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Dean slams the door on his way out, hard enough to reverberate through the air and bounce off the walls of the bunker. Sam flinches, but his expression folds blank as Dean's parting words echo through his mind.
'You wanna know why people don't get close to you, Sam?"
Dean's shoulders are vibrating with anger, and his eyes are level with Sam's, cold and whiskey glazed.
"D'you really wanna know? Wanna know why I'm the one people turn to for help, to turn when they need somebody? I don't think you fucking do."
He seethes, head whipping to the side before locking straight at him, neck muscles taut and jaw jumping.
"It's because you're hollow, Sam. You're fucking hollow. You make someone start to care about you, with you goddamn sensitive eyes and your sob stories, and at first they like you okay. Nothing wrong with you that they see at first. You're...normal."
He spits out the word, a curse, a brand.
"But then they see this...this empty inside of you. Once they break down that good-boy wall of personality you've got built up around you, they see on the inside that you're a ghost- an echo of somebody who died a long time ago. You're dead." He waves his arms, spreading them helplessly, haltingly. His eyes don't quite center on Sam's form, moving uneasily around the bunker, before chuckling mirthlessly." Sure, you can laugh at jokes, and cry when it's your cue, and you're so sympathetic, such a good goddamned guy, but deep down... you do what you do because you should, not because you want to, not because it makes you fucking happy. Like you're trying too hard. Poor fucking Sam. Fucking pitiful. We fucking broke the world, and you're still a goddamn people pleaser."
His face twists, a drunken facsimile of sympathy. "That's why you can't have deep relationships with people, that's why people don't turn to you. That's why people like me more, identify with me better, trust me more. Sure, I'm a fuckup, but at least I'm not a goddamn shell. You're messed up, Sam. You're wrong, and twisted on the inside, and people know it. You can't love what's empty, Sammy. And you're fucking hollow.'
Hollow.
The words don't hurt him like a slap or a punch. They crush him, slowly, scraping and clawing, nails in his gut. His eyes sting, burning with rage, and he clenches his fists. He can't- he can't- but fuck if it's been staring him in the face all these years.
The truth. Haunting in the doorway for years now. It had always hid in the corner of his mind like a stain, growing and growing until finally Dean was pissed enough to wave it in his face, too drunk and too angry to smother it in his own denial.
It's true. There's no other answer.
Sam's eyes fall to the floor, and his spine turns to iron.
It's no secret that Dean had always been that one to connect with people, that he's the pub favorite Winchester. Before, when he was just a kid, Sam knew it was his good looks, his charm, often it was.
It's become more apparent now, in recent years, that it runs much deeper than that. That of course, Dean had that personality that people loved, that people related to. He got under people's skin, and they wanted to be his friend, wanted to be his one-night stand, wanted to fight by his side.
It's more than just petty sibling jealousy that Sam knows he's felt, beneath the surface. He had always thought-- at face value-- it was because Dean was just likable that way. And was it was more than that, wasn't it?
Something about him.
Messed up. Wrong. Twisted.
All of the people Sam has called friends and family run through his mind, then, images in a slideshow- a blood-soaked, garish nightmare of memory, as unfortunately, a great many of them are long dead.
Dad is first. Of course.
Dean was older and obedient to his father, had stuck with him when Sam skipped off to college. He and Sam had used to fight like cats and dogs, but despite even that, it had always been obvious who Dad respected more, talked to more. Sure, he hadn't been real heavy on the fatherly affection to either of his boys, but Dean was the golden boy- the hunter his Dad could be proud of.
The last words Sam had ever said to him had been contorted in anger and he'd thought his dad was so, so goddamn selfish...
He regrets those last words to his father every time his head hits the pillow.
Bobby is next. The boys' second father, the one who showed the most open affection for them. To be honest with himself, it wasn't really his fault that in the time he spent with Bobby he'd been a little bit fucked up- first was his powers, next the demon's blood, he started the apocalypse and died, then he was soulless and an all-around dick, honestly- then he finally just went crazy. Bonding with Bobby had never been real high on the to-do list with all of that shit going for him, and he'd put the old hunter through real crap. But thinking over Dean's words it became so clear. Every look he'd given Dean had been fonder, every gesture a little more loving. Sam'd be stupid to think Bobby didn't love him, love him like a son, and he drowned in that awful grief as much as his brother did when he'd died- Sam had loved Bobby too.
But Dean had always been Bobby's favorite.
Sam's stomach rolls as the list of names gets longer- Ellen, Jo, Ash, Pamela, Kevin, Garth, Charlie- Castiel...
