Break Into a Thousand Pieces, PG13, Gen, Angst
(I wrote a wee something!)
With thanks to deirdre_c and mel_b_angel for encouraging my original kernel of an idea.
With *huge* thanks and much love to dotfic for thrashing this out with me, and providing a kick ass beta.
*****
Title: Break Into a Thousand Pieces
Genre: Gen, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Jess background
Words: 3872
Warnings: Language, ref to events of season three and therefore canon character death.
Summary: Sam’s life is seemingly perfect - he has Jess, he’s doing well in law school, he’s near a happy Mom and Dad. There’s no reason for him not to be satisfied. So why is he driven to shake his life to its foundations and who or what will stop him?
The scene unfolds before Sam as if he's looking on from afar. Mom laughs and pokes Dad in the chest and he staggers back as if he's taken a bullet. They speak in unison and Jess tosses her head back and laughs, either at the comment or the unity of it, or both. All three of them raise expectant eyes toward Sam and he gives an obedient grin in response. He mutters words that amuse his entire family.
Sam has no idea what he’s just said. The three of them are in front of him on a screen that he's watching in confused detachment. Someone's made a film of his life and he wants to scream that the editor got it all wrong.
Only it isn't wrong; it's just his life.
It feels impertinent to say that it isn't enough. It would be greedy to want anything more.
There's a hollow in his stomach that Sam doesn't remember forming. He can't remember a time without it eating away at him.
///
Sam pauses in front of the milk, blinking his eyes at the choices. So many choices, even for just milk. As always, he reaches for the fat free, like Jess wants. Hugging it close, he heads toward the counter.
The line is several people strong: a white-haired man also buying milk at the front; a young couple clutching candy and giggling; a harried woman in a business suit in front of Sam. She taps her foot, the loud clack on the floor thrumming through him.
He itches to tell her to stop it, to stomp on her foot and tell her how annoying it is, and he can't even manage a polite smile when she idles her gaze toward him.
Sam glares at her, hugs the milk closer and tries to get control of the anger that seems to be curling from his belly. He watches a kid scuffing his feet in the aisle and blowing nervously on his hands. The kid then darts a hand out, grabs a candy bar, tucks it up his sleeve and runs for the door, barely avoiding a man just walking in. Sam watches the kid run to his friends and wave the candy bar like a prize in front of him. They high five and run away down the street as if the law is after them.
The clerk at the counter doesn't even notice.
Sam's never stolen a candy bar. He's never so much as thought about it, always too afraid that Dad would find out and whup his ass for it. Sam stays this side of the line, peers across it, but never steps over it. Never even smudges it with his foot.
The hollow in his chest throbs, a secondary heartbeat sending shivers right through Sam, pounding along with that damn woman's foot. The impulse to smash spreads through him and he places the milk down, forms his hands into fists, then unfurls his fingers one by one. He tries to stop his breath from turning into pants, tries to keep himself from hyperventilating.
Sam leaves the line, grabs a bright red candy bar and without thinking heads straight for the door with it. His shoulder bashes into the guy who came in earlier, his thin t-shirt connecting with the guy’s thick leather jacket. The candy catapults out of his hand and careens to a stop next to a pile of corn chips bags on sale two for the price of one.
The guy gives Sam a bemused look. “Dude, you okay? You dropped something.” He reaches to pick up the candy, but doesn't hand it back. He tightens his hand around it, peers in close to look at Sam. “You don't look so good.”
“I…” Sam heads straight for the door. He drags the fresh air into his lungs, forcing it in with every breath, but it only turns the pain inside into a dull throb, it doesn't remove it.
///
Sam blinks at the glass in front of him, lifts it up and angles it toward the light. The remaining drops glow a lighter amber. Sam's head feels clear; the beer's barely affected him, barely dulled his senses.
He orders a tequila, ignores the lemon and salt, and instead opens his mouth, closes it entirely over the glass and knocks it back. The burn settles happily uncomfortably in his stomach underneath the dull throb.
Sam orders another, and a beer to take away the aftertaste. He eyes his watch, seeing the long hand noting several minutes going by before he registers the time. Jess will be home by now, full of gossip about her night out. Sam will tease her about bringing home the umbrellas from her drinks. Jess will tease him about drinking alone.
Sam should have called one of his friends, but they would’ve sent him home after a reasonable amount of time. They would’ve told him he'd had enough.
He orders another tequila, and two more after that. The barmaid goes off duty. It's an early night for her because the bar's completely empty and she leaves with a wiggle of her ass that Sam feels disloyal for watching but does anyway.
The now lone bartender's ignoring him. Sam clicks his fingers like some asshole would, does it again, and the bartender finally lifts his head. His fingers tap against his own glass, ring on his finger making a musical click. “You've had enough dude,” he says, then looks back to his glass.
