Sam Winchester's Hell
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke -- who'd best treat them well.
Spoilers: All up to and including 3x16 No Rest for the Wicked
Summary: The moment Sam Winchester buries his brother Dean.
Rating: Mature language
Sam Winchester’s Hell
The dirt turns over easier than he expected in the cool dawn air. Too easy, when he wishes it would be harder. Shouldn’t this be hard? Damn hard? Fucking impossible? But no, it fluffs up under his shovel like it was freshly fallen snow.
Sam looks a second at Bobby, sees him lift easy scoop after next, up and out. He turns his eyes to the wrapped body outside the grave. So still. Another impossibility. Dean didn’t do still. Even in sleep he twitched and moaned and God knows what, all those nights melting into each other, a fondue of sleazy rooms and hard beds.
He moves his muscles instinctively -- heaves, lifts, tosses, repeat. Dirt spraying back into him in feathery puffs. Soft. Why soft? Should be hard. Should hurt.
They do this because they have to, because it’s what one does. He thinks of all those lucky people who are clueless. Back to the earth. Ashes to fucking ashes. But no, he gets to know. How special. How damned lucky. No fucking mystery spot here, no siree. His brother is rotting in Hell. Guaranteed, one-way ticket and all that.
“Sam? You okay?” a gruff voice calls out.
He’d stopped shoveling. This happened a lot. Stopping. Staring at the hour hand as it froze on the twelve every sorry night. God, Dean. I’m sorry. So sorry. And his brother just stopped. Turned the switch to the off position, frozen eyes, frozen bones, frozen grin. Bet they’re warming up good now, eh? Then it started in double time. Ruby and Lilith and the hell hounds. Dean screams like nothing he ever heard before. Nothing he could hear again. Nothing he won’t hear forever. With the only thing worse being the silence. If only he’d known, learned sooner. Not too late.
“Sam. ’S deep enough,” Bobby says.
Time starts again. This is it. Do this and there’ll be nothing left of Dean. His brother was always the keeper. Sam knew about the box with the report cards and medals and half-assed craft projects from Camp Swimaway where they spent two weeks one summer a lifetime ago. Once when he was being particularly bitchy he’d yelled at Dean, “Why the fuck do you keep this junk?”
Dean never replied, face snapped close as he shoved the box further to the back of the Impala’s trunk and proceeded to gather the weapons they’d need. Sam had never spoken of it again. Never acknowledged that every single item in the box had belonged to Sam and only Sam. So he didn’t have anything. Not one fucking thing outside of weapons and clothes and a car that belonged to his brother. Nothing that was his brother. What’s that say? Still think I’m the one that deserved to live?
A few more minutes, he thinks for the millionth time. Because he had the power but didn’t know. And maybe if he’d used it, harnessed it, controlled it better. Been stronger. Not weak. Dean was afraid, had told him so. That’s when he’d promised to save him. Be smart enough. Strong enough. Not afraid.
Sam wanted to feel safe for as long as he could remember. He ripped his brother’s heart out just to feel safe. Because when you didn’t feel safe you were afraid. All the fucking time.
Bobby has picked up Dean by the shoulders and is waiting for Sam. Eyes dry -- there aren’t any more tears -- Sam walks over to Dean’s legs and lifts gently. He stands there a moment and then puts them back down carefully.
“Why, Bobby?” he asks expecting no answer.
Setting Dean down as well, Bobby waits silently. Patiently.
So unnecessary. Such a waste. Should be him in the ground. Would have been if Dean hadn’t … Dean. In Hell. If it wasn’t so fucking tragic it would be funny. The irony moves up his throat till he gags on the bitterness. He knows the demon blood running through his veins is his ticket down. That’s why the demons wouldn’t deal with him. No point. Besides they got what they wanted. The pure blood Winchester whose only fault was that he was a blind fucking idiot.
He knows he’s crying because Bobby’s hand pats his shoulder once briskly. “Let’s get this done, Sam,” he says.
Sam. Sam. The last words out of his brother’s mouth were his name. He heard them whether aloud or not. He hears them now. Sam. Sam. The worst kind of reminder. You promised, you weak, lying, impotent piece of shit failure. You promised.
He lifts his brother’s legs and together he and Bobby place Dean gently in the ground. The last, the only, family in his life. The fucking waste of it all. And just to bring him back. Idiot. Goddamn weak idiot. Shoulda let me be dead Dean. Pussy. Weak pussy. Couldn’t save him. Wasn’t strong enough.
Demon power in his veins. Freak. And Dean’s in Hell? So, so wrong.
“It’s wrong,” he says brokenly.
“I know,” Bobby says.
Lilith’s face. From triumph to shock to fear. If only he’d known a little earlier. Maybe… He didn’t know what would happen when he killed her now. Oh, and he’d kill her. Kill that motherfucking bitch so dead there wasn’t a void dark enough to contain her. He would live to free Dean. It was all the life he had left.
After Lilith vanished, his brother’s blood soaking into his chest as he held him, he’d wished he could absorb that blood into himself. Pure, good blood. Dean’s blood. Dean’s life. He’d held his gun tight against his chin and prayed, fucking prayed, for the strength to do it. Not that he deserved it. Death was too good for the worthless, heap of shit that couldn’t save the one thing that meant anything in his useless demon infested life.
They started to shovel the soft dirt onto Dean. Bobby mostly. Sam tried but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. Eyes glassy he watched the last thing he had of Dean disappear into the earth. And why the fuck was that? Why hadn’t he thought to also keep something for the millions of times Dean had been mother and father and scared little boy lying alone in the goddamn ground?
“Sam? Sam?!” Bobby’s voice rang out as Sam jumped into the grave and began sweeping away the dirt that had fallen on his brother’s chest. Frantic digging that had the older man alarmed.
Pulling frantically, ripping at the shroud they’d fashioned from bed sheets. Until. There. Blackened with time lying as ever against his brother’s too still chest.
“He never took it off Bobby,” he said turning his face up to the other man. “Never.”
He watched the old hunter swipe the tears trailing down his face. Composing himself Bobby replied, “He’d want you to have it, son.”
Would he? Fucking lying failure who didn’t keep his promise? Who didn’t save his brother? Wasn’t strong enough to stop it. That would change. He would change. May God have mercy on what was left of his sorry soul. He pulled the amulet from around Dean’s neck, the open lace trailing behind like it knew it was being taken from its rightful place. In the grave, with his brother, he slowly tied it behind his neck, unaccustomed to its heft against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered down before climbing back out.
Before drowning in alcohol and power and rage. Before his soul was also ripped to Hell.
fin