Sleeping With Ghosts - Part I
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The first thing Sam becomes aware of are the sirens.
Sam knows he needs to move Dean, get out before the cops see two dead bodies, one with his chest in ribbons, the other splayed out on her back, limbs contorted like a rag doll, and Sam sitting on the floor between them. They would come to a logical, if completely incorrect, conclusion that would land him in jail and Dean’s body in a morgue, never to be seen again.
Sam shudders, biting back bile. He wants to stay exactly where he is because if he moves Dean, then his brother really is dead. He isn’t coming back.
The sirens grow louder, and Sam stands uneasily, knees cracking, legs tingling with pins and needles from being held in the same position for so long. He drags the table cloth off of the dining room table, ignoring the plates he sends crashing to the floor. He moves Dean as gently as possible, carefully wrapping him in the cloth, fingers shaking.
For a moment, Sam spares a thought for the family they sent into the basement, wondering if they made it out alive. Either Lilith’s lackeys are lying down on the job, or they disappeared with her; no way would the cops get anywhere close to the house if this town was still full of demons.
Sam shakes his head, keeping his mind on his task. He lifts Dean’s body carefully and painstakingly carries him to the Impala, heart hammering as police sirens dog his every step. He lays Dean in the backseat, but not before draping a blanket over the leather.
“I know, I know, no blood on the upholstery,” he mutters, waiting for a smart-ass response from Dean - Damn right, princess - that isn’t ever going to come. He shuts the door and takes a moment to breathe, leaning his forehead against his arms.
The sirens blare in his ears; the police must be just outside of the house now. Sam gets in the Impala, fingers shaking as he guns the engine and eases the car onto the road.
--
Sam waits almost another full day to contact Bobby - twenty-four hours spent alone with his brother’s dead body on the side of the road, Dean’s blood staining the blankets, while praying that a nosy cop wouldn’t pull over and find a surprise in the backseat. His tears ran out hours ago, and he sits with his head back against the seat; Dean’s eyes stare back, open and lifeless. Sam can’t bring himself to close them. The gesture is too final.
As the sky grows dark, Sam flips through his contacts and finally calls, fingers moving mechanically over the numbers. He barely has enough strength left to hold the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” Bobby answers frantically; a part of Sam can’t blame him - he should have called before he left New Harmony, leaving Bobby to assume the worst. The rest of him can’t find the will to care.
Dean died, Dean is in hell, and Sam couldn’t save him.
“Bobby,” Sam says gruffly. He tries to clear his throat.
“Sam, boy, I swear to God, I will kick your sorry ass from here to hell and back again the next time you-“
“Bobby,” Sam can barely choke the word out; maybe he hasn’t run out of tears after all.
Bobby pauses on the other end of the line. Sam hears his breathing quicken before he swallows audibly. “Where are you?” he asks gruffly, voice surprisingly stable.
He appears less than twenty minutes later; the door of his truck creaks open then slams shut, his footsteps kick up the gravel, but Sam can’t seem to lift his head up from against the seat. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and have to face Bobby; more importantly, he doesn’t want to have to face the reality of a world without Dean in it.
He hears Bobby’s sharp intake of breath at the first sight of Dean. The door creaks under the shift of his weight as he leans into the window. When he places a trembling hand on Sam’s shoulder, Sam finally opens his eyes.
The sight of Bobby crying silently makes Sam want to break down into sobs again. Instead, he swallows hard as Bobby falls back on that practicality Sam couldn’t convince himself to find.
“We need to get him out of here,” Bobby says, pushing against the door to stand upright.
Sam shakes his head. “I want to bury him, Bobby,” he says, throat scratchy and raw.
Bobby reads between the lines, understanding the unspoken indications. Burning the body keeps the soul from returning as a ghost, sends them on in peace.
Dean’s soul is already gone, and there is no peace to be found down in the pit.
Bobby’s hand clenches around Sam’s shoulder, and he eyes Sam warily. “Sam-”
“Bobby, please.” If he comes back - if Sam brings him back - if he finds a way to drag Dean’s soul out of hell -
If, if, if - Sam knows he should be thinking when and rolls the word around in his head, but he couldn’t save Dean from being dragged down to the pit in the first place. How the hell did he expect to bring Dean back?
Bobby mutters, “Aw, hell, Sam - “ Sam sets his jaw, staring at Bobby defiantly, determined to win at least one fight tonight.
Bobby crumples. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I know a place,” he says, and Sam’s chest unwinds.
--
Bobby drops Sam off in Pontiac, Illinois, at a large area about two miles away from the highway and surrounded by trees. They left the Impala on the side of the road, Bobby not trusting Sam to drive. He hears Dean screaming in his ear, Leaving my baby in the middle of nowhere? Do you want your ass kicked? Sam tries to ignore that voice in his head, but finds it particularly difficult with the dead weight of Dean in his arms.
“Quiet,” Bobby says, tapping his fingers against the hood of the truck while Sam stares around blankly. “Had a job here once. Black dog.” He clears his throat when Sam makes no response. “No one should bother you, they think the ground is cursed.”
Sam huffs a breath, the closest to laughter he can manage. The irony of burying Dean in an area thought to be cursed isn’t lost on him.
Don’t worry, Sammy, these spirits got nothin’ on me, Dean would leer, and Sam would roll his eyes.
Instead, he fixes his gaze firmly on the ground.