“You should serve me, not give me your opinion.” Sam bites his lip and when it fails to hurt, bites harder. He taps an empty glass on the bar, bangs it again when the bartender pays no attention. “Hello?”
The bartender downs his drink, places his glass on the bar with a quiet tap and a sigh that Sam feels like he should recognize. “You’ve had enough.” He stalks up the bar, stops right in front of Sam and leans on the bar, arms tense. “You know, sometimes we feel like doing something fucking stupid, just to mess with the routine. Just to push the button and see what happens. Let the cards fall where they may.” The bartender straightens up and starts to clear away Sam’s empty glasses. “Don't be fucking stupid.”
Sam tries to stop the last glass from disappearing, but the bartender’s too fast for him. “Sam, time to go home.”
It's only when Sam's been manhandled into the cab that he wonders how the bartender knew his name.
///
There are times Sam is glad to be an only child, and times when he wishes he had someone other than his parents to talk to. This isn't something he can talk to Jess about. She'll blame herself, want to go on vacation or renovate the house or make him work less hours or worry if it's the sex.
There's nothing wrong with any of those things. There's only something wrong with Sam, and Sam has no idea how to fix it.
He drops in on Mom without warning. Her face creases immediately into a frown, and Sam curses himself for not being the type of son who drops by unexpectedly.
“Is anything wrong, Sammy?”
Sam traces a figure eight on the kitchen table with his finger. “I don't feel happy.” The words don't really fit; they're a poor alternative to the truth of what he's feeling. Sam presses hard on a scratch on the table. “No, it's not that.”
“What is it then? Is it Jess? Is something wrong?”
“It's not Jess. Or the house.” Sam starts up his figure eight again, smaller this time.
“Well what is it?” Mom places her hand over his, long fingers wrapping around his own, preventing them from moving. “Are you worried about your final year?”
“I don't know. I feel like…nothing is right. No.” Sam pulls his hand away. “Like I don't want everything to be right.”
“Sam…” Mom twists as Dad comes in.
“Sam? What's up?” Dad slings his bag onto the table and folds his arms; his suspicion already in place without having heard Sam say a word.
“Nothing.”
“Sam's not happy.” Mom's eyes are searching, her hand reaches out and Sam pushes his chair back to avoid it.
“Not happy? What have you got to not be happy about?” Dad comes around Sam's other side, the pair of them closing him in.
“Nothing,” Sam says dully. He stands and backs away. “It doesn't matter.”
“Sam. It does matter-”
“Mom it's fine. It's just a...a funk.” Sam wishes he could erase the worry from her eyes with just his words. He plants a kiss on her cheek and moves straight past her to the door. “I'd better get home to Jess.”
Dad follows him to his car.
“You know son-” Dad bites his lip. Sam freezes with his hand on his hood. He wants to leave and drive away; he doesn't want to get angry at whatever Dad is about to say. Dad clears his throat. “If there’s anything troubling you, you’ll come to me, right?”
Sam nods his agreement, but he knows it's a lie. He won’t mention it again.
///
Sam doesn't go home. He doesn't call Jess either, switches off his phone when it rings and happily hates himself for being a jackass. He wants to kick at sensible, thoughtful, kind Sam until he breaks into a million tiny pieces, until he's destroyed into rubble and squashed underfoot.
He finds a bar on the outskirts of town, one he wouldn't usually go in because it's filled with too many drivers just passing through, looking for trouble that they'll be miles away from before dawn.
He lets his attitude carry him through his nerves and through the door. Several tequilas later and Sam's congratulating himself on finding a bar without an annoying bartender. He bumps the shoulder of the guy next to him when he gets up to take a leak.
The guy bristles. “Watch it.”
Sam swallows down the apology. “You watch it.”
“What?” The guy stretches out his arms, cracks his knuckles in front of him. The noise doesn't stop Sam. He bunches his shoulders up, bounces lightly on his feet.
“I said,” Sam leans down so he's on the same level as the guy, “you watch it.”
The guy's fist connects with Sam's face, crunch of bone against his cheek, and a shooting pain spirals straight through Sam, igniting with the kindling in his stomach. The guy connects with his chin this time, sends Sam staggering backward into the barstool he's just vacated.
Sam steps forward, raises his arm in a fist, but a pair of hands seize his shoulders, dragging him back.
“Easy tiger. You don't wanna do that.” Sam struggles to get free, but the stranger's hands are strong, digging in firmly. “You,” the stranger says, cold and low, to the other guy. “Go, before I kick your ass.”
The guy hits one hand into the other, but whoever Sam's annoying savior is, they're scary enough that he staggers off.
Sam shakes off the strong hands holding him back and spins around. The man before him is familiar, but Sam can't place him. “Who are you?”
“Dude. You nearly got your head kicked in.” The stranger runs his hand through short, spiky hair, and glares at him from sharp, narrowing eyes. “You got a death wish or something?”
