When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 3/12
Title: When Heroes Go Down (They Go Down Fast) 3/12
Author: buffyaddict13
Rating: a strong R for language and a lot of violence. some of it's fairly gory. sorry folks. the end of the world isn't a shiny happy place. WARNING: this chapter has self harm and describes yucky violence.
Characters/Pairings: sam, dean, andy, OCs. Gen.
Summary: The war is at hand. it’s demon against man and we’re losing the fight. the special children are wreaking havoc across the land, side by side with demons. dean is on a desperate hunt to find and save his brother while leading a small band of survivors to a final showdown.
A/N: i know you're all sick of apocafics, but I’ve had this idea in my head for a while. I think there will be at least 6 chapters to this story, and each chapter is going to be pretty longish. a big heaping scoop of thanks to kroki_refur, the bestest beta who ever betaed. and thank you to everyone who's been reading this. your kind words mean the world to me. feedback tastes like ambrosia, y'all. hugs all around.
Disclaimer: I own nothing winchestery. but i'm keeping my fingers crossed, yo.
I felt the power of death over life
I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife
I begged their forgiveness, I wish I was dead
I hung my head, I hung my head.
--Johnny Cash
Chapter 3
Now.
He can’t stop shaking. He’s on the living room floor with two blankets wrapped around him, but he’s still cold. Izzy keeps him company while Sam gathers supplies; Dean’s burning the bodies in the backyard.
"Stop worrying," Izzy tells him. "You’re not sick."
"That’s easy for you to say," Andy says. "You’re not the one that got covered in blood." He makes a face. "Twice."
Sam enters the room pulling a carry-on travel bag on wheels. "We’ve got soup-" he eyes Izzy "-Pop-Tarts, Cheerios, granola bars, crackers, and some dubious sandwich cookies."
Izzy’s eyes light up. "Can I have a Pop-Tart? Please?"
Sam digs in the bag and pulls one pastry from the foil packet. "Only one, though. We have to make these last."
Izzy holds the frosted pastry as if it’s made of glass. "Behold the cherry pastry." She grins at Sam. "These are my favorite food in the world."
Sam regards her. "I’m sorry you have such crappy taste."
"Food snob." Izzy turns to Andy. "If you stop freaking out, I’ll give you my Pop-Tart." She smiles at him.
Andy sighs. "Iz, your crap-ass Pop-Tart is not going to save my life if I’ve…if I’ve got it."
Sam leans forward on the couch, elbows on knees, hands clasped. "Andy, did Dean tell you I got infected a few years ago? Out in Oregon?
Andy’s eyes widen with surprise. "You did?"
Izzy nibbles at the pastry. "What happened?"
Sam shrugs. "I don’t really know. An infected nurse cut me with a scalpel. Then she cut herself and mixed our blood. We waited for hours, but nothing ever happened."
Andy digests the information. "Do you think it’s because you’re…" he trails off.
Sam’s laughter is hard and bitter. "Special? It’s what I thought at the time. And if that’s true, well, you’re special too, Andy. And you didn’t get cut. You can wash the blood off." He looks a little rueful. "Washing away the worry will be harder."
"You got that right." Andy stands and places the blankets next to Sam. "Does the shower work upstairs?"
"Yeah."
Andy starts toward the stairs, hesitates. "Thank you, Sam."
ooooo
Sam’s eating part of Izzy’s Pop-Tart when Dean comes in. He sinks down onto the couch, sighs heavily. "That sucked."
"I’m sorry about everything," Sam says.
"Unless you were the bitch who stabbed Pat earlier, I don’t think you have anything to be sorry for." Dean slaps his thigh in disgust. "And you know what else? The fucking cow took a hike. Goodbye steak."
Izzy shrugs. "Maybe we’ll find it again tomorrow."
Dean scowls. "This day was shit, Izzy. This year, this decade has been shit. Is it too much to ask to get to eat something that doesn’t come in a can?"
"Pop-Tarts come in a box," Izzy reminds him.
Dean rests his head against the back of the couch. "You like Pop-Tarts more than steak? You are crazy." He notices the offending pastry in Sam’s hand. "Jeez, now she’s got you eating one?"
Sam nods toward Izzy. "She said she was going to sing if I didn’t share with her."
Dean grins. "Then you made the right choice, cuz that bitch? Cannot carry a tune to save her life."
They drift into a comfortable silence. It feels good to be sitting on a couch. For two seconds Dean wonders if they can put wheels on it and push it along. He sighs. Sitting with Sam inside a house eating shitty snack food feels good. It feels a hell of a lot better than shooting Patrick. What a fucking mess this is. "We might as well stay here overnight," he says, "take off in the morning."
Izzy nods, still chewing. "’kay."
Dean feels Sam’s eyes studying him. "Are you all right?" Sam asks.
Dean closes his eyes. He feels worn down. Old. "It’s my fault, you know. I’m the one that told you guys to check out the house."
"And I’m the one who ran away like a little girl," Sam mutters darkly. "If I had stayed, things would have turned out differently."
Izzy tilts her head, listening. Her eyes shift to Sam and Dean. "Claudia says you’re both retarded. And I’ve got to agree. It’s not your fault, either of you. If you want to blame somebody, blame the demons who made the Disease. Blame Patrick for not being careful. Blame God for letting this happen." Her face turns serious. "But don’t blame yourselves." She wipes her hands on the back of her jeans and pats each of them on the cheek.