“I’ll be right back,” Bobby says, but Sam doesn’t acknowledge the words. Instead, he takes the shovel Bobby offers and starts digging. He digs and digs until his hands are numb and still doesn’t stop.
Just another salt and burn, he tells himself, lungs burning with every lift of the shovel. This is a grave like any other. He pointedly ignores the cloth-wrapped body on the ground less than twenty feet from his side.
When Bobby returns, there’s a wooden coffin in the back of his truck, sturdy but simple enough that Sam wonders if he built it himself. He drove in from the opposite direction, back from New Harmony instead of from Sioux Falls, and Sam almost asks why until he sees the Impala being towed at the back.
Sam swallows at the sight of her, hands clenching around the handle of the shovel. Bobby climbs out of the truck and coughs into his fist.
“Might as well do this properly,” he says, voice wrecked. Sam bites his lip and stakes the shovel into the dirt.
Sam approaches Dean slowly, as if he might sit up at any moment and ask Sam just what the hell he thinks he’s doing. On any other day in their line of work, this wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Braaains, Dean would say, crossing his eyes and holding out his arms, before bursting into laughter at Sam’s abject terror. Today, with Dean’s body lying on the cold, hard ground, his soul locked in the pit, Sam wishes that were the case.
Sam crouches down and removes Dean’s amulet from around his neck, closing his brother’s eyes with shaking fingers. He drops the cord around his own neck, tucking the amulet under his shirt. “For safe keeping,” he whispers. It sways directly over his heart.
Sam covers Dean’s face, then carries his brother to the coffin, arms shaking so hard as he lays him in that Bobby reaches out to help sturdy him, easing away the hands clenched down on Dean’s shoulders. Bobby helps him carry the pine box, but Sam shoots out his arm, preventing him from grabbing the shovel. This is something he needs to do himself.
Bobby stares for a moment then sighs. “I’ll be right over there if you need me.”
Sam picks up the shovel, and the tears fall faster every time he lifts his arm. Dig, lift, toss, the movements are repetitive, mechanical. He cries the entire time.
When Sam shovels the final clod of dirt, he feels numb despite the sharp aches and pains throbbing along every muscle and bone in his body. He stares with a vacant expression at the wooden cross Bobby stakes into the ground to mark the spot; all of his weight leans on the handle of the shovel.
Bobby gently squeezes his shoulder. “Come on,” he says gruffly, tugging on Sam’s arm and steering him towards the truck.
--
Sam sleeps the entire way back to Sioux Falls, head leaning against the window. The expected nightmares never appear; he doesn’t dream at all, or if he does, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful to his subconscious for the reprieve, or disappointed.
The engine cuts off, and Sam practically falls out of the truck. His neck aches from holding his head in an awkward position for three hours, and his legs shake beneath him, barely able to hold him upright. He grabs onto the edge of the door for support, staring at a fixed point on the stairs to keep the world from spinning. The driver’s side door slams, and Bobby’s feet appear in his view.
“Sam,” he begins, but Sam stares determinedly at the ground, not wanting to acknowledge any attempt at comfort or reassurance. His chest aches, skin raw like someone pulled him apart and stuck him back together with scotch tape, wounds still raw and open.
Bobby clamps his hand down on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing tight.
“I’ll put some coffee on,” he says, adding, “When was the last time you ate?”
Sam shrugs. Bobby’s hand slides away and he sighs, turning towards the house.
Sam waits for the front door to close quietly before he takes a deep breath and turns towards the Impala. He runs his palm gently along the doors, hand trembling. The keys in his pocket feel like a lead weight, and he clenches his fingers so they dig into his hand hard enough that he doesn’t doubt his palm is bleeding.
He stares at the car for a long moment before finally opening the trunk. Dean’s duffel tumbles forward so quickly, Sam blindly reaches out his hand to stop it’s momentum. He pauses, feeling the old, worn material, fingers playing along the zipper.
He shoves the duffel into the back under weapons, books, and various empty bottles of holy water, then grabs his own bag and slams the trunk shut.
--
Sam spends the following weeks in an alcohol-induced haze. He shuffles around Bobby’s house unseeing and unfeeling, drowning himself first in every last beer in Bobby’s fridge, then “borrowing” one of Bobby's fixer-uppers to drive in search of something harder.
He doesn't drive the Impala. He can't. Not yet. Not when the sight of her makes him feel like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to his chest.
Sam only remembers to eat when Bobby bodily shoves him down into a chair in the kitchen, nudging a plate full of food under his nose. He eats slowly and mechanically, not tasting any of it, often falling asleep right there at the kitchen table until Bobby drags him to bed.
He tries to sleep in the spare room as little as possible, often opting for curling up with his legs hanging half-off the couch. A little discomfort is better than the sight of the empty, unused second bed.
Three weeks after Dean dies, Sam catches sight of a newspaper article at Bobby’s elbow - more precisely, the name of the family in the headline. Sam snatches it from the table before Bobby has a chance to stop him.
Freemont Family Murder Remains Unsolved, the heading reads; beneath is a picture. Even in black and white, Sam recognizes the little girl’s face.
Lilith’s demons were busy after all. Which means Sam couldn’t save anyone that night - not an innocent, terrorized family, not Ruby. Not even Dean.
Sam drops the newspaper back to the table, shoves his seat back and storms out.
--
That night, Sam dreams of hell for the first time.