“Maybe,” Sam says.
“Chick leave ya? No, oh fuck, wait, did someone d-oh, shit. Shit, I’m sorry, man.” The stranger steps back. “You go home. It'll get better, I promise.”
It won't, Sam thinks, it won't. Whatever it is, it won't.
///
Jess doesn't like Sam hanging out with Luis. She makes that clear from the way her lips narrow and eyes crinkle, but she doesn't stop him.
That should worry Sam in itself, that Jess is so concerned about him she'll let him do whatever he likes, even hang out with Luis who is only ever the source of trouble and calls for Jess to pick him up from God knows where at three a.m.
Luis greets Sam with a loud cheer. “Been too long man!”
“I know!” Sam doesn't get the usual thrill that runs through him when he joins Luis for a night out. The thrill that says even though Sam knows this is a bad idea, this is the time he'll try a cigarette, or get drunk on Dad's liquor, or be brave enough to stick his tongue down a girl's throat. Anything exciting Sam has ever done, has been because of Luis.
A fear in the pit of Sam's stomach says that whatever Luis's plan is, it won't be enough.
“I thought we could act like we're eighteen again,” Luis says. “Old times.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we're off to Boesky's.”
Sam huffs out a laugh that's only part genuine. There's only one reason anyone goes to Boesky's and that's either to sell dope or to buy it. He goes along with the plan, wanders into the bar with Luis and stands by, on pretend guard when Luis buys what looks like a boatload of hash - more than just he and Sam need, that's for sure.
They're walking out of the bar, Luis chuckling like a kid, Sam laughing as if it's fun, as if the pain in his stomach that he doesn't understand isn't still slowly killing him, when a car screeches to a halt in front of them.
Luis drops the pot as if it's on fire, takes off toward his car, shouting at Sam to follow but not waiting for him. Sam's feet are rooted to the spot in the blinking red light. He waits for the cop to come toward him. An arrest won't go down well; not many lawyers with a drugs arrest on their resume. It's serious business. It's one of the foundation blocks of Sam's life dislodging and falling.
Sam stands and watches it tumble. He knows the cop; there's a name Sam wants to give him that swims to the surface of his brain then dips below again, lost.
“You,” the cop says. He pulls off his policeman’s hat, grins, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Dude, what gives?”
Sam's seen the guy before. Was he at the bar? No, maybe the fight. Fuck. Maybe none of them.
“I think we were about to get stoned, officer,” Sam says. It's too polite. He can't even get arrested right.
“I see that. You didn't answer my question. What's wrong?” The policeman puts both hands on his hips, stares down and toes the bag of pot, turns it over once, twice with his boot.
A million quips die on Sam's tongue. The guy's name rushes to the surface, then gets lost again. He's someone Sam knows. Or should know.
Any which way, Sam's responses die a death before he speaks them. He shakes his head numbly.
“Let me help.” The cop bends down, pockets the dope. He walks back toward his car, which isn't in police colors at all, Sam notices now, but is a shiny black. He wonders where the flashing lights went. The cop tosses his hat in through the open front window, then sits on the hood, not bothering to gesture for Sam to follow. Sam does so anyway, standing awkwardly next to the car, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“There's something wrong, and you don't know what.” The cop holds up the fingers of one hand, bends them down as he recites his list. “It's not that you're unhappy, but you feel destructive.” He shakes his head. “For some reason, only toward yourself.” He waggles the remaining finger and thumb. “Two left. Let's see. If you carry on like this, you'll destroy yourself. Oh, and none of this feels real.”
Sam shakes his head. That's ridiculous, he mouths, but doesn't say it. The words won't come out. Somehow this stranger's laid out Sam's thoughts, clearer than he could manage. The cop pushes up off the hood and gets in the car without arresting Sam.
Sam blinks, and he's standing in the middle of an empty road by himself, staring out at asphalt lit up by street light.
///
Sam turns off before he gets home, aims for the freeway and guns the car as fast as it will go. He drives with one hand, not caring that he's doing over a hundred, presses the button that winds the window down and wishes he had the kind of car where he had to do that by hand. He rests an elbow on the window, grips the wheel firmly with the other hand.
He speeds up until the car is vibrating underneath him, or the world is vibrating around him, colors becoming blurs as he whips past, as he takes bends too fast and struggles to keep the car under control.
Sam becomes aware of a black car alongside him, levelling with him, keeping up with him as he speeds along. The car blinks its lights, once, twice, three times.
A gut level inside Sam knows that's a signal to pull over; he's seen this car do it before but he doesn't know when. He grips the wheel tight with his hands, knuckles becoming taut and white, bone threatening to push out through them and snap with the effort of keeping the car straight.
