FIC POST: "Dear Darkness" part 3A/6 (Supernatural)
Title: Dear Darkness
[ PART 1][ PART 2]
Author: Sara (flowrs4ophelia)
Characters & Pairings: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Balthazar (briefly), Bobby
Rating: hard R
Summary: With a little support from Cas that comes in a strange form, Sam may be able to keep his memories of the cage suppressed. But everything his soulless self lived through are memories he's now stuck with, including some things Dean wasn't prepared for him to have to find out about.
When Dean gets up in the morning, he can hear that Sam is in the shower upstairs. There's a note in the kitchen from Bobby informing them where he went, how long he expects to be gone, and a message he should pass on to "that dipshit Rivera with a 'fuck you'" if he calls, which makes Dean smirk and shake his head while he looks in the fridge to get some eggs. It's looking to be a low-key kind of day.
After he gets something in his stomach, he finds a yawning Sam folding his blankets on the couch and putting them to the side with the pillow. Quiet and not completely awake, they only nod to each other in acknowledgement at first and then both take a seat on the couch after a while, lounging comfortably with their elbows rested on the back and their knees spread out.
"Bobby's still out?" Sam assumes.
Dean nods. He picks at a loose thread on the back of the couch, something tapping at his thoughts. "So Sam...How are you doing?"
He looks a little surprised by the question. "Haven't we kind of talked about this?"
"Sure, kind of. Look, I know you're obviously handling all of this considerably well, but still...Just because you promised me it'll be okay doesn't mean you're okay, just like that. It doesn't mean you have to tell me everything's fine just so I won't be worried."
Sam thinks about it a moment, then shrugs. "So far there are good days and bad days. Yeah, sometimes it's really, really tempting to pay more attention to this thing in my mind and what I know is behind it than I know I should. I can just feel that it's an obstruction and it's not supposed to be there, like a...It's like feeling a rock in my shoe and having to keep ignoring that it's there instead of trying to dig it out or even moving it or touching it, except it's a really big rock in my damn head. It seems to be worse at moments when my mind's idle, so I've come up with this whole thought process that kind of helps in those moments, but I'm already getting really sick of going through it again and again...Whatever works, though. I'll make it work. I already beat the devil, didn't I? This is just another kind of wrestling match inside my noggin."
"Okay..." Dean doesn't necessarily seem unconvinced by anything Sam just said, but he's looking close at him as if trying to see something more, thinking he still hasn't hit the bottom. "What else?" he says, a little quiet now.
Sam looks away from his eyes, rubbing his hands together. So he isn't just asking about the 'W' word. There is more, but Sam is pretty sure some of the other things still bothering him sometimes aren't anything Dean is ready for them to bring up, and the rest is just so hard to articulate he hardly knows where to start.
"Thing is...I, um..." Sam pats his palms down on his knees sort of uneasily. "I do have trouble sometimes, just with...being here. Almost like I'm just not supposed to be. I don't know if it's just the wall, or if that's just part of it, but so much of the time I feel really restless inside. But sometimes it's not so much an anxious kind of restless as just a tired kind. Like...I've forgotten something really important, and compared to that thing nothing right here matters, but instead of feeling like I need to do something, I feel like I need to...stop. As if doing anything at all is too much."
Not unexpectedly, hearing that makes Dean look a little disturbed, and surely only a little because of that concealing wall Dean's face can be whenever he wants. "I'm sure it'll be better when you can get out of this house," he says. "Get back to work and everything."
"I know, but even the idea of that...Just thinking about it makes me feel tired. Yeah, a good amount of the time I'm fine, and I feel good, and I feel like I want to be doing that. Then sometimes later I wonder if I'm only happy at times because this still doesn't really feel real in a way. It doesn't quite feel like I'm really here for good."
Dean is just shaking his head slowly. There isn't really much to say; it's obvious what Sam is saying really means, and that Sam knows how crazy it is and really can't help it. "Why do you think you would feel that way? Why wouldn't you want to be here?"
"I don't know. It's just that...everything from before I died is easy to remember, but it's almost like it's just an encyclopedia that other me still had. Like I don't really remember anymore. Of course I want to and everything in my life still means to me what it's supposed to mean, but something in me just knows that for me that was longer than a lifetime ago. There's an entire other existence separating me from my life, and having no memory of that time just means that I'm practically starting over from nothing. Which is really hard when I feel so worn-out, down to the core. In some way I know I'm not the same person I was before dying, and I feel old. I guess I just got used to the idea that you don't get second chances, never ones that are completely worth the cost, and...as hard as I'm trying, deep down, I'm not sure I know how to really believe in this. In having a second chance here."
Dean closes his eyes and rubs at his temple for a moment, sighing heavily. "Sam. You saved the whole human race by throwing yourself into Hell, and you feel like that's just the way it was meant to end? What the hell kind of an ending is that?"
"Come on, it's not like you've ever been one to buy the idea of any of the good we do coming back to us. That's never been the reason we do what we do. We've even been so lucky as to get a sneak peak of Heaven so we know for a fact we can look forward to it being a little lame."
"All true," Dean says dryly.
"Think about it-Yeah, we came through with stopping Lucifer, but then again we were the only ones who could actually do anything. And maybe we've been important in a certain way to those in touch with Heaven and Hell's shit lists and prophecy and all. But do we deserve to get brought back from the dead any more than the good ordinary people who die all the time? Sure, you're glad I'm back so it's easy for you to think about it positively, but no matter what this is still sort of messed up. It's not that I'm blaming you, man, I said it's okay. If you could have asked my opinion, I think I would have told you to make the same choice given such a crappy ultimatum, and as far as I'm concerned none of this is your fault. I just...well, you asked, so..."
He nods with a grim, accepting look. "I did." He sighs again, looks to the side and directly meets his eyes. "Listen, I get it. But just because it's true that people don't necessarily get what's coming to them, and that may not be why you're back, that doesn't mean you don't deserve the break. You know that, don't you?"
Sam goes silent for a long time. He rests his back against the couch again as something seems to sink in him. "I'm sure if I remembered Hell I'd appreciate the difference more," he starts slowly, "but life...It's tough to imagine anything harder than that. Jumping into the cage was terrifying and harder to do than I can even describe, but in a way it was also easy, after the things I'd done. Easier than any other means of redemption. Dying like a hero is one thing, but I can't help doubting if I can really be any kind of a hero anymore."
Dean shakes his head again, this time just with a look of disbelief. "Join the club, dickweed," he says. "Who needs to be a hero anyway? Maybe there aren't any real ones. When you're saving the world all the time, seeing things that just hearing about would make most people's hair curl, you're bound to develop some issues, after all. Unless you're a soulless robot, basically. We've been through bigger shit than even most other hunters can imagine, so our screw-ups are bigger. But if you really believe we aren't special and important, you got to stop thinking like your mistakes are so important they can't even be forgiven and put behind you. And hey..." He nudges him with his elbow and sort of half-heartedly mumbles his next words, not like he doesn't mean it, just like it's so easy and obvious. "No matter what, you're my fucking hero."
