor sighs.
“I don’t mean to be callous, but I want you to be prepared. At the very least I don’t expect him to awaken anytime tonight.”
Sam’s ashamed to admit to himself that he’s a little relieved at that; he can’t bear to imagine the look of hatred and despair in Dean’s eyes when he remembers what Sam did.
3.
Dean’s eyes stay closed the whole way to the hospital but Sam’s not sure if he’s actually unconscious or is faking it to avoid Sam’s gaze. When nurses lift Dean from Sam’s arms he lets them without protest, watches silently as they take him back. The clipboard is heavy on his lap, fingers limply holding the pen.
A guy’s holding a clearly broken wrist, a young girl resting her head on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes puffy and swollen.
“No more crying now, Anna,” she says without malice, and she runs a hand through her daughter’s blonde hair. When a doctor comes in and calls out her name (Sarah, Sarah) she rises, face anxious. Whatever the doctor’s news is it must be good, because she relaxes, closes her eyes, and smiles.
Sam’s envious of them.
The clipboard is lifted from his hands and he blinks.
“You’re getting blood all over the forms,” a nurse says. Her voice is gentle. Her name tag says Alyssa. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you washed up.”
When he washes his hands, he cries at the sight of the blood going down the drain.
“It’s all right,” Alyssa says. “They’ll take good care of him.”
For a brief, crazy moment, the words almost spilled out, the truth, searing hot and overwhelming, but he clamps his mouth closed and digs his teeth into his bottom lip. He cries for himself. He cries for Dean.
But most of all, he cries because he knows he can’t be forgiven.
2.
Dean doesn’t say a word. He pulls away when Sam tries to lift him up, coughing up more blood as he does so. The look of despair in his eyes is enough to steal the breath from Sam’s lungs.
“We have to go,” Sam says, shocked by how steady his voice sounds. He feels numb, freezing cold, ice in his veins. “Dean. Dean.”
This time Dean doesn’t resist, his blood coating Sam’s flesh like a second skin, his breath heavy on Sam’s neck. Doesn’t even look at the body as Sam hefts him up and nearly carries him out. Sam’s suddenly reminded how small his brother is under the bravado, the snark, the clothing. What an easy thing to forget, and what a painful thing to remember.
When he sets Dean in the backseat, Dean slumps down until he’s on his back, one hand pressed against the wounds on his chest, the other hanging off the seat. His eyes look as blank as Sam feels.
If he could, Sam would have stood there forever, swallowing down the vomit that’s creeping up his throat. But Dean’s still bleeding steadily, his eyes blinking more slowly, and Sam knows they have to go.
Sam doesn’t know what else he was expecting, but the body’s still in the same place it was when - it’s not bleeding any longer and somehow that sends chills up Sam’s spine. The vomit comes now, quick and easy, and when it’s over he almost falls to his knees. He gives himself a moment, only a moment, before he steadies himself and pushes it away.
The body’s heavy in death, much heavier than Dean, and Sam holds his breath as he drags it out, the body’s feet leaving trails in the dirt. Sam stumbles again, heaving, the feel of death sinking into his skin, this fresh blood mixing with Dean’s.
“God,” Sam finally mumbles. “Oh God. God, I -”
But like always, Sam doesn’t know the right words to -
He sets the body down by the car and tears his eyes away, shifting the weapons around in the trunk until there’s room for -
He can’t leave it here.
It rests in the trunk.
1.
Tunnel vision.
Heat. So much heat.
He can hear everything and nothing at the same time, feet frozen to the floor, arms out in front of him, cold metal in his hands.
A body writhing on the floor in front of him.
A body still behind him, still, torn apart - but weakly begging, pleading.
Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t you do it.
Flashes of Jess, her soft hair under his fingertips, the smell of vanilla, her smile when he tried to make her dinner and failed. Her whispers along his jawline, I love you, I love you, when he couldn’t sleep. He’ll never hear her again, never feel her fit herself along his side and rest her head on his shoulder.
Never kiss her, touch her, see her again - and the reason’s right in front of him. The demon who probably laughed as he forced her to the ceiling and slashed her open, imagining with delight how her blood would drip, how she’d scream and beg for Sam, beg for mercy -
He told Dean hours ago that he was trying to do what Dad would want, has that - has that changed?
(pretty, little Jess.)
Do it! We can end this; do it!
Weak, reedy: Sam, no.
Determined, forceful: You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart!
Dean yelling as blood spills from his chest, his eyes darkening with each barb the demon throws at him, despair that only Sam can see. His face going slack, head sinking to his chest, held up only by the demon’s touch.