He could let go. The feeling in his stomach might disappear. Sam might understand, in that moment when the car crashed into the tree, in the blinding twist and crush of metal, and the speeding flash of his life in front of his eyes, what's going on.
The car blinks again. Once, twice, three times. Sam pulls over, parking haphazardly by the side of the road.
The owner of the other car slams his car door, and he's yelling and shouting words that Sam can't hear. Sam struggles to get out of the car, adrenaline making his legs shake and fumble underneath him as he steps onto the muddy ground.
“Sam! What the fuck were you doing?” The guy comes level with him, and Sam knows him, he's sure of it.
“Dean.” The syllable pops out of him, out of nowhere, the knowledge of Dean hitting him like a ton weight, sending him sprawling over backward onto the ground, squeezing his heart until he thinks it will burst.
“Yeah, damn straight.” Dean stands over him, clenching his fists. “What am I doing saving your ass?”
“What are you? What the hell is--” Sam rubs his head, squeezes his eyes tight and struggles to remember, to understand. Dean, his brother. Dean who’s saved him time and again. Dean who sat next to him in that black car. Dean, who-- “You're dead.” Sam sits up with an effort, fists sliding through the mud, not keeping purchase. “You're in hell. Am I in hell?”
“Does this look like hell to you?” Dean holds out a hand. Sam takes it, draws Dean into a hug without thinking, holding him close, barely stopping the tears from running down his cheeks because Dean is pulling away from him, struggling free. “Sam, you gotta focus. And not about me.”
“Not about--”
“How have you felt? Recently. Only not recently, the only time you've actually been here is recently. You just feel like you've lived here longer.”
“Right.” Sam stares into Dean' s eyes, wonders how he could have forgotten them. “Right, it's like a bad dream.”
“Right. And you gotta wake up from it Sam.” Dean hands grasp Sam's shoulders, give him an urgent shake. “Something in this dream's destroying you, or trying to make you do it to yourself. I'm worried about what happens what you get to that point.” Dean waves toward Sam's car. “You nearly have.”
“This can't be a dream.” Sam digs his thumb into Dean's side, makes Dean yell. “If it is, that means…”
“You're talking to yourself.” Dean winks. “I'm not here.”
“No,” Sam whispers. The hollow in his chest bursts open, and Sam feels like he's being dragged down into it, swallowed whole within it, losing all air. He struggles to stay upright.
“Sam. I don't know why you're seeing me. But it's your mind, figuring this out. Stopping yourself from... “ Dean lets go of Sam. “You got to wake up. You can't give in.”
“I don't want to.” The hollow gets wider. Sam could let go and spiral away, sag within himself and let the agony take over his entire body.
“I'm only in your head. I can be in your head anywhere.” Dean's voice is reasonable, level, quiet. Sam focuses on it. He feels like it's the only thing keeping him sane. The pain dies down; the ground feels steadier underneath Sam's feet. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You gotta go.”
The hollow shatters into pieces, shards falling apart inside Sam's chest, his breath returning to his body. He gasps deep breaths, fills his lungs with air, and the force of it snaps his eyes shut.
///
Sam flips his eyes open. He's on his back on the floor; he digs his nails down and scrabbles against concrete. He struggles for breath, to focus. Out of the corner of his eye the creature is moving. It will turn in a moment and notice Sam's awake. Sam's memories flood back, the world of his dream careering away from him by the second, racing away into the distant parts of his brain.
Sam struggles to his feet, barely making it upright before the creature turns. He looks wildly around and dives for Ruby's knife as the creature approaches, taking its hilt in shaking fingers.
The creature reaches out its claws, nearly gets to Sam's head but Sam plunges forward and plunges the knife into its chest. Once, twice, three times. He stabs until his hand is covered in thick black liquid and body parts are raining down on him, then he stabs it again for good measure, watches its heart fall out onto the ground in front of him.
The hollow in his stomach doesn't go anywhere.
///
Sam thumbs his cell as he drives away. Ten missed calls from Bobby, each more desperate than the last, culminating in, Dean wouldn't want you to hurt yourself boy. You gotta stop this. You have to call me. Don't be fucking stupid.
Sam throws the cell down onto the seat without calling back. He pulls the car up onto the side of the road, buries his face in his hands, sobs until he's rubbing red raw eyes and hiccuping into silence.
He pictures Dean's face, and its edges are starting to blur. Sam can do it without the hollow in his chest becoming so large it threatens to take him in. Someday, he'll struggle to remember Dean's voice, will have to take his time over it, search for specific phrases, like he has to with Dad's.
The thought of it threatens to engulf him, to drag him under, back into the hollow. Sam fights against it, allows the thought of Dean's voice to make him smile.
He pulls himself upright, starts up the car, and turns toward Bobby's.
//////
(Title corrupted from quote by Flavia Weedn: “If one dream should fall and break into a thousand pieces, never be afraid to pick one of those pieces up and begin again.”)
