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The last time Sam felt like this, it was a hunt gone wrong, one of many. He remembers sitting on the edge of a crusty motel bed, feeling the blood trickle down his face from the cut above his eyebrow and the nosebleed that has yet to stop. He was still in high school then, the memory almost nostalgic in its painfulness. “Sit still, Sammy,” Dean tells him, wiping the blood from his head with a soaked cloth. He winces, gripping the bedsheets tightly. He was stupid, got hurt, fucked up the hunt. He doesn’t deserve this, his brother patching him up even though he clearly has worse wounds himself. He hates it. Dad was so mad at Dean when Sam fucked up. Screamed at him until his voice went hoarse before dumping them off at a motel and leaving for the bar. He didn’t understand, still doesn’t, even as he allows his brother to clean his wounds and bandage his head. It seems so silly, so insignificant. Why am I worth this, and you aren’t? Why won’t you let me help?Dean’s green eyes were painted, still yet to become the deadened, hard stare that he gains later in adulthood. Sam wishes he could remember with more clarity, wishes the memory wouldn’t slip away from him, more dream than reality. “You gonna tell me what happened?” Dean asks him, putting the spare bandages down on the bed beside him. Sam stares at him, words knotted deep within his chest, tangled too tightly for him to comprehend their meaning. He wants to explain, wants to apologise, wants to tell Dean that this isn’t his fault, how could Dad blame him for this? He can’t say it, can’t say anything. He presses his lips together and looks away, frustrated with himself. “Sammy?” He touches his shoulder, concerned, “You with me?”Sam nods jerkily, digs teeth into his bottom lip, allowing the sharp stab of pain to keep him alert. “You hurt anywhere else?” Dean asks, eyes scrutinising. Sam shakes his head, feeling ridiculous. The echo of John Winchester’s words still ringing in his ears like some shitty kind of tinnitus. It wasn’t meant for him, but he absorbs it, blames himself for the way their father verbally abuses Dean. He stares at the bedside table, at the pale stained lampshade. He swallows down the metallic crust in his throat, feeling sick. The guilt coils inside him, unforgiving. “Sam?” Dean implores, and the worry in his eyes hurts, burning its molten route through his skull. He curls into himself, wraps small thin limbs around his chest protectively. Dean isn’t a threat, but Sam can’t remember how to speak, how to exist without being wound up so tightly that he could snap at any second. Skin prickling with discomfort, hands shaking, he buries his face into the knees pulled against his core. “Shit. I don’t -” Dean stops, sounding out of his depth, “Talk to me, what’s goin’ on?”Surely he knows Sam can’t. It has to be written in the curve of his back, the tremble in his fingers, the desperate breath that shudders its way out of his lungs, a betrayal. He feels a cautious hand touch his back, beginning to run slow circles over his spine. “I’m sorry I let you get hurt today. I’m sorry,” Dean continues, voice choked, “Everything’s gonna be okay, Sammy. I promise. I won’t let this happen again.”Sam floats, sinks comfortably inside his head, letting time pass without his knowledge. At some point he feels Dean manoeuvre him into a lying position, resting his head on the rough pillows. He opens his mouth, tries to speak, tries to thank him, but no sound comes out. His vision is strange, hazy and unfocused. He doesn’t understand. There’s a lot he doesn’t understand and it’s overwhelming. He blinks, eyes scratchy and tired. He reaches for Dean’s hand when his brother starts to get up, tugs him back into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He wants to say please don’t leave me, but his voice won’t work. It’s stuck within him and he can’t dislodge it. Dean understands somehow, or maybe it’s just obvious in his face. He stays until Sam finally falls asleep, his chronically stressed expression easing just a little.This is like that memory, in many ways. Sam lets Dean lead him back to the Impala, unable to focus on anything. His head is full of static and his hands feel numb. He tries to open the door, unable to grip the handle, unable to make his fingers align in the right position. Dean opens the door for him, waits patiently for him to slide inside, then closes it behind him. “Sam,” he says, voice low. He knows. Sam stares down at his seatbelt, buckled without the memory of doing so. He touches