Sam’s finger curls. He takes a breath, ignores the body behind him (that’s what it has to be right now, it has to, don’t think don’t think don’t think do it, do it, son), and pulls the trigger.
A scream, one drawn out sound that’s cut short only because of the choking on blood. All that’s left are whimpers, mutters, words that Sam can’t piece out but it doesn’t matter, he’s not listening anyway, all he can see is Dad’s closed eyes and slack mouth, arms stretched by his sides in some parody of a crucifixion pose. Blood, blood everywhere, the smell of copper so strong Sam can taste it. It seeps slowly, carefully.
It has plenty of time.
Sam tumbles over, the hot gun dropping from his grip; he doesn’t hear a sound as it hits the ground. Hands splayed in blood, bathed in blood. Only two sets of matched breathing.
It’s over. It’s over, but there’s no joy, no relief, no celebration.
It’s not over. It’ll never be over.
*Sam burns his father on a Tuesday, and Sam wishes Sam had burned along with him.
Based on the prompt: A fic involving a moment in canon that you absolutely loved! Erase/subvert it. What’s the fallout?
My moment: Sam picking family over revenge in Devil’s Trap.
Author: mariahlee
Recipient: kalliel
Rating: R
Warnings: canon character death
Summary: He told Dean hours ago that he was trying to do what Dad would want.
10.
The bottle of beer has long gone warm in Sam’s hand, but he forces down another sip anyway. It’s easier than trying to speak, than watching as people around them laugh and joke while he and Dean sit in silence. Dean’s not looking at him; he chooses to live in the bottle, draining three fingers worth of whiskey in one gulp before ordering another. Sam rips his gaze away and stares at the television without taking anything in. That white hot feeling of guilt bubbles up in his chest and his breath hitches; normally that would be enough to draw Dean’s attention but he doesn’t even blink.
Dean doesn’t look at him much anymore, and Sam can’t decide if that’s more painful than seeing the look of horror in his eyes.
Sam finally forgoes the beer and orders vodka on the rocks, ignoring the burn as he throws it back. Maybe he could be like one of those customers on TV, leave the bottle, dear bartender, and a pathetic sound slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. Dean shifts on his chair, intakes a breath, closes his eyes.
After Sam shoots his third shot of vodka, they’re joined by two other men; Sam doesn’t miss how Dean’s back straightens and his shoulders stiffen. Hunters, Sam vaguely remembers; Montana, the smell of gasoline, and the taste of bad lobster come to mind. Hunt for a kappa, maybe? Regardless, he doesn’t miss Dean’s discomfort, and he scoots his chair closer, ignoring the idea that that might make it worse.
“Winchesters,” one says. “Cold-hearted bastards. I mean, I give you credit, Sam. You did what you had to do. I respect that. Not many people would have had the balls to do it.”
Sam freezes. He can’t breathe.
“Shut up, Walt,” Dean mutters, his voice a little hoarse from non-use.
“I’m serious,” Walt continues. “Bastard like him able to look dead in the eye and -”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean repeats. His fingers tighten around the glass.
The other one - Ray? Ron? - snorts. “Weak little fuck now, aren’t you, Dean? Bet you wouldn’t have been able to do it.”
Sam stands so abruptly his chair falls over. “Shut up,” he breathes. “Or I’ll fucking -”
“You’ll what?” - Roy, his name is Roy - challenges. His lip curls. “Actually, I don’t doubt anything you could do now. You’ll do whatever it takes, yeah?”
Dean’s silent, spinning his glass around. The bar’s followed suit, and Sam’s very aware that they’re the center of attention. He forces himself to breathe, carefully, calm himself down, because if he doesn’t he’ll throw up or - or worse.
“Just go,” he says. “Nothing has to happen here.”
“Sure,” Walt says. “Sure. It’s up to you, isn’t it? You’re the one who pulls out all the stops, after all.”
Dean stands up at that, stands in front of Sam; his stance is a little sluggish, his gaze at the floor, shoulders slumped, but he’s standing.
“And you still hunt with him?” Roy says to Dean. “Damn, you are a loyal lap dog, huh?”
Dean intakes a breath and he finally looks up; his hands are shaking.
“All right,” the bartender says under his breath so that only they can hear him. “Don’t bring this shit in my bar, got it? Get out or I’ll fucking call the cops on your asses and they can deal with you.”
Walt smirks and shrugs, completely unfazed. “Sure, man. No problem.” He looks back at Sam. “Wouldn’t want to find myself on his bad list, anyway.”
