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"It ends bloody."
"It ends bad."
After the little talk that went nowhere and now hovers between them, a silence shrouds them, stifling them all the way back to the bunker. It's the two of them, the Impala racing along the highway through the darkness. It's actually a beautiful night, the moon bright and high in the clear sky littered with stars. But Sam doesn't care. He cannot seem to see past his own reflection in the window. Tired and worn out. Empty. Done. It all stares him back in the face.
Sam cannot pretend anymore. Fake this nauseating optimism - this positivity that lies sour and heavy in your chest and catches you at the throat. A stickiness that makes it hard to breathe.
Sam's heart may be worth $500,000. But even if he had all the money in the world, he wouldn't be able to save his loved ones. Sam's heart won't save anyone. Mom. Jack. It's useless. Sam's exhausted.
Arrived the bunker, engine still ticking and warm, Sam drags himself out of the Impala and mutters goodnight to Dean. He ignores Dean's gaze burning holes into his spine and makes his way to his room. His room is dark and silent.
Sam tosses his duffel bag on the ground by the door, pulls his shoes off, drops on top of the covers, and thinks and thinks. He's so drained, but he can't sleep. His bones feel stuck in all the wrong places. Sam keeps rolling over, first on his back, then on his stomach. Repeat. He's not able to remain still.
Sam thinks of his mom. He thinks of how he never really got the chance to connect with Mary. He wanted to - God, he wanted it so badly. But they both were scared, revolving around each other in an uneasy dance, not quite knowing the steps. Both clumsy, both nervous. Sam was so afraid of getting close to his mom because what if he disappointed her? What if she glimpsed the corrosion inside him? A darkness that could taint her if she came too close. Because Sam is- well-
But she's gone now. Stuck in an awful, faraway place. Too little, too late.
And Jack. The kid's fears remind Sam too much of his younger self. So desperately wanting to belong but never quite fitting in. Afraid of being the freak. Afraid of being the monster. The struggle with powers you don't fully grasp yet, the reign slipping like water through your fingers while you watch it spin out of control. Sam maybe has come a long way. But that does not mean he's not still battling with the negative thoughts in his mind in the middle of the night when sleep's evading him and his demons come out of hiding.
Dean's anger at the kid had pulled at something deep inside his gut. Anger flaring up hotly. It makes him think of stilted conversations and loud silences. Of sorrow and hurt that threatens to drown and choke, taking you under in the flood. Sam thinks about the moments he looked at the demon-killing knife, wondering if it would sizzle if he set the blade against his skin - while also believing he should get a bullet in the head and wondering why Dean hadn't done it yet.
Sam shifts again and closes his eyes against the darkness in his room - against the hurt that is a distant past now. Dean and him, they are good. It's just that Sam-
"I sell them people other people won't miss."
"$500,000 going once… going twice… Sold!"
Sam's empty. Sam feels barren. And for a second, Sam wonders; if you cut him open, and pull his ribs apart, would you still find a beating heart inside his chest?
Sam presses his face into the pillow and breathes in the fabric softener Dean bought last week on a whim, the blood rushes loudly in his ears. Sam's fine - he's fine - he's-
Despite himself, skin prickly, muscles coiled tight, Sam falls into a restless sleep, blood and gunshots prodding at the edge of his dreams.
It's around 4 AM when he wakes again, confused and with a headache building behind his eyes. The previous night his body felt so heavy he hadn't been able to move, a despair that had seeped into the morning. Now though, Sam cannot stand to be in his room any longer.
The kitchen is silent and shady. The night has this ability to shroud everything in a muting layer. There's no Dean to make fun of his bed hair, no sounds of pans and utensils being used. Dean must be sleeping, of course. Not climbing the walls at ungodly hours. Sam lingers in the doorway for a while, his body reluctant to cross the threshold just yet. He eventually makes himself move and prepares tea. When Sam brings the mug to his lips, taking a sip of the murky liquid, he does not taste anything; it's just boiled water with some leaves. But it makes him warm inside because Sam is freezing.
000
Dean finds his brother in the kitchen when he shuffles in at 7 AM, robe tightly wrapped around him. Sam pushes a mug in his direction. Coffee. Hot and strong. After mumbling his thanks, Dean watches his brother silently over the rim of his mug.
Shoulders bent, jaw taut, red eyes. Sam sleeping well into the late morning - snapping at terrified witnesses - or Sam not sleeping at all. His brother is suffering. It's woven through all the little telltales, yelled in brightly lit neon signs of Sam's not alright.
Dean wants to help him. If Sam's not alright, neither is Dean. Yet, this is something foreign. Looking at Sam now, Dean sees the fatigue, the emptiness. Sam's done. And Sam has never been done before. Not like this. Sam always kept fighting despite all the shit the universe kept hurling at him. This is different - deeper.
It scares Dean a little if he's honest.
So Dean does what he does best. He takes care of his little brother.
It's okay that Sam's done. For now, anyway. Dean can carry the weight for his brother. Sam has been pushing himself for quite a while now, dragging Dean along with him through the grief and hurt. It's Dean's turn now. His brother's not that heavy, anyway.
Dean does not try to talk to him about it again. About whatever is churning inside his brother's head. For now, anyway. But Dean lets Sam know he's there for him through his actions, little touches. He gets Sam more hot tea and fluffy blankets because he can't help but notice the way Sam's shivering. Gets him a new bottle of painkillers because the way Sam is squinting into the light says it all. Dean places his hand on his brother's shoulder as he passes him, and brushes Sam's back as he leans over to reach for something.
It's not enough. Dean knows. Their mom and Jack are still gone. But Dean can keep the faith for both of them.
His brother's not that heavy to carry. Dean has done it numerous times, a tale spanning back to when he was just four years old.