It was true, that sometimes the angel's life was a bit...rocky, and that his brother did fight in Purgatory with him... but Cas was always there for Dean when he needed him, always did what had to be done when Dean asked.
We do share a more profound bond.
His voice rings through Sam's head like he's directly in front of him now. It makes Sam want to yell at something, or impossibly, tear up.
All of those times, all those fucking times that Cas ignored him, and with one word Dean had him flying right down with a fucking "Hello, Dean." that had Sam feeling almost more hurt than angry.
He remembers vaguely-- clearly, clearly, he can't lie, it's tugged at him since-- when Castiel tried to hug him, an oddly affectionate gesture because he was glad, actually pleased, that he was awake and back to normal. How could he be mad at Cas, when it was he who'd awkwardly shut him down? Sam wonders idly, as his feet start to go numb, why he did that. Why the hell was he so averted to the idea of getting close to someone, anyone other than Dean?
Maybe because he knew, deep down, Dean was the only one who'd tolerate him. His...
Am I actually...?
Empty. The word is a presence in Sam's mind, a violin's note in an amphitheater, long and suddenly perfect, fitting, as if he'd been searching for it.
Sure, there'd been a few people along the road Sam...had, but Dean didn't-- Amelia, for example. They'd had something good, something real. Or at least, real enough for the denial he'd been living in.
And fucking Ruby? That psycho bitch had manipulated him for months and dragged him into addiction in the first place- it's fucking awesome that she's the only person who comes to mind when it came to meaningful connection, really, what a peach.
That left her. Jess. His Jess, Sam's Jess. Maybe she had loved the Sam that wasn't hollow. A Sam that hadn't died yet, inside.
Why was it that Sam didn't have closer friends, have the web of caring people that Dean did? They met the same people, fought for the same things, yet still Sam was that one left holding a little bit more loneliness. A little bit more heartache. Not that his brother was a waterfall of good feeling, but his own demons had been reckoning he'd embraced, sought almost. Sam had never sought isolation, not with his brother's near-obssessive fervor for self-destruction. He just attracted people, it seemed.
Of course, Dean had always been that guy to count on. That loyal Winchester boy who always stood up for his friends.
I'm the one that fucks up all the time. I'm the one that started the apocalypse, the one who betrayed Dean and went crazy because I couldn't handle my hallucinations.
Fucking pathetic.
The bunker is cold, barren, the way a place always is after a good fight. Like every drop of heat has been whisked out with the anger and when Dean left, all the warmth did too.
Sam's footsteps are heavy and clunking across the wood floor, and his knees feel like rubber. He doesn't know or care what his expression looks like- it could've been pain or fear or horror or nothing at all- who gave a shit?
It doesn't matter. Nothing really does.
At first he wobbles aimlessly towards the nearest hallway, vision blurring and limbs like lead, and he fixates on a target where each step should land because if he doesn't he's going to collapse pathetically on the ground, a marionette with cut strings. He stumbles past the kitchen, where the end of the hallway meets, and feels his eye drawn towards Dean's liquor cabinet, tucked within the confines of his brother's bedroom.
Bingo.
For a singular moment, he hesitates. Would this really solve anything? his logical mind asks. It's eerily reminiscent of himself mid Pre-Law, every time his friends asked him out and he begged off, certain of its stupidity. The nostalgia thoroughly breaks his resolve.
Fuck logic. It's gray and cold. Tired. Sound like anyone you know? He stomps over, yanks open the drawer and pulls out Dean's best scotch. The golden liquor sloshes around slowly, gleaming in the dim bunker light, and he pops off the lid without an drop of remorse.
"Just you and me tonight," he whispers, his voice cracking with bitterness. He laughs then, a little like a rusty faucet. He sounds like a housewife, or a soap opera star post-breakup. It's funny, and he laughs, and he drinks.
xXXx
Sam doesn't know how many hours pass before Dean comes back, apparently over his whiskey-nutured pissfest. He won't realize the magnitude of what he said in a thoughtless rage, doesn't realize how much Sam has taken it to heart. He never does.
Why would he? After all, I'm too hollow to feel it, aren't I?
"Sam?" he calls, his voice so, so loud over the slow, monotonous buzz in Sam's ears. Eyelids half closed, his eyes don't even drift to the door when he sees Dean stomp in through his very foggy peripherals. He doesn't have to look to know Dean is over his mood- he wouldn't have come back if he wasn't. But honestly, in his drunken stupor Sam wouldn't give two shits whether Dean is over it or not.
