Fic: Porcelain

[lennelle]

Title: Porcelain
Word Count: 4233
Rated: T
Summary: "You can deny all you want, but I knew as soon as Sam walked in. I couldn't sense an aura or hear his thoughts. Nothing. What is he, Dean?"
Author's Notes: Based on 'Twigs and Twin and Tasha Banes', set after 'All Hell Breaks Loose - Part 1'
Warnings: Darkfic, somewhat Dark!Dean





He opens his eyes to a frame of rustling treetops around a soft pink sky. The clouds are thin and streaky like the smallest scraping of butter over bread. It's similar to the way Sam is feeling; a little too empty. He tests his limbs, finds them all in working order, then props himself up on his elbows. Dean is sitting, back against the trunk of an oak tree, gun resting on his thigh, eyes on Sam.

"How're you feeling?" he asks. He doesn't move from his perch, doesn't lend Sam a hand to his feet.

Sam scratches the back of his head, finds a crumbling leaf tangled in his hair. "Um. I'm okay, I think," he says, then glances around. Trees circle them, the last strands of sunlight filter between their branches. "Hey, Dean? Where are we?"

"Wendigo hunt in Michigan, remember?"

Sam remembers now. The usual - campers going missing, strange noises in the forest, locals suspecting bear attacks. He and Dean had been hiking for two days and found nothing, and it was just when they decided to head back into town for a real meal that the wendigo decided to make an appearance. It was a blur through the trees, then a swipe of claws, followed by intense agony. The last thing Sam remembers is the bright whiteness of Dean's flare going off.

"Was I hurt?" Sam asks. His shirt is tattered down the front and he peels the shredded fabric away. There's a mess of scarring across his chest, ranging from soft white flecks to deep, pink knots.

"You got hurt. I patched you up," Dean says, low and clear like he's reciting a prayer. And Sam believes him.

Sam has mostly forgotten the incident in the forest, the agony of the wendigo's claws is like a distant nightmare, one that recedes the harder you think on it. They're looking into suspicious drownings at the top end of Florida, and Sam has been sent into town to find some decent food. Sam isn't feeling particularly hungry, but he orders himself a salad, just in case.

The motel is right across the road and Sam can see Dean in the window. He waves when he catches his eye, but Dean has a hard look on his face - a look others might mistake for anger, but Sam recognises as worry - and his cell phone against his ear.

Sam doesn't realise he's walking until he hears the sharp screech of tires, then something smacks into his side with the force of a freight train, he hears something in his hip crack, feels something in his leg shatter. His feet come out from under him and he's flying sideways. His head slams into the windshield and shards of glass go everywhere. It's all over in what seems like a second. He's trying and failing to pull in air when he lands hard on the road, ribcage rattling, the asphalt scraping his skin.

Just before he closes his eyes, he sees a car speeding away down the block.

He wakes up in bed, scratchy motel linens pulled up to his neck. Dean is sitting on the other bed with shaking hands resting on his lap. Sam sits up in a panic, then suddenly realises that he can sit up. He remembers the feeling of his bones breaking, he can still hear the crack of his skull on the windshield, but he can't feel any of it.

"Was I -" Sam begins, but realises he doesn't know how to end that sentence. He settles for, "There was a car."

Dean doesn't look at him when he says, "Yeah, the dickbag hightailed it out of there. Didn't even stop to check if you were okay."

Sam isn't listening anymore. He kicks the covers off and gets to his feet, then he marches over to the standing mirror in the corner of the room and pulls off his shirt. The scars from the wendigo attack are still there, striped across his chest, but there are new ones along his arms. The worst is a jagged line of healed flesh below his elbow, the skin around it looks red and irritated.

"Just a few scrapes and bruises," Dean is saying.

Sam ignores him, doesn't even care what he might say when he drops his jeans. There are long healed scars on his hips and legs that weren't there earlier. The memory of the car and the pain that came with it is already sifting away, Sam begins to panic.

"Sammy, it wasn't that bad," Dean says. "The car just clipped you a little, and you hit your head when you went down, but you're okay."