A slow, small smiles spreads across Sam's face. Then he just says with a light laugh, "Since when?"
"What does it matter?" Dean says nonchalantly, like he hasn't really given it much thought, as he gets up and heads back to the kitchen.
Sam stays sitting on the couch for a moment, suddenly nervous about something as he hears Dean starting to work on the dishes he just used to make himself breakfast. After considering it, he gets up and follows him into the kitchen, deciding to get this over with while the opportunity is as good as any.
"Uh. Dean." He leans back against the counter close to the sink, crossing his arms. "There's something else I have to talk to you about."
Seeing the serious look on his face, Dean turns off the running faucet. "Yeah?" he asks, drying his hands with a towel.
"I guess there's never going to be a good way to bring this up, but Bobby happened to mention something to me this morning about what you asked Castiel. About...what exactly it'll mean for me when I die now and everything?"
A deeply unsettled look gradually creeps into Dean's features as he sees where this might be going. "He heard some of that?" he just says. "Eavesdropping asshole..."
"Look, I'm sure everybody's been thinking it, even if we aren't bringing up the possibility. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have asked him about that otherwise."
"That was before I knew how well you'd be dealing with this," Dean says, "so I could...not have to worry about that part, at the very least. But thinking about you up in Heaven doesn't really do much for my worries now. Do we have to talk about this?"
"If you can't even talk about it, how are you going to deal with it if you have to?"
"Jesus, Sam. You're going to be fine!"
"Man, you know so much better by now than to resort to that bullshit with me. Now I told you I'm going to fight to get through this as hard as I can, but we don't even completely understand this wall thing and you know damn well I can't be completely sure what'll happen. I'm sorry, okay, but you really need to suck it up and listen to me here because your assurance that it's all going to be fine isn't going to help me any if this ever does turn out bad."
Dean draws in a forced breath, nodding and making himself turn toward Sam. "You're right. Sorry. Old habits die hard. But I mean...what good is it really going to do for us to discuss the plan B here? Can't you just trust me to cross that bridge if we get there?"
"It's just that I know you, Dean. And not that you shouldn't get a lot of credit for some obvious improvement in the area during the year I was dead, but you don't really have the best record of being able to say when it's time to quit and move on. Bobby's kind of scared to think how you'd deal with it, too. He told me the gist he caught of what Cas said, and...he's right, you know. If I don't survive it could destroy you, one way or another, but especially if you don't go about it right. If you end up just prolonging all of it, for one thing, so that you have to remember me that way. Desperately hanging onto whatever mess is left of me and trying to find any way to make me the least bit better before giving up, just putting off what has to be done, is only going to make it worse in the end. I'm thinking if there's a definite plan just in case it'll kind of be easier, like-"
"No, I...I wouldn't let it get like that," Dean says uncomfortably. But there's a vague shadow of doubt on his face, like he's starting to wonder if he does need to face the idea of this directly, and Sam knows he was right to bring this up. Whatever he wants to think he would do and what he would really do when faced with that situation and possibly too emotional to be reasoned with could be different things.
"I wouldn't be selfish like that, I'd take care of it," he finally finishes, almost like he's telling it to himself.
"No, Dean, that's what I'm trying to...I need you to promise me you won't," Sam says.
Dean could be knocked over with a feather. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out right away. It's obviously the last thing he expected to hear.
"Sam, it's okay," Dean finally manages to say. "If it comes to that, I can do it."
"I don't want you to. Not if it's you, understand? I can't ask that."
"Am I supposed to just let you suffer?" Dean is talking louder, a faint outline of something almost like panic creeping into his eyes. "Or put it on Bobby or somebody else to do it like some sorry coward? Assuming Bobby's even still around by that time if it does happen. No, that wouldn't be right, man."
"It wasn't right when Dad said you might have to, you said so yourself. Or when the angels kept trying to tell you it was your job to resolve the apocalypse by killing me. It was messed up, and it's still not right to expect that of you, and I don't ever want it happening."
"This is completely different! This is something you do for someone if you really have to and you can put yourself aside enough to let go. I can handle it. You did the same thing for Madison, as hard as that was, didn't you?"
Sam is ready for that-it isn't like the memory hasn't crossed his mind already-though it lands on his ears sounding like an almost ridiculously weak comparison. He'd only known Madison for a couple days, had only just started loving her, and still having to kill her was so unbelievably difficult and painful that to him the thought of it only strengthens his point.
"Yes, I shot her," he says back easily, but slowly and with some delicacy, "because she was scared, and it was the least I could do to help her and be there for her in her very last moments. If this thing breaks down, and it's as bad as we know it could be, there won't be anything in the world that will be of any significant comfort to me. If I'm practically like a lobotomized and excruciatingly injured animal that can't do anything for itself, it won't make any difference to me how it happens."
"But it would have to be on somebody to do it, and I'm the one who got us in this anyway. Maybe I was trying to make the best of a crap situation like you said, but still, I made the choice to get you back up here in your body when I knew-"
"God dammit, Dean!" Sam says with sudden frustration. "You are not responsible for me! Don't you get that?"
It finally seems to get through and hit something at the right spot. For a strange, very brief instant, it feels almost like they're talking about something completely different.
Dean looks away with a resigned sigh, his posture sinking a little. "Yeah," he says, his voice still a little unsteady. "Yeah, I know. But...it's not going to be any easier for Bobby, especially when he's already had to go through this with his wife, you know, twice, and I just don't know-"
"No, not Bobby either," Sam agrees, shaking his head. "Cas."
Dean looks at him almost like he took it as a joke. "What? Cas? Why him?"
"Why do you think?" Sam's mouth curves in the slightest wry smile. "Because he's a cold and emotionless dick."
Dean returns the expression, if reluctantly, recognizing the hidden fondness in the words like they're actually a compliment in this context. "Give me a break," he says, starting to loosen up a little, "for an angel he's a total softie and you know it."
"But he could do this and live with it. It wouldn't be asking too much of him. It could be neat, quick, painless. And it seems like God isn't ever going to let that poor bastard die for good, so he's a reliable contact who should still be around for quite a while."
Dean is starting to look a little like he doesn't entirely regret having to address all of this out loud. He runs a hand along the edge of the counter, knocks his knuckles on it once, and then stops avoiding eye contact with him. "Fine...You got it."
Sam gives a small nod. "Thanks."
Dean also nods and then turns to the sink again, getting back to the dishes.
"If things don't work out, I just...I want you to be able to move on again, Dean," Sam says, probably barely audible over the running water. "I don't want you to have to remember killing me. I want you to remember carrying out my wishes, kind of like I'm still there. 'Cause I will be. You know, somewhere."
Dean looks up at him as he rinses a glass. "Save me a seat at your lame Thanksgiving?" he asks, very light-heartedly, but softly.