"Sam, what are yo-" Dean's deep voice drops off upon seeing the empty glass bottle in his younger brother's limp hand. Sam is on the floor next to a bookshelf in the library, his legs sprawled out in front of him like fallen telephone poles. His arms are drooped, pale in his lap and his back is propped up against the cool grey wall. The once full bottle of scotch is bone dry, and he slowly lets the neck of the bottle go. It falls into his lap and his head dips low, eyes drifting closed.
"That bottle was full when I left," Dean says quietly. But he's being redundant...redundant... huh. Even when I'm drunk I use three syllable words.
"Yeah," Sam grunts, his voice a monotone. "It- it was." He licks his lips and they taste like more scotch. Bile rises in the Winchester's throat.
"Jesus, man, that bottle was a gift from Bobby-"
Sam slams his eyelids shut. Of course. "Of course, of course it was a fucking gift from Bobby." It's not just the alcohol that makes Sam's voice a snarl now. He snaps his attention to his brother, who's looking at him with shock, actual shock. He's a little blurry but Sam knows there's pity in those eyes.
That makes him exponentially angrier.
"What do you mean 'of course'?" Dean asks, his voice guarded. He knows his brother is wasted but doesn't understand how to deal with a raging Sam- Sam was usually the happy drunk, giggling like an idiot at dust or picnic tables.
Why the hell does he sound so defensive- he's a raging alcoholic! "Of course- 'cuz you were his favorite, Dean!" Sam spits, slurring on the ends. He clumsily gets to his feet and wobbles over to his brother, cursing about hypocrisy as he points a shaking, accusatory finger at Dean. "You were his fucking favorite. You're everybody's favorite."
"Go home, Sam, you're drunk," Dean jokes poorly, at a loss with how to deal with the situation. Memories of a drunk John flicker through his mind, resurfacing faster as his younger brother's expression twists in drunken outrage.
"Look, Sam, you're wasted, let's just go to bed, okay?" Dean puts a strong arm on Sam's shoulder but he jerks away, stumbling backwards. The older brother tenses, ready to catch Sam if he falls, even if he is too sauced to notice.
"Don't touch me! Don't try to- don't try sympathize with me! You don't know what- you don't know what it's-" Sam cuts off, because the urge to vomit has surged through his system. Dean, having made friends with that feeling too many times before, quickly recognizes the grab-the-bucket look on his brother's face and grabs him by the arm, rushing him quickly to the bathroom.
Sam hardly makes it there and he collapses on his knees, his hands gripping the white porcelain toilet so hard his knuckles pale. Every drop of alcohol he consumed in the past couple of hours makes an unpleasant, poisonous comeback.
Dean watches, gaze heavy with empathy, as Sam pitches forward again and heaves into the toilet, and soon his brother is just gasping while hot tears pour, unnoticed and unbidden, down his face.
Sam, his hands slick with sweat and throat raw with acid, fights to stop heaving, struggles to stop the tears from falling but it's useless, his body is wracked with pain and recoil. His mouth, tasting rotten, stumbles to find words as he feels Dean's steady and firm hand on his shoulder.
"You were right, Dean," he chokes, his throat closed up with hurt and his breathing quick and desperate. "God, you were right." He starts to wretch again as Dean shakes his head.
"About what?" Dean asks, his voice distracted as he reaches behind for a towel. Suddenly, horribly, he's afraid to know.
"I- I am empty," Sam gasps out, throat so sore it twists into a near sob. He grunts, gagging over the toilet rim, and sucks down air..
"Oh, shit." Damn it. "Look, I was pissed, I didn't mean it-"
"You meant it or else you wouldn't have said it!" his brother cries, wiping his eyes sloppily with a jacketed arm. A wave of dizziness passes through him, making his head swim. He slumps to the side, his shaggy head banging against the white bathtub hard enough to make the black spots in his vision turn white.
"You always-- you always mean it."
Sam slips sideways, collapsing against the cool tub beside him. His eyes are shut and he's out like a light, exhausted, and Dean lurches forward, grasping his little brother by the shoulders as his face wrinkles in horror, regret. He drags his brother back into a sitting position, head buzzing with apologies he didn't get to say.
Sam's face is blank, clammy, and Dean stares.
"Fuck," he croaks. "Fuck Sammy, I didn't-- I'm sorry, Sam, you know I didn't fucking mean it."
The bunker's following echo acknowledges how little, and how late.