Title: Wasted Vessel – Part One
Word Count: 4,533
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean, Bobby, Lucifer, Castiel.
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst
Summary: 'It turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good. After the phone call with Dean, Sam takes drastic action to avoid his destiny as Lucifer's vessel.
This story is set in Season Five: Episode Four — The End. It opens with the phone call between Sam and Dean and will become AU from there on.
Warnings: Suicide Attempt
Disclaimer: I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.
Thanks go to SnarkyMuch2 for beta'ing this fic.
Wasted Vessel ~ Part One
"Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you." Sam was desperate, pleading even, but he didn't think Dean heard the desperation in his voice.
"Look, Sam—it doesn't matter—whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon," Dean said. "You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good."
"Dean, it doesn't have to be like this. We can fight it." Sam was close to begging.
"Yeah, you're right. We can." Sam felt hopeful for a split second before Dean's next words halted that in its tracks. "But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us—love, family, whatever it is—they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways."
"Dean, don't do this," Sam begged.
"Bye, Sam." The dial tone replaced the sound of Dean's voice, and Sam stared at the phone in shock.
It felt like there was a heavy weight compressing his chest. He couldn't breathe. Tears filled his eyes and streaked down his face. He made no attempt to stem their flow; there was no one there to see his shame. The one person that was always there for him had just abandoned him.
He was Lucifer's vessel… To use Dean's words, Lucifer was wearing him to the prom. The shock and horror of the revelation weighed heavily on him. He should have guessed it would be him. Who was more deserving of Lucifer's curse than the one who had released him?
It started to rain. The droplets pooled on the windshield, imitating the tears on Sam's cheeks. He didn't know what was worse. The fact he was doomed to be Lucifer's meat suit, or the fact his brother no longer wanted him. Upon reflection, Sam decided what had happened with Dean was worse. He was the one person Sam thought would always be there, but now he had been cast aside, unwanted.
A sob built in Sam's throat and the tears clouded his eyes. He pulled the car to a stop at the side of the road and switched off the engine. Hugging his arms around himself, he allowed the pain its release. Tears streamed down his face, and he keened like an animal. His pain was too much to contain.
"Dean," he moaned.
More than anything, he wished his brother was there. But Dean didn't want to be there. He'd made that clear enough. 'Pick a hemisphere' 'Stay away from each other for good.' Sam didn't want to stay away from Dean; he needed him there. Dean was the only good thing left in his world. He had lost everything else.
Sam cried until there were no more tears to shed. Then he was left with an aching emptiness, an emptiness that Dean had once filled. He didn't know what to do next. How was he supposed to go on without his brother? He couldn't hunt down Lucifer alone; without Dean there to ground him, he knew he would say yes. He wasn't strong enough to resist alone. He didn't want to give in, but he knew himself. He was weak.
More than anything, he wished he couldn't feel anymore. He was in too much pain to bear. He wanted to be free from the crushing guilt and sadness in his soul.
With nothing better to do, he started the car and pulled out onto the road again. There wasn't much traffic; the rain cleared had the roads. He knew he wasn't paying enough attention to the road, but it didn't bother him. Maybe he would get lucky and some drunk would run him off the road. He longed for the release of unconsciousness. He was past the point of being shocked at his own selfishness; he was prepared to possibly injure another person just so he could have some peace.
Knowing he had no business being on the road in his frame of mind, he started looking for a place to stop for the night. He could head back to Greely and the room he had there—he still had a few days paid for—but that was a bad idea. Too much had happened for him to be able to show his face there again. Even now, Lindsey could be telling the police of how she had been taken hostage.
As he pulled up to an intersection, he saw a sign for a motel. The bright neon drew him in, and he turned the car into the parking lot. The motel office was lit up, and he pulled the car to a stop in front. He checked himself in the rearview mirror. He presented a sorry sight. His face was haggard and drawn in lines of sadness.