At least, he assumes he dreams of hell. There is no fire and brimstone, no wailing of tortured souls, just Dean, skin tattered and bloody, arms and legs tied down with chains around his wrists and ankles. He doesn't scream - whether from his own stubborn will or because his voice is too hoarse. Sam doesn’t want to think about any alternatives.
Then, he makes out one short, whispered word: "Sammy."
Sam wakes up choking back bile. He heaves, stomach feeling like it's filled with poison, and he bolts for the bathroom, kissing porcelain as he falls to his knees.
He leans his forehead against his arms, breathing hard, limbs weighted like they're made of lead. He doesn't think he remembers how to move.
Hands grasp him around his waist, hoisting him to his feet. He leans silently on the other person, letting them hold all of his weight.
"Kid, you got two feet - use 'em," Bobby grunts, and Sam forces his legs to move, one foot in front of the other, the short distance down the hall from the bathroom back to the bedroom.
He practically falls back into bed, and Bobby disappears while he situates himself, returning with a glass of water. Sam wishes the water were liquor, but he gulps it down anyway, washing the bitter taste out of his mouth.
Bobby takes the empty glass from him, placing it on the bedside table. He stares at Sam, who examines the pattern of the faded quilt on the bed.
Bobby sighs, shakes his head, and leaves the room without saying a word.
He knows better than to tell Sam everything will be okay - they both know that's a lie.
--
The nightmares become routine after that - Lilith and hell, all mashing together to form a jumble of gruesome images Sam sees every time he closes his eyes. He feels like he's sleeping, even when he's awake. He walks around Bobby’s house in a half-asleep, half-drunken daze, not sleeping for days at a time.
Eventually, Bobby calls in reinforcements.
Ellen is sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table when he walks down the stairs one afternoon, which isn’t all that surprising. As soon as Ellen catches sight of him, however, she grabs the newly acquired beer bottle from his hands, sending it crashing in pieces to the floor.
“Hope you’re planning on cleaning that up,” Sam mutters. Ellen slaps his shoulder hard enough to sting, and he yelps.
“Do not sass me, boy. I drove all the way here without stopping for so much as a cat nap, so I am the only one entitled to be bitchy and moody here this morning.”
“Ellen-”
“Don’t you Ellen me,” Ellen snaps, and when Sam narrows his eyes, she sighs. “Sam, you’re running yourself into the ground.”. She reaches out a hand to touch his face but he turns his head, backing up a step. Ellen lowers her arm slowly.
“Dean wouldn’t want this for you,” she says quietly, and Sam explodes.
“How the hell would you know what Dean wants?” He tries to reign in his ragged breathing, but his chest tightens, throat closing around the words he forces out of a tightening jaw. “Dean is gone, Ellen, and if you and Bobby expect me to sit here and accept that? You’ll be better off leaving me the hell alone.”
Sam slams out of the house without so much as a backwards glance, ignoring Bobby and Ellen’s voices calling him back.
--
Sam doesn’t go far; he drives a few miles outside of the salvage yard, then pulls the car over to the side of the road. He sits on the hood, feet resting on the fender, and quickly begins to throw back beer after beer.
Who the hell does Ellen think she is? No one knows what Dean wanted better than Sam, not after looking up to him since he was four years old and spending every moment of their adolescent lives practically living in each other’s pockets. No one.
Which is probably why the guilt gnaws away at his insides - because deep down, in that place where the voice in the back of his mind resides, the one that sounds exactly like his big brother - he knows Ellen is right.
Night has already fallen by the time Sam weaves his way back to the house. He fumbles with the knob, hip bumping into a table on the way in the door. He slips his hand down to check the bottle of whiskey in his pocket, making sure the glass is still in-tact.
A voice from the back of the room makes him jump. “Ellen’s gone,” Bobby says from the shadows. Sam squints, forcing his eyes to focus. He doesn’t doubt Bobby picked the spot on purpose - no way for Sam to avoid him if he doesn’t notice anyone else in the room.
“She left a few hours ago.” He huffs, reprimanding, “After the hell of a welcome you gave, I cant say I blame her any. She says to call, should you feel like talkin’. I told her not to hold her breath.”
Sam huffs a laugh and stumbles his way to the stairs, ignoring Bobby completely.
“She’s right you know,” Bobby says over his shoulder, and Sam tightly grasps the banister, nails digging into the wood. He takes a deep breath, waits for his fingers to relax, then heaves himself up the stairs. He falls into bed, fighting sleep for as long as possible. Eventually, exhaustion prevails.
When a new dream invades Sam’s subconscious, his mind battles to keep the images from coming forth. They still appear, smoky and hazy behind his eyelids.
Dean stands at the center covered in blood, the red bright against his surroundings. Sam hears screaming, but Dean remains silent. For a terrifying moment, Sam wonders if he's witnessing some sort of second death, but that's when he realizes the blood on his brother's skin isn't his own. Sam feels his blood freezing in his veins.
When Dean turns around, his eyes are black.
Sam wakes up fighting for breath, a scream caught somewhere at the back of his throat. He bites his tongue, shoving the scream back down. He slows his breathing, and as the adrenaline fades, a false sense of calm eases over him. He slips out of bed, shoving his feet into his boots. He knows now what he has to do.
Sam packs quietly, taking care to make sure he gathers all of his belongings because he has no intention of coming back. He zips his duffel closed and tucks Ruby's knife into his pocket, Dean's favorite gun in his waistband. He tiptoes down the stairs and out the door, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. Bobby will flip a shit when he wakes up and finds Sam missing. Sam turns his cell phone off, not wanting any interruptions.