Sam grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches, his face growing hot. He cracks his knuckles, loud enough that Roy jumps and looks down. Fear flashes in his eyes for a moment before it disappears, and he grumbles to Walt that they should go.
Sam watches them leave, his skin burning, shame flooding his body. He hears rather than sees Dean pull out his wallet and hand over some money to the bartender, then stands stock still as if he’s waiting for Sam’s move. As if he needs to be careful of not making the wrong movement around Sam.
Sam stares at Dean’s shoes, then turns and walks away.
It takes Dean an extra second to follow him.
9.
The motel is a step below where they normally stay, but they cleared out of the hospital as soon as they could, drove until Sam’s eyes burned, until Sam had to stop. He shuts off the ignition but neither of them move, only the sound of their breath for company. Sam had put in one of Dean’s Metallica tapes soon after they left although Dean had shut it off relatively quickly, resting his head against the window, looking as if he wanted to curl up into a ball but couldn’t because of his injuries.
His eyes never closed, only stared blankly at the rearview mirror.
Sam’s about to suffocate from the silence; his skin is too tight and there’s a throbbing behind his eyes that hasn’t gone away for a week.
“I know you want me to - to -”
Dean stiffens but he doesn’t turn; his knees start to knock together and he clenches his fists against leather.
“Dean,” Sam says, as if only saying Dean’s name will help, will make all of this go away, because that’s how it’s always been. “I - I can’t stop seeing it in my mind. The - the blood -”
“Stop it,” Dean spits. “Shut up. Just shut up.” He stops, winces, hand ghosting over his chest. Sam imagines the lines of scars crisscrossing over his torso, screaming reminders that make Sam sick.
Sam’s never done well with commands. “If the other option was for you to be -”
“Shut. Up. I swear to God, Sam.”
Dean’s voice is much weaker now, his shoulders slumped. He finally kicks the car open, barely managing to hide a groan, and steps out. Sam’s not sure if he’s allowed to follow until he sees Dean leave their motel door open.
Dean’s already in the bathroom by the time Sam manages to drag himself in, the shower on full blast. Any other time Sam would have knocked on the door, wanting to check the lacerations on his chest, but this isn’t any other time.
Now, he sits on the bed and tries not to cry.
8.
If he thought finishing (don’t say job don’t say job) what needed to be done would give him closure, he’s dead fucking wrong. And yet he moves, he breathes, he keeps going, because there’s still one thing he’s got left.
For the first time, Dean’s doctor looks satisfied, nodding his head at Sam when Sam is about to head into his brother’s room. “Looks like things are going well. Fought just enough, I suppose. Didn’t think he would have managed it.”
The lack of sensitivity would normally make Sam flinch, but he can only stare through the door at his brother. Dean had managed to stay awake for most of the day; he had spent the previous four sleeping almost constantly. When he’d wake up periodically, he’d look around, confused, before his eyes darkened, shuttered closed, and he turned away. He’d never respond to Sam’s questions about how he was feeling and after that, Sam stopped trying.
“Can we leave soon?”
“I’d recommend a few more days,” the doctor says. “I want to make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”
It’s not the answer Sam wants to hear, and it must show on his face because the doctor withdraws a bit. Sam needs to get out of here, he’s never fucking coming back to Jefferson City (or even Missouri) ever again.
“One day,” he says. The doctor shakes his head in disapproval.
“It would be a mistake.”
“One day,” Sam repeats, more forcefully this time. He can still smell ash on his skin. “He’ll heal better at home.”
He almost laughs when home slips out of his mouth, but the doctor clearly sees his point because while Dean is out of the woods, he’s not healing as quickly as he should be, the hospital’s detrimental effect obvious.
“One day,” the doctor agrees. “You come back here if anything happens, understand?”
Sam nods, not trusting himself to speak, but they’ll never come back.
By the time Sam makes it into the room, Dean is staring at the ceiling, his fingers toying with the bedsheets.
“Doc says you can go home in a day,” Sam offers for lack of better thing to say. Dean makes a soft sound in answer but he doesn’t look Sam’s way. The room screams silence; it’s never been like this for them, or not since Dean found Sam’s Stanford acceptance letter, anyway.
Then: “Where.”
Sam blinks. “Where?”
“You know. The body.”
Sam swallows. “I. I took care of it.”
Dean turns quickly, pale face going whiter. The movement must have pulled at his stitches but he doesn’t even wince. “You what?”
“It’s done.”
Dean stares, his throat working, breathing heavily. There’s no hatred in his eyes now, only betrayal.