"But I remember," Sam says, fingers raised to prod at the scar along his forehead. "I remember being hit. I hit the windshield, went right over the roof."

Dean's lips are pressed together, tips of his fingers fiddling with the amulet around his neck. He doesn't look at Sam when he says, "Forget about it, Sammy."

And Sam does.

Missouri Mosely walks with a cane now, but she's still as sharp as ever. The second the two of them walk through the front door, she snaps, "And how long has it been? More 'n two years and not one phone call?"

Sam ducks his head under the archway and grins. "Hey, Missouri."

Her face flickers, freezing for a second, eyes sliding to Dean. When she smiles again, it's harsher, more forced. "Hello, Sam. Dean."

Dean clears his throat. The two of them stare at each other and Sam can tell there's a conversation happening that he's not privy to. The silence in the room makes his skin itch, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "I left my phone in the car."

He can hear the mumble of voices, strained and hissing, as soon as he closes the door behind himself. There's nothing in the car but takeout wrappers and a half-empty bottle of water. Sam picks up the bottle and swirls the water around as he checks his phone. He scrolls through his contact list, stopping under B. He can't think why, but someone's name is missing. He can't remember who it might be.

When he returns to Missouri's lounge, she's hunched over in an armchair, head in her hands. Dean sits opposite, eyes glued to the coffee table.

"Everything alright?" Sam asks, pausing in the doorway.

"Everything's fine," Dean says, before Missouri can even open her mouth. "Don't worry about it."

So, Sam doesn't.

Things seem to settle a little after that, and Missouri heads upstairs to set up the guest bedroom. She'd been almost offended by the idea of Sam and Dean staying at a motel, even more so by the idea of one of them helping her get fresh sheets from her closet. That evening, she cooks a meal that's more than any of them can eat.

"Something wrong with the food, Sam?" she asks.

Sam frowns.

"No, nothing's wrong. It's great, Missouri."

She glances at his plate. "You haven't eaten anything. Are you feeling okay?"

Sam looks down to find a full plate of casserole, where Dean and Missouri's plates are empty. Odd. Sam could have sworn -

"He's just tired," Dean cuts in before Sam can finish his thought. "We've been on the road all day. Maybe you should get to bed early, Sammy."

Of course. Sam's tired. Really tired. He gets to his feet and heads upstairs.

That night, he dreams of dying.

Sam wakes up late the next morning. He's halfway down the hall when he realises he must have fallen asleep in the clothes he was wearing yesterday, and he's about to head back to find something clean to wear when he hears Missouri's voice downstairs.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Dean replies.

Missouri sounds angry, Dean sounds defeated. It's likely not a conversation Sam is meant to hear. Naturally, he tiptoes halfway down the stairs and perches himself on one of the steps so he can hear better.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about," Missouri snaps. "You can deny all you want, but I knew as soon as Sam walked in. I couldn't sense an aura or hear his thoughts. Nothing. What is he, Dean?"

"He's Sam," Dean says, voice hard and adamant.

Missouri sighs, voice softening. "Honey, I think you know he isn't."

Sam shakes his head, almost gives himself away by laughing at the ridiculousness of it. He remembers playing with Star Wars figures in the back of the Impala when he was a kid, he remembers the softness of Jessica's lips on his as the two of them spent lazy weekend mornings in bed, he remembers living an entire life. He remembers his life. How could he be anyone else? Whatever Missouri is thinking, she's got it wrong. Dean will tell her.

"I had to do it," Dean says, voice cracking, and Sam freezes. "I had to. I couldn't live with him gone."

"What happened?" Missouri asks.

Dean scoffs. "You already know. You can read my thoughts, right?"

"Not everything, sweetie. Some things are too deep and dark and secret, not for my ears unless you allow me. Will you tell me?"

It's quiet for a moment, then Dean says, "I lost him. He went missing, and when I found him in Cold Oak, South Dakota, I was too late. Some kid stabbed him in the back. Sam - he died."

Sam thinks he might have remembered dying. That's not the sort of thing you forget. Like being mauled by a wendigo or hit by a car. Sam clenches his eyes closed and tries to focus. He remembers it all like a distant memory, one that changes the more you think on it until it's difficult to discern from a dream.

