Chapter Text
The sand and grit felt familiar beneath the scuff of Sam's boots as he stumbled into the field, his legs automatically carrying him where he wanted to go, even as his mind struggled to catch up. The haze of whiskey added with beer warmed him more than the tattered, blood stained coat he wore.
His hands shook around the cold neck of the bottle as he brought it back to his mouth and took a large swig. Half a mouthful until nothing dripped down his throat.
Frustrated, he flung it carelessly, the glass cracking but not breaking as it rolled to rest against a nearby rock.
He fell to his knees, letting the momentum carry him towards the ground as he curled up in the same place he had for the last four months. The chipped pieces of wood dug into the same places they had since the very first day he had fell asleep with the marker at his back.
He welcomed the pain.
Focused on it until the throbbing, dripping mess made him want to cry out. But he bit his lip and smothered the screams.
He brought his knees as close as he could towards his chest. The fetal position rendered him vulnerable to any and all elements of the night. Not to mention the Supernatural uglies who all seemed to have it out for him.
They would be coming for him. Sam should be worried. Should stay awake and stay on guard like dad had taught him.
No. Like Dean had.
Dean had taught him everything he knew. He had taught him how to hunt. How to read, how to brush his teeth, how to speak, how to dress. Dean had taught him everything.
Dean had raised him up. Given him a reason to live for and a reason to die for.
Sam shivered as another cold wind made its way through the meagre layers of clothing. He gripped the edges of the leather jacket and tugged them closer to his chest. It always kept him warm. Like it always had.
Even the cold bite of the amulet as it rested against his collarbone emitted a warmth of its own.
He couldn't remember the last time he had worn his own clothes. They still lay, untouched, in his duffel in the trunk of the Impala. Now it was Dean's bag that sat beside him in the passenger seat as he drove around, night after night, hunt after hunt. Guns blazing, eyes devoid of the sympathy that made him Sam. That made him Sammy, as Dean had once said.
Well, tough, Dean. That Sammy is gone. He died when you did, Sam had repeated to the Dean inside his mind every time he killed a demon, not caring about the human it had possessed. Every time he couldn't bring himself to care that he was too late to save a victim. Every time he interrogated the bereaved in a calculated manner, eyes lacking the warmth.
Somewhere, an owl screeched, loud enough to echo painfully among the silent night. Sam didn't even flinch, eyes unseeing, skin cold and rippling from time to time with a coldness that never seemed to go away.
Occasionally, a tear slipped through and fell on the dirt that his cheek lay on. His heart beating steadily but grudgingly. As if all the forces of the nature worked to keep it beating even as Sam wished it would stop.
When Jess had died, a part of Sam had too. But somehow, miraculously, Dean had managed to salvage the missing parts of Sam and fixed it as best he could. There was still a hole that ached if he thought about her too hard, but there was also wistfulness where before there had only been grief and darkness. Dean's words had helped him move on, to honour her memory.
But now ...
Now ... now was pain more than Sam thought was possible for a human to feel. It hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe the air that Dean wasn't here to share. It hurt to eat, to think, to drive, to hunt. It even hurt to give up. It just hurt.
But maybe that was it. It wasn't pain a human was supposed to feel. And he wasn't, was he? He was Sam Winchester, Boy King of Hell, the one chosen to lead the very thing they hunted. A monster around whom every person died. Mom, Jess, Dad, Madison ... Dean.
"Yeah, well, I'm not dying."
"As long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you."
"No. I'd rather die."
Sam's breath hitched, the tears flowing faster, as his body shook with grief that never seemed to end. As the thoughts that chased each other around his broken mind screamed at him again. Just like they had for the past four months.
He whimpered.
"This is my brother, Sammy."
"He said he was sorry."
"I gotcha."
"I dare you to drink it."
"College boy, thinks he's so smart ... so proud of you, Sammy ... served up in a dirty ashtray."
"I'm worried 'bout you, man. It's gonna be okay, Sam. That's my boy."
"Hey, Sam. SamSammyCollegeBoySasquatchKiddoSammyDudeGeekSamSammySammySAMMYSAMMY"
A guttural scream reverberated through the trees, the pain in it enough to pierce through anyone's heart if someone had been around to hear it. Skitters and howls followed it as the local wildlife scattered away in fear. And for long seconds all was in chaos as the scream continued until it was choked off abruptly.
Sam clutched his head and whimpered a single name over and over, voice hoarse and ragged. Just as suddenly, his dinner of yesterday, a sandwich, made a reappearance.
He was barely able to make it to his elbows before the heaves overtook him and he emptied his almost empty stomach near the rugged grave marker, being careful not to taint the actual burial spot.
His arms shook from tiredness and from having to hold his half upright body through the painful attempts at cleansing that his stomach seemed stubborn on carrying out.
He spat out bile and spit before collapsing onto his back, his blurry eyes barely able to make out the stars and the half moon before he lost his fight with consciousness, body relaxing, one hand curled against his back and touching the wooden cross, the other hanging limply onto the black leather cord around his neck, the ugly figure nestled within a dirty palm.