7.
Sam burns the body on a Tuesday.
Sam burns the body on a Tuesday, and it’s muggy, the heat almost suffocating. When he lights the match and steps back, the ashes fly into his mouth, his eyes, and he nearly turns away to vomit. He remains still, gaze fixed firmly ahead, watching. He owes this much.
It takes a few minutes to realize that the sounds of desperation and horror are coming from him.
6.
Dean’s sleeping when Sam visits him the next morning, right at 11:01 am. He looks better than he did the day before; he’s breathing more easily but he wheezes every now and then. Color has returned to his face but he’s still too pale.
Sam isn’t sure how long he sits there, watching; time dances away from him now. He thinks about talking, there’s nothing and everything to say, but it doesn’t matter, Dean wouldn’t hear it anyway.
The burden of what he still has to do squeezes his chest in reminder and he blinks, blinks again, because he can’t break now or he’ll never be able to do it. Calm, deep breaths until he goes still, loose, limp.
Sam embraces the numbness, stands to his feet and walks out of the room, side-stepping Dean’s nurse along the way. She clucks under her tongue in disapproval, whether of him leaving before visitors’ hours are over or because he didn’t say good-bye, he doesn’t know, but he couldn’t care less.
It takes several minutes to find the car; he forgot where he parked it, forgot the drive over, even.
He drives. He has to do it now or he never will. He has to do it without Dean. Dean can’t see this. Something he’s done dozens of times before but never on his own, and never something like - something like -
5.
Dean hasn’t woken up yet. Sam stares at his chest, at the angry red marks dancing along his skin.
“I’m sorry,” Sam manages. He blinks; his vision is blurry. “I’m sorry. Just - please. Please don’t hate me. God, Dean, please don’t hate me.” He touches Dean’s hand, a little cold, too cold. He wonders how cold the body is in the trunk. Withdrawing, he scoots back just enough that he’s out of reach, and he counts Dean’s slow breaths to gather his wits.
It doesn’t help, nothing helps, the images replay in his mind until he can’t stay in the room any longer. Watching Dean’s still body, face white against the sheets, eyes circled with black, is too much. It’s all too much. To his everlasting shame, he turns and walks out.
It’s tempting to take a cab home, to leave the Impala alone in the parking lot, but he trudges to her anyway. Her door creaks when he opens it, and she doesn’t start for the first few tries.
“I know,” Sam mutters. “I know.”
Dean’s blood still coats the backseat; he avoids the rearview mirror as he puts the car in reverse. Stomach in his throat at the resulting thump from the trunk, he swallows it down and hits the gas.
Please don’t hate me. Please.
He hates himself enough already.
4.
When the doctor finally comes to speak to Sam, he says (a little surprised) that Dean pulled through the surgery and he’s in recovery.
“May be touch and go through the night, we’ll see. I won’t lie to you, but he’s not fighting it. You understand what I’m saying?”
Sam nods and counts the tiles on the floor, noting the scuff marks, skipping them over. He nods again just to be sure.
“You can see him in an hour or so,” the doctor continues, sounding more hesitant now. “If you like.”
Another nod before he finds his voice. “Will he wake up soon?”
The doctor frowns at him. “Wake up soon? Did you listen to what I said, son? I hope he wakes up at all.”
Sam’s breath freezes in his lungs. The doctor sighs.
“I don’t mean to be callous, but I want you to be prepared. At the very least I don’t expect him to awaken anytime tonight.”
Sam’s ashamed to admit to himself that he’s a little relieved at that; he can’t bear to imagine the look of hatred and despair in Dean’s eyes when he remembers what Sam did.
3.
Dean’s eyes stay closed the whole way to the hospital but Sam’s not sure if he’s actually unconscious or is faking it to avoid Sam’s gaze. When nurses lift Dean from Sam’s arms he lets them without protest, watches silently as they take him back. The clipboard is heavy on his lap, fingers limply holding the pen.
A guy’s holding a clearly broken wrist, a young girl resting her head on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes puffy and swollen.
“No more crying now, Anna,” she says without malice, and she runs a hand through her daughter’s blonde hair. When a doctor comes in and calls out her name (Sarah, Sarah) she rises, face anxious. Whatever the doctor’s news is it must be good, because she relaxes, closes her eyes, and smiles.
Sam’s envious of them.
The clipboard is lifted from his hands and he blinks.
“You’re getting blood all over the forms,” a nurse says. Her voice is gentle. Her name tag says Alyssa. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you washed up.”
When he washes his hands, he cries at the sight of the blood going down the drain.
