Dirt (Supernatural, gen, 972 words, complete)
Title: Dirt
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: none
Characters: Sam
Word count: 972
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Warnings: mentions of suicidal thoughts
Summary: What Sam did in the two weeks between First Born (9x11) and Sharp Teeth (9x12). Author's note: I saw a gifset from Sharp Teeth on Tumblr today - the bit at the end where Sam says he will work with Dean but their emotional relationship will take longer to fix - and I was thinking about what Sam might have been doing in the time between Castiel leaving to track down Metatron, and when we see him in Wisconsin meeting Dean over Garth's hospital bed. So this is a little ficlet about that.
For the first few days Sam goes out running every morning, pounding the roads with a steady strength that he thought he had lost for good. It had felt like the trials had finally broken him down: boiled all his impurities up to the surface in a scum which, when he balked that final step, settled filmy over his organs, the filth of his own corruption clogging his veins. He'd thought that every day of the rest of his life would be filtered through a haze of exhaustion, his movements wrung with a pain he could never quite place. Sure, the thought had scared him. It wasn't nice to feel that he was always a step behind, knocked out and slumped flat in the corner of the room while Dean was busy fighting the fight. But it had also felt, somehow, fair. Maybe the pain was a penance for all of his failures: all the flaws and the missteps he couldn't put right.
Turns out he had that wrong. Now, it seems like Cas has mostly managed to heal him; so Sam runs further, faster and longer than he has been able to for months, since way back before the farm in Idaho where he'd stumbled into gutting that hellhound and starting the trials. It should make him feel good. But he runs for hours, runs until his legs are shaky and his vision starts to blur, and all he can think about is the grace sticking greasy inside him, the remnant of the angel he's been carrying round in his head. He wonders how much Cas left behind when he refused to keep drawing that syringe.
One day Sam comes back to the bunker to find he’s been gone for four hours. He almost passes out in the scalding hot shower; and thinks, he could fall and knock his head and nobody would be there to find him. So he stops running, after that. Instead, he retreats into the dark under ground, padding barefoot along empty corridors all day and all night. He eats whatever Dean has left in the larder, tinned soups and vegetables cold and straight out of the can. He barely sleeps. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Kevin's face; neon bright and screaming pale against the dark red-brown of his lids. I did that, Sam thinks. That was me.
He tries to force himself into focusing on something useful: transposing the library card catalogue into a database on his computer. But all the letters start blurring together and the whole thing begins to seem pointless, so he ends up leaving the boxes and cards spread out across the table and the floor. He's almost tempted to tear them all to pieces. He gets as far as grasping at one and twisting it tight in his hands, tugging at the yellowing corners before returning it, carefully, to its place. The next morning, or it might be night, he tidies everything away, drinks the whole decanter of whisky, and passes out.
After a week without speaking to anybody, Sam thinks he might be cracking up. He keeps catching movement in the corner of his eyes, finds himself constantly grasping for his gun. This, in particular, is very not good. He's not ready to start hearing voices again. So he thinks about what he did the last time he was going crazy, packs his stuff into one of the vintage cars and heads out to the New Mexico desert.
There is no cell reception out here. Some hard flinty part of Sam feels that as a relief. If Dean called him, he wouldn’t know. And if Dean never calls, well, he won’t know that, either.
Out amongst the sun and the scrub, things begin to seem clearer. Something about the hiking and the sleeping outdoors helps Sam start to feel like his body is under control. He notices the burn in his lungs, the sweat. It’s better than running, because it’s more purposeful; every turn in the track is a decision. He can’t switch off.
So Sam walks, hard, every day. He climbs a couple of mountains and camps out at the top. He watches the sunrise, in the morning, and he sees the moon rise at night. He looks out over the world.
Sam thinks about what happened with Cas: about what Dean might have said if that stupid sandwich hadn't stopped short his suicide bid. He wonders how long it would have been till Dean even found out. Maybe Cas would have passed on the news, dropped in on whatever motel room Dean has chosen to wallow in and told him, I'm sorry, Sam died. He wonders if Dean would have tried to get him back, and if Death would have been willing or able to keep that promise he'd made. Under the stars, with the earth at his back, Sam decides not to kill himself, now.
After five days in the mountains, it seems like the right time to come down. His supplies are running low and having made up his mind to keep living, it would be a shame to go out accidentally on a camping trip gone wrong. So he heads back to the car.
It’s right where he left it, of course, dirty with the desert air but otherwise undisturbed. He slips into the drivers’ seat, flips the radio and starts heading north. He’s not sure where he’s planning to go; but when he hears something on the police scanner that sounds like Garth, he sets his sights for Wisconsin.
Back in the suit, and in the bustle of civilisation, the peace of the last five days dissipates like the dust on the car. Dean starts lying as soon as he sees him. And Sam thinks, I can’t do this again.