"Get off me," Dean grouses. He swats her hand away, but he can’t hide the faint smile that flits across his face.
oooooo
There’s still water and electricity and everyone makes use of it. They give the mildewed shower a work out, and even their clothes are vaguely clean after running them through the dilapidated washing machine and dryer in the basement. By the time they leave its mid-morning.
Heavy clouds drift across a bruised sky. The sun wears a cloudy veil; it feels like weeks since they’ve seen sunlight. Still, the weather isn’t cold and there’s no rain.
Fewer cars block the highway now, and every so often, Dean makes a half-hearted attempt to hotwire a vehicle. Izzy peers through the dirty windshield of a van facing the wrong direction on an exit ramp. She can see the remains of the driver propped against the steering wheel. "Shit," she hisses, and stumbles backwards. She glares at Claudia. "You could have told me."
Claudia shrugs, eyes on the horizon. She’s watching for demons. Listening. Waiting. Izzy follows Andy’s pale green footsteps. His aura is a perfect spring green, the color of Granny Smith apples and Jolly Rancher candy. He’s leaning against a scarred guard rail, arms folded.
"Hey." Izzy moves into the space next to him, not quite touching his elbow. "Are you okay?"
Andy squints back to where Dean is tinkering beneath the hood of a car. "I guess. I don’t feel like killing everyone." He flashes a ghost of a smile. "Yet."
Izzy grins. "That’s good."
She sighs, taps her heel against the ground. Claudia says, I’m bored. Another voice-a little boy-whispers, I’m hungry. Izzy tells them both to shut up.
Andy raises an eyebrow. Izzy rolls her eyes. "I wasn’t talking to you, doofus."
Dean finally gives up on the car, and he and Sam head over. Dean’s aura is pale blue, the color of robin eggs and summer skies - well, back when the sky actually was a color. Sam’s aura is blue as well, but deeper, richer. Sometimes, when he’s upset, it turns even darker, edging into indigo or purple. At the moment it’s the color of the ocean. Good.
"I’m bored," Izzy complains, echoing Claudia’s earlier statement. "I never realized how much I hate walking."
"Hate it all you want," Dean tells her, "just keep doing it."
Claudia whispers, There are demons to the north, but they don’t seem to be moving, so Izzy keeps quiet. She keeps an eye on Andy, vaguely worried. She’s almost positive he’s not sick. She’s heard stories about the Disease, and he’s not acting crazy. Not like Patrick did.
It wasn’t his fault, a voice whispers. He didn’t ask to die. Izzy sighs. Who does?
They’ve been walking for what feels like a million miles when Izzy leans into Andy and bumps his shoulder with her own. "What do you miss?" she asks.
He frowns at her, rubs his shoulder. "Huh?"
Izzy laughs. "What do you miss? Like, if you could snap your fingers, and have one thing back, what would you pick?"
Andy scratches behind an ear. "I dunno. Pizza?"
Izzy rolls her eyes. "Out of everything we had, computers, radios, cell phones, you pick pizza? Oh. My. God. You are such a loser."
Andy glares. "Fine, I pick…a radio. That way we could contact somebody."
"Dude, who would we contact? There aren’t any working radio towers. Millions of people are dead. While you play with your useless radio, I’m having pizza."
Andy gives her an exasperated look. "And you’re a bitch."
Izzy grins. "You know it."
"Hell," Dean says, "I know what I want." He flicks a grin toward Sam. "A little music. All this silence is like the seventh level of hell. Give me some Metallica, a little Black Sabbath. Led Zeppelin. Shit, at this point I’d even listen to some of Sam’s emo crap."
Dean elbows Sam. "What about you?"
Izzy walks backwards, watching Sam. She holds Andy’s arm for balance. Sam licks his lips and his aura shifts toward the color of twilight. He’s going to freak out, Claudia warns.
Sam’s eyes flicker from Dean to Izzy and back. He opens his mouth, closes it again, clears his throat. "Uh, the car," he mutters. "I miss the Impala." His smile is forced, awkward.
Izzy breathes again. Sam’s lying, but he’s playing along. She tries to catch his eye, but he’s watching the ground.
"Dude!" Dean’s face lights up. "You miss my baby?" He grins. "I miss her too." He sighs, wistful. "She was a good girl."
Sam’s lip curls. "She was a car, Dean. I can’t believe-"
Isobel! Claudia’s voice is sharp in Izzy’s ear and she almost jumps. She swings around, facing forward again. "What?"
I can feel someone nearby. Not demons.
"Sixers?" Izzy whispers. A tendril of panic uncurls in her stomach.
Andy grips her arm. "Iz? What is it?"
Not Sixers, Claudia says. But there’s a woman about a half mile up the road.
Izzy turns to the others. "Guys? We’re going to have company."
ooooo
Sam doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Dean talked him into keeping his hands free and now they feel loose. As if they’ll fly off his arms if he’s not paying attention. He shoves them into his pockets. He clasps them behind his back. He clenches them at his sides. Nothing feels right.
In the distance, they can see the outline of the woman Izzy told them about. She’s walking a dog. Dean and Andy mutter between themselves like it’s the second coming. Sam squints: it’s a dirty mutt with watery eyes and a missing tail.
Dean, Andy and Izzy stop and watch the woman approach. Sam stands behind his brother, just close enough to let Dean know he’s there. Dean nods at the woman. "Christo." He gestures to the dog. "Haven’t seen one of those in a while."
