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The door to the small building Doctor Pillsbury worked in shuts behind Sam quietly. He runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, sighing. He wanted to be outside so badly, to feel the unfiltered way the sun felt on his face, to hear the business of the townsfolk unmuffled by walls. It had been so long.
The moment is tainted before it can even begin, though. His mind isn't on how well kept the flowers on the side of the town's medical center are or how he can hear the steady clip-clop of a horse in the distance. He can only really think about how he could've– should've– been out this entire time; he shouldn't have been in Doctor Pillsbury's care in the first place. Every nice thing about the outside world fuels the bitterness that had been corrupting him since Jesse stabbed him.
He rubs his good hand down his face, trying to wipe away all negativity. He's been allowed outside more often, but it's still a decently rare thing for him. He chastises himself for not being grateful for this chance. He shakes his head, then bounces on his heels a few times. Blaine told him a while ago that, as silly as it was, trying to physically remove bad emotions by doing some sort of activity– like shaking, or jumping, or punching– worked. His older brother used to say the same thing about going for walks.
Sam smiles. In his hospital bed, he still gets visitors, Blaine being one of them, and it was one of the best parts about being cooped up. As a sheriff, you're either too busy to have casual guests or people are afraid to ‘waste your time.’ Thinking about his friends always puts him in a good mood, as did thinking about his family.
Shading his eyes, he looked up at the sky. No clouds. Judging from the shadows, it was right around noon. Rolling his uninjured shoulder, he decided he should go visit Blaine. Most days, he could be found in the Hummel household's stables, tending to the horses. Sam smiled. There truly was nothing like seeing a good friend – and seeing their horses, too.
Sam had taken only a few steps away from Doctor Pillsbury's when he began scanning the small number of people in the town square. It was a habit that only added to his paranoia and bitterness, which he had just barely managed to shake away, but he couldn't not do it. It's just a habit, an itch he needs to scratch. He couldn't have peace of mind while spending time with his friends if he didn't look out for–
Jesse. Who was standing in the middle of the square. Oblivious to Sam's existence. Talking to some shopkeeper who probably had no clue who he is.
Jesse waves his hand, saying goodbye to the man. He smiles at him. It makes Sam's blood boil. How could someone who put the town sheriff in the hospital for weeks casually interact with people so positively? He clenches his fists.
When Sam starts storming towards him, Jesse straightens up. He seems to recognize him instantly; instinctively, he runs, closer to the inn. Sam doesn't let him escape. He didn't want to involve outsiders when they fought the first time, and he still doesn't, but what choice does he have? He can't let Jesse escape. Dust trails behind him as he sprints to catch up.
In a blur of black fabric and metal, Jesse turns draws a knife. Its blade is long and jagged– Sam briefly recognizes it from his hotel room. It's pointed at his face, eager to cut him into pieces. Sam won't let Jesse have that satisfaction. As quickly as he can, he steps backwards. Jesse's movement doesn't stop quick enough; he cuts through the air with a viciousness Sam was fortunate enough to not be in the way of.
Sam wastes no time kicking Jesse in the stomach. Jesse stumbles backwards, one hand grabbing where he was kicked while the other hand holds onto his knife's handle tightly. The sight makes Sam even angrier. Even when hurt, he still clings onto his weapons like they give him life.
He charges forward, giving Jesse a swift punch to the jaw. Before Jesse can move to soothe the pain, Sam pushes him as hard as he can, using both arms. His shoulder aches, sending pain all throughout that side of his body, but it's worth it to see Jesse falling; he feels even more rewarded when the dagger falls out of his hand.
Predictably, Jesse moves to reach for the weapon, and Sam is quick to stop it. With as much force as he can muster, he stomps on Jesse's arm, right below his elbow. The scream can be heard from anywhere in town. Hearing it brings Sam almost no joy– almost. He's never liked hurting people, but he can't deny how powerful he feels, his boot crushing Jesse's arm. The power makes a sick part of him giddy; he's finally managed to one-up the man who'd been the source of his misery for weeks and something in him loves seeing him writhe in pain. Another part of him weighs him down with the guilt he always feels when he has no other choice but to hurt someone.
He pushed both parts of himself down as he dropped to his knees, practically straddling Jesse. His arms shook as he grabbed Jesse's shirt and used it to pull him off the ground by a few inches. Their faces were almost touching. Sam could hear every breath and strained almost-moan.
“You said,” Sam spat, “that the next time we saw each other, you would kill me. Go on. Try.” He shakes Jesse. More pain shoots down his arm. He bares his teeth. “Try, damn it!”
Jesse growls. He tries moving the arm that Sam stepped on, but can't move it more than a couple centimeters. Deciding that hand would be useless, he balled his other hand into a fist and aimed for Sam's nose. Sam didn't move, he just let Jesse's bony knuckles hit him. He grunted on impact, but the pain wasn't anything compared to the way his shoulder throbbed. Hot blood trickled slowly from one of his nostrils.
Sam didn't get the chance to wipe the blood before a hand, big and rough-palmed, wraps around one half of his throat. Fingers press into his airway, choking him clumsily. Sam wrapped his uninjured arm around the arm that was choking him and pulled him away as hard as he could. Jesse's fingers dragged on his skin, desperate to keep their grip on his neck; ultimately, though, Sam managed to pry him off. His hand firmly held Jesse's arm in place, but not without some effort.