"I went to a crossroads," Dean says. "They wouldn't deal. Told me they already had everything they needed, they didn't need Sam with the other kid still alive. Nothing I offered was good enough. They said they liked things just the way they were, told me to find a nice plot to bury Sam in." Dean sighs. "I went looking. A few days later I found a witch and she agreed to bring Sam back. She said she couldn't resurrect him, but she could re-make him."

"Oh, Dean," Missouri whispers.

"She built another body, made it look just like him. She gave it his heart, said it would have his memories and thoughts and - I couldn't say no. I couldn't."

"Dean, this is dark magic - "

"But Sam is fine," Dean argues. "He acts like normal. He's him."

"Is he?"

There's a long pause. "He doesn't eat," Dean confesses. "I don't think he even notices. He only sleeps if I tell him to, sometimes he looks at me like he's waiting for me to tell him what he's supposed to be doing. Sam was - isn't like that. Sam's always been independent, always known what to do next."

Sam looks down at his shaking hands. They look like his hands. Long, slender fingers, bitten down nails, even the fine details of his finger prints. He thinks of the car accident and the wendigo attack, thinks of all the scars he bears and remembers how he hadn't shed a single drop of blood.

He takes his left index finger in his right hand, lip caught between his teeth, and yanks. It's a clean break and for a split second it hurts, he bites hard into his lip to keep from making any sound, but after a moment the pain fades. It feels like a memory more than a real sensation, like he's reading lines from a script.

He glances at his finger, bent at an awkward angle, then jerks it back into place.

Downstairs, Missouri asks, "Where's the real Sam?"

And Dean says, "I buried him, just outside of Cold Oak."

That's all Sam needs to hear. He gets softly to his feet and makes his way to the front door, choosing his steps carefully. He holds his breath as he unlocks the door, turning the key with gentle fingers. Outside, the sun is shining, warming his face. It's a beautiful day. Stepping outside is like moving from one world to another. The second his feet hit the sidewalk, he runs.

Cold Oak sends a shiver down Sam's spine. It's not the chill in the air or the groan of old buildings. It's Lily hanging from the mill, it's Andy's screams, it's Ava's laugh. Sam stands at the centre of the road, mud squelching beneath his boots. The cattle pen is shattered and caved in, and Sam can remember his back smashing the wood, he can remember Jake's immeasurable strength.

Sam remembers standing right where he is, a long time ago under the cover of night. He remembers the pain of the knife through his spin, he remembers falling to his knees, and Dean's hands on his face. Sam presses his fingers to his lower back, the skin is smooth and unmarred.

A short walk away, Sam finds disturbed ground. The barest heads of fresh grass protrude through a patch long enough that he could lie down with his legs stretched out. Long and squared and slim. All around is a wild pasture, whipping wet and free in the wind. Sam retrieves the shovel from the bed of his stolen truck and begins to dig.

He wishes to find nothing six feet into the ground. And yet, a small part of him hopes that he will. Just to prove that he hasn't gone totally insane. Which is worse: living in a false reality, or having it shattered? Sam digs and digs and digs.

His shovel hits something. He scrapes a layer of mud and finds a tartan blanket, one which is identical to the one they keep in the trunk of the Impala. Sam carefully levers himself down into the hole, boots digging into the walls of dirt, and he reaches down. His hand freezes, fingers gripped around the fabric, and he wonders if he should turn back, if he should let himself forget, again.

He pulls the blanket away.

The smell comes first. It sends him backwards, and he bends, ready to vomit, but there's nothing to come up. It's putrid, the stench of death he knows too well, rotting and sickly. Wrapped up in the blanket is something skeletal and blackened. The eyes are gone, the skin is leathery, the teeth are pearly white. It could be anyone, but he knows it's him. But it's not really him, is it? He doesn't really know what he is if this corpse is Sam Winchester.