"Christo yourself," the woman says. She’s tall and solid, with close-cropped gray hair. She’s in her late forties, early fifties, with a kind face and a big smile; she reminds Sam of Missouri. The woman pats the dog’s head affectionately. "My name’s May. This here scrap of fur is Lazarus." The dog rubs his head against her leg. "We just call him Lazlo."
Dean lets the dog sniff his hand. "It’s not that safe out here when you’re on your own," he tells May, "even if you do have a guard dog. You’re welcome to travel with us if you want."
May smiles. "First of all, this old mutt couldn’t guard his way out of a paper bag. He’s a coward, through and through. And your offer is a kind one, but I’m not by myself. I’m just out for my morning stroll. My camp is just over that hill."
Sam moves beside Dean. "You’re…camping?"
May smiles, a hint of pride on her face. "We sure are. There’s about fifteen of us now. We’ve got four tents. You’re welcome to come have a bite to eat, take a load off if you want."
Dean offers his hand to May. "I’m Dean, by the way. This is Sam, that’s Andy, and that’s Izzy. We really appreciate the invitation, May, but I think we’re going to-"
Izzy shoots Dean a dark look. "I’m hungry."
Dean keeps right on talking. "-keep moving. We’ve got a ways to go and-"
Izzy raises her voice over Dean’s. "I want to sit down."
Dean laughs nervously and hisses out of the corner of his mouth, "And I want you to shut up. Think either of us will get our wish?"
May shrugs. "We’re just about to sit down to a late lunch. You’re welcome to join us."
Sam nudges Dean. What can it hurt?
Dean scowls at Izzy. "Fine."
May chuckles. "Did I mention there’s chicken?"
Dean stares at May, then grins wide enough to crack his face. "Well hell, why didn’t you say so in the first place?"
ooooo
Four small tents form a multi-colored square near the edge of an orchard. Sam hangs back while the others follow May and Lazlo. Men and women are scattered across the camp, involved in various chores: picking apples, preparing food, tending a fire, comforting a crying child. Lazlo bounds over to a little boy and tries to lick his face, and the boy laughs and throws his arms around the animal’s neck.
Two teenage girls pass out Styrofoam cups of apple slices. A woman sits in the doorway of one of the tents, swathed in blankets. Her face is covered, a pair of dark eyes peering out at the activity.
Dean and May are chatting about something, and Sam can hear the sound of Izzy’s laughter. Andy’s watching the little boy play with the dog. Sam stops walking. He watches the woman in the tent.
Something’s wrong.
His mouth goes dry.
I can’t be here.
His palms are slick with sweat.
Dean looks back at him, the what the fuck, dude? clear on his face.
Sam shakes his head, helpless, rooted to the spot. He has to leave before they
The woman’s eyes are on him now; drilling into him.
For a brief instant nothing happens. A breeze rustles a tree branch. An apple falls, bounces, rolls. The dog barks. Izzy brushes a strand of hair out of her face.
Sam’s stomach falls, and he tries to move, but it’s too late, because the dark eyes go wide with shock, then horror. The woman’s mouth opens and Sam wants time to stop, just stop. His heart hammers, his hands shake. Please, not now, not ever, don’t let them know what
The woman’s scream tears through the camp.
ooooo
Then.
Sam’s fist slams into the hunter’s face and he can feel the bones give beneath his curled fingers. The man grunts and drops to his knees, and Sam’s hand comes away sore and covered in blood. The hunter’s wife is screaming like a fucking siren, and she won’t shut up. All the noise in the world won’t save this asshole-he’s already killed four Sixers and a couple of demons. His hunting days are over.
Sam lifts the hunter like he’s weightless and launches him across the room. The woman’s screams taper off and melt into sobs. The hunter’s face is a pulpy mess, he tries to speak, but nothing comes out but garbled sounds. Sam walks over to him, whistling softly, his mood improved now that the sound level’s gone down some. He looks at his watch. He has plenty of time for a little fun.
Sam brings his boot down on the man’s face. His skull breaks with a dull crunch. Sam stomps a few more times before he backs up and wipes his boot on the worn carpet. He exhales heavily and stretches the muscles in his neck.
Somewhere, Dean is looking for him. Sam knows this because he knows Dean. And even now, hands coated with a stranger’s blood, Sam loves Dean. He wants to see Dean again. He’s looking forward to it.
Of course, the downside is, he’ll have to kill him.
The hunter’s wife is on her knees, weeping over what’s left of her husband. Sam pulls out his knife and grins. He squats down beside the woman, tucks a strand of lank hair behind her ear. "I’m sorry for your loss," he says, voice thick with empathy he no longer feels.
"Don’t kill me," she keens.
"I’m not going to kill you," he says, and puts a hand on her shoulder. "But you’ll wish you were dead when I’m done."
ooooo
Now.
There are loud voices.
People yelling. Screaming. One of the voices belongs to Dean, but Sam can’t understand what he’s saying, he can’t understand anything except shame and fear and revulsion. He abruptly leans forward, hands on his knees, and vomits into the grass.
There’s a noise and a clump of grass near Sam’s shoe jumps into the air. Sam wipes his face and looks up. His head is pounding and he feels dizzy.
The woman with the eyes is standing outside the tent, a grim-faced man next to her. He’s holding a rifle, and it’s pointed at Sam.