He wiped the dying tears from his face and got out of the car. The rain seeped through the collar of his jacket, making him shiver. He pushed open the door and walked into the well-lit office. The clerk—a middle-aged man with a beer gut—looked up from his portable TV and started as he caught sight of Sam.
"I need a room," Sam said tonelessly, holding out a credit card.
The man took the card and thrust it into a machine.
"Double, all right?" he asked.
"Fine," Sam said in that same dull voice. He scribbled a signature on the paper the clerk slid across the desk and took the proffered key.
"Your room's round the back."
"Thanks." Sam went out into the rain again, crossing his arms over his chest to stave off the cold. He drove to the back of the motel and stopped the car in front of room thirteen.
He let himself into the room and tossed his duffel onto the floor. He dropped onto the bed and covered his face with his arm. He knew he should get out of his wet clothes, but it seemed like too much effort to manage. He lay back on the bedspread and thought of the mess his life had become. Only a few days ago, he had been working in the bar and settling into the civilian life. Hunting hadn't been far from his thoughts, but he had been comfortable in his life if not happy. Then Reggie and Tim had come back and they'd blown his little life as Keith out of the water. Now he was on the run, again, and this time he had no Dean beside him.
Dean. That was the worst part. He could handle the knowledge that he was Lucifer's vessel if he still had Dean beside him. Dean would have saved him from himself. Now there was nothing. He would say yes, he knew it. It would only take one moment of weakness, and he would be screwed. He didn't know what happened to a person once they had become an archangel's vessel. Maybe it was different to what happened to Jimmy. He'd said he remembered bits and pieces of his time with Castiel. If Sam said yes, would he be aware as Lucifer tore the world apart or would it be peaceful oblivion? The idea of oblivion was tempting,
He jerked to a sitting position. It was happening already. He was weakening. He had to do something. His eyes roved the room, as if a solution would appear to him by magic. There was no solution to be had though. The only thing in the room outside of the ratty furniture was his green duffel, and that held nothing but a couple of changes of clothes, his knife, and his gun.
Sam shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. He tugged at the strands, using the pain to ground him in the present. He had to do something. He thought about calling Dean again, explaining how he was already faltering, but he couldn't bear to hear Dean's refusal again, or worse, his scathing of Sam's struggle. Dean already knew just how weak his brother was, he didn't need more proof.
Sam flopped back onto the bed and rolled onto his side. He would sleep for a while. Then, in the morning, he would work out how to go on with his life without his brother and while resisting Lucifer.
Sleep didn't bring oblivion though. It brought Lucifer to him again.
A hand smoothed over his shoulder lovingly, but instead of pleasing him, the touch made his skin crawl. He jerked to a sitting position.
Jess smiled at him in that familiar way. The smile used to mean the world to him, now it repulsed him, as he knew it was Lucifer using her face to trick him.
"Hey, baby," Jess said. "You miss me?"
"You're not her."
Her face shimmered and morphed into Lucifer's. "Now, Sam, that's no way to talk to the love of your life, is it?"
"You're not her," Sam said harshly. "You're trying to trick me."
Lucifer's mouth twisted into a moue of regret. "That's not true. I was trying to give you a moment with the one you love. I would never try to trick you, Sam. I'm the only person in the world that would never try to hurt you. You can trust me."
Sam shook his head. "No. You want me to say yes. You'll say anything to make that happen."
Lucifer tapped his chin thoughtfully. "That is true. I will say anything, but I will also do anything. Tell me what you want, Sam. I can give it to you. You want little Jess back from the dead? I can do that. I can give you anything. All you have to do is say yes."
Sam turned away. Lucifer's words were tempting, but he knew they were wrong. If he gave in, there would be nothing to stop Lucifer from destroying the world. Nothing but Dean, and Sam couldn't bear the thought of Dean giving up his life to be Michael's vessel. There had to be another way.
And there was another way. The answer came to Sam so easily he thought he had always known it but had been unable to admit it to himself.
"What?" There was a hint of worry on Lucifer's face. "What are you thinking? What have you decided?"
Sam smiled cruelly. "I think I'm ready to wake up now." He clenched his fists so tight his nails bit into his skin.