He hauls himself back out and retrieves a canister of salt and a jug of fuel he'd picked up at a gas station, then he empties them both into the grave before dropping a lit match. He expects to vanish along with the body, but he doesn't, and it's almost disappointing. Later, when the fire is finally going down, Sam turns to leave and finds himself in the Impala's headlights. Dean comes stumbling out of the driver's seat, eyes wide in the moonlight. He looks at Sam, the one that isn't burned to a crisp.

"What did you do?" he says, breathless.

"What you should have done," Sam snaps. "Why did you bury me? Why didn't you burn me?"

"I couldn't."

"Because you needed the body? Because you still wanted to resurrect me the proper way? If you'd have done it, what would have happened to me? You don't need two little brothers. Well, now you've got none."

"Sammy," Dean says, trying to grab hold of his shoulder.

Sam jerks out of his grip. "Don't call me that," he hisses. "What am I Dean? Am I even human?"

Dean doesn't have an answer, he glances mournfully at the grave.

"What you've done, Dean - it's unforgivable," Sam says.

"You'd have done the same thing," says Dean, fire in his eyes.

"No. If you had died, I'd have sold my soul or given my life for you," Sam pushes hard at Dean's chest and watches his stumble back a few steps, "but I wouldn't have done this. Do you know what it's like to realise you're not even real?" Sam takes his left index finger in his right hand and yanks, harder this time, until the finger comes free. It cracks like ceramic, the lump where his finger was scatters like dust. There's no blood, no bone, just something as smooth and cool as stone. He drops the appendage at Dean's feet and says, "Was it worth it?"

Dean takes the amulet around his neck in his fist, looks up at Sam. "I can fix this," he says. Sam knows - he knows - what Dean is going to try to do. The same thing he's been doing since Sam died. Sam doesn't think, he just pulls back his arm and lets his fist go flying, hard, straight into Dean's face. Dean crashes to the ground, and when he tries to get back up, Sam kicks. Dean lands in a heap in the mud, cheek mushed against the road. Sam crouches down and yanks the amulet from around his neck.

He thinks of tossing it into the flames, maybe he'll melt away with it. Or maybe he can use it to take control of himself. No one can make him forget.

It's still spitting rain, and there's something deep down that makes him haul Dean into the Impala to keep him dry. No matter how much he might hate his brother, he can't stop loving him, and that might be the worst thing there is. He feels around Dean's pockets for his cell phone and scrolls down his contact list to B.

Bobby.

Like a spark going off in his mind.

Once he remembers, it's like he never forgot in the first place. The route to Bobby's is as clear as the road in front of him. Sam drives his stolen truck through the gates of Singer Salvage. He and Dean used to play hide and seek for hours and hours when they were little. With a million places to hide, the game could last all day. Eventually, Dean got old enough that playing games was beneath him, and Sam would occupy himself pretending to drive rusted out junkers, taking himself anywhere and everywhere.

When Sam lifts his hand to knock on the front door, the place where his left index finger is missing glares at him. He tucks it under his sleeve and knocks with his other hand. When the door opens, he's met with a rifle to his chest.

"What are you?" Bobby demands, eyes thinned and threatening.

"I don't know," Sam answers honestly.

Bobby falters for a second, but the gun barrel doesn't waver. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot your brains out?" he asks.

"I need help," Sam says. "Dean's probably right behind me, he - he did something to me, Bobby. I don't know what to do."

Bobby Singer has always had the strongest gut instinct Sam's ever seen, and whether or not it fails him when he lowers his rifle and steps aside, Sam doesn't know. He's given the usual; a swig of holy water and a slice of silver on his arm. Bobby doesn't say anything when the cut doesn't bleed, just stares at it with the same thoughtful expression he reserves for a case.

"I died," Sam says.

"I know," says Bobby. "I was there. Helped carry your body to the car." He sighs and takes a sip of whiskey, offering the glass to Sam.

Sam shakes his head. "Don't think it will have any affect on me."

Bobby shrugs and finishes the glass. "I haven't heard from Dean since you died. Thought he might have gotten himself killed." He glances up at Sam. "Where is he now?"

"I knocked him out, left him in his car," Sam says. "He's probably awake by now, looking for me. I - I burned my body last night. My real body. It was rotted, looked just like any other corpse we dig up. I don't think Dean was happy I burned it, but I had to."