*
Feedback is love
With thanks to deirdre_c and mel_b_angel for encouraging my original kernel of an idea.
With *huge* thanks and much love to dotfic for thrashing this out with me, and providing a kick ass beta.
*****
Title: Break Into a Thousand Pieces
Genre: Gen, Angst
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Jess background
Words: 3872
Warnings: Language, ref to events of season three and therefore canon character death.
Summary: Sam’s life is seemingly perfect - he has Jess, he’s doing well in law school, he’s near a happy Mom and Dad. There’s no reason for him not to be satisfied. So why is he driven to shake his life to its foundations and who or what will stop him?
The scene unfolds before Sam as if he's looking on from afar. Mom laughs and pokes Dad in the chest and he staggers back as if he's taken a bullet. They speak in unison and Jess tosses her head back and laughs, either at the comment or the unity of it, or both. All three of them raise expectant eyes toward Sam and he gives an obedient grin in response. He mutters words that amuse his entire family.
Sam has no idea what he’s just said. The three of them are in front of him on a screen that he's watching in confused detachment. Someone's made a film of his life and he wants to scream that the editor got it all wrong.
Only it isn't wrong; it's just his life.
It feels impertinent to say that it isn't enough. It would be greedy to want anything more.
There's a hollow in his stomach that Sam doesn't remember forming. He can't remember a time without it eating away at him.
///
Sam pauses in front of the milk, blinking his eyes at the choices. So many choices, even for just milk. As always, he reaches for the fat free, like Jess wants. Hugging it close, he heads toward the counter.
The line is several people strong: a white-haired man also buying milk at the front; a young couple clutching candy and giggling; a harried woman in a business suit in front of Sam. She taps her foot, the loud clack on the floor thrumming through him.
He itches to tell her to stop it, to stomp on her foot and tell her how annoying it is, and he can't even manage a polite smile when she idles her gaze toward him.
Sam glares at her, hugs the milk closer and tries to get control of the anger that seems to be curling from his belly. He watches a kid scuffing his feet in the aisle and blowing nervously on his hands. The kid then darts a hand out, grabs a candy bar, tucks it up his sleeve and runs for the door, barely avoiding a man just walking in. Sam watches the kid run to his friends and wave the candy bar like a prize in front of him. They high five and run away down the street as if the law is after them.
The clerk at the counter doesn't even notice.
Sam's never stolen a candy bar. He's never so much as thought about it, always too afraid that Dad would find out and whup his ass for it. Sam stays this side of the line, peers across it, but never steps over it. Never even smudges it with his foot.
The hollow in his chest throbs, a secondary heartbeat sending shivers right through Sam, pounding along with that damn woman's foot. The impulse to smash spreads through him and he places the milk down, forms his hands into fists, then unfurls his fingers one by one. He tries to stop his breath from turning into pants, tries to keep himself from hyperventilating.
Sam leaves the line, grabs a bright red candy bar and without thinking heads straight for the door with it. His shoulder bashes into the guy who came in earlier, his thin t-shirt connecting with the guy’s thick leather jacket. The candy catapults out of his hand and careens to a stop next to a pile of corn chips bags on sale two for the price of one.
The guy gives Sam a bemused look. “Dude, you okay? You dropped something.” He reaches to pick up the candy, but doesn't hand it back. He tightens his hand around it, peers in close to look at Sam. “You don't look so good.”
“I…” Sam heads straight for the door. He drags the fresh air into his lungs, forcing it in with every breath, but it only turns the pain inside into a dull throb, it doesn't remove it.
///
Sam blinks at the glass in front of him, lifts it up and angles it toward the light. The remaining drops glow a lighter amber. Sam's head feels clear; the beer's barely affected him, barely dulled his senses.
He orders a tequila, ignores the lemon and salt, and instead opens his mouth, closes it entirely over the glass and knocks it back. The burn settles happily uncomfortably in his stomach underneath the dull throb.
Sam orders another, and a beer to take away the aftertaste. He eyes his watch, seeing the long hand noting several minutes going by before he registers the time. Jess will be home by now, full of gossip about her night out. Sam will tease her about bringing home the umbrellas from her drinks. Jess will tease him about drinking alone.
Sam should have called one of his friends, but they would’ve sent him home after a reasonable amount of time. They would’ve told him he'd had enough.
He orders another tequila, and two more after that. The barmaid goes off duty. It's an early night for her because the bar's completely empty and she leaves with a wiggle of her ass that Sam feels disloyal for watching but does anyway.
The now lone bartender's ignoring him. Sam clicks his fingers like some asshole would, does it again, and the bartender finally lifts his head. His fingers tap against his own glass, ring on his finger making a musical click. “You've had enough dude,” he says, then looks back to his glass.