The pain worked. He felt the dream fade away, and he found himself lying alone on the bed again. He sat up slowly and looked down at his bloodied palms. The pain was insignificant. He had more important things to think of. The solution.
There was no chance of him saying yes if he was dead, therefore his path was simple; he had to die.
He thought there would be some emotion attached to the realization, some fear or sadness, but there was only a sense of relief. It was like emerging from deep water. He could do this, and it would all be over. No more pain, no more fear, no more disappointment. He would be free.
Outside the window, dawn's light was streaking across the sky. The rain from the night had passed, and the sky was clear. He knew he needed to brave the outside world one last time before he went ahead and did what needed to be done, but he was reluctant to leave the haven of his motel room.
Casting aside his own wants and desires, he pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the early morning sunshine, stopping to grab the pad of motel stationary and a pen. He had the car, but he thought he would walk instead. It would take him time to get to his destination; therefore, he would have a little longer before doing what must be done.
He had passed through Main Street on his way into town, and he headed in that direction, not hurrying his pace, just enjoying the walk. Everything seemed so much more vibrant and alive to him, and he winced as a car roared past. His nerves felt exposed, and his clothes chafed against his skin. He was more aware of his self than ever before, and he didn't like it.
When he came to Main Street, he found the stores he needed were still closed. It was early after all. There was a small diner open though, and he directed his footsteps there. Pushing open the door, he saw the diner was almost empty. There were a couple of truckers eating at the counter and an elderly couple in a booth, but the rest of the room was empty.
Sam took a seat at a booth, and a smiling waitress came over carrying a carafe of coffee. "What can I get you, hon?" she asked.
"Just coffee, please."
She filled his mug and pulled a notepad out of her pocket. "Are you sure I can't get you anything else? We make great waffles."
"I'm sure," Sam said.
She looked into his eyes, and Sam felt uncomfortable under her close scrutiny. It was as if she was seeing right through him. Sam wondered what she was seeing in him. Did she know what he was planning? He felt sure he must look different now. Like the condemned man he was.
"If you change your mind, give me a shout," she said softly.
When she was gone, Sam surreptitiously checked his refection in the back of the napkin holder. His eyes looked a little wild. Perhaps the waitress had thought he was on drugs. He could have told her he was clean. At least he was now. Thoughts of his addiction and shame rolled over him, and he bowed his head. It was another failure to lay at his feet. It was no wonder Dean didn't want him anymore. Who would want a brother that had got strung out on the blood of demons?
He pulled the pad and pen out of his pocket. Chewing the tip of the pen, he considered the blank sheet of paper. How did you start a letter like this? What words did you use to tell the most important person in your life that you were no more? By the time Dean got the letter, Sam would be gone. He could have forgone the letter completely, but he wanted Dean to understand what he was doing was his own choice and not some moment of weakness. This wasn't him being selfish; this was him being brave, brave enough to know what needed to happen.
Sipping at his coffee, he penned his last missive to his brother. Every word cost him, and soon tears were pricking at his eyes. The waitress was watching him from across the counter, but Sam didn't pay her any attention. When the letter was written, he folded the sheet of paper, and put it carefully in his pocket. Draining the dregs of his coffee, he dropped some bills down onto the table to cover his bill and got to his feet.
His next port of call was a drug store. It was open now, and a bell tinkled as Sam entered. He wandered the aisles, searching for what he needed. He found it by the counter, and he stopped and stared at the wealth of riches on offer. He picked out two bottles of Tylenol and took them to the cashier.
The man raised an eyebrow at him. "Headache?" he quipped.
Sam forced a smile. "No, I'm going on a trip and I want to make sure me and my buddies are stocked up for hangover central." That sounded suitably lighthearted, Sam thought. An easy explanation.
"A trip? Anywhere nice?"
"We're going to Vegas. Blow our lot on the craps table."
The man chuckled. "Well, I wish you luck." He rung up Sam's sale and put his pills into a small paper bag. "You take care out there in Vegas. Don't bet the farm."