"You did the right thing," Bobby says, then hesitantly pats Sam's arm. Sam uncurls his fist from his sleeve and shows Bobby all four of his remaining fingers on his left hand. Bobby takes his hand and inspects at the the smoothness of the stump where the index finger was. He says, "Looks like ceramic or porcelain."

Sam gulps. "I'm not real."

"Maybe only a little," Bobby replies, and offers a soft smile that makes Sam want to cry. Then he is crying, but no tears are coming from his eyes. It's just dry and wrinkled and ugly. Bobby rubs at Sam's back and says, "I've heard of things like this before. The dead being re-made with wicker or clay. It's dark magic, the darkest kind."

Sam buries his face in his good hand to keep from crying further, because he can't help but wonder if his brother can be saved. He hates himself for thinking it, he hates Dean for still making him care.

Bobby's voice is gentle, "If you want, we can figure out how to... how to un-make you. Let you be at peace."

Sam sits with that for a moment. Un-made. That means dying or, at least, death for something that's already dead. Whatever he is, he can't stay existing for much longer. There's no comfort in this body, no blood in his veins to keep him warm. It's all just a replica, but he still feels like Sam Winchester. He's still afraid of dying, even if he's already done it before.

"I know you don't believe in heaven, Bobby," says Sam, "but do you think I have a chance? I don't know what's happened to my soul, if it even exists anymore, but do you think when this is all over - do you think I'd go to heaven?"

Bobby's quiet for a moment, fingers still wrapped around Sam's hand. Finally, he says, "If anyone has a right to heaven, it's you, Sam."

It's some kind of irony that there's thunderstorm the night Bobby figures out how to undo the magic that's been done. It's low and rumbling, the cloud clashing overhead in the dark of the night. Sam sits by the library by the window, watching raindrops spatter the glass and roll down in streaks. He's been there two days without a second of sleep or a mouthful of food.

He's surprised Dean hasn't shown up yet. He worries, partly for Dean and partly for himself.

If this really is the end, he thinks he might want to say goodbye. Even after everything.

There's a flash of lightening that washes the room in white for a second. Bobby doesn't move a muscle, bent low over a dusty old book, the pages withered enough that they might break at the touch. He scribbles something down on a notepad and gets up from his seat behind his desk.

"Here," he hands over the piece of paper. Sam takes it and glances down at the words.

"This is it?"

"That's it."

"Huh." Sam had expected more. Maybe an animal sacrifice or flames or something else sinister.

"The magic keeping you in this body might be stored in an object. Get a hold of that, then recite the words on the page and pierce the heart," Bobby says. He clears his throat. "The heart's the last real piece. The body will go back to dust and you'll be able to move on to whatever comes next."

Sam fiddles with Dean's amulet where it's hidden beneath his shirt. He's in control now. He can do this, if he wants to. Or he could keep going, save this moment for when he's ready, even go back to college. Then he thinks of Dean, wild-eyed and desperate and soaking up the rain right before Sam knocked him into the dirt. What did Dean offer in exchange for even just a shard of Sam? What did Dean doom himself to?

"You don't have to do this," Bobby says. "It's up to you. You can stay here - "

"No," Sam cuts him off. He climbs to his feet, towers a good few inches over Bobby as he pulls him into a hug. "You've been like a father to me. Thank you, but I need to do this," he says.

Bobby is wet-eyed as he pulls off his cap and wrings it between his hands. "You're sure?"

Sam smiles. "About 80%," he says. "Tell Dean... could you tell him that I don't hate him. I never could."

"He'll be on his way here eventually. We could wait," Bobby offers.

"It's best if he's not here for this," Sam says, smoothing out the piece of paper in his hands. He clears his throat and recites each words with perfect and careful clarity. It's a harsh tongue he's not familiar with, but it resounds within him like he's known it all his life. He doesn't feel much different when he's done, despite the fresh cracks that begin webbing across his skin.

And when he points the tip of his knife to his chest, when he pushes inwards, it doesn't hurt.

It's peaceful.