He smiles. "That's not where I'll be."
Sam has no idea what his Heaven could be like come the next round, but that much he is able to say with no doubt. Some parts have surely become too non-essential to his soul for them to have been preserved all this time, and over the hundred years in the dark he doubts the meaning of that memory would have stuck nearly as stubbornly as other things.
Heaven is probably only so disappointing because of how limited the human imagination is, how shallow and insignificant most of the things people think they want are. Maybe he can choose not to think of his life as that special but still entertain the notion that his Heaven will be somewhat of a special one, a paradise for someone who can actually let go of life and all that makes it safely stable and familiar but also knows that nothing can really follow up the act. His little corner of Heaven should have a hell of a time making itself into something that can impress him.
The day after Sam's twentieth birthday, he was woken up by his cellphone ringing.
He stirred and pulled the blanket off of him, rubbing at one eye, then froze. He looked around the room and saw he was alone.
His phone was just within reach on the desk, and with an undefined lingering hope he leaned over to grab it. When he looked at the caller ID, he went still again, frowning. Making a quick decision, he flipped the phone open and put it to his ear, rubbing at his throbbing head.
"Hey, Jessica," he said.
They were still only friends at that time. Just about everyone who knew both Sam and Jess had started dropping giant hints that they would be great together, and he was fairly interested but didn't quite feel like he really knew her yet. He had never even spent any time alone with her, but this phone call would end up being the longest conversation they'd had at this point, the one he would look back on and see as the one that actually started everything.
"Hi, Sam," her voice answered brightly. "This is late and really lame, but happy birthday. I totally meant to call you yesterday since I couldn't make it to your thing, but things got kind of crazy at work and then I forgot about everything."
"Oh, thanks. And it's okay, we..." His voice trailed off for a moment as he saw his shoes sitting on the floor, set neatly together. He was pretty sure he hadn't kicked them off last night; they only could have been removed and then placed there that way. He cleared his throat. "We cancelled those plans anyway. I did something else."
There was a pause of silence. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked, like she heard something off in his voice.
He closed his eyes and held the phone away for a second so she wouldn't hear him taking a deep, slightly shaky breath. Then, "Yeah, fine. Long night, that's all."
She went quiet again for a moment, not convinced. "Sam, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. It's...stupid. Just family drama, you know..." It was as good a cover as any.
"Oh, I'm sorry. That sucks."
Of course she then asked if he wanted to talk about it, and he said no, that's okay, and instead asked what went so shitty at her job yesterday that it consumed so much of her day. They talked for over five minutes and then before letting her go, Sam said, "Listen, the guys said we could do dinner some other time since I cancelled on them, so you're still invited, if you want in."
"Yeah, definitely," she said easily. "You've got my number."
"Great. See you sometime soon then."
"Yeah. And I'm sorry your family ruined your birthday."
He let out an awkward laugh. "Oh, they didn't, I just kind of...ruined it for myself. Anyway...thanks for calling, Jess, it was really sweet of you."
"Sure. Bye, Sam."
And that was it. He didn't linger in the bed any longer after putting his phone back down, didn't stay still and think any more. He grabbed a change of clothes and went to go take a shower, thinking about what he would do today. He looked forward rather than back, thinking about Jessica and her sunny California smile and how maybe they'd do something else together after they got together with his small crowd of Stanford friends who weren't away for the summer, catch a late movie or something, just the two of them.
That was it, and then when he saw Dean again they never even spoke as if they'd ever seen each other during those four years. Still recovering from what happened to Jess for so long after they reconnected, Sam had no desires good or bad besides the need for revenge, and it was simple and uncomplicated. Brought together through all the horrific experiences that followed, he and Dean became brothers again, better ones than they'd ever been before. That was all they were anymore, and nothing happened. Nothing more.
Except he knows that isn't true.
There were the times people met them and assumed they were together, and they never acted like they took it seriously, but neither of them ever seemed to find it as funny as they should have been able to either. A common mistake that should have gotten more amusing the more it turned into a pattern, it was more like a bad joke they got sick of hearing again and again without even completely understanding the punchline.
There was the night he kept twisting and turning in bed and just couldn't get to sleep after over an hour, longer than Dean had even been in bed and judging by the slow pattern of his breathing he was already out. He felt close enough to tired that getting up to do anything would just get his body too active again and ruin it. It was his head that wasn't letting him relax, thinking too much about having both the law on their tail and apparently some hunters after him now and everything else that was always running through his thoughts lately.
After a while he let out a frustrated sigh, bringing an arm up under his head like a pillow and turning to the side, away from the direction of Dean's bed. He reached down into his boxers and started stroking himself idly, willing all his anxious thoughts to slip away, replaced with vague and lazily conjured images from his mental bank of stock material to get him off. It took a little while but soon enough he was getting really hard, losing himself in it in just the right way and breathing hard with his eyes closed.
Then he heard Dean shift slightly in his bed.
Sam opened his eyes and went still. He heard no more movement, but Dean's breathing now made it sound like he could be awake. How long had he been awake?
Whatever, Sam knew it would hardly make this the only thing they were unusually laid-back about due to growing up rarely knowing the luxury of privacy. Even if Dean had woken up for a moment, he probably didn't care and was already close to drifting back off to sleep. As he half-lucidly reasoned with himself about it, he had already continued lightly palming his cock, trying to keep quiet. He started to tug with a quicker and firmer hand, all thought liquidating again, yeah, yeah...
Then came the start of Dean's ragged breathing in the other bed, joining his. A repeated soft rustle like the sound of skin brushing against cloth.
Oh fuck.
The sudden palpable heat in the room quickly covered them as a clouding, maddening force, and before long Sam could tell they were both going at it with no restraint. Of course he never moved and looked over at him, of course they never acknowledged each other, but as they lay in their separate beds not facing each other and pretended they didn't hear each other or maybe they did but it wasn't like that, it felt almost as if the separation was non-existent. Sam's ears sharply took in every sound coming from behind him that he could catch over his own heavy breathing and it was almost like touching. After a while Dean's soft gasps of breath got faster and he let out a low and helpless, quickly cut-off moan; Sam bit his lip with a kind of agonizing and forced containment, feeling his cock now starting to leak with precome, and then despite his efforts he followed somewhat closely with a similar sound dragging out of his throat as if in response.
He turned his head to bury his mouth into the pillow the rest of the time, breathing into it hotly, muffling the choked sound he made as he came in his fist. For a while he stayed frozen as he was, not even moving to take his hand from his pants, as if he were asleep and had never been awake before at all. It was terribly difficult to force his head blank again with Dean shaking hard enough he could hear his bed twitching, with the way Sam heard his breath hold for a split second with a barely audible wince in his throat as he came and then fall out heavily. To calm down and finally fall asleep he told himself he would be able to forget all about this in the morning, and he did.