“You should serve me, not give me your opinion.” Sam bites his lip and when it fails to hurt, bites harder. He taps an empty glass on the bar, bangs it again when the bartender pays no attention. “Hello?”
The bartender downs his drink, places his glass on the bar with a quiet tap and a sigh that Sam feels like he should recognize. “You’ve had enough.” He stalks up the bar, stops right in front of Sam and leans on the bar, arms tense. “You know, sometimes we feel like doing something fucking stupid, just to mess with the routine. Just to push the button and see what happens. Let the cards fall where they may.” The bartender straightens up and starts to clear away Sam’s empty glasses. “Don't be fucking stupid.”
Sam tries to stop the last glass from disappearing, but the bartender’s too fast for him. “Sam, time to go home.”
It's only when Sam's been manhandled into the cab that he wonders how the bartender knew his name.
///
There are times Sam is glad to be an only child, and times when he wishes he had someone other than his parents to talk to. This isn't something he can talk to Jess about. She'll blame herself, want to go on vacation or renovate the house or make him work less hours or worry if it's the sex.
There's nothing wrong with any of those things. There's only something wrong with Sam, and Sam has no idea how to fix it.
He drops in on Mom without warning. Her face creases immediately into a frown, and Sam curses himself for not being the type of son who drops by unexpectedly.
“Is anything wrong, Sammy?”
Sam traces a figure eight on the kitchen table with his finger. “I don't feel happy.” The words don't really fit; they're a poor alternative to the truth of what he's feeling. Sam presses hard on a scratch on the table. “No, it's not that.”
“What is it then? Is it Jess? Is something wrong?”
“It's not Jess. Or the house.” Sam starts up his figure eight again, smaller this time.
“Well what is it?” Mom places her hand over his, long fingers wrapping around his own, preventing them from moving. “Are you worried about your final year?”
“I don't know. I feel like…nothing is right. No.” Sam pulls his hand away. “Like I don't want everything to be right.”
“Sam…” Mom twists as Dad comes in.
“Sam? What's up?” Dad slings his bag onto the table and folds his arms; his suspicion already in place without having heard Sam say a word.
“Nothing.”
“Sam's not happy.” Mom's eyes are searching, her hand reaches out and Sam pushes his chair back to avoid it.
“Not happy? What have you got to not be happy about?” Dad comes around Sam's other side, the pair of them closing him in.
“Nothing,” Sam says dully. He stands and backs away. “It doesn't matter.”
“Sam. It does matter-”
“Mom it's fine. It's just a...a funk.” Sam wishes he could erase the worry from her eyes with just his words. He plants a kiss on her cheek and moves straight past her to the door. “I'd better get home to Jess.”
Dad follows him to his car.
“You know son-” Dad bites his lip. Sam freezes with his hand on his hood. He wants to leave and drive away; he doesn't want to get angry at whatever Dad is about to say. Dad clears his throat. “If there’s anything troubling you, you’ll come to me, right?”
Sam nods his agreement, but he knows it's a lie. He won’t mention it again.
///
Sam doesn't go home. He doesn't call Jess either, switches off his phone when it rings and happily hates himself for being a jackass. He wants to kick at sensible, thoughtful, kind Sam until he breaks into a million tiny pieces, until he's destroyed into rubble and squashed underfoot.
He finds a bar on the outskirts of town, one he wouldn't usually go in because it's filled with too many drivers just passing through, looking for trouble that they'll be miles away from before dawn.
He lets his attitude carry him through his nerves and through the door. Several tequilas later and Sam's congratulating himself on finding a bar without an annoying bartender. He bumps the shoulder of the guy next to him when he gets up to take a leak.
The guy bristles. “Watch it.”
Sam swallows down the apology. “You watch it.”
“What?” The guy stretches out his arms, cracks his knuckles in front of him. The noise doesn't stop Sam. He bunches his shoulders up, bounces lightly on his feet.
“I said,” Sam leans down so he's on the same level as the guy, “you watch it.”
The guy's fist connects with Sam's face, crunch of bone against his cheek, and a shooting pain spirals straight through Sam, igniting with the kindling in his stomach. The guy connects with his chin this time, sends Sam staggering backward into the barstool he's just vacated.
Sam steps forward, raises his arm in a fist, but a pair of hands seize his shoulders, dragging him back.
“Easy tiger. You don't wanna do that.” Sam struggles to get free, but the stranger's hands are strong, digging in firmly. “You,” the stranger says, cold and low, to the other guy. “Go, before I kick your ass.”
The guy hits one hand into the other, but whoever Sam's annoying savior is, they're scary enough that he staggers off.
Sam shakes off the strong hands holding him back and spins around. The man before him is familiar, but Sam can't place him. “Who are you?”
“Dude. You nearly got your head kicked in.” The stranger runs his hand through short, spiky hair, and glares at him from sharp, narrowing eyes. “You got a death wish or something?”