Sam nodded and smiled. "I'll be careful."
As soon as he turned away from the counter, he allowed his smile to fade. It had hurt his face to act so happy when he was feeling anything but. The pretence was necessary though. He couldn't have the man refusing to sell to him, which he would if he knew what Sam was really planning.
Across the street from the drug store was Sam's last port of call, the post office. He crossed the street and entered the small store. There was an elderly woman behind the counter, and she smiled at Sam as he entered. He picked out a package of envelopes and tore it open. Stuffing the letter inside, he addressed it to Bobby's house and went to the counter.
"I want to send this express mail," he said. "And I need to pay for the envelopes."
The elderly woman rung up the sale and took the envelope from Sam. "I'll get that sent out with the next collection."
"Thanks." Sam smiled and handed over a bill to cover the cost of his purchases.
Smiling once at the woman, he turned and left the small store.
The walk back to the motel didn't seem to take long. Soon, he was letting himself back into his room. He threw his packages down on the bed and took off his jacket.
Now the moment was upon him, he felt a little nervous.
He poured himself a large glass of water and then sat crossed legged on the bed. He shook out the pills and made them into a mound on the blanket.
They looked innocent sitting there, small and white. He picked up one and rolled it in his hand. Such a small thing was so powerful. Enough of these and he would be no more. He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it dry. The first pill went down easy, and the second easier still. Soon he was knocking them back by the handful, chasing them with gulps of water. When they were all gone, he rested back against the headboard and sighed. It was done now; all that was left to do was wait.
As he waited, his mind wandered. He wondered what Dean was doing now. He hadn't mentioned a hunt when they'd spoken, but it hadn't been a social call. Perhaps he was with Castiel. Sam hoped so. Castiel would be able to take care of Dean, now and after, Bobby, too. Dean would be angry at first, but he would soon see that it was for the best. Sam was saving them all by doing this, saving them from Lucifer and from Sam himself.
He didn't know how long had passed before he began to feel different. Time had ceased to have any meaning for him. Out of nowhere, he started to sweat. It pooled down his back and across his brow. He got to his feet, thinking he would get a wet towel from the bathroom, when the nausea hit. He lurched across the room and into the bathroom, dropping down in front of the toilet. His stomach heaved and he bowed over the toilet as the contents of his stomach came up.
By the time his stomach was empty, he felt exhausted and his muscles were cramping. He leaned back against the wall and wiped the back of his mouth with a shaky hand. He hadn't noticed any of the pills he had swallowed as he had vomited, and he hoped they had already dissolved before the sickness hit. It would be a tragedy if he had just voided his stomach of them all.
He felt weak, and he wondered if it was oncoming release that made him feel so tired. He slid sideways against the wall and came to rest lying on his side on the floor. The cool bathroom linoleum felt good against his flushed skin. His eyes wanted to close, and he didn't fight the urge. He hoped this was the end.
He exhaled in a rush and waited for death to sweep him away.
He came back to awareness with a gasping breath followed by hacking coughs.
He felt like he had been holding his breath too long underwater. He drew in deep breaths and massaged his aching chest. At first, he didn't understand why he was on the bathroom floor, and then the memories caught up with him. He had been trying to kill himself. He looked around the small room. The air still smelt of his sickness, and his clothes were damp with sweat. His muscles still ached, but his stomach was calm now.
He pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned heavily against the wall. He had failed… or had he? Was this Lucifer's vow made true? He had sworn he would just bring Sam back if he killed himself. Was that what had happened, or had Sam's attempt failed altogether? He had no memories past lying on the floor.
He felt tears pool at the corners of his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been whatever he was: dead or sleeping. He stood on shaky legs and left the bathroom. He picked up his phone and saw that he had missed calls from Dean's number. A little surge of excitement rushed through him. Dean had been trying to get in touch with him. Maybe he had changed his mind. His finger hovered over the dial button, but before he could press it, a voice whispered to him.
Maybe he's just checking you haven't said yes yet.