There was also the time they were stuck in northern Pennsylvania for over two weeks because they kept running into dead ends with their current investigation, and Dean kept saying they might be wrong about there being anything unusual going on here and maybe they should just take it easy and stop for a while. This was shortly after they'd resolved that case at the haunted motel where they saved the little girl, and Sam was burying himself in their work as restlessly as ever. Dean kept bringing up in ways he must have thought were subtle how they were such a short drive away from crossing into New York, as if he imagined finally going to see Sarah again might be what he needed to lighten up a little.
Mostly just to shut Dean up, he eventually agreed to take a break from working on the case for a night and go to a movie. He was so tired from spending most of the previous night doing research that he fell asleep in the middle of it. During the credits he was nudged awake with his head sagged against Dean's shoulder. The potent, easily recognizable smell of Dean's jacket made him jerk into movement, sitting up.
"My arm's been asleep for a good half hour, dude," Dean complained. His tone was cool and apathetic as usual, but there was something uncomfortable in his expression that turned Sam's throat dry.
"Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" he asked.
"You obviously needed the sleep," he said. "You so owe me one for this, though. People were staring."
"In a dark theatre?" he asked, more confused than doubtful.
That look came into his eyes again, and he seemed to regret saying that, like it gave something away. "You were kind of...murmuring a little," he said. "For a few seconds."
Well, great.
Sam got up without saying anything else about it except a curt "Sorry." No way did he even want to know what he might have said if it was anything coherent.
While they were walking back to the car, Dean let out a quiet sigh like all his worries were coming together at once. "Look, I'm not saying things aren't really screwed up right now, and maybe you're right that we're not going to be able to just run away from this life now that it's getting harder," he said. "But I don't think it's good for you to be completely losing touch with the normal world. If you're actually scared about turning evil somehow, as crazy as I think that is, then do you really think that's what's going to help you?"
"So what do you think I should do, Dean?" Sam asked with a shrug, stopping where they were in the parking lot to turn to him. "Go see the Grand Canyon? Go get laid? See Sarah again so I can just end up bringing her down with me, too?"
"You thinking that way is exactly what she didn't want! It would be good for to spend your time with somebody other than me, doing something besides this job. I get that it's easier for you to just concentrate on hunting, but you're working yourself so hard I don't even feel as easy about you going into anything dangerous in the kind of shape you're in."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said sarcastically. "I know what's good for me."
There was a brief silence between them as Sam turned to start walking again and Dean followed. Then he heard Dean mutter darkly under his breath, "Obviously not."
He whipped back around and his fist was flying toward Dean's face before he even realized he was that angry. But it seemed Dean had a point about his capability in his current overloaded and sleep-deprived condition; Dean only saw it coming and acted fast, catching his hand in an iron grip and swiftly striking back. His equally furious but more precisely landed punch hit Sam so hard he was knocked off his feet.
After he toppled to the ground and clutched the throbbing side of his face, he sat up breathing heavily and avoided looking up at Dean's face because he was so enraged and didn't think he could even control himself if he did. It felt like this had been some kind of quick challenge and fight for dominance and Dean had won, and that was just not fucking fair, but Dean was standing there rigid and prepared for him to get up and try again and he knew it was no use.
A few teenagers walking close by had stopped and were staring at them, murmuring to each other. He and Dean both glanced over at them awkwardly, and once they'd been noticed they looked back away and walked on. The outside distraction seemed to take them both out of the former moment, and when Sam finally looked up at Dean they were both calm, like they suddenly didn't really understand what had gotten into them and were too mentally exhausted to care. Without a word, Dean held out a hand to help him up off the ground, and then didn't even look at him again for at least the next twenty minutes.
Then there was all the time Dean was dead. The months he was left alone with all those pointless but unavoidable, pricking thoughts of everything that would never happen now. When after a while he learned to think of nothing at all whenever he jerked off in the shower, because although he could still feel some distant primal frustration and that was at least simpler to deal with than other things, it was like there was nothing in him anymore, nothing left in this world that could really touch him. It was always a numb experience, an ugly distraction from deeper and sharper feeling. But then once by the time he came, leaning his head against his forearm that was braced against the shower wall, he realized only then without having any idea why that he was sobbing through it. It had crept up on him while he thought his mind was far away from anything threatening, escalated unstoppably while he was still off his guard, and then as he stayed half-collapsed against the wall like that he couldn't stop. It was almost a couple months since Dean had died then, and this was the most he had cried yet in all that time.
And he did know why, though he desperately didn't want to. He didn't want to understand it only now, but loss is just such a son of a bitch that way, merciless in what it painfully brings to light too late by overwhelming the bereaved with the sense of this person who is gone. The idea of loving too much or in any kind of shameful way becomes absolutely ridiculous and impossible, incomprehensible like some very grown-up concept is to a child, at least for a time while the pain still hasn't become manageable yet. Sam was hardly unfamiliar with grief and he knew all that, yet there were times he was honestly afraid that it was never going to be manageable, not this one, that it should be getting a little easier by now but it just wasn't.
Maybe he gave into Ruby so easily because he was finally resigned to the knowledge of how fucked up he was and figured he couldn't be much worse for it. Part of him maybe wondered if it would feel anything like the wrongness of fucking his own brother, fucking a demon, and he sank into her like he was trying to dig away at his own core by peeking into the nature of utter evil. But of course it didn't truly bring him any closer to her and he was only left with a sense of the complete emptiness of her, as if she was such an immaterial void inside he could hardly even sully his own surface by touching her. Still nothing could touch or reach him anymore, and nothing he ate had any taste and every song on the radio sounded the same, until Dean would show up again at the door of his motel room one day good as new.
A lot has changed since then, and all those things are now the least of his crimes. All Sam's experiences and mistakes have only proven now that he is worse without him than with him, even if it might appear to others that they aren't necessarily happier with each other and they may just see it as something claustrophobic and growth-inhibiting and too intense, and they might not be entirely wrong. But he and Dean have gone all these years ignoring this hidden thing between them and it hasn't made their relationship any less of a tumultuous, insane, and gut-wrenching component of his life, and he's pretty sure nothing they do can ever truly change it. Rarely has anything else about his life ever been good for him anyway, but he can't quite regret that life as a whole. He was mostly thrown into everything in ways beyond his control, and now it's all just part of who he is, useless to complain about or fight against anymore.
Still there are lines that maybe can't be crossed, there are things like the wall that he has to accept will always be there in him and learn to live with without letting them destroy him, and not just because of Dean. Dean has always aggressively fought this, sometimes closed himself off from Sam in ways that could be practically cruel compared to any simple rejection, but of course it was never only him. Sam may have learned at some point not to feel so bad about wanting these things he shouldn't, but it isn't like he's ever been sure he could ever actually go there. Now that he knows too well that he can never be totally certain about trusting himself, the idea is possibly scarier than ever. There is no controlling this thing, no navigating it, predicting it, or ever understanding it.
