So finally, this is the end! Since no one had an opinion, I decided to go with the sad ending.
Let me be empty, oh and weightless and maybe I'll find some peace tonight. ~Angel by Sarah McLachlan
Sam sits at the kitchen table, researching on his laptop and trying to tune everything else out. It's easy enough to do with Cas and Dean and Bobby, what with the hearing loss, but no matter what he does he can't get the voices in his head to shut up.
You're gonna end up gettin' your brother killed in this condition, John's voice spits. And it'll be just one more death on your shoulders, more blood on your hands.
Sam wipes a hand over his eyes as tears blur his vision and tries to refocus on the task at hand, even though he knows that his dad is right.
Something easy, Dean had said. Just to get started. A poltergeist. Simple, okay?
It was kind of a hard thing to research online, but eventually he gets something.
"Dean," he calls softly, getting the attention of his older brother immediately.
"Find somethin', Sammy?" Dean asks, getting up from his place on the couch and striding over to where Sam sits at the table.
Sam nods and turns the laptop so that Dean can read the article.
Pretty typical poltergeist activity. A couple is strangled to death in a seemingly abandoned house, and then when some random teenagers decide to go exploring—because they're idiots—they bleed out through their noses. Dean hums his approval.
"Minnesota, huh?" he says. "It's gonna be pretty cold up there."
Maybe you'll freeze to death, the Dean in his head offers. Sam nods, not really knowing which statement he's agreeing with. Probably both.
"You up for leaving tomorrow morning?" the real Dean asks.
"Yeah," Sam responds, and gets up and walks away before his brother can do that whole concerned Are you sure? thing that Sam doesn't really deserve.
It's blissfully quiet in the library, and Sam thinks that at least one good thing came of this whole ordeal. Except with limited hearing of the outside world, the stuff inside his head suddenly becomes a whole lot louder.
Maybe now you'll stop fucking up, Dean's voice points out. Big Brother knows best, Sammy.
Sam nods because he knows that. Oh, does he know that. Dean had always known best. Sam had just never listened to him.
He lies on the floor and stares up at the ceiling, wondering vaguely if he's hungry. He can't really tell these days, but it seems that whenever Dean tries to get him to eat the mere thought of food makes him want to vomit.
Dean.
Dean's worried. Sam knows he is, can see it in his face every time he looks at him. Bobby's worried too, and even Cas has begun looking at him with something akin to concern.
He doesn't want to worry them, doesn't want to be like this all the time, but he can't...stop. He can't fucking stop.
The thought makes tears spring to his eyes and he scrubs at them angrily because he's so damn tired of crying. He's tired of messing up and letting everyone down. He's tired of smiling, tired of breathing, tired of living a day at a time.
He's just tired.
The next thing Sam's aware of is Dean's frightened voice in his ear, his hands gently shaking his body. After a second he can hear Bobby's voice close to his head and Cas's in the background.
"—ake up, Sammy. Come on, Sam, I need you to wake up for me, okay? Can you hear me? Sammy?"
"Dean, I'm sure he's perfectly fine. He ain't got a fever or anything..."
"Perhaps he just decided to take a nap in the middle of the floor. Somehow it seems like the type of thing Sam would do."
Sam blinks his eyes open and Dean's face swims into focus above him, going slack with relief.
"What the hell, Sam?" Dean nearly shouts, the fear from before quickly morphing into anger.
The younger Winchester pulls himself into a sitting position and rubs a hand down his face. "Sorry," he mumbles. "Got tired."
Dean lets out a frustrated breath and sits back on his heels as Cas says, "I thought that most humans preferred to sleep in a bed."
Bobby rolls his eyes. "They do."
"Is there a reason you decided not to be like most humans?" Dean questions tersely, and Sam can tell that his brother is afraid that he'd just randomly passed out or something.
He shrugs and says, "I'm okay," hoping it will reassure Dean somewhat.
It doesn't.
The older Winchester sits down completely and drops his head into his hands, almost seeming to deflate. "No you're not," he says, his voice muffled by his hands. "God, Sammy, you are so far from okay it's—it's not even—" He stops speaking as his breath hitches.
Cas, looking slightly uncomfortable, mumbles something unintelligible and disappears, and Bobby leaves with a soft, "I'll let you two alone."
"Why won't you tell me what's wrong, Sam?" Dean asks, having re-gathered his composure. He looks back up at his younger brother.
"I..." I don't know what's wrong, Sam wants to say, except he can't. He does know what's wrong. But he's afraid that if he draws attention to what he's scared that Dean thinks of him, then Dean will remember that that is in fact what he thinks and leave Sam by himself again. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Dean sighs, standing and preparing to leave. His eyes become cloudy as he murmurs, "Just be okay."
The drive up to Minnesota is quiet, as expected. Sam doesn't each much, doesn't talk much, answering direct questions and staring out the window. His skin has started to take on a sickly pallor and Dean knows that he has to get his brother to eat a full meal soon or his body's going to give out. He swallows at the thought.
Sometimes Sam will turn to look at Dean with his mouth half-open like he's about to say something but he never does, and Dean is left with this feeling of helplessness that makes him want to hit something. Or vomit. Because there's only one word that comes to mind when Dean thinks about it.
Sam is broken.
Those bastards broke his Sammy. Dean doesn't know if he can fix it this time, and that scares him more than anything.
Dean pulls into the parking lot of some diner in Lyon and turns off the ignition. He doesn't get out right away, just sits there staring out the windshield and worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He glances over at his little brother to find that the younger man is looking at him with confusion and something that looks way too much like an apology in his eyes.