His hand is surprisingly steady as he unlocks the door to the Impala, tossing his bag into the back seat and turning the key in the ignition. He takes a deep breath, pulls out of Bobby's yard and doesn't look back.
Sam speeds down the interstate at ninety miles an hour. The radio blares, but he roughly turns the dial, tossing the cassette that pops out into the glove compartment. The only sounds in the car now are the wind whipping past the windows, the rain sliding across the roof, and his own treacherous heartbeat.
Don’t be stupid, Sam, Dean’s voice whispers, You’re going to get yourself killed.
Sam presses his foot harder on the gas pedal so the roar of the Impala drowns him out.
The rain beats down when he reaches the crossroads, and the Impala leaves track marks, turning up dust as she turns the corner, skidding to a halt.
The box has been in his duffel all this time, prepared specifically for this sequence of events - should the worst happen, he wanted to be prepared with a back-up plan. Dean would have killed him if he found out his brother was planning on making a deal but at this point in time, Sam has only one thing on his mind - saveDeansaveDeansaveDean. The mantra runs on a loop in his head.
Sam buries the box in a shallow hole beneath the ground and pulls himself to his feet, almost stumbling in his haste to stand.
When the demon makes no appearance after a few long, torturous moments, Sam throws back his head and screams, "Come on! Where are you?"
"Sam Winchester." Sam spins, coming face to face with a man dressed in a plain, grey suit - normal, unassuming. Then, his brown eyes flash red, and he grins. "You know, you're not looking so great these days, Sammy. Weather getting you down?" He frowns, flicking rain off of his jacket. “Can’t blame you, I suppose. You owe me a new suit.”
Sam doesn't bother acknowledging the jab. "I want to make a deal."
The demon sighs, as if all of this is a giant waste of his eternal time. "All you Winchesters, I thought you'd have learned by now. Deals get you nowhere but rotting in hell, getting the flesh torn from your bones." He smiles, lips slowly turning upwards. "Daddy and big brother would know all about that."
The low blow makes something inside of Sam ache like a knife twisted deep in his chest, the pain dulled only somewhat by the alcohol running through his system. He doesn't rise to the bait. "That's my choice. My life for Dean - make the damn deal."
The demon strokes his chin thoughtfully, staring up at the sky. Sam shivers as the rain cuts straight through his clothes to his skin, but not from the cold. The demon, of course, is unaffected by the terrible weather.
Finally, he drops his hands to his sides, eyes black as the sky above him, and forcefully says, "No." All of the breath wheezes out of Sam's lungs. "No, Sam. No deal." The demon leans his hands onto the hood of the Impala. "What makes you think we don't have both of you just where we want you? There's a Winchester in hell again - that's poetic justice."
Sam pulls Ruby's knife out of his jacket and slams the blade into one of the demon's hands. When his first thought is Dean will kill me if I scratch the paint, a hysterical bark of laughter claws up his throat. The demon screams as his blood runs down the blade, drowning out the sound.
"Make. The. Deal," Sam says slowly, leaning over the demon, pulling himself to his full height so he towers over the other man.
The demon laughs, completely unaffected. "I. Said. No." He raises his eyes, pushing his face closer to Sam's, practically spitting in his face. "Even if I wanted to, Lilith still holds your brother’s contract. If you want to stay on her bad side, go ahead. I like my flesh intact, thank you very much."
Sam yanks the knife from the demon's hand, then hauls back and punches him square in the jaw. The demon falls onto his back. "That isn’t even your flesh," Sam growls. He knows better than to pick a fight in his current state. He can leave the crossroads demon bleeding or send him back to the pit, but neither will change the fact that Lilith wants Dean in hell and wants Sam to suffer. Clearly, what Lilith wants, Lilith gets.
The demon jumps to his feet, tossing Sam into the side of the Impala with a wave of his hand. The knife flies from his hand somewhere to his left. Sam's back cracks against the handle of the door, and he groans.
"Do you really want to play this game with me right now, Sammy?" He flicks his wrist, and Sam falls back to the ground, his head knocking so hard against the dirt, his teeth rattle. The demon kneels next to him, hauling him up by the collar of his shirt. "Look at you - all of that power, wasted." He punches him twice, and Sam feels his head spin, but doesn't bother fighting back. "You couldn't save your brother, Sam, and now, you can't save yourself."
Sam sees the glint of Ruby's knife in the demon's hand, and laughs, baring his neck in challenge. "Go on then. Kill me." Deal or no deal, he'll end up in hell anyway.
Instead of the burning sensation of a knife piercing his throat, he falls backwards as the demon is pulled off of him. His vision is blurred, but he hears the unmistakable sound of two bodies colliding.
The demon shouts, "You lying, backstabbing bitch," just before Sam hears the hiss of Ruby's knife against flesh and watches him flash out of existence. His body collapses to it's knees.
"Yeah, heard that before," his rescuer mutters, chest heaving as she shakes her head. The person turns to face Sam and he makes out just enough features to realize she's a woman.
She sprints over and kneels next to him. He doesn't recognize her, but his vision is going dark around the edges. The last thing he hears before he passes out is an unrecognizable voice in a fondly annoyed tone saying, "Damn it, Sam, you stupid son of a bitch."
Part II
The first thing Sam becomes aware of are the sirens.