For a moment, Sam just stared down at Jesse. His good hand was busy holding him down. The wound was already making it hard to move his shoulder. He couldn't just stand here all day, though. Pinning Jesse down was a good step, but something had to follow– Sam wanted something to follow.
He inhaled deeply and bent his arm, bringing it as high as he could. He felt the scarred, barely healed skin over the wound stretching, tearing. His grip on Jesse's arm tightened.
Without warning, Sam brought his elbow down as fast as he could. Jesse turned his head at the last second, but didn't manage to fully dodge the attack. Sam's elbow hits his eye. As Jesse cried out, Sam collapses. He's lucky enough that his bad arm manages to plant itself above Jesse's head, stabilizing him despite the effort it takes and the pain it causes. His body shakes. He's used more energy now than he has in weeks.
He only gets a second to recover before Jesse interrupts by headbutting him, right below the shoulder. Sam yelps. The pain worsens tenfold. He grits his teeth and forces himself to sit up again. The pressure on Jesse's arm increases as he steadies himself.
A forceful punch is delivered to Jesse's face. He doesn't know where he hit, and he doesn't care to know. He can hardly think. Hurt clouds his mind. All he can focus on is how much his shoulder hurts and how much he hates Jesse.
Hate overpowers pain. Sam punched again. Jesse shrieks– whatever Sam hit must've hurt. That sick part of him makes him smile. He's shaking from pain, pain that Jesse caused when he stabbed him and pain that Jesse caused when he chose to show his face around town; he only hopes Jesse feels a quarter of how he feels.
His hand grabs a fistful of Jesse's shirt. He forces him off the ground again. Their faces nearly touch.
“You aren't so tough without your damned weapons,” Sam hisses. A disgusting laugh creeps up his throat. “You're not tough at all. You're weak. Always have been. Hidin’ behind knives and axes doesn't change that. You can't kill me, not unarmed. But I, I can kill you.”
He drops Jesse and raises his fist. His arm begs him to stop. The shoulder of his shirt is stained with blood, wet and sticky to the touch. He can't keep his arm steady. The pain makes him tremble– or maybe that's the adrenaline. Sam can't tell. He doesn't care.
His knuckles connect with Jesse's face, aiming blindly again and again. Their screams mix together. Every new punch makes the commotion grow. Jesse cries out less, reduced to pained gasps and pathetic sobs, while Sam is yelling like an animal. His eyes are unblinking and teary, fixated on Jesse's face. His eyes jump from one mark to another. The skin around his eyes is swollen and blue-black. His lip is busted; it almost looks as though Jesse had been spitting up blood– and he might have. The image of Will, laying on his kitchen floor with blood trailing from his mouth, flashes in his mind. Sam blinks; the image leaves.
The way Jesse's nose bends is what's most interesting to Sam. Jesse's nose has always been straight, pointed ever so slightly downwards. Now, though, it curves to the right. Blood pours down from it, just like how Sam's nose bled, except, for Jesse, there was much, much more. It was grotesque. Sam couldn't look away.
He moves to punch Jesse again. Blood sticks to his chest, dripping down. The hole in his shoulder has been reopened fully now. Sam can hardly move it. Merely raising his arm makes him tremble and grunt. His fist threatens to move forward, but he can't move it. It just hurts too much. He hit his limit– and he pushed past it.
He tried to bring his knuckles down, tries to get one last good hit in, but something stops him. A force holds him back.
Sam blinks and turns around. Finn Hudson stares down at him, eyes wide, holding his elbow. How long has he been there? How long has he been talking?
“–Off! Sam! What are you doing!?”
Finn jerks his arm up, trying to pull him off. Sam sobs.
“Let go of me,” he demands.
Finn shakes his head, pulling again. “You gotta get off him first. You're gonna kill him.”
Sam clenches his fist. “He deserves it,” he spits. “Let me kill him. He'll kill all of us if I don't. One by one, Finn, he'll- he'll do it. Let me–”
“Sam, he can't move!”
Sam turns back around, peering down at Jesse. He's almost lifeless. His body twitches with every labored breath. Bruises stain his face and his dark clothes have bloodstains. Sam almost can't believe he did that. It almost makes him sick. Almost.
He removes his hand from Jesse's arm hesitantly. Jesse doesn't even acknowledge the lack of pressure. Sam turns back to Finn cautiously. Finn's eyebrows are furrowed, lips pressed together. There's worry in his eyes; Sam can't say he blames him.
Sam plants his good hand on Finn's arm. Using him as a crutch, Sam slowly gets up. Any remaining energy he had drains from him immediately. He almost crumbles. His grip on Finn's arm tightens.
“Matt,” Finn calls. A man comes up to him. Gently, Finn moves Sam's hand from his arm to Matt's. He pats Matt's shoulder. “Take him to Pillsbury's.”
Matt nods. He starts moving away from where Jesse is. Sam goes with him easily, but his head is turned around. He watches as Finn helps Jesse up. Jesse's hardly responsive. Sam turns his head back around as he and Matt approach Emma's office.
His shoulder aches with a fury Sam had only experienced when getting stabbed and he feels as though he needs to sleep for several days, but he's satisfied. He may not have killed Jesse, but he knows Jesse won't dare cause him trouble again. Especially not when Sam fully recovers. He might actually kill him then.
The door to the small building Doctor Pillsbury worked in shuts behind Sam quietly.