Rest of part III...
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[ PART 1][ PART 2]
Author: Sara (flowrs4ophelia)
Characters & Pairings: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Balthazar (briefly), Bobby
Rating: hard R
Summary: With a little support from Cas that comes in a strange form, Sam may be able to keep his memories of the cage suppressed. But everything his soulless self lived through are memories he's now stuck with, including some things Dean wasn't prepared for him to have to find out about.
When Dean gets up in the morning, he can hear that Sam is in the shower upstairs. There's a note in the kitchen from Bobby informing them where he went, how long he expects to be gone, and a message he should pass on to "that dipshit Rivera with a 'fuck you'" if he calls, which makes Dean smirk and shake his head while he looks in the fridge to get some eggs. It's looking to be a low-key kind of day.
After he gets something in his stomach, he finds a yawning Sam folding his blankets on the couch and putting them to the side with the pillow. Quiet and not completely awake, they only nod to each other in acknowledgement at first and then both take a seat on the couch after a while, lounging comfortably with their elbows rested on the back and their knees spread out.
"Bobby's still out?" Sam assumes.
Dean nods. He picks at a loose thread on the back of the couch, something tapping at his thoughts. "So Sam...How are you doing?"
He looks a little surprised by the question. "Haven't we kind of talked about this?"
"Sure, kind of. Look, I know you're obviously handling all of this considerably well, but still...Just because you promised me it'll be okay doesn't mean you're okay, just like that. It doesn't mean you have to tell me everything's fine just so I won't be worried."
Sam thinks about it a moment, then shrugs. "So far there are good days and bad days. Yeah, sometimes it's really, really tempting to pay more attention to this thing in my mind and what I know is behind it than I know I should. I can just feel that it's an obstruction and it's not supposed to be there, like a...It's like feeling a rock in my shoe and having to keep ignoring that it's there instead of trying to dig it out or even moving it or touching it, except it's a really big rock in my damn head. It seems to be worse at moments when my mind's idle, so I've come up with this whole thought process that kind of helps in those moments, but I'm already getting really sick of going through it again and again...Whatever works, though. I'll make it work. I already beat the devil, didn't I? This is just another kind of wrestling match inside my noggin."
"Okay..." Dean doesn't necessarily seem unconvinced by anything Sam just said, but he's looking close at him as if trying to see something more, thinking he still hasn't hit the bottom. "What else?" he says, a little quiet now.
Sam looks away from his eyes, rubbing his hands together. So he isn't just asking about the 'W' word. There is more, but Sam is pretty sure some of the other things still bothering him sometimes aren't anything Dean is ready for them to bring up, and the rest is just so hard to articulate he hardly knows where to start.
"Thing is...I, um..." Sam pats his palms down on his knees sort of uneasily. "I do have trouble sometimes, just with...being here. Almost like I'm just not supposed to be. I don't know if it's just the wall, or if that's just part of it, but so much of the time I feel really restless inside. But sometimes it's not so much an anxious kind of restless as just a tired kind. Like...I've forgotten something really important, and compared to that thing nothing right here matters, but instead of feeling like I need to do something, I feel like I need to...stop. As if doing anything at all is too much."
Not unexpectedly, hearing that makes Dean look a little disturbed, and surely only a little because of that concealing wall Dean's face can be whenever he wants. "I'm sure it'll be better when you can get out of this house," he says. "Get back to work and everything."
"I know, but even the idea of that...Just thinking about it makes me feel tired. Yeah, a good amount of the time I'm fine, and I feel good, and I feel like I want to be doing that. Then sometimes later I wonder if I'm only happy at times because this still doesn't really feel real in a way. It doesn't quite feel like I'm really here for good."
Dean is just shaking his head slowly. There isn't really much to say; it's obvious what Sam is saying really means, and that Sam knows how crazy it is and really can't help it. "Why do you think you would feel that way? Why wouldn't you want to be here?"
"I don't know. It's just that...everything from before I died is easy to remember, but it's almost like it's just an encyclopedia that other me still had. Like I don't really remember anymore. Of course I want to and everything in my life still means to me what it's supposed to mean, but something in me just knows that for me that was longer than a lifetime ago. There's an entire other existence separating me from my life, and having no memory of that time just means that I'm practically starting over from nothing. Which is really hard when I feel so worn-out, down to the core. In some way I know I'm not the same person I was before dying, and I feel old. I guess I just got used to the idea that you don't get second chances, never ones that are completely worth the cost, and...as hard as I'm trying, deep down, I'm not sure I know how to really believe in this. In having a second chance here."
Dean closes his eyes and rubs at his temple for a moment, sighing heavily. "Sam. You saved the whole human race by throwing yourself into Hell, and you feel like that's just the way it was meant to end? What the hell kind of an ending is that?"
"Come on, it's not like you've ever been one to buy the idea of any of the good we do coming back to us. That's never been the reason we do what we do. We've even been so lucky as to get a sneak peak of Heaven so we know for a fact we can look forward to it being a little lame."
"All true," Dean says dryly.
"Think about it-Yeah, we came through with stopping Lucifer, but then again we were the only ones who could actually do anything. And maybe we've been important in a certain way to those in touch with Heaven and Hell's shit lists and prophecy and all. But do we deserve to get brought back from the dead any more than the good ordinary people who die all the time? Sure, you're glad I'm back so it's easy for you to think about it positively, but no matter what this is still sort of messed up. It's not that I'm blaming you, man, I said it's okay. If you could have asked my opinion, I think I would have told you to make the same choice given such a crappy ultimatum, and as far as I'm concerned none of this is your fault. I just...well, you asked, so..."
He nods with a grim, accepting look. "I did." He sighs again, looks to the side and directly meets his eyes. "Listen, I get it. But just because it's true that people don't necessarily get what's coming to them, and that may not be why you're back, that doesn't mean you don't deserve the break. You know that, don't you?"
Sam goes silent for a long time. He rests his back against the couch again as something seems to sink in him. "I'm sure if I remembered Hell I'd appreciate the difference more," he starts slowly, "but life...It's tough to imagine anything harder than that. Jumping into the cage was terrifying and harder to do than I can even describe, but in a way it was also easy, after the things I'd done. Easier than any other means of redemption. Dying like a hero is one thing, but I can't help doubting if I can really be any kind of a hero anymore."
Dean shakes his head again, this time just with a look of disbelief. "Join the club, dickweed," he says. "Who needs to be a hero anyway? Maybe there aren't any real ones. When you're saving the world all the time, seeing things that just hearing about would make most people's hair curl, you're bound to develop some issues, after all. Unless you're a soulless robot, basically. We've been through bigger shit than even most other hunters can imagine, so our screw-ups are bigger. But if you really believe we aren't special and important, you got to stop thinking like your mistakes are so important they can't even be forgiven and put behind you. And hey..." He nudges him with his elbow and sort of half-heartedly mumbles his next words, not like he doesn't mean it, just like it's so easy and obvious. "No matter what, you're my fucking hero."