Sam knows he needs to move Dean, get out before the cops see two dead bodies, one with his chest in ribbons, the other splayed out on her back, limbs contorted like a rag doll, and Sam sitting on the floor between them. They would come to a logical, if completely incorrect, conclusion that would land him in jail and Dean’s body in a morgue, never to be seen again.
Sam shudders, biting back bile. He wants to stay exactly where he is because if he moves Dean, then his brother really is dead. He isn’t coming back.
The sirens grow louder, and Sam stands uneasily, knees cracking, legs tingling with pins and needles from being held in the same position for so long. He drags the table cloth off of the dining room table, ignoring the plates he sends crashing to the floor. He moves Dean as gently as possible, carefully wrapping him in the cloth, fingers shaking.
For a moment, Sam spares a thought for the family they sent into the basement, wondering if they made it out alive. Either Lilith’s lackeys are lying down on the job, or they disappeared with her; no way would the cops get anywhere close to the house if this town was still full of demons.
Sam shakes his head, keeping his mind on his task. He lifts Dean’s body carefully and painstakingly carries him to the Impala, heart hammering as police sirens dog his every step. He lays Dean in the backseat, but not before draping a blanket over the leather.
“I know, I know, no blood on the upholstery,” he mutters, waiting for a smart-ass response from Dean - Damn right, princess - that isn’t ever going to come. He shuts the door and takes a moment to breathe, leaning his forehead against his arms.
The sirens blare in his ears; the police must be just outside of the house now. Sam gets in the Impala, fingers shaking as he guns the engine and eases the car onto the road.
--
Sam waits almost another full day to contact Bobby - twenty-four hours spent alone with his brother’s dead body on the side of the road, Dean’s blood staining the blankets, while praying that a nosy cop wouldn’t pull over and find a surprise in the backseat. His tears ran out hours ago, and he sits with his head back against the seat; Dean’s eyes stare back, open and lifeless. Sam can’t bring himself to close them. The gesture is too final.
As the sky grows dark, Sam flips through his contacts and finally calls, fingers moving mechanically over the numbers. He barely has enough strength left to hold the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” Bobby answers frantically; a part of Sam can’t blame him - he should have called before he left New Harmony, leaving Bobby to assume the worst. The rest of him can’t find the will to care.
Dean died, Dean is in hell, and Sam couldn’t save him.
“Bobby,” Sam says gruffly. He tries to clear his throat.
“Sam, boy, I swear to God, I will kick your sorry ass from here to hell and back again the next time you-“
“Bobby,” Sam can barely choke the word out; maybe he hasn’t run out of tears after all.
Bobby pauses on the other end of the line. Sam hears his breathing quicken before he swallows audibly. “Where are you?” he asks gruffly, voice surprisingly stable.
He appears less than twenty minutes later; the door of his truck creaks open then slams shut, his footsteps kick up the gravel, but Sam can’t seem to lift his head up from against the seat. He doesn’t want to open his eyes and have to face Bobby; more importantly, he doesn’t want to have to face the reality of a world without Dean in it.
He hears Bobby’s sharp intake of breath at the first sight of Dean. The door creaks under the shift of his weight as he leans into the window. When he places a trembling hand on Sam’s shoulder, Sam finally opens his eyes.
The sight of Bobby crying silently makes Sam want to break down into sobs again. Instead, he swallows hard as Bobby falls back on that practicality Sam couldn’t convince himself to find.
“We need to get him out of here,” Bobby says, pushing against the door to stand upright.
Sam shakes his head. “I want to bury him, Bobby,” he says, throat scratchy and raw.
Bobby reads between the lines, understanding the unspoken indications. Burning the body keeps the soul from returning as a ghost, sends them on in peace.
Dean’s soul is already gone, and there is no peace to be found down in the pit.
Bobby’s hand clenches around Sam’s shoulder, and he eyes Sam warily. “Sam-”
“Bobby, please.” If he comes back - if Sam brings him back - if he finds a way to drag Dean’s soul out of hell -
If, if, if - Sam knows he should be thinking when and rolls the word around in his head, but he couldn’t save Dean from being dragged down to the pit in the first place. How the hell did he expect to bring Dean back?
Bobby mutters, “Aw, hell, Sam - “ Sam sets his jaw, staring at Bobby defiantly, determined to win at least one fight tonight.
Bobby crumples. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I know a place,” he says, and Sam’s chest unwinds.
--
Bobby drops Sam off in Pontiac, Illinois, at a large area about two miles away from the highway and surrounded by trees. They left the Impala on the side of the road, Bobby not trusting Sam to drive. He hears Dean screaming in his ear, Leaving my baby in the middle of nowhere? Do you want your ass kicked? Sam tries to ignore that voice in his head, but finds it particularly difficult with the dead weight of Dean in his arms.
“Quiet,” Bobby says, tapping his fingers against the hood of the truck while Sam stares around blankly. “Had a job here once. Black dog.” He clears his throat when Sam makes no response. “No one should bother you, they think the ground is cursed.”
Sam huffs a breath, the closest to laughter he can manage. The irony of burying Dean in an area thought to be cursed isn’t lost on him.
Don’t worry, Sammy, these spirits got nothin’ on me, Dean would leer, and Sam would roll his eyes.
Instead, he fixes his gaze firmly on the ground.
