Well after 'Children shouldn't play with dead things' little niggles at the ending just kept picking away at me and this piece covers that. Call me a LimpSam chick (and I hold my head proud with that) but both brothers are hurting and I just wanted address the balance here with what has been going on with our youngest Winchester a little bit.
Learning to become invisible.
Jeez his arm throbbed. Not just ached a little but seriously pulsated pain every time he moved it, but he knew that this was the last thing Dean wanted to hear or deal with right now. He'd get it checked out tomorrow he told himself, another day and a few more Advil would cover it till then.
That zombie bitch may well have broken his arm but his brother had frozen his heart solid later with his confession about dad's death. Because if anything it was his failures that had caused dad's sacrifice not Dean. However his tongue had remained stilled, struggling not to alienate his brother even more than he had lately frightened to offer up any words. And the eruptions that came with it.
It seemed that whatever he said or did lately was the wrong thing. His cheekbone still wore the deep bruise of his brother's fist as a reminder at the anger that he held against him. Silence sometimes was the easiest option.
So silently he watched his freshly showered brother move around the room picking up his keys, wallet and jacket readying to leave for the bar a few miles down the road and all he could think was suck it up and let him go.
Don't drag him back down. Give him the space to breathe. He needs to escape from you. Away from the freak.
Dean's warning words to not call him unless it was a 'freaking emergency and especially for no Sammy chick flick moments' hung heavy in the air as the door slammed behind him and he knew that he had been excluded from his brother's immediate space for the foreseeable future.
Wearily Sam heard the roar of the engine of the impala pull away and prayed that his brother had enough sense to keep the keys firmly in his pocket rather than drive back to the motel later. With a small soft laugh he knew that if Dean went with his usual pattern of behaviour then the only thing he would be doing later was to stagger back to his latest conquests place. He would be safe.
Suddenly he felt too alone and the room was suddenly so oppressively quiet that his own breathing sounded loud to his ears.
'No Chick Flick moments' he reminded himself, cutting off the admittance of feelings, of heartache as he determined to make himself stronger. Dean needed this stoicism from him he reasoned, and slowly but surely he was learning to suck it up, hide all the pain away and let his brother have the space and silence he needed.
Carefully he stood up, testing the bruises on his torso with a stiffened yawn and winced slightly at the tug of sore ribs and battered muscles that came with it.
Ignoring the throb and aches he headed for the bathroom desperate to feel clean again The stench of upturned soil, peaty and sweat stained, smothered his clothes and skin and he just wanted rid of the stench.
Peeling of his shirt he looked briefly in the declouding steamed up mirror in the bathroom and noted the mottled pattern to his ribcage with fascination. A surreal jigsaw of purpling bruises littered his chest and side and he marvelled at just how quickly they seemed to be darkening.
Fingering tentatively the raised marks he shook his head wondering at just how screwed his life had become when he let himself be bait for a frigging zombie.
Eyeing his slowly swelling hand and misshaped lower arm he knew the signs of a break and traced the pulsing skin wondering at the invisible breakages that lay beneath. Grimacing at the touch he tucked the pain away. A few more Advil would tide him over till morning, then he could get Dean to drive him to the nearest free clinic and get it all sorted out. No big deal.
The shower had fizzled to luke warm then freezing cold after a few minutes and tiredly he towelled himself dry as best he could. Pulling on some clean clothes he sat at the end of the bed wondering what to do next.
It would be nice to talk to someone, but who? All his friends and life from Stanford were just that, a lifetime ago, no longer real. Blinking back the tears he realised that the few people that he might have wanted to talk to and would have understood him were gone. Jessica, Pastor Jim, Caleb, even Aaron, all were gone because of him. And now dad too.
In just a year he had been stripped of all pretence of normalcy, to be anchored now in this dark life, a living hell.
No wonder his brother wanted rid of him. What a fucking mess he had made of it all, and of Dean too. Bitterly he acknowledged that he should have died in that fire in Lawrence two decades back and then his family would have at least had a chance at keeping their normal life. When he saw his brother's indifferent gaze on him lately he knew he was just not frigging worth it.
The key was a bitch. It kept missing the keyhole on purpose refusing to unlock the door denying him a chance to crawl into a nice warm bed and sleep off the infancy of a hangover from hell to come. Cursing loudly he decided to kick the door instead when once again it refused to open. Damn stupid door was so stupid it deserved a good kicking he reasoned.
His eyes blinked wide when the door suddenly opened in mid kick and he fell through to land in an untidy sprawl a few yards into the room. Soft words met his ears but they were an irritant to him and he batted them away along with the hand that tried to pick him up.
"Fuck off man. I don't need your prissy freaky ass helping me," he cursed out loud pushing the aid away with a sharp shove and the soft whispered words and the hand immediately disappeared. Slurring heavily he repeated himself. "I don't need your help. Leave me the fuck alone."
Sam picked himself off the floor, wincing as his arm protested at the exertion, and watched his brother collapse onto the nearest bed. As dawn's light broke through the thin curtains he dragged off the shoes and jacket off his brother's inert form then pulled a blanket over him. In sleep his brother looked free of his burdens, of him, and Sam sagged back onto his bed battling down his own tears.
This life was too fucking hard.
Dean woke groggily, his mouth desperately dry and his head beating a vicious beat that screamed hangover from hell. It took a good few seconds for the hands on his watch to gradually came into focus and he winced at realising that it had gone past noon. Hell Sam would be pissed he realised at wasting away the day like this.
Thinking on his brother he croaked out in a hoarse whisper. "Where's the frigging aspirin dude?"
Patiently he waited for his always present brother to respond. After a few seconds when the magical pills didn't materialise he groaned and turned onto his back, feeling green with the motion. "Hell little brother just give me the goddam bottle. And some water."
Again there was no response and Dean hauled himself to sit weakly on the edge of the bed, his guts heaving with the motion after too many tequila shots from the night before readied to upchuck if he moved too fast.
Bleary eyed he glanced around the room, into the open bathroom and realised with a sour grunt that his brother was not about to come to his rescue as he was nowhere to be seen. "Oh what a bitch" he muttered under his breath as his head swam and he sank back onto his bed with a groan. 'Should have said no when that last bottle of tequila appeared…."
This is little bit rushed but will be heading to a quick ending! Promise. Again all mistakes are all mine, damnit, along with the overdose of angst. Roz