the cold interior of the car, places his palm against the window. They’re moving now, driving, Dean in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with apprehension. He knows. Everything outside the window is a blur of colour, mere suggestions of people and cars and buildings and lights. It makes his head hurt. He bites down on his lip until the taste of blood fills his mouth. He feels it drip down his chin, tickling. “Sam,” Dean repeats, alarm animating his outburst. In his head he sees the flames ignite above him, burning her, killing her. Her scream is caught in the smoke, just as Sam’s is within his own chest. He feels like choking, the acrid smell filling his nose, his mouth, his throat. His eyes sting with it. They’ve stopped driving. Dean pulled over by the side of the road. He’s shaking Sam now but he can barely feel it. Nothing comes close to the flames, the heat on his face. He feels empty. “Sammy, come on. Look at me,” he pleads, voice faraway. Sam drags his eyes to meet his brother’s, tries to latch onto the sight of him. He’s real. This is real. “You’re okay,” Dean says, his hand is on Sam’s shoulder. He’s lent over the midsection of the car, seatbelt undone. Sam nods, the movement loose and floaty, feeling disjointed. He opens his mouth to ask what happened but instead he just coughs weakly. Soot lines his teeth, blackened and dusty and dry. He coughs harder, trying to get it out. He just breathes more of it in, his chest full of it, hardened to a crust.
You killed her.
He knows. God, he knows. It’s all he can think about. He feels disgusting. He feels as if he burnt in that room with her and now he’s dead, left to choke forever on the blackened remains of his awful mistake.
But you knew, didn’t you? You saw her die.
He’ll never stop seeing it. That’s his curse now, maybe. He comes to in a motel not dissimilar from the last time this happened. Except now he’s older and his legs stick off the end of the bed. He stares at them, his vision almost grainy. “Sammy, you with me?”He turns his head, noticing his brother sat on the bed across from him. He looks exhausted, like he’s been driving for hours. Sam nods. Where are we? He thinks, unable to ask. “You remember anything?” Dean questions.He remembers a lot. Remembers how sick he’d feel whenever Dad punished Dean in his place, the terrified look on his face burnt into his brain even now. He remembers being cold, icy to his core, standing as invisible as the ghosts they hunt, just watching. All he can do is watch, silent, passive, barely even real. Dean wouldn’t cry, or at least not where Sam could see him. He’d look solemn and wouldn’t talk about it despite how much he asked, always unreachable. He doesn’t remember Mom’s death, only Jess’s, blistered anew across his wounded consciousness. It isn’t right. He feels detached. His hands aren’t his own and his breath inhabits a body unrecognisable to him. He feels like he did when he’d curl up in motel beds as a kid, Dean’s presence the only suture keeping his frayed reality in place. He needs and he wants and he isn’t worth any of it, not the comfort or the kindness. He’s beyond understanding, as unreachable as Dean used to feel. He’s alone. “Hey, drink this.”A cup of water is pressed into his grasp, cold against his hand. It sharpens him, pulls his attention to the sensation searing almost white hot across his skin. It burns. Sam shakes his head, shoving the cup onto the bedside table. He’s trembling, chest shuddering with hitching breaths. He locks eyes with his brother, searching for something there, an inkling of recognition perhaps, or a connection, some support. Dean knows, of course he does. This has happened before, even if he can’t really comprehend why. There’s a softness to the stress in his eyes, cautious care in the hand that rubs familiar circles over his back. Sam leans into him subtly, letting out a long breath. “You’re okay, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, muted in a way he seldom is. I’m sorry, he needs to say. His throat burns with the apology but it refuses to leave his lips.His gaze skirts over to the wall, the grimy, foul coloured wallpaper and the pale, gritty carpet. It shouldn’t feel homely, shouldn’t feel safe. This is what they grew up with, shitty little rooms with poor ventilation and leaky bathroom pipes, so of course it does. “You should drink something,” Dean persists with the water, attempting to push the cup back into his hands. Sam stares down at the water, making no attempt to accept it. “Sam, please.” Dean sounds a little weary. He