“I’ll be right back,” Bobby says, but Sam doesn’t acknowledge the words. Instead, he takes the shovel Bobby offers and starts digging. He digs and digs until his hands are numb and still doesn’t stop.
Just another salt and burn, he tells himself, lungs burning with every lift of the shovel. This is a grave like any other. He pointedly ignores the cloth-wrapped body on the ground less than twenty feet from his side.
When Bobby returns, there’s a wooden coffin in the back of his truck, sturdy but simple enough that Sam wonders if he built it himself. He drove in from the opposite direction, back from New Harmony instead of from Sioux Falls, and Sam almost asks why until he sees the Impala being towed at the back.
Sam swallows at the sight of her, hands clenching around the handle of the shovel. Bobby climbs out of the truck and coughs into his fist.
“Might as well do this properly,” he says, voice wrecked. Sam bites his lip and stakes the shovel into the dirt.
Sam approaches Dean slowly, as if he might sit up at any moment and ask Sam just what the hell he thinks he’s doing. On any other day in their line of work, this wouldn’t be much of a stretch. Braaains, Dean would say, crossing his eyes and holding out his arms, before bursting into laughter at Sam’s abject terror. Today, with Dean’s body lying on the cold, hard ground, his soul locked in the pit, Sam wishes that were the case.
Sam crouches down and removes Dean’s amulet from around his neck, closing his brother’s eyes with shaking fingers. He drops the cord around his own neck, tucking the amulet under his shirt. “For safe keeping,” he whispers. It sways directly over his heart.
Sam covers Dean’s face, then carries his brother to the coffin, arms shaking so hard as he lays him in that Bobby reaches out to help sturdy him, easing away the hands clenched down on Dean’s shoulders. Bobby helps him carry the pine box, but Sam shoots out his arm, preventing him from grabbing the shovel. This is something he needs to do himself.
Bobby stares for a moment then sighs. “I’ll be right over there if you need me.”
Sam picks up the shovel, and the tears fall faster every time he lifts his arm. Dig, lift, toss, the movements are repetitive, mechanical. He cries the entire time.
When Sam shovels the final clod of dirt, he feels numb despite the sharp aches and pains throbbing along every muscle and bone in his body. He stares with a vacant expression at the wooden cross Bobby stakes into the ground to mark the spot; all of his weight leans on the handle of the shovel.
Bobby gently squeezes his shoulder. “Come on,” he says gruffly, tugging on Sam’s arm and steering him towards the truck.
--
Sam sleeps the entire way back to Sioux Falls, head leaning against the window. The expected nightmares never appear; he doesn’t dream at all, or if he does, he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t know whether to be grateful to his subconscious for the reprieve, or disappointed.
The engine cuts off, and Sam practically falls out of the truck. His neck aches from holding his head in an awkward position for three hours, and his legs shake beneath him, barely able to hold him upright. He grabs onto the edge of the door for support, staring at a fixed point on the stairs to keep the world from spinning. The driver’s side door slams, and Bobby’s feet appear in his view.
“Sam,” he begins, but Sam stares determinedly at the ground, not wanting to acknowledge any attempt at comfort or reassurance. His chest aches, skin raw like someone pulled him apart and stuck him back together with scotch tape, wounds still raw and open.
Bobby clamps his hand down on Sam’s shoulder, squeezing tight.
“I’ll put some coffee on,” he says, adding, “When was the last time you ate?”
Sam shrugs. Bobby’s hand slides away and he sighs, turning towards the house.
Sam waits for the front door to close quietly before he takes a deep breath and turns towards the Impala. He runs his palm gently along the doors, hand trembling. The keys in his pocket feel like a lead weight, and he clenches his fingers so they dig into his hand hard enough that he doesn’t doubt his palm is bleeding.
He stares at the car for a long moment before finally opening the trunk. Dean’s duffel tumbles forward so quickly, Sam blindly reaches out his hand to stop it’s momentum. He pauses, feeling the old, worn material, fingers playing along the zipper.
He shoves the duffel into the back under weapons, books, and various empty bottles of holy water, then grabs his own bag and slams the trunk shut.
--
Sam spends the following weeks in an alcohol-induced haze. He shuffles around Bobby’s house unseeing and unfeeling, drowning himself first in every last beer in Bobby’s fridge, then “borrowing” one of Bobby's fixer-uppers to drive in search of something harder.
He doesn't drive the Impala. He can't. Not yet. Not when the sight of her makes him feel like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to his chest.
Sam only remembers to eat when Bobby bodily shoves him down into a chair in the kitchen, nudging a plate full of food under his nose. He eats slowly and mechanically, not tasting any of it, often falling asleep right there at the kitchen table until Bobby drags him to bed.
He tries to sleep in the spare room as little as possible, often opting for curling up with his legs hanging half-off the couch. A little discomfort is better than the sight of the empty, unused second bed.
Three weeks after Dean dies, Sam catches sight of a newspaper article at Bobby’s elbow - more precisely, the name of the family in the headline. Sam snatches it from the table before Bobby has a chance to stop him.
Freemont Family Murder Remains Unsolved, the heading reads; beneath is a picture. Even in black and white, Sam recognizes the little girl’s face.
Lilith’s demons were busy after all. Which means Sam couldn’t save anyone that night - not an innocent, terrorized family, not Ruby. Not even Dean.
Sam drops the newspaper back to the table, shoves his seat back and storms out.
--
That night, Sam dreams of hell for the first time.