Dean’s got his own gun aimed at the man, and his voice is dangerous, the sound of a rusty blade. "You shoot that thing again and I’m gonna put you in the ground."
May’s face has gone pale. She looks at Dean like she’s been sucker-punched. "You brought a Sixer here? A Sixer?"
Sam swallows hard, throat sore. His mouth tastes like acid. He takes a step toward the woman and she shrinks back against the man. The blanket around her head has come loose.
"Jesus Christ." Andy’s voice is soft and breathless.
Izzy makes a low moaning noise.
Dean doesn’t say anything. But Sam can see the muscles work hard in his jaw, in his neck.
This is what I did, Sam thinks. I did this.
The woman’s face is horrific. It’s a mass of mottled pink scars. Her nose and ears are gone. Her lips are split and misshapen. Only her eyes are clear and perfect. Now, they leak tears. She holds up a notebook and shakes it at the man, and he takes it from her, his eyes on Sam.
"This is my sister," the man says. He turns the notebook around and points to the scrawled words. "You see this? It says, he did this to me." The man nods at Sam.
Sam takes another step toward the woman. "I’m sorry," he says. And then again, "I’m sorry."
There’s silence except for the woman’s weeping.
Sam’s stomach clenches and he’s afraid he’s going to throw up again. He keeps talking anyway. "I have no excuse for what I did," he says, "but I’m not the same man. I’m not. And I know I can’t make it better and I know I can’t fix it," he eyes slide to the woman’s ruined face, "but I want you to know how sorry I am, how fucking sorry I am." He drops to his knees, arms outstretched, beseeching. He realizes there are tears on his face. He and the woman are the only ones crying. "I’m…so…sorry."
The man drops the notebook and lowers his gun at Sam. "You’re about to be a whole lot sorrier."
"Drop the gun!" Dean bellows.
"It’s okay," Sam says. "I deserve it, Dean."
"Fuck that and fuck you," Dean grinds out. "Get on your feet."
Sam doesn’t move.
Izzy stumbles against a tree and covers her face.
Andy’s hands pull at Sam’s arm. "Get up," he says weakly. "Get up, Sam."
May’s mouth is a thin line of rage. "Hank, you put that gun down." Her eyes swivel to Dean. "You too."
"He’s a fucking murderer," Hank cries, outraged. "He killed Liam. Look what he did to Dana!" He grabs his sister and pushes her forward. "Look. What. He. Did. To. Her."
Dana wrings her hands and stares at the ground, trembling. She opens her mouth and makes a thin wailing noise.
"He cut her tongue out," Hank says. "She can’t talk. She can’t even tell you what he did to her."
Sam’s eyes are pinned to Dana. "I’m sorry. Dana. I’m sorry."
"I don’t care if you’re sorry or not," Hank hisses. "Sorry don’t mean shit!"
Sam drops his head. Andy’s still plucking at his arm, trying to move him, but Sam doesn’t want to be moved.
Dean takes a few steps backwards until he’s level with Sam. He grabs Sam’s other arm and helps Andy pull him up. "Come on Sam, we’ve gotta go."
Hank ratchets another round into the chamber. "Nobody’s going anywhere."
"Put your gun down," Andy says loudly.
Hank stares for a long beat, then gently sets the gun on the ground.
"There are two Sixers," a panicked voice yells.
"You’re all going to stay here and let us go," Andy continues. "Nobody is going to follow us. Do you understand?"
All eyes from the camp are on Andy. A few heads nod.
"You’re going to forget we were here."
"No," Sam starts, "I have to-"
"You have to move," Dean grits, pulling at Sam. Sam lets Andy and Dean pull him backwards, and finally, his feet move on their own. "Izzy," Dean snaps, "haul ass, now."
Izzy starts running, one hand still pressed to her face. She doesn’t look at Sam.
Sam eyes are still seeping tears. Izzy won’t look at him. It feels like there are snakes in his stomach. His blood is poison. He’s not real. This isn’t real. None of this is happening. Somewhere, he’s with Jess and they’re laughing and her hand is on his and-
Sam’s breath hitches in his throat and he wants this painshameguilt to end. He wants to go back five seconds in time and let Hank pull the trigger. He can feel Dean’s steel grip pressing into his arm, hear the sound of feet running on pavement. His feet.
Izzy hates me now. They all hate me. They know what I did. They know what I was-what I am. They know.
His heart is beating so fast and so hard it feels like his ribs are breaking. He wishes it would just get the fuck out of him, wishes he could pull the beating heart out and throw it away because it’s no good to him now. It’s ruined, just like Dana’s face.
Sam shakes Dean and Andy off and heads for Izzy. She flinches away from him, but his hands scrabble at her belt. He grabs something shiny, then pushes her into Andy. Andy stumbles, but he keeps Izzy upright and they both stare at him.
Sam blinks at them. He’s sorry to scare Izzy, but it’s necessary. It doesn’t matter much, though, because he’s got what he needs now. Relief is in sight, it’s in his hand, it’s tangible. And then he’s running again. He’s always running.
But he never has anywhere to go.
ooooo
"Fuck!" Dean lunges after Sam, but Sam’s in freaky panic mode and Dean can’t quite catch him. He whirls on Izzy. "What’d he do?"
Izzy’s face is grey. "I-he pushed me."
"I know that, Einstein, I wanna know why."