Sam's finger faltered. Going with the odds, it was likely Dean had called for some other reason. He was hardly going to change his mind after only—Sam checked the time readout of his phone. Hours had passed since Dean's last call. He had been out a long time. Nowhere near enough time for Dean to have changed his mind. Dean wasn't calling to ask him to come back. The realization made the tears he had been withholding slip down his cheeks.
He dropped the phone back onto the table and raked a hand through his hair. Dean didn't want him. Dean didn't need him. Other than Lucifer, no one did.
He flopped down onto the bed and curled into a ball. The tears fell in earnest, and for a while it was impossible to think of anything but his failure.
When other thought returned to him, Sam felt an aching in his chest. Lucifer had brought him back or Sam himself had failed. However it had happened, he had failed. He had to try again. This time he was going to have to risk a little pain.
He went into the bathroom again and turned the taps to fill the tub with steaming water. While he waited for it to fill, he went to his duffel and pulled out his butterfly knife. It was old, older than him. It used to be his fathers. He had given it to Sam for his thirteenth birthday. At the time, Sam had been disappointed. Now, Sam mentally thanked his father for his eclectic choice in gifts.
When the tub was full, Sam stripped off his clothes and sank into the scalding water. It set every nerve on fire it was so hot, but it was exactly what he needed. He had heard the heat made the blood flow faster and helped to numb the skin.
He held his hands under the water, feeling the heat burning his skin. When he thought it had been long enough, he raised them from the water and turned his right hand so his wrist was exposed. The fine blue veins were prominent, and he took the blade and rested it against them. Closing his eyes, he made a downward cut, cutting through them vertically. It stung, and the blood flowed at once. Sam watched it with a disconnected feeling as it dripped down into the water, turning it a dusky red. His wrist didn't hurt, but his hand felt clumsy and shaky. When he tried to pass the blade into the other hand to cut his left wrist, his fingers fumbled. With difficulty, he rested the blade against his left wrist and drew it across the skin. The cut wasn't as deep as it was on his other wrist, but it would do the job.
Raising his hands in front of his face, he watched the blood flow down his arms with an appreciative eye. It was enough, and this time there would be no room for error. It would work.
He dropped his wrists back beneath the red water and lowered himself so his head was resting on the edge of the tub. He felt tired and peaceful. This was a pleasant way to go, he thought.
He allowed his eyes to slip closed, and he waited for the end.
This time, when Sam awoke, there was no doubt in his mind of what had happened. His head had slipped down into the water, and his mouth was filled with coppery tasting water. He spat it out and coughed as his lungs refilled.
He raised his hands in front of him, and he saw the clear unblemished skin of his wrists. There was no sign that the skin had ever been cut.
Feeling nauseated, he climbed out of the tub and pulled the plug to drain the crimson water.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to sit on the edge of the bed. Pushing back his damp hair, he thought over what had happened and what it could mean. Lucifer had brought him back; he had made good on his promise. It was a promise Sam wished he would have broken. What was he supposed to do now?
He flopped back onto the mattress and threw a hand over his eyes. He didn't know how long had passed this time, but it didn't matter; time had no meaning to him anymore. All that mattered was what he was going to do next.
It hadn't been enough to overdose or to cut his wrists. He needed to do more. He had to harm his body so badly it would be impossible for Lucifer to heal him. What was a little poisoning or blood loss compared to an archangel? It was nothing. His body had been barely harmed. But there had to be limits to the archangel's ability to repair.
Feeling disconnected to his body, Sam got to his feet and walked to where he had left his duffel. He dropped the towel to the floor and pulled on clean clothes mechanically. His hands brushed against something at the bottom of the bag. Curious, he pulled it out. It was his gun. He examined it carefully. It was a beautiful weapon, a Taurus 9mm. Another gift from his father.
This was what he needed. This was the solution.
So, what do you think? Are you hating me for what I did to Sammy? There is a second chapter to this story, which will cover Dean's POV. Stay tuned for that.
Clowns or Midgets x