At least, he assumes he dreams of hell. There is no fire and brimstone, no wailing of tortured souls, just Dean, skin tattered and bloody, arms and legs tied down with chains around his wrists and ankles. He doesn't scream - whether from his own stubborn will or because his voice is too hoarse. Sam doesn’t want to think about any alternatives.
Then, he makes out one short, whispered word: "Sammy."
Sam wakes up choking back bile. He heaves, stomach feeling like it's filled with poison, and he bolts for the bathroom, kissing porcelain as he falls to his knees.
He leans his forehead against his arms, breathing hard, limbs weighted like they're made of lead. He doesn't think he remembers how to move.
Hands grasp him around his waist, hoisting him to his feet. He leans silently on the other person, letting them hold all of his weight.
"Kid, you got two feet - use 'em," Bobby grunts, and Sam forces his legs to move, one foot in front of the other, the short distance down the hall from the bathroom back to the bedroom.
He practically falls back into bed, and Bobby disappears while he situates himself, returning with a glass of water. Sam wishes the water were liquor, but he gulps it down anyway, washing the bitter taste out of his mouth.
Bobby takes the empty glass from him, placing it on the bedside table. He stares at Sam, who examines the pattern of the faded quilt on the bed.
Bobby sighs, shakes his head, and leaves the room without saying a word.
He knows better than to tell Sam everything will be okay - they both know that's a lie.
--
The nightmares become routine after that - Lilith and hell, all mashing together to form a jumble of gruesome images Sam sees every time he closes his eyes. He feels like he's sleeping, even when he's awake. He walks around Bobby’s house in a half-asleep, half-drunken daze, not sleeping for days at a time.
Eventually, Bobby calls in reinforcements.
Ellen is sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table when he walks down the stairs one afternoon, which isn’t all that surprising. As soon as Ellen catches sight of him, however, she grabs the newly acquired beer bottle from his hands, sending it crashing in pieces to the floor.
“Hope you’re planning on cleaning that up,” Sam mutters. Ellen slaps his shoulder hard enough to sting, and he yelps.
“Do not sass me, boy. I drove all the way here without stopping for so much as a cat nap, so I am the only one entitled to be bitchy and moody here this morning.”
“Ellen-”
“Don’t you Ellen me,” Ellen snaps, and when Sam narrows his eyes, she sighs. “Sam, you’re running yourself into the ground.”. She reaches out a hand to touch his face but he turns his head, backing up a step. Ellen lowers her arm slowly.
“Dean wouldn’t want this for you,” she says quietly, and Sam explodes.
“How the hell would you know what Dean wants?” He tries to reign in his ragged breathing, but his chest tightens, throat closing around the words he forces out of a tightening jaw. “Dean is gone, Ellen, and if you and Bobby expect me to sit here and accept that? You’ll be better off leaving me the hell alone.”
Sam slams out of the house without so much as a backwards glance, ignoring Bobby and Ellen’s voices calling him back.
--
Sam doesn’t go far; he drives a few miles outside of the salvage yard, then pulls the car over to the side of the road. He sits on the hood, feet resting on the fender, and quickly begins to throw back beer after beer.
Who the hell does Ellen think she is? No one knows what Dean wanted better than Sam, not after looking up to him since he was four years old and spending every moment of their adolescent lives practically living in each other’s pockets. No one.
Which is probably why the guilt gnaws away at his insides - because deep down, in that place where the voice in the back of his mind resides, the one that sounds exactly like his big brother - he knows Ellen is right.
Night has already fallen by the time Sam weaves his way back to the house. He fumbles with the knob, hip bumping into a table on the way in the door. He slips his hand down to check the bottle of whiskey in his pocket, making sure the glass is still in-tact.
A voice from the back of the room makes him jump. “Ellen’s gone,” Bobby says from the shadows. Sam squints, forcing his eyes to focus. He doesn’t doubt Bobby picked the spot on purpose - no way for Sam to avoid him if he doesn’t notice anyone else in the room.
“She left a few hours ago.” He huffs, reprimanding, “After the hell of a welcome you gave, I cant say I blame her any. She says to call, should you feel like talkin’. I told her not to hold her breath.”
Sam huffs a laugh and stumbles his way to the stairs, ignoring Bobby completely.
“She’s right you know,” Bobby says over his shoulder, and Sam tightly grasps the banister, nails digging into the wood. He takes a deep breath, waits for his fingers to relax, then heaves himself up the stairs. He falls into bed, fighting sleep for as long as possible. Eventually, exhaustion prevails.
When a new dream invades Sam’s subconscious, his mind battles to keep the images from coming forth. They still appear, smoky and hazy behind his eyelids.
Dean stands at the center covered in blood, the red bright against his surroundings. Sam hears screaming, but Dean remains silent. For a terrifying moment, Sam wonders if he's witnessing some sort of second death, but that's when he realizes the blood on his brother's skin isn't his own. Sam feels his blood freezing in his veins.
When Dean turns around, his eyes are black.
Sam wakes up fighting for breath, a scream caught somewhere at the back of his throat. He bites his tongue, shoving the scream back down. He slows his breathing, and as the adrenaline fades, a false sense of calm eases over him. He slips out of bed, shoving his feet into his boots. He knows now what he has to do.
Sam packs quietly, taking care to make sure he gathers all of his belongings because he has no intention of coming back. He zips his duffel closed and tucks Ruby's knife into his pocket, Dean's favorite gun in his waistband. He tiptoes down the stairs and out the door, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. Bobby will flip a shit when he wakes up and finds Sam missing. Sam turns his cell phone off, not wanting any interruptions.