A slow, small smiles spreads across Sam's face. Then he just says with a light laugh, "Since when?"
"What does it matter?" Dean says nonchalantly, like he hasn't really given it much thought, as he gets up and heads back to the kitchen.
Sam stays sitting on the couch for a moment, suddenly nervous about something as he hears Dean starting to work on the dishes he just used to make himself breakfast. After considering it, he gets up and follows him into the kitchen, deciding to get this over with while the opportunity is as good as any.
"Uh. Dean." He leans back against the counter close to the sink, crossing his arms. "There's something else I have to talk to you about."
Seeing the serious look on his face, Dean turns off the running faucet. "Yeah?" he asks, drying his hands with a towel.
"I guess there's never going to be a good way to bring this up, but Bobby happened to mention something to me this morning about what you asked Castiel. About...what exactly it'll mean for me when I die now and everything?"
A deeply unsettled look gradually creeps into Dean's features as he sees where this might be going. "He heard some of that?" he just says. "Eavesdropping asshole..."
"Look, I'm sure everybody's been thinking it, even if we aren't bringing up the possibility. I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have asked him about that otherwise."
"That was before I knew how well you'd be dealing with this," Dean says, "so I could...not have to worry about that part, at the very least. But thinking about you up in Heaven doesn't really do much for my worries now. Do we have to talk about this?"
"If you can't even talk about it, how are you going to deal with it if you have to?"
"Jesus, Sam. You're going to be fine!"
"Man, you know so much better by now than to resort to that bullshit with me. Now I told you I'm going to fight to get through this as hard as I can, but we don't even completely understand this wall thing and you know damn well I can't be completely sure what'll happen. I'm sorry, okay, but you really need to suck it up and listen to me here because your assurance that it's all going to be fine isn't going to help me any if this ever does turn out bad."
Dean draws in a forced breath, nodding and making himself turn toward Sam. "You're right. Sorry. Old habits die hard. But I mean...what good is it really going to do for us to discuss the plan B here? Can't you just trust me to cross that bridge if we get there?"
"It's just that I know you, Dean. And not that you shouldn't get a lot of credit for some obvious improvement in the area during the year I was dead, but you don't really have the best record of being able to say when it's time to quit and move on. Bobby's kind of scared to think how you'd deal with it, too. He told me the gist he caught of what Cas said, and...he's right, you know. If I don't survive it could destroy you, one way or another, but especially if you don't go about it right. If you end up just prolonging all of it, for one thing, so that you have to remember me that way. Desperately hanging onto whatever mess is left of me and trying to find any way to make me the least bit better before giving up, just putting off what has to be done, is only going to make it worse in the end. I'm thinking if there's a definite plan just in case it'll kind of be easier, like-"
"No, I...I wouldn't let it get like that," Dean says uncomfortably. But there's a vague shadow of doubt on his face, like he's starting to wonder if he does need to face the idea of this directly, and Sam knows he was right to bring this up. Whatever he wants to think he would do and what he would really do when faced with that situation and possibly too emotional to be reasoned with could be different things.
"I wouldn't be selfish like that, I'd take care of it," he finally finishes, almost like he's telling it to himself.
"No, Dean, that's what I'm trying to...I need you to promise me you won't," Sam says.
Dean could be knocked over with a feather. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out right away. It's obviously the last thing he expected to hear.
"Sam, it's okay," Dean finally manages to say. "If it comes to that, I can do it."
"I don't want you to. Not if it's you, understand? I can't ask that."
"Am I supposed to just let you suffer?" Dean is talking louder, a faint outline of something almost like panic creeping into his eyes. "Or put it on Bobby or somebody else to do it like some sorry coward? Assuming Bobby's even still around by that time if it does happen. No, that wouldn't be right, man."
"It wasn't right when Dad said you might have to, you said so yourself. Or when the angels kept trying to tell you it was your job to resolve the apocalypse by killing me. It was messed up, and it's still not right to expect that of you, and I don't ever want it happening."
"This is completely different! This is something you do for someone if you really have to and you can put yourself aside enough to let go. I can handle it. You did the same thing for Madison, as hard as that was, didn't you?"
Sam is ready for that-it isn't like the memory hasn't crossed his mind already-though it lands on his ears sounding like an almost ridiculously weak comparison. He'd only known Madison for a couple days, had only just started loving her, and still having to kill her was so unbelievably difficult and painful that to him the thought of it only strengthens his point.
"Yes, I shot her," he says back easily, but slowly and with some delicacy, "because she was scared, and it was the least I could do to help her and be there for her in her very last moments. If this thing breaks down, and it's as bad as we know it could be, there won't be anything in the world that will be of any significant comfort to me. If I'm practically like a lobotomized and excruciatingly injured animal that can't do anything for itself, it won't make any difference to me how it happens."
"But it would have to be on somebody to do it, and I'm the one who got us in this anyway. Maybe I was trying to make the best of a crap situation like you said, but still, I made the choice to get you back up here in your body when I knew-"
"God dammit, Dean!" Sam says with sudden frustration. "You are not responsible for me! Don't you get that?"
It finally seems to get through and hit something at the right spot. For a strange, very brief instant, it feels almost like they're talking about something completely different.
Dean looks away with a resigned sigh, his posture sinking a little. "Yeah," he says, his voice still a little unsteady. "Yeah, I know. But...it's not going to be any easier for Bobby, especially when he's already had to go through this with his wife, you know, twice, and I just don't know-"
"No, not Bobby either," Sam agrees, shaking his head. "Cas."
Dean looks at him almost like he took it as a joke. "What? Cas? Why him?"
"Why do you think?" Sam's mouth curves in the slightest wry smile. "Because he's a cold and emotionless dick."
Dean returns the expression, if reluctantly, recognizing the hidden fondness in the words like they're actually a compliment in this context. "Give me a break," he says, starting to loosen up a little, "for an angel he's a total softie and you know it."
"But he could do this and live with it. It wouldn't be asking too much of him. It could be neat, quick, painless. And it seems like God isn't ever going to let that poor bastard die for good, so he's a reliable contact who should still be around for quite a while."
Dean is starting to look a little like he doesn't entirely regret having to address all of this out loud. He runs a hand along the edge of the counter, knocks his knuckles on it once, and then stops avoiding eye contact with him. "Fine...You got it."
Sam gives a small nod. "Thanks."
Dean also nods and then turns to the sink again, getting back to the dishes.
"If things don't work out, I just...I want you to be able to move on again, Dean," Sam says, probably barely audible over the running water. "I don't want you to have to remember killing me. I want you to remember carrying out my wishes, kind of like I'm still there. 'Cause I will be. You know, somewhere."
Dean looks up at him as he rinses a glass. "Save me a seat at your lame Thanksgiving?" he asks, very light-heartedly, but softly.
He smiles. "That's not where I'll be."