She pats her pockets, and her eyes go wide. "Shit."
Dean’s hands find their way to his hair. "Shit? What’s shit?"
"My knife is gone. He’s got my knife."
Dean’s eyes clamp shut and he counts to five. One. He’ll find Sam. Two. Sam will be okay. Three. Sam cut that woman’s nose off. Her fucking nose. Four. Sam. He’s got to concentrate on finding Sam. Five. Sam’s got a knife. He snaps his eyes open and starts down the highway.
Sam isn’t in sight. (He’s got a knife.)
It takes Dean a minute to realize he’s walking by himself. He turns back to Andy and Izzy, and they’re just standing there. "Come on," he barks.
Andy shuffles forward, but Izzy hangs back, her mouth pulled into a tight line of dismay. Dean glares at her, daring her to keep still. "You got a problem?" he asks, voice harsh.
Izzy rubs her nose. "Did you see what he did?" she asks brokenly.
It takes Dean three paces to reach her. One fist digs into the front of her shirt, and he hauls her up until she’s on her tiptoes. His face is almost pressed to hers, nostrils flaring. "I saw what he did," he grits. "It was pretty hard to miss. But he’s my brother. None of us can change what he did. We can only change what he’s going to do. And he has your knife. And in case you haven’t noticed, he’s been a little bit down lately." Dean shakes her. "If you’re too fucking traumatized to help me find Sam, you better find someone else to walk with. Because you’re not welcome with us. With me." Dean’s lip curls into a snarl. "I’m sorry that Sam cut that girl to shit. I think it’s obvious he’s sorry. What I don’t want is for him to cut himself to shit." Dean releases her and she takes a faltering step backwards. "So are you coming?" He stares at her. "Or are you going?"
Izzy swallows, eyes swimming with tears. "I’m-I’m coming."
Dean allows his hands to unclench. "Then tell me which way his fucking footprints go."
ooooo
Sam bounds over the guard rail and lands easily in the tall grass. His legs scissor a path through the thick overgrowth and he heads for a nearby stand of trees. He doesn’t spare the time to look back because he’s afraid he’ll see Dean, and he can’t bear to see the look (disgust hate disappointment) on Dean’s face.
There are ten or twelve trees and he ducks behind a huge maple toward the back of the copse. He feels like he’s coming apart. His skin is full of hidden seams and they’re all ripping open, invisible thread unwinding, and in another second there’ll be nothing left of him but bits of bone and guilt. Something’s wrong with him. Something besides the fact he’s a fucking monster and murderer and a freak. It feels like his blood is bubbling (boiling) inside his veins. There’s too much pressure inside him (pushing on the seams), and he realizes the pressure, the buzzing isn’t his blood at all - it’s something else, something worse. He’s not normal (he never was). He’s broken, wrong. His body is filled with poison, bile, (memories) tar, acid. And there’s only one way to get the poison out.
He pushes up one sleeve, then the other. When he presses the knife to his skin, his hand is steady.
ooooo
Dean wants to scream Sam’s name until he’s hoarse. He wants to scream Sam’s name until the stupid asshole shows up with a sheepish, big-eyed look on his face. But he doesn’t scream, because he doesn’t want to alert the fuckers back at Camp Apple, and he knows from the way his gut feels that Sam isn’t going to pop out from behind some dead car with a grin and a just kidding. The Sam that joked with him, the Sam that smiled, the Sam that felt something beyond guilt is not here. That Sam has left the building--and Dean’s afraid he’s not coming back.
Dean loves this fucked-up version of Sam just as much as the old version, but this new Sam scares the shit out of him. Because this Sam is already broken, and the only thing holding him together is Dean, and Dean’s not sure he’s doing such a bang-up job. This Sam is filled with shadows and self-hate, and after seeing Dana’s face, Dean can understand why.
But what Sam doesn’t understand-what he doesn’t get-is that in the big picture, Dean doesn’t care about Dana. He’s cut Dana’s face off himself if it meant saving Sam. Hell, he’d cut his own face off if it meant saving Sammy.
ooooo
He was only going to make the one cut, but he can’t stop. It’s like magic. Something has unclenched in his chest and he can breathe again. The buzzing in his head, beneath his skin, has been pushed back to a level he can tolerate. It’s just white noise now. All he has to do is get the poison out.
His fingers search the edge of the deepest cut and he squints, concentrating, tongue between his teeth. He can’t see anything but blood. Just blood. It’s not right, there should be black oil tar spilling from his arm.
"Sam."
Sam looks up and there’s Dean, standing a few feet away. Huh. Sam didn’t even hear him coming. Sam smiles and prods at the cut. "I’ll be done in minute," he says. "I’m just trying to get it all out."
Dean’s face looks funny. It almost looks like he’s crying. And that’s just weird. "Are you okay?" Sam asks.
Dean laughs, and his laugh sounds wrong too, but Sam is a little too preoccupied trying to bleed out everything he’s done to ask again.
"Put the knife down, Sam. Please." Dean’s voice is rough, and he moves slowly over to Sam, sinks down beside him. He holds his hand out. "Give it to me."
Sam frowns. "Dude, you’re in my light." He puts a bloody hand on Dean’s chest and pushes gently. "Back up."
Andy and Izzy come into the brake of trees holding hands. It looks like they’re trying to hold each other up. Izzy cries out when she sees the blood all over Sam’s arm, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the moss-covered ground. Sam glances up at her. "Hey, Izzy."
