Spn Fic: One More Bump in the Road
What sort of birthday would I be having without a little Winchester angst? So I wrote a little ficlet, set early in Season 2, approx 800 words, Gen, PG-13.
Maxandkiz, this is for you also, as the fic I started for you has stalled. I have kidnapped one of your little plot bunnies from the SFTCOL(AR)S forum but it seems to have temporarily escaped again.
One More Bump in the Road
The yard was still and quiet, the rusting car bodies Bobby was collecting standing like monuments as they rose up from the dusty earth, sending lengthy shadows across the ground. Sam rested against the shell of an ancient vehicle, hearing the metal groan under his added weight. It offered a solid support to his exhausted body and he leant into the sun warmed metal with weary resignation.
He was tired. Tired of trying; tired of the lies and the pretence. Tired of pushing on, like their dad’s death was just one more bump in the road that they could leave behind, forgotten.
They needed a break. At first, getting straight back into hunting had seemed like the best way to move forward, but even then he knew it was only a temporary solution to cover the emotional cracks that threatened to tear them apart. The grief and pain weren't going away, not even lessening - the task of hunting that they used as an escape to mask their feelings failing dismally. He could still feel the devastation, the nearly overwhelming grief, and every time he looked at his brother he could see the gut wrenching anguish in Dean’s eyes that he tried so hard to hide.
He ran a trembling finger over the slowly healing scars across his face, a stark reminder of all that they’d been through. His whole being felt as though it had been used as a giant punching bag, covered in cuts and bruises he didn’t even remember getting. His body urged him to slow down and rest, but he’d been ignoring his body’s signals and pushing on for days now.
He spat blood stained sputum onto the dry dirt, blinking his eyes against the spinning horizon as he willed the world to still. His traitorous body was ignoring his mind’s commands, nausea rising up to join the dizziness.
He swallowed convulsively until he felt sure his recently digested lunch would stay where it belonged and not make a sudden reappearance. As his vision tilted and dimmed, he let his back slide down the discolored hunk of metal, keeping himself steady until he reached the ground, legs splayed out in front of him and hands resting on the dry dirt.
The doctor’s words flashed through his memory, educated and astute, pleading with him to see sense even as he raised the pen and signed himself out of the hospital against medical advice. It was a decision he refused to second-guess, as all the family he possessed had been worse off than him, laid up in hospital beds of their own, defenseless. This time it was his responsibility to take care of them. Deep down, he knew Dean was right, that his efforts were “too little too late,” but he had to try. He owed them that much.
He closed his eyes and let his head lower down towards the ground, guilt and regret plaguing his subconscious as his mind refused to rest.
-o-
Shadows flickered through his closed eyelids as the clouds moved across the sky. The silence was absolute, and for a moment, he pretended it was peaceful here, on the dirt, nestled between the rusting carcasses of long discarded cars. But real life had a way of intruding and he knew his small slice of serenity was nothing more than an illusion brought about by wishful thinking.
Pushing himself back to his feet took more effort than he cared to admit. The dizziness made an unexpected return and he was forced to grip the side of the car until he found his equilibrium. Only when he was sure his legs were steady did he push off, eyes cast downwards as he weaved between the rows of stacked car bodies, seeking his escape.
“Sam?” Bobby yelled; the sound loud and crisp as it reverberated around the yard.
Pausing, Sam raised his head in the direction of the call. “Yeah, I’m coming,” he yelled in reply, hoping the quiver in his voice did not survive the distance.
Taking a steadying breath, he forced his legs to move again. His breath came in shallow pants now, his lungs torturing him for not heeding their warning to slow down, to stop. He wasn’t a stranger to pain, so he pushed forward regardless, one foot in front of the other as he headed towards the house with grim determination. The last thing he needed was for Bobby or Dean to come searching for him, to start asking questions, to look too closely.
He didn’t want to be that extra weight added to Dean’s shoulders. His brother was broken, slowly self-destructing before his very eyes. Dean deserved the opportunity to grieve and heal without having Sam adding to his burdens.
-end-