A/N: So, this just hit me in the face yesterday and wouldn't go away 'til I wrote it all down. No idea were it came from, either…. :thumbs up: It's set around Season Two AU, anywhere after episode ten. Contains swearing, so don't like - don't read.
Without further ado, go and read! :pokes:
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Supernatural, Sam or Dean. Not even a teeny tiny knife or weeny gun.
Lyrics are the awesome Linkin Park's "Somewhere I Belong". (So, not mine either.)
(And the fault is my own, and the fault is my own)
I wanna heal, I wanna feel
What I thought was never real
I wanna to let go off the pain I've felt so long…
The hunt had gone wrong.
"Not wrong, Sam, just… Just not according to plan!"
Yeah, because "according to plan" had implied that they would go in, exorcise the demonic son of a bitch that was possessing a little girl of ten, then go back to the dingy, cramped motel room that was currently home sweet home. Maybe drink a beer, eat some wonderful cold fast food again, watch Dean play with the "Magic Fingers" that ate up all their quarters, and then quite possibly go to sleep.
God, how he needed sleep.
And here he goes again.
"Damn it Sam, there was nothing else we could have done. Nothing! We didn't know that that little girl -"
Meggie. "Little girl" is…No, was Meggie.
"Meggie." Note the emphasis on the name.
"Look Sam, we didn't know that that Demon was the only thing keeping her alive!"
No, but we do know now. Too late, though.
"Not according to plan" meant her death. A girl of ten. Young, innocent, used to playing with dolls and her little friends and then, thanks to the demon, forced to do horrible things.
Hell, maybe death had been better for her.
Don't think that! A mental kick for thinking like that. She should have lived, he knew that.
And they couldn't save her. He couldn't save her. Not after he had told her; promised her; after the demon had been sent back to Hell and when she was on the ground in front of him, moaning in pain and blood pouring from her nose and mouth. Not after he had held her cold little hand and said he could save her; would save her.
"Sammy." Softer now, closer.
He counts in his head, waiting for it…
"I know what you're thinking, dude - it wasn't your fault."
He had gotten to four. New record, that.
"Sammy, look at me."
A sigh, a shuffle and then the ancient bed creaks in protest at the additional weight.
A snicker escapes him. It's all the fast food. Dean's got heavier thanks to it and now the bed can't take it. Maybe it'll collapse. Such an amusing image, that.
It's a totally irrelevant thought he knows, and not true - Dean isn't fat - but he laughs. Hell he tries so hard to keep it in but it comes tumbling out of his mouth like blood.
Christ, he laughs.
At a time like this, he fucking laughs.
"Sam?" A straightening of the back, eyes boring into his own back. Concerned.
He laughs more; harder now and with his head held in his hands.
Dean lying on the floor surrounded by bits of the broken bed, a dirty bedsheet around his legs, looking at him, wanting to know exactly why the bed collapsed. Protesting that he's not fat.
"Sammy? Why are you-" Worried, now.
Yet he gets cut off mid-question because -
He's on the floor now, on his knees laughing until his eyes start to water and then stream…Suddenly he's sobbing.
Huge, wracking sobs that he wouldn't have assumed himself capable of.
"Christ, Sammy!" He's on the floor beside him now, scooping him up like from a distant memory….It's like their crazy, whacked-up childhood all over again - he's five, crying because he cut his arm badly with playing with a silver knife -
Playing killing something supernatural -
And Dean's nearly nine, cradling him like a baby.
God, all he can do now like he did then is cry.
He's being held in those same hands that only a while ago were bloody.
"Sammy, look at me." A veiled order there. Obviously inherited from the late John Winchester.
The man who couldn't work a bloody toaster.
Another laugh, before sobbing harder.
Oh yeah - his dad is dead now, presumably in Hell. The man he had constantly fought with, argued with, shouted at, eventually walked out on and then cut off from for years. Until they had met up again, hunted down the Yellowed- Eyed Demon and failed, before arguing mere moments before he died.
He was dead.
Yeah. Life's a bitch but hey - who was Sam Winchester to complain?
A hand reaches out and gently, yet firmly lifts his head up by the chin.
Oh, he told me to look at him. And I didn't. I disobeyed a direct order. Tut tut.
Green eyes meet hazel.
He can see worry, concern, a touch of fear…All written there, clear as words on a page. Always are there, too, whenever he's around.
Like I'm gonna turn into a manic, murdering monster.
Another snigger, through those sobs and tears.
Oh yeah - he could turn into a murdering psychopath at anytime now because of good ol' Yellow Eyes.
And because of that risk; if he did change, his own father told his brother that if he couldn't save him, then to kill him.
Oh, Sam, wishes really do come true.
"Sammy, you are not to blame for what happened, alright? Hell, for one so smart, being a college geek and all that, you can be so god-damn stupid!"
Yes. This is his brother's idea of a comforting speech.
"Sam, please…Don't do this to yourself. Man, you're my little brother - I don't wanna see you be hurt like this, especially seeing as you did nothing! Nothing, Sammy!"
That's right. He did nothing.
Didn't save the girl. Check.
Watched her die. Check.
That's nothing, all right.
He tries to say something but no words come out. More tears, though.
Dean says nothing. Just pulls him in closer; holds him close - like in doing so he can protect him. Save him.
But he doesn't deserve saving. And he never will.
Dean should just kill me here and now…
He tries again to speak but ends up crying harder.
No laughter now.
"Shh, Sammy. It's okay. It's alright."
I wish it fucking was.
The hands go right around him and he can feel his brother's head on his. His big brother. Always looking out for him.
They remain like that for a while, no moving, talking, him crying though, yet still - nothing. For ages.
He's about to fall asleep. The crying has made him more tired now. Exhausted from a day's "work" and now all this, his eyes begin to close and he can feel that blissful darkness calling him.
Dean holds him. He must know he's about to go to sleep but holds him regardless.
"I'm sorry, Sammy."
What's that? Whispers?
Blearily he tries to hear; strains to hear…And does so. Dean's saying it like a mantra, chanting it almost. Quietly, but he can still hear it.
I'm sorry too, Dean…
Then he's failing into the darkness, knowing that his sleep will be plagued by nightmares of a young, pale blonde girl, bloody and moaning, holding his hand.
And sorry, Dean.
Yeah, no idea where it came from. :shakes head: Review?