Andy’s voice is careful. "Put the knife down, Sam."
Sam blinks at Andy. "I’m not done."
Andy licks his lips. "I’m-I’m worried about you."
"We’re all worried about you, Sparky," Dean says. He tries to smile, but fails. His voice gets hard. "Just give me the fucking knife, Sam."
Sam shakes his head, annoyed. "I’m trying to do something."
The pain is good. It feels like a slow throbbing burn deep in his arm. The pain gives him something to concentrate on that’s not a memory (Dana’s face, his knife). But he can feel the memories waiting, and he’s got to get them out. He cuts again, and blood bubbles up along the skin, and Dean makes a noise. Sam looks up.
Only now Dean is towering over Sam, and one foot comes down on Sam’s hand, and the knife falls to the ground. Dean kicks it toward Andy and Andy steps on it. The smooth handle sticks out from under Andy’s shoe.
Sam looks from Dean to Andy. He rocks back on his heels. "What the hell, Dean? I wasn’t done."
Dean’s eyes are bright. "Oh, you’re done, Sam. You’re done."
Sam rises to his feet. Blood flows down his arm, onto his shirt, onto his jeans, onto his shoe. It feels good. It feels good.
Sam points to the knife. "I need that."
Dean shakes his head. "No. You don’t." He holds his hand out to Sam. "Let me see your arm."
Sam jerks away from Dean’s reach. "I wasn’t done," he repeats, panic creeping back. He wasn’t done. The memories, poison, hate-it’s all still inside him. He can feel it. He feels dizzy. He throws a hand against the nearest tree. His head. Hurts.
"That’s kind of the point, Sam," Dean says. "To get here before you kill yourself."
Sam stares hard at the ground, willing the black dots floating in front of his eyes away. "I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I told you I wouldn’t do that!" The yet remains unspoken between them.
"Then what the hell were you doing?" Dean demands.
Sam lifts his head and focuses on Dean. He looks blurry. "I was trying to get the poison out," he says. "And I wasn’t done. Please, Dean. I need the knife back."
Sam takes a step toward Andy and sways. Dean’s there with strong arms and for a second Sam feels safe. Then he remembers who (what) he is. "I can still feel it inside me." His voice is an urgent whisper against Dean’s neck. "I was trying to get the poison out, Dean. I can feel it inside me, and I. Can’t. Stand. It."
Dean’s trying to talk to him now, trying to tell him soothing things like, everything will be okay and we need to fix that arm up, but Sam doesn’t want to hear it. He wants to break apart and be put back together better. He wants to be clean and whole and new.
He isn’t any of those things now.
ooooo
Dean digs in his bag for a T-shirt, pulls one out, and rips it in half. He presses one half against Sam’s arm. There are five cuts; three are no big deal, two of them are deep. The one Sam was picking at definitely needs stitches.
Sam’s off in la-la land muttering about poison and tar and shit running through his veins. Dean sighs and presses his forehead against Sam’s. "Listen to me," he says. "Are you listening?"
Sam finally shuts up, nods against Dean. "Okay. You are not full of poison, Sam. You’re full of blood and guilt just like the rest of." Sam tries to pull away and Dean continues. "Okay, I’m sorry. You have more guilt. A lot more. And I get that, I do. But cutting yourself into pieces is not the answer. It’s just not." Dean’s voice drops lower. "You’re all I have, Sam. You’re it. I don’t want you to die, okay?"
"I wasn’t trying to kill myself."
"I don’t want you to hurt yourself."
Sam’s body shudders, but his voice doesn’t. "I don’t know what to do, Dean. I can’t live like this."
Dean’s tone leaves no room for doubt. "You can and you will." He lifts Sam’s head, looks into his eyes. "For me, Sam. Live for me."
Sam shakes his head. "I don’t know how."
Dean closes his eyes. He listens to the sound of Sam’s breathing. His whole life he’s protected Sam, but he has no idea how to protect Sam from himself.
"Dean."
Dean’s eyes flick open. Sam’s watching him. "Yeah?"
"I’m glad Jessica is dead. And Dad. I’m glad they can’t see me like this."
Sam’s words feel like a kick in the ribs. "Sam-"
"I’m sorry you can see me. I’m sorry for what I am. What I did. I’m...sorry."
Dean pulls Sam into a rough hug. "I know you’re sorry, Sammy. I know. But I’m still glad you’re here with me." Dean pushes Sam back and pokes him lightly between the eyes. "Do you get that? I’m glad you’re with me."
Sam swallows. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."
Dean doesn’t know either. He doesn’t want to find out.
He uses the last of their thread on Sam’s arm. Sam’s silent during the whole process. The needle goes in and out, binding skin back together, and Dean scowls through most of it, thinks Sam probably likes the pain. Andy and Izzy are supposedly looking for food, and Dean cranes his neck toward the tall grass, but doesn’t see a thing. He wonders if they took off.
"You’ve got to stop running away," Dean says gruffly. "You’re not twelve."
Sam bows his head wearily. "I’m not running away from you."
"It feels like you are." Dean sighs and ties the last stitch off. "You can’t outrun your feelings, Sam." Dean’s throat tightens. "Trust me."
Sam sniffs, and his forehead crinkles. "Then what do I do?"