Sam has no idea what his Heaven could be like come the next round, but that much he is able to say with no doubt. Some parts have surely become too non-essential to his soul for them to have been preserved all this time, and over the hundred years in the dark he doubts the meaning of that memory would have stuck nearly as stubbornly as other things.
Heaven is probably only so disappointing because of how limited the human imagination is, how shallow and insignificant most of the things people think they want are. Maybe he can choose not to think of his life as that special but still entertain the notion that his Heaven will be somewhat of a special one, a paradise for someone who can actually let go of life and all that makes it safely stable and familiar but also knows that nothing can really follow up the act. His little corner of Heaven should have a hell of a time making itself into something that can impress him.
The day after Sam's twentieth birthday, he was woken up by his cellphone ringing.
He stirred and pulled the blanket off of him, rubbing at one eye, then froze. He looked around the room and saw he was alone.
His phone was just within reach on the desk, and with an undefined lingering hope he leaned over to grab it. When he looked at the caller ID, he went still again, frowning. Making a quick decision, he flipped the phone open and put it to his ear, rubbing at his throbbing head.
"Hey, Jessica," he said.
They were still only friends at that time. Just about everyone who knew both Sam and Jess had started dropping giant hints that they would be great together, and he was fairly interested but didn't quite feel like he really knew her yet. He had never even spent any time alone with her, but this phone call would end up being the longest conversation they'd had at this point, the one he would look back on and see as the one that actually started everything.
"Hi, Sam," her voice answered brightly. "This is late and really lame, but happy birthday. I totally meant to call you yesterday since I couldn't make it to your thing, but things got kind of crazy at work and then I forgot about everything."
"Oh, thanks. And it's okay, we..." His voice trailed off for a moment as he saw his shoes sitting on the floor, set neatly together. He was pretty sure he hadn't kicked them off last night; they only could have been removed and then placed there that way. He cleared his throat. "We cancelled those plans anyway. I did something else."
There was a pause of silence. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked, like she heard something off in his voice.
He closed his eyes and held the phone away for a second so she wouldn't hear him taking a deep, slightly shaky breath. Then, "Yeah, fine. Long night, that's all."
She went quiet again for a moment, not convinced. "Sam, what's wrong?"
"Nothing. It's...stupid. Just family drama, you know..." It was as good a cover as any.
"Oh, I'm sorry. That sucks."
Of course she then asked if he wanted to talk about it, and he said no, that's okay, and instead asked what went so shitty at her job yesterday that it consumed so much of her day. They talked for over five minutes and then before letting her go, Sam said, "Listen, the guys said we could do dinner some other time since I cancelled on them, so you're still invited, if you want in."
"Yeah, definitely," she said easily. "You've got my number."
"Great. See you sometime soon then."
"Yeah. And I'm sorry your family ruined your birthday."
He let out an awkward laugh. "Oh, they didn't, I just kind of...ruined it for myself. Anyway...thanks for calling, Jess, it was really sweet of you."
"Sure. Bye, Sam."
And that was it. He didn't linger in the bed any longer after putting his phone back down, didn't stay still and think any more. He grabbed a change of clothes and went to go take a shower, thinking about what he would do today. He looked forward rather than back, thinking about Jessica and her sunny California smile and how maybe they'd do something else together after they got together with his small crowd of Stanford friends who weren't away for the summer, catch a late movie or something, just the two of them.
That was it, and then when he saw Dean again they never even spoke as if they'd ever seen each other during those four years. Still recovering from what happened to Jess for so long after they reconnected, Sam had no desires good or bad besides the need for revenge, and it was simple and uncomplicated. Brought together through all the horrific experiences that followed, he and Dean became brothers again, better ones than they'd ever been before. That was all they were anymore, and nothing happened. Nothing more.
Except he knows that isn't true.
There were the times people met them and assumed they were together, and they never acted like they took it seriously, but neither of them ever seemed to find it as funny as they should have been able to either. A common mistake that should have gotten more amusing the more it turned into a pattern, it was more like a bad joke they got sick of hearing again and again without even completely understanding the punchline.
There was the night he kept twisting and turning in bed and just couldn't get to sleep after over an hour, longer than Dean had even been in bed and judging by the slow pattern of his breathing he was already out. He felt close enough to tired that getting up to do anything would just get his body too active again and ruin it. It was his head that wasn't letting him relax, thinking too much about having both the law on their tail and apparently some hunters after him now and everything else that was always running through his thoughts lately.
After a while he let out a frustrated sigh, bringing an arm up under his head like a pillow and turning to the side, away from the direction of Dean's bed. He reached down into his boxers and started stroking himself idly, willing all his anxious thoughts to slip away, replaced with vague and lazily conjured images from his mental bank of stock material to get him off. It took a little while but soon enough he was getting really hard, losing himself in it in just the right way and breathing hard with his eyes closed.
Then he heard Dean shift slightly in his bed.
Sam opened his eyes and went still. He heard no more movement, but Dean's breathing now made it sound like he could be awake. How long had he been awake?
Whatever, Sam knew it would hardly make this the only thing they were unusually laid-back about due to growing up rarely knowing the luxury of privacy. Even if Dean had woken up for a moment, he probably didn't care and was already close to drifting back off to sleep. As he half-lucidly reasoned with himself about it, he had already continued lightly palming his cock, trying to keep quiet. He started to tug with a quicker and firmer hand, all thought liquidating again, yeah, yeah...
Then came the start of Dean's ragged breathing in the other bed, joining his. A repeated soft rustle like the sound of skin brushing against cloth.
Oh fuck.
The sudden palpable heat in the room quickly covered them as a clouding, maddening force, and before long Sam could tell they were both going at it with no restraint. Of course he never moved and looked over at him, of course they never acknowledged each other, but as they lay in their separate beds not facing each other and pretended they didn't hear each other or maybe they did but it wasn't like that, it felt almost as if the separation was non-existent. Sam's ears sharply took in every sound coming from behind him that he could catch over his own heavy breathing and it was almost like touching. After a while Dean's soft gasps of breath got faster and he let out a low and helpless, quickly cut-off moan; Sam bit his lip with a kind of agonizing and forced containment, feeling his cock now starting to leak with precome, and then despite his efforts he followed somewhat closely with a similar sound dragging out of his throat as if in response.
He turned his head to bury his mouth into the pillow the rest of the time, breathing into it hotly, muffling the choked sound he made as he came in his fist. For a while he stayed frozen as he was, not even moving to take his hand from his pants, as if he were asleep and had never been awake before at all. It was terribly difficult to force his head blank again with Dean shaking hard enough he could hear his bed twitching, with the way Sam heard his breath hold for a split second with a barely audible wince in his throat as he came and then fall out heavily. To calm down and finally fall asleep he told himself he would be able to forget all about this in the morning, and he did.