His hand is surprisingly steady as he unlocks the door to the Impala, tossing his bag into the back seat and turning the key in the ignition. He takes a deep breath, pulls out of Bobby's yard and doesn't look back.
Sam speeds down the interstate at ninety miles an hour. The radio blares, but he roughly turns the dial, tossing the cassette that pops out into the glove compartment. The only sounds in the car now are the wind whipping past the windows, the rain sliding across the roof, and his own treacherous heartbeat.
Don’t be stupid, Sam, Dean’s voice whispers, You’re going to get yourself killed.
Sam presses his foot harder on the gas pedal so the roar of the Impala drowns him out.
The rain beats down when he reaches the crossroads, and the Impala leaves track marks, turning up dust as she turns the corner, skidding to a halt.
The box has been in his duffel all this time, prepared specifically for this sequence of events - should the worst happen, he wanted to be prepared with a back-up plan. Dean would have killed him if he found out his brother was planning on making a deal but at this point in time, Sam has only one thing on his mind - saveDeansaveDeansaveDean. The mantra runs on a loop in his head.
Sam buries the box in a shallow hole beneath the ground and pulls himself to his feet, almost stumbling in his haste to stand.
When the demon makes no appearance after a few long, torturous moments, Sam throws back his head and screams, "Come on! Where are you?"
"Sam Winchester." Sam spins, coming face to face with a man dressed in a plain, grey suit - normal, unassuming. Then, his brown eyes flash red, and he grins. "You know, you're not looking so great these days, Sammy. Weather getting you down?" He frowns, flicking rain off of his jacket. “Can’t blame you, I suppose. You owe me a new suit.”
Sam doesn't bother acknowledging the jab. "I want to make a deal."
The demon sighs, as if all of this is a giant waste of his eternal time. "All you Winchesters, I thought you'd have learned by now. Deals get you nowhere but rotting in hell, getting the flesh torn from your bones." He smiles, lips slowly turning upwards. "Daddy and big brother would know all about that."
The low blow makes something inside of Sam ache like a knife twisted deep in his chest, the pain dulled only somewhat by the alcohol running through his system. He doesn't rise to the bait. "That's my choice. My life for Dean - make the damn deal."
The demon strokes his chin thoughtfully, staring up at the sky. Sam shivers as the rain cuts straight through his clothes to his skin, but not from the cold. The demon, of course, is unaffected by the terrible weather.
Finally, he drops his hands to his sides, eyes black as the sky above him, and forcefully says, "No." All of the breath wheezes out of Sam's lungs. "No, Sam. No deal." The demon leans his hands onto the hood of the Impala. "What makes you think we don't have both of you just where we want you? There's a Winchester in hell again - that's poetic justice."
Sam pulls Ruby's knife out of his jacket and slams the blade into one of the demon's hands. When his first thought is Dean will kill me if I scratch the paint, a hysterical bark of laughter claws up his throat. The demon screams as his blood runs down the blade, drowning out the sound.
"Make. The. Deal," Sam says slowly, leaning over the demon, pulling himself to his full height so he towers over the other man.
The demon laughs, completely unaffected. "I. Said. No." He raises his eyes, pushing his face closer to Sam's, practically spitting in his face. "Even if I wanted to, Lilith still holds your brother’s contract. If you want to stay on her bad side, go ahead. I like my flesh intact, thank you very much."
Sam yanks the knife from the demon's hand, then hauls back and punches him square in the jaw. The demon falls onto his back. "That isn’t even your flesh," Sam growls. He knows better than to pick a fight in his current state. He can leave the crossroads demon bleeding or send him back to the pit, but neither will change the fact that Lilith wants Dean in hell and wants Sam to suffer. Clearly, what Lilith wants, Lilith gets.
The demon jumps to his feet, tossing Sam into the side of the Impala with a wave of his hand. The knife flies from his hand somewhere to his left. Sam's back cracks against the handle of the door, and he groans.
"Do you really want to play this game with me right now, Sammy?" He flicks his wrist, and Sam falls back to the ground, his head knocking so hard against the dirt, his teeth rattle. The demon kneels next to him, hauling him up by the collar of his shirt. "Look at you - all of that power, wasted." He punches him twice, and Sam feels his head spin, but doesn't bother fighting back. "You couldn't save your brother, Sam, and now, you can't save yourself."
Sam sees the glint of Ruby's knife in the demon's hand, and laughs, baring his neck in challenge. "Go on then. Kill me." Deal or no deal, he'll end up in hell anyway.
Instead of the burning sensation of a knife piercing his throat, he falls backwards as the demon is pulled off of him. His vision is blurred, but he hears the unmistakable sound of two bodies colliding.
The demon shouts, "You lying, backstabbing bitch," just before Sam hears the hiss of Ruby's knife against flesh and watches him flash out of existence. His body collapses to it's knees.
"Yeah, heard that before," his rescuer mutters, chest heaving as she shakes her head. The person turns to face Sam and he makes out just enough features to realize she's a woman.
She sprints over and kneels next to him. He doesn't recognize her, but his vision is going dark around the edges. The last thing he hears before he passes out is an unrecognizable voice in a fondly annoyed tone saying, "Damn it, Sam, you stupid son of a bitch."
Part II