“Maybe,” Sam says.
“Chick leave ya? No, oh fuck, wait, did someone d-oh, shit. Shit, I’m sorry, man.” The stranger steps back. “You go home. It'll get better, I promise.”
It won't, Sam thinks, it won't. Whatever it is, it won't.
///
Jess doesn't like Sam hanging out with Luis. She makes that clear from the way her lips narrow and eyes crinkle, but she doesn't stop him.
That should worry Sam in itself, that Jess is so concerned about him she'll let him do whatever he likes, even hang out with Luis who is only ever the source of trouble and calls for Jess to pick him up from God knows where at three a.m.
Luis greets Sam with a loud cheer. “Been too long man!”
“I know!” Sam doesn't get the usual thrill that runs through him when he joins Luis for a night out. The thrill that says even though Sam knows this is a bad idea, this is the time he'll try a cigarette, or get drunk on Dad's liquor, or be brave enough to stick his tongue down a girl's throat. Anything exciting Sam has ever done, has been because of Luis.
A fear in the pit of Sam's stomach says that whatever Luis's plan is, it won't be enough.
“I thought we could act like we're eighteen again,” Luis says. “Old times.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, we're off to Boesky's.”
Sam huffs out a laugh that's only part genuine. There's only one reason anyone goes to Boesky's and that's either to sell dope or to buy it. He goes along with the plan, wanders into the bar with Luis and stands by, on pretend guard when Luis buys what looks like a boatload of hash - more than just he and Sam need, that's for sure.
They're walking out of the bar, Luis chuckling like a kid, Sam laughing as if it's fun, as if the pain in his stomach that he doesn't understand isn't still slowly killing him, when a car screeches to a halt in front of them.
Luis drops the pot as if it's on fire, takes off toward his car, shouting at Sam to follow but not waiting for him. Sam's feet are rooted to the spot in the blinking red light. He waits for the cop to come toward him. An arrest won't go down well; not many lawyers with a drugs arrest on their resume. It's serious business. It's one of the foundation blocks of Sam's life dislodging and falling.
Sam stands and watches it tumble. He knows the cop; there's a name Sam wants to give him that swims to the surface of his brain then dips below again, lost.
“You,” the cop says. He pulls off his policeman’s hat, grins, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. “Dude, what gives?”
Sam's seen the guy before. Was he at the bar? No, maybe the fight. Fuck. Maybe none of them.
“I think we were about to get stoned, officer,” Sam says. It's too polite. He can't even get arrested right.
“I see that. You didn't answer my question. What's wrong?” The policeman puts both hands on his hips, stares down and toes the bag of pot, turns it over once, twice with his boot.
A million quips die on Sam's tongue. The guy's name rushes to the surface, then gets lost again. He's someone Sam knows. Or should know.
Any which way, Sam's responses die a death before he speaks them. He shakes his head numbly.
“Let me help.” The cop bends down, pockets the dope. He walks back toward his car, which isn't in police colors at all, Sam notices now, but is a shiny black. He wonders where the flashing lights went. The cop tosses his hat in through the open front window, then sits on the hood, not bothering to gesture for Sam to follow. Sam does so anyway, standing awkwardly next to the car, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“There's something wrong, and you don't know what.” The cop holds up the fingers of one hand, bends them down as he recites his list. “It's not that you're unhappy, but you feel destructive.” He shakes his head. “For some reason, only toward yourself.” He waggles the remaining finger and thumb. “Two left. Let's see. If you carry on like this, you'll destroy yourself. Oh, and none of this feels real.”
Sam shakes his head. That's ridiculous, he mouths, but doesn't say it. The words won't come out. Somehow this stranger's laid out Sam's thoughts, clearer than he could manage. The cop pushes up off the hood and gets in the car without arresting Sam.
Sam blinks, and he's standing in the middle of an empty road by himself, staring out at asphalt lit up by street light.
///
Sam turns off before he gets home, aims for the freeway and guns the car as fast as it will go. He drives with one hand, not caring that he's doing over a hundred, presses the button that winds the window down and wishes he had the kind of car where he had to do that by hand. He rests an elbow on the window, grips the wheel firmly with the other hand.
He speeds up until the car is vibrating underneath him, or the world is vibrating around him, colors becoming blurs as he whips past, as he takes bends too fast and struggles to keep the car under control.
Sam becomes aware of a black car alongside him, levelling with him, keeping up with him as he speeds along. The car blinks its lights, once, twice, three times.
A gut level inside Sam knows that's a signal to pull over; he's seen this car do it before but he doesn't know when. He grips the wheel tight with his hands, knuckles becoming taut and white, bone threatening to push out through them and snap with the effort of keeping the car straight.
He could let go. The feeling in his stomach might disappear. Sam might understand, in that moment when the car crashed into the tree, in the blinding twist and crush of metal, and the speeding flash of his life in front of his eyes, what's going on.