Dean lets out a frustrated breath and turns away. He doesn't want to see Sam's guilty expression, because what the fuck does the kid think he has to be guilty about? There's nothing. Fucking nothing that warrants Sam's apology.
Except for, you know, ending the world, a tiny, traitorous part of Dean's brain offers.
Shut the hell up, Dean thinks viciously. The world hasn't ended yet. And if this is what Armageddon looks like—exactly the same as before—Dean'll take it. Gladly.
"Alright, Sammy," Dean says, extracting himself from the car. "Time to get some grub."
Sam follows his older brother dutifully into the grungy burger joint, sits in the booth opposite him. Doesn't say anything when Dean orders him a deli sandwich that he probably won't eat.
"You think we'll make it up to St. Louis before nightfall?" Sam asks quietly, and Dean pauses because it's the first time Sam's spoken without initiation in what might be weeks.
"Not a chance, Sam," Dean chuckles. "It's already three o'clock." And since it's the middle of January, night will be fast-approaching.
Sam nods and looks down into his glass of water, swirling the straw around in the ice. Dean watches him for a while, and by the time the waitress has brought out their food, he's made a decision.
"Eat it," he orders when Sam just looks at his sandwich. The younger man automatically takes the thing in his hands and raises it to his mouth, but stops when he gets there, hesitating. "Sam..."
Sam takes a bite, chews robotically. He sets the sandwich down and pulls his drink towards him, completely ignoring the straw in favour of nearly dumping the liquid down his shirt as he gulps.
Dean sighs and looks out the window for a minute. This isn't going to work. He can tell already. But he tries anyway.
"Look, Sammy," he starts, "I really need you to tell me what's going on, okay? Just tell me what they said to you."
Sam wipes his wrist across his eyes and Dean knows without seeing that Sam is trying not to cry. The uncontrollable waterworks are something that Dean might have teased his little brother about were the situation not so damn serious.
"It's nothing, Dean," Sam says lowly, not meeting the older man's gaze.
Dean quells his frustration and focuses on the task at hand. "The hell it is," he replies calmly, pushing his burger to the side and folding his arms on the table in front of him. "It stopped being 'nothing' the minute I found you in that basement." He waits for Sam's response but it never comes, so he plows on. "You haven't been yourself for weeks, Sam. Honestly, it's starting to scare the shit out of me. Bobby too. I don't want you to feel guilty," he adds quickly because he knows that that's how Sam's going to take it, and the last thing the kid needs is something else to feel guilty about. Guilt is what got them into this mess in the first place. "I just want to know what's wrong so I can fix it."
Sam exhales slowly. "It's nothing," he repeats.
Dean leans back against the red vinyl booth seat and closes his eyes, trying this best not to snap at his brother. He reminds himself that he had known this was a futile effort from the start.
"Okay," he allows, though he's far from finished with the conversation. "Are you done?"
Sam nods. Dean takes out his wallet to pay for the food that neither of them had the appetite to eat, and then they leave.
Sam falls asleep somewhere between Sterns and Morrison, just as the sun is setting, so Dean decides to call it a day and heads to the first motel he sees. He doesn't wake his brother as he goes to pay for the room or when he moves their belongings from the trunk to the two queen-sized beds. The place is nice, he notes. Fairly clean-looking bedclothes, a small refrigerator, and a bathroom that Sam will be able to stand in without hitting various parts of his body on various porcelain appliances.
Dean returns to the Impala to find Sam awake and looking slightly disoriented as he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. Dean opens his door.
"Hey, Princess," Dean teases lightly. "Get enough beauty sleep?"
Sam blinks at him. "Dean? Where're we?" he asks, and his speech is slightly slurred.
Dean sighs even though he had known that Sam wouldn't take the bait. "Just passed into Morrison," Dean replies, then steps back to let his brother out of the car. "C'mon, Sasquatch, you obviously need some more rest."
Sam nods automatically and then furrows his brows as though unsure of what he just agreed to. Dean swallows a chuckle and shuts the door when Sam gets out.
The younger man heads straight for the bathroom when they get in and before long Dean can hear the shower turn on. He sighs, heading for his bed with the remote in hand.
He can only hope that when this is over, Sam will be okay again.
They start out early the next morning because Sam insists. Dean would have just as soon let the younger man sleep longer, but the kid was up at five guzzling coffee and packing up the car and ignoring his older brother's attempts to get him to eat something. Sam keeps just as quiet as before. He stares out the window at the blurring countryside and doesn't say anything when Dean turns up the music experimentally again. Dean checks the rearview, passing into the other lane with a sigh.
They stop minimally and manage to make it to St. Louis a little after nightfall, much to Dean's relief. He's not sure how much longer he can stand being trapped in the car with Silent Sammy. Besides, the sooner they get this over with the better. Dean's still not keen on the idea of letting his depressed little brother at a vengeful spirit with a loaded weapon.
"Where did you say the house was again?" Dean asks as Sam settles on the bed with his laptop.
"Pretty much in the middle of nowhere," he replies softly, turning the computer to let Dean see the map. It was pretty much in the middle of nowhere; a small farm surrounded on three sides by forest and the other by a lake.
"All right, we'll head up tomorrow," Dean says as though it isn't obvious. "They have the graves marked, right? Should be pretty simple."
Sam nods, goes back to his research. Dean pretends that this doesn't bother him. He orders Chinese food and threatens to physically force the food down Sam's throat until the younger man complies and eats some of the vegetable, and even though Dean would have rather seen him eat some protein it was good enough for now. The older Winchester lies awake for a long time after Sam starts snoring, wondering if this hunt is really going to have the desired