takes a tentative sip. The water is cold. It washes the soot away from his teeth, purifying in its iciness. He swallows it, glancing back over at Dean. He almost forgets sometimes that he’s the taller one now, that he can no longer hide himself in corners and under covers and not be seen. Sam feels as cold as the cup in his hands, his grip rigid. He doesn’t feel real. It reminds him of nights spent asleep in the back of the Impala, Dean and Dad arguing in the front as rain sleeted across the windows in loud torrents. He remembers wishing the sound would drown them out, wanting to compact himself into obscurity, invisible and alone. Their presence didn’t count when it was all harsh words and rage. Company so cutting, crafted through biting serrated blades is more a threat than it is a comfort. Sam closes his eyes, wrapping his hands around the cup protectively. Cold prickles its way along the back of his neck, too akin to fear. He can almost hear the rain. “Come on, stay with me.” Dean’s words aren’t loud and he isn’t angry. Sam is angry, he thinks. He wants to destroy the demon who killed Jess, even if he ends up killing himself alongside Yellow Eyes. Perhaps this anger is the only thing keeping him himself, now that things have grown so strange. He looks at Dean because it’s the only way he can provide a response. He nods, the moment janky as he tries to take control of his body once more. He hopes there’s enough awareness in his eyes. He’s present, he thinks. He hopes. It feels close enough. He wishes he could talk, wishes he could force words out although he has no idea what he would even say. Dean’s watching him, trying to interpret whatever odd look must be hidden in his eyes. He hates it, wishes he could be stronger like his brother. He focuses on sipping at his water, trying to push back the sensation of smoke in his lungs. He’s so so angry suddenly, but there’s nowhere for him to put it. He balls his free hand into a fist, digging his nails into his palm until it hurts. The pain feels good, keeps him grounded in reality. Dean grips his wrist tight and stares at him imploringly. He doesn’t even have to say anything for Sam to get it. Sam loosens his fist, staring at the red marks left on his skin where he almost drew blood. There’s something raw in Dean’s expression. It’s not pity; he wouldn’t misunderstand his brother like that. All of him radiates concern. Sam finishes the water, sits the empty glass on the bedside table. He stares at the shadow it makes across the chipped wood for far too long, waiting for it to crumble into blackened ash. It doesn’t. It feels like a lie. “Sammy,” Dean says quietly. He looks at him, forcing his vision to focus. He nods. “Try to sleep,” He says, more of a request than a solid command. Sam fights the crawling, all-encompassing need to curl up as small as he can. He’s too tall for that now, too old. He wishes he wasn’t like this. Dean touches his arm cautiously. “Hey. Lie down.” Sam shakes his head. He doesn’t want to sleep. He knows exactly what he’ll see the second he closes his eyes and he can’t bear it. Dean lets out a small sigh. “Sam, you need rest.” There’s understanding in his eyes. He shakes his head again, this time more slowly. He knows Dean’s right, he just can’t. “No?”Sam rolls his eyes. Dean’s expression softens a little. “Lie down,” he repeats. Sam decides he may as well pretend to go to sleep. He tugs back the comforter and crawls underneath it, resting his head on the slightly uncomfortable pillow. Dean gets up to sit on the edge of his own bed, letting out a yawn. The setup reminds him of nights long lost to the eroding fissure of time, the faded evening hours stamped into his subconscious. The sounds of cars passing by outside an open motel window, the scratchy sensation of a cheap pillowcase against his cheek. There’s an ache that comes with such memories. There’s an awful hollowness in missing such bittersweet moments. It still feels right to press his face into pillows, even though there’s no yelling anymore. The only arguments are stupid ones between him and Dean. He pulls the comforter around himself tightly, almost feeling protected by it. “Wake me up if you need anything,” Dean tells him, getting into his own bed. The I’m here stays unspoken, but he doesn’t need to say it aloud; Sam knows. He nods, head partially obscured by the bedsheets. He doesn’t fall asleep, not for a while. And the hollowness doesn’t leave his charred ribcage, not yet. He curls into himself as much as he can, reminiscent of a time when this hurt a little less.