The car blinks again. Once, twice, three times. Sam pulls over, parking haphazardly by the side of the road.
The owner of the other car slams his car door, and he's yelling and shouting words that Sam can't hear. Sam struggles to get out of the car, adrenaline making his legs shake and fumble underneath him as he steps onto the muddy ground.
“Sam! What the fuck were you doing?” The guy comes level with him, and Sam knows him, he's sure of it.
“Dean.” The syllable pops out of him, out of nowhere, the knowledge of Dean hitting him like a ton weight, sending him sprawling over backward onto the ground, squeezing his heart until he thinks it will burst.
“Yeah, damn straight.” Dean stands over him, clenching his fists. “What am I doing saving your ass?”
“What are you? What the hell is--” Sam rubs his head, squeezes his eyes tight and struggles to remember, to understand. Dean, his brother. Dean who’s saved him time and again. Dean who sat next to him in that black car. Dean, who-- “You're dead.” Sam sits up with an effort, fists sliding through the mud, not keeping purchase. “You're in hell. Am I in hell?”
“Does this look like hell to you?” Dean holds out a hand. Sam takes it, draws Dean into a hug without thinking, holding him close, barely stopping the tears from running down his cheeks because Dean is pulling away from him, struggling free. “Sam, you gotta focus. And not about me.”
“Not about--”
“How have you felt? Recently. Only not recently, the only time you've actually been here is recently. You just feel like you've lived here longer.”
“Right.” Sam stares into Dean' s eyes, wonders how he could have forgotten them. “Right, it's like a bad dream.”
“Right. And you gotta wake up from it Sam.” Dean hands grasp Sam's shoulders, give him an urgent shake. “Something in this dream's destroying you, or trying to make you do it to yourself. I'm worried about what happens what you get to that point.” Dean waves toward Sam's car. “You nearly have.”
“This can't be a dream.” Sam digs his thumb into Dean's side, makes Dean yell. “If it is, that means…”
“You're talking to yourself.” Dean winks. “I'm not here.”
“No,” Sam whispers. The hollow in his chest bursts open, and Sam feels like he's being dragged down into it, swallowed whole within it, losing all air. He struggles to stay upright.
“Sam. I don't know why you're seeing me. But it's your mind, figuring this out. Stopping yourself from... “ Dean lets go of Sam. “You got to wake up. You can't give in.”
“I don't want to.” The hollow gets wider. Sam could let go and spiral away, sag within himself and let the agony take over his entire body.
“I'm only in your head. I can be in your head anywhere.” Dean's voice is reasonable, level, quiet. Sam focuses on it. He feels like it's the only thing keeping him sane. The pain dies down; the ground feels steadier underneath Sam's feet. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“You gotta go.”
The hollow shatters into pieces, shards falling apart inside Sam's chest, his breath returning to his body. He gasps deep breaths, fills his lungs with air, and the force of it snaps his eyes shut.
///
Sam flips his eyes open. He's on his back on the floor; he digs his nails down and scrabbles against concrete. He struggles for breath, to focus. Out of the corner of his eye the creature is moving. It will turn in a moment and notice Sam's awake. Sam's memories flood back, the world of his dream careering away from him by the second, racing away into the distant parts of his brain.
Sam struggles to his feet, barely making it upright before the creature turns. He looks wildly around and dives for Ruby's knife as the creature approaches, taking its hilt in shaking fingers.
The creature reaches out its claws, nearly gets to Sam's head but Sam plunges forward and plunges the knife into its chest. Once, twice, three times. He stabs until his hand is covered in thick black liquid and body parts are raining down on him, then he stabs it again for good measure, watches its heart fall out onto the ground in front of him.
The hollow in his stomach doesn't go anywhere.
///
Sam thumbs his cell as he drives away. Ten missed calls from Bobby, each more desperate than the last, culminating in, Dean wouldn't want you to hurt yourself boy. You gotta stop this. You have to call me. Don't be fucking stupid.
Sam throws the cell down onto the seat without calling back. He pulls the car up onto the side of the road, buries his face in his hands, sobs until he's rubbing red raw eyes and hiccuping into silence.
He pictures Dean's face, and its edges are starting to blur. Sam can do it without the hollow in his chest becoming so large it threatens to take him in. Someday, he'll struggle to remember Dean's voice, will have to take his time over it, search for specific phrases, like he has to with Dad's.
The thought of it threatens to engulf him, to drag him under, back into the hollow. Sam fights against it, allows the thought of Dean's voice to make him smile.
He pulls himself upright, starts up the car, and turns toward Bobby's.
//////
(Title corrupted from quote by Flavia Weedn: “If one dream should fall and break into a thousand pieces, never be afraid to pick one of those pieces up and begin again.”)
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