Dean shrugs, puts the needle back in the little sewing kit, drops it into his bag. "I don’t know. But I swear to God I’ll help you get through this." Dean looks hard at his brother, tries to gauge how much is getting through. "You know that, right?"
Sam stares at the trees for a long second. Then he looks at Dean. He nods once. "I know."
Dean nods back. "Good." He scans the road. "Any ideas where the Wonder Twins got off to?"
ooooo
Sam tries to pretend he’s fine as they walk through late afternoon and into evening. Dean wants him to be fine, so he’ll try. And even if he can’t actually be fine, he can at least act fine.
The cuts on his arm sting beneath the makeshift bandage, and that helps a little, but he still feels like there’s too much pressure inside him. He thinks about Izzy’s knife, wonders if he can cut the memories out of his brain. Cut the guilt out of his heart. He thinks about going back to find Dana and giving her the knife, letting her take a turn on him.
Dean’s at his side, eyebrows raised. "You okay?"
Sam tries to shape his lips into a smile. "Yeah. You?"
Dean smiles back. "Yup."
Sam’s head itches beneath the baseball cap he’s wearing. Dean put the cap and a pair of sunglasses on him in a half-assed attempt at a disguise. Sam hopes they can find a better disguise somewhere; something that helps him hide from himself.
Andy and Izzy are ahead of them, heads bent together. Sam tries not to think about how Izzy won’t look at him. She’s not talking to him either. Just how much does she hate him now? His mind wanders back to her knife and he wonders if he could get away with cutting himself while Dean’s asleep. He’s not sure.
Sam’s hands are tied behind his back again. He didn’t even have to ask--Dean just did it. Sam knows he’s pretty much crazy now, but he doesn’t care. A part of him knows he’s just a (not normal) guy. He’s made of skin and bones and muscles and tendons like everyone else. There’s no poison, no black bile inside him - it just feels like there is.
They walk until the sky turns dark and the moon hangs high above them. When they finally lie down on the edge of the macadam, no one speaks.
Sam’s hands are tied in front of him now, he couldn’t get the knife if he wanted to (and he does, he does). He looks for stars but the sky is heavy with curtains of smog. Sam blinks up into the darkness for a long time, thinking about sins and blood and penance.
ooooo
Dean wastes a little time trying to cut Sam’s hair the next day, but Sam’s got enough hair for a family of ten and his patience wears thin fast. In the end, Sam’s hair is a little shorter and a lot messier, but the baseball cap hides most of it, and that’s what he wants. He slides the sunglasses over Sam’s nose. "Now you’re looking cool, Captain Jack."
Sam doesn’t respond.
Dean elbows Sam. "Did you hear what I said? You look cool. It’s, like, a first for you."
Dean can’t see Sam’s good eye behind the glasses, but his mouth isn’t even close to smiling. "Where are we?" Sam asks.
"Dude," Dean scolds softly. "You used to laugh on the inside at least."
Sam turns toward Dean, blank-faced. "I used to do a lot of things."
That shuts Dean up and he studies the wrinkled map from his pocket. "We’re doing okay. We oughta hit Oklahoma City today." He pulls at his lip, thinking. "Maybe...what? Another four or five days until we get close to Truth or Consequences."
Andy peers at the map while chewing the remains of a cracker. He offers one to Sam and Dean but both decline. "Five more days?"
Dean nods. "Give or take."
Andy pops another cracker into his mouth. "Then let’s get going."
ooooo
They take a break at an abandoned McDonald’s later that day. There’s not much left of the building, but the plastic picnic tables are still there.
Sam picks at a granola bar listlessly. He’s not hungry. His hands are tied in front of him and he rests them on the tabletop. He can see his vague reflection in the cracked front window of the restaurant. He’s a shadowy outline. A ghost. That’s how he feels: incorporeal and barely here. He drops his head onto his hands. The baseball cap slides backwards but he doesn’t care.
A hand rights the cap and pats the top of his head, and he looks up to see Izzy sit next him. He glances around for Dean, but Dean and Andy are both trying to run up the kiddy slide at the little play land. Sam’s forehead creases. "Hey."
"I don’t hate you," she says, looking down at her fingernails. She scrapes some dirt away from a cuticle. "I’m…maybe…a little scared of you though."
"I’m a lot scared of me," Sam admits with a humorless chuckle.
Izzy leans her elbows on the table and rests her chin against her fists. "It just feels weird sometimes. I was with Dean and Andy all those months looking for you, and I had to listen to Dean ramble endlessly about how you were this great person, even though you were running around killing people and all bat-shit crazy."
Sam’s face pinches. "I wasn’t really…crazy. I mean, yeah, I guess I was, because fuck, look at everything I’ve done. But it didn’t feel like I was crazy. It felt like I was…happy." He can’t bring himself to look at her, he can’t risk seeing her face. "And I think about that all the time. How I felt." Sam rubs at his face with the palms of his hands. "It’s all trapped in my head. Not just the guilt that I murdered people--innocent people--but that I didn’t care. That I liked it. And I feel trapped all the time. Like there’s no escape from what I’ve done, I can’t undo it, I can’t go back, all I’m left with is…me. And I don’t want to be me anymore." His eyes finally slide to her face and she meets his gaze.
"Well I think you’re kind of stuck," Izzy says softly. "And just for the record, it’s not like you’re keeping us awake with campfire stories of how awesome it was to kill people. I know you’re sorry for what you did. I know you’d do anything to change what happened, we all know that."