“It’s all right,” Alyssa says. “They’ll take good care of him.”
For a brief, crazy moment, the words almost spilled out, the truth, searing hot and overwhelming, but he clamps his mouth closed and digs his teeth into his bottom lip. He cries for himself. He cries for Dean.
But most of all, he cries because he knows he can’t be forgiven.
2.
Dean doesn’t say a word. He pulls away when Sam tries to lift him up, coughing up more blood as he does so. The look of despair in his eyes is enough to steal the breath from Sam’s lungs.
“We have to go,” Sam says, shocked by how steady his voice sounds. He feels numb, freezing cold, ice in his veins. “Dean. Dean.”
This time Dean doesn’t resist, his blood coating Sam’s flesh like a second skin, his breath heavy on Sam’s neck. Doesn’t even look at the body as Sam hefts him up and nearly carries him out. Sam’s suddenly reminded how small his brother is under the bravado, the snark, the clothing. What an easy thing to forget, and what a painful thing to remember.
When he sets Dean in the backseat, Dean slumps down until he’s on his back, one hand pressed against the wounds on his chest, the other hanging off the seat. His eyes look as blank as Sam feels.
If he could, Sam would have stood there forever, swallowing down the vomit that’s creeping up his throat. But Dean’s still bleeding steadily, his eyes blinking more slowly, and Sam knows they have to go.
Sam doesn’t know what else he was expecting, but the body’s still in the same place it was when - it’s not bleeding any longer and somehow that sends chills up Sam’s spine. The vomit comes now, quick and easy, and when it’s over he almost falls to his knees. He gives himself a moment, only a moment, before he steadies himself and pushes it away.
The body’s heavy in death, much heavier than Dean, and Sam holds his breath as he drags it out, the body’s feet leaving trails in the dirt. Sam stumbles again, heaving, the feel of death sinking into his skin, this fresh blood mixing with Dean’s.
“God,” Sam finally mumbles. “Oh God. God, I -”
But like always, Sam doesn’t know the right words to -
He sets the body down by the car and tears his eyes away, shifting the weapons around in the trunk until there’s room for -
He can’t leave it here.
It rests in the trunk.
1.
Tunnel vision.
Heat. So much heat.
He can hear everything and nothing at the same time, feet frozen to the floor, arms out in front of him, cold metal in his hands.
A body writhing on the floor in front of him.
A body still behind him, still, torn apart - but weakly begging, pleading.
Don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t you do it.
Flashes of Jess, her soft hair under his fingertips, the smell of vanilla, her smile when he tried to make her dinner and failed. Her whispers along his jawline, I love you, I love you, when he couldn’t sleep. He’ll never hear her again, never feel her fit herself along his side and rest her head on his shoulder.
Never kiss her, touch her, see her again - and the reason’s right in front of him. The demon who probably laughed as he forced her to the ceiling and slashed her open, imagining with delight how her blood would drip, how she’d scream and beg for Sam, beg for mercy -
He told Dean hours ago that he was trying to do what Dad would want, has that - has that changed?
(pretty, little Jess.)
Do it! We can end this; do it!
Weak, reedy: Sam, no.
Determined, forceful: You shoot me. You shoot me in the heart!
Dean yelling as blood spills from his chest, his eyes darkening with each barb the demon throws at him, despair that only Sam can see. His face going slack, head sinking to his chest, held up only by the demon’s touch.
Sam’s finger curls. He takes a breath, ignores the body behind him (that’s what it has to be right now, it has to, don’t think don’t think don’t think do it, do it, son), and pulls the trigger.
A scream, one drawn out sound that’s cut short only because of the choking on blood. All that’s left are whimpers, mutters, words that Sam can’t piece out but it doesn’t matter, he’s not listening anyway, all he can see is Dad’s closed eyes and slack mouth, arms stretched by his sides in some parody of a crucifixion pose. Blood, blood everywhere, the smell of copper so strong Sam can taste it. It seeps slowly, carefully.
It has plenty of time.
Sam tumbles over, the hot gun dropping from his grip; he doesn’t hear a sound as it hits the ground. Hands splayed in blood, bathed in blood. Only two sets of matched breathing.
It’s over. It’s over, but there’s no joy, no relief, no celebration.
It’s not over. It’ll never be over.
*Sam burns his father on a Tuesday, and Sam wishes Sam had burned along with him.
Based on the prompt: A fic involving a moment in canon that you absolutely loved! Erase/subvert it. What’s the fallout?
My moment: Sam picking family over revenge in Devil’s Trap.