There was also the time they were stuck in northern Pennsylvania for over two weeks because they kept running into dead ends with their current investigation, and Dean kept saying they might be wrong about there being anything unusual going on here and maybe they should just take it easy and stop for a while. This was shortly after they'd resolved that case at the haunted motel where they saved the little girl, and Sam was burying himself in their work as restlessly as ever. Dean kept bringing up in ways he must have thought were subtle how they were such a short drive away from crossing into New York, as if he imagined finally going to see Sarah again might be what he needed to lighten up a little.
Mostly just to shut Dean up, he eventually agreed to take a break from working on the case for a night and go to a movie. He was so tired from spending most of the previous night doing research that he fell asleep in the middle of it. During the credits he was nudged awake with his head sagged against Dean's shoulder. The potent, easily recognizable smell of Dean's jacket made him jerk into movement, sitting up.
"My arm's been asleep for a good half hour, dude," Dean complained. His tone was cool and apathetic as usual, but there was something uncomfortable in his expression that turned Sam's throat dry.
"Why didn't you wake me up sooner?" he asked.
"You obviously needed the sleep," he said. "You so owe me one for this, though. People were staring."
"In a dark theatre?" he asked, more confused than doubtful.
That look came into his eyes again, and he seemed to regret saying that, like it gave something away. "You were kind of...murmuring a little," he said. "For a few seconds."
Well, great.
Sam got up without saying anything else about it except a curt "Sorry." No way did he even want to know what he might have said if it was anything coherent.
While they were walking back to the car, Dean let out a quiet sigh like all his worries were coming together at once. "Look, I'm not saying things aren't really screwed up right now, and maybe you're right that we're not going to be able to just run away from this life now that it's getting harder," he said. "But I don't think it's good for you to be completely losing touch with the normal world. If you're actually scared about turning evil somehow, as crazy as I think that is, then do you really think that's what's going to help you?"
"So what do you think I should do, Dean?" Sam asked with a shrug, stopping where they were in the parking lot to turn to him. "Go see the Grand Canyon? Go get laid? See Sarah again so I can just end up bringing her down with me, too?"
"You thinking that way is exactly what she didn't want! It would be good for to spend your time with somebody other than me, doing something besides this job. I get that it's easier for you to just concentrate on hunting, but you're working yourself so hard I don't even feel as easy about you going into anything dangerous in the kind of shape you're in."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam said sarcastically. "I know what's good for me."
There was a brief silence between them as Sam turned to start walking again and Dean followed. Then he heard Dean mutter darkly under his breath, "Obviously not."
He whipped back around and his fist was flying toward Dean's face before he even realized he was that angry. But it seemed Dean had a point about his capability in his current overloaded and sleep-deprived condition; Dean only saw it coming and acted fast, catching his hand in an iron grip and swiftly striking back. His equally furious but more precisely landed punch hit Sam so hard he was knocked off his feet.
After he toppled to the ground and clutched the throbbing side of his face, he sat up breathing heavily and avoided looking up at Dean's face because he was so enraged and didn't think he could even control himself if he did. It felt like this had been some kind of quick challenge and fight for dominance and Dean had won, and that was just not fucking fair, but Dean was standing there rigid and prepared for him to get up and try again and he knew it was no use.
A few teenagers walking close by had stopped and were staring at them, murmuring to each other. He and Dean both glanced over at them awkwardly, and once they'd been noticed they looked back away and walked on. The outside distraction seemed to take them both out of the former moment, and when Sam finally looked up at Dean they were both calm, like they suddenly didn't really understand what had gotten into them and were too mentally exhausted to care. Without a word, Dean held out a hand to help him up off the ground, and then didn't even look at him again for at least the next twenty minutes.
Then there was all the time Dean was dead. The months he was left alone with all those pointless but unavoidable, pricking thoughts of everything that would never happen now. When after a while he learned to think of nothing at all whenever he jerked off in the shower, because although he could still feel some distant primal frustration and that was at least simpler to deal with than other things, it was like there was nothing in him anymore, nothing left in this world that could really touch him. It was always a numb experience, an ugly distraction from deeper and sharper feeling. But then once by the time he came, leaning his head against his forearm that was braced against the shower wall, he realized only then without having any idea why that he was sobbing through it. It had crept up on him while he thought his mind was far away from anything threatening, escalated unstoppably while he was still off his guard, and then as he stayed half-collapsed against the wall like that he couldn't stop. It was almost a couple months since Dean had died then, and this was the most he had cried yet in all that time.
And he did know why, though he desperately didn't want to. He didn't want to understand it only now, but loss is just such a son of a bitch that way, merciless in what it painfully brings to light too late by overwhelming the bereaved with the sense of this person who is gone. The idea of loving too much or in any kind of shameful way becomes absolutely ridiculous and impossible, incomprehensible like some very grown-up concept is to a child, at least for a time while the pain still hasn't become manageable yet. Sam was hardly unfamiliar with grief and he knew all that, yet there were times he was honestly afraid that it was never going to be manageable, not this one, that it should be getting a little easier by now but it just wasn't.
Maybe he gave into Ruby so easily because he was finally resigned to the knowledge of how fucked up he was and figured he couldn't be much worse for it. Part of him maybe wondered if it would feel anything like the wrongness of fucking his own brother, fucking a demon, and he sank into her like he was trying to dig away at his own core by peeking into the nature of utter evil. But of course it didn't truly bring him any closer to her and he was only left with a sense of the complete emptiness of her, as if she was such an immaterial void inside he could hardly even sully his own surface by touching her. Still nothing could touch or reach him anymore, and nothing he ate had any taste and every song on the radio sounded the same, until Dean would show up again at the door of his motel room one day good as new.
A lot has changed since then, and all those things are now the least of his crimes. All Sam's experiences and mistakes have only proven now that he is worse without him than with him, even if it might appear to others that they aren't necessarily happier with each other and they may just see it as something claustrophobic and growth-inhibiting and too intense, and they might not be entirely wrong. But he and Dean have gone all these years ignoring this hidden thing between them and it hasn't made their relationship any less of a tumultuous, insane, and gut-wrenching component of his life, and he's pretty sure nothing they do can ever truly change it. Rarely has anything else about his life ever been good for him anyway, but he can't quite regret that life as a whole. He was mostly thrown into everything in ways beyond his control, and now it's all just part of who he is, useless to complain about or fight against anymore.
Still there are lines that maybe can't be crossed, there are things like the wall that he has to accept will always be there in him and learn to live with without letting them destroy him, and not just because of Dean. Dean has always aggressively fought this, sometimes closed himself off from Sam in ways that could be practically cruel compared to any simple rejection, but of course it was never only him. Sam may have learned at some point not to feel so bad about wanting these things he shouldn't, but it isn't like he's ever been sure he could ever actually go there. Now that he knows too well that he can never be totally certain about trusting himself, the idea is possibly scarier than ever. There is no controlling this thing, no navigating it, predicting it, or ever understanding it.
Rest of part III...
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