Sam rubs a finger across the pocked yellow tabletop. There’s an old rust colored stain next to a cigarette burn. Maybe ketchup (or blood). He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to talk about this. Certainly not with Izzy.
"You need to stop cutting yourself," she says.
Sam’s stomach twists and his face closes in on itself. He exhales slowly, shutting down. He needs this to be over. Now.
"I did it too, after I started hearing voices."
The sound of her voice is tinny, as if she’s far away. Or he is.
"I thought it would help, and I felt like it did. For a while. But then everything got worse."
He’s not going to do this. He’s not listening to this. Being a serial killer is not the same thing as being schizophrenic. Or whatever she is. Sam’s eyes flick to Dean and he’s still fucking around with Andy. Why did Dean leave him here with her?
The muscles in Sam’s legs tense and he can almost feel himself jumping up and over the bench and away. Away from Izzy and the way this conversation is making him feel. He’s about to slide away from her when her hand clamps down on his wrist, just below the bandage. Her voice is insistent, harsh, and it needles through his personal fog. "I’m not talking for my health, I’m talking for yours. If you cut too deep you’re going to die and what do you think that’s going to do to Dean? If you give a flying fuck about your brother you’ll let him in. You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to talk to Andy. But you have to talk to Dean. And if you can’t do that? Then keep your guilty-ass hands off my knife." She grips harder, pulls him closer. "Keep them off everybody’s weapons."
Sam’s throat works, but he can’t do much more than choke on, "I-I wouldn’t…"
"You would if you thought you wouldn’t get caught. I know what it feels like, I know it’s a release, an addiction, whatever. But I’ve been listening to Dean’s lectures on how to treat you for weeks now."
Sam gapes, dumbfounded. "Lectures?"
She nods, tight-lipped. "I’m surprised he didn’t make us take notes. We can’t talk to you about this or that because it might set you off. Don’t mention other Sixers because you might freak out, don’t refer to when you were gone because that’s when you were busy with your killing spree." Isobel pokes his thigh with her other hand. "I don’t know Dean that well, but I know I like him. He thinks he’s a hardass, which is just plain stupid, but whatever. He’s not bad to look at, either. But what I really like is that he never gave up on you. Never. He hauled his ass across the country for you, and the least you can do is be grateful about it. I’m sorry you’re fucked up and broken, Sam. But you know what?" She leans in even closer, eyes dark. "We’re all fucked up now. We’re all broken. And maybe you’re a little more broken than the rest of us. But I know you’ve got the brains to see that Dean would absolutely shatter without you. I can put aside everything you’ve done with a little time. I can even forgive you. But I won’t forgive you if you kill yourself when Dean needs you." She lets go of his wrist, takes a deep breath. "We all need you." Her eyes pin him to the table for a long moment. "Do you understand?"
Sam bites at his lower lip and nods. He does understand. Dean has done everything to save him, and even if he can’t be saved (too late now) he can play along. He’s done it before. He can carry the weight of his guilt for Dean, even if he has to get down on his hands and knees and crawl, he will. Because he’s not so far gone that he doesn’t remember what he owes Dean (everything).
Sam lets a little of the blankness slip, and tries to curve his mouth into a smile. He would give anything to go back in time and hunt without complaining. He would be a boy that hated soccer and loved training and hunting and didn’t care about college, and he would do everything differently, everything, if he could just undo what his life is, and what he’s done to Dean. He flexes his fingers, looks at them. He would give up knowing Jess and that hurts, that hurts so much, but he would if it meant he could have walked down a different road that day outside the Roadhouse.
Dean ambles over, grinning at something Andy’s saying. Sam’s mouth twitches into a real smile, because, even now, Dean has the ability to personify safe and home. Not that there’s much left of either, but it’s enough to make Sam smile. Sam knows things will never be good or right again, but he’ll try to pull his weight, because Dean needs him to. No more running away, no more cutting. Izzy’s right. He owes Dean for things he can never repay, doesn’t know how to repay. But he starts with a smile that almost reaches his eyes, and nods toward the road. "You ready to go?"
Dean regards him carefully, then slowly returns the smile, hands in his pockets. "If you’re done with your girl talk."
Sam rolls his eyes toward Izzy. "We were just waiting for the two of you to finish recess."
Dean accidentally on-purpose bumps into Sam’s shoulder. "Come on then."
Sam bumps back. "You might want to go on ahead."
Dean blinks at him, lifts an eyebrow. "Huh?"
Sam smirks. "You know, with those short little legs of yours, I figured you should get a head start. I can take a quick nap and catch up later."
Dean tries to look pissed, but a smile keeps peeking out from behind his glare. "Very funny, sasquatch. Let’s go."
"I seem to remember calling you bossy, once. Looks like times haven’t changed much."
"I have to be in charge," Dean grumps. "If you were in charge we’d never get anywhere. We’d just sit around and talk about our feelings and cry all day."
Sam casts Dean a hard look.
Dean pushes his lips out. "Aw, Sam. I didn’t mean-"
"We wouldn’t cry all day." Sam says it in a pinched voice to make Dean laugh. He doesn’t mind. Joking with Dean will make him happy, and that’s what matters.
Dean stares at him a minute and then laughs. It’s a good sound, rich and deep, and Sam want to fold it up and put it in his pocket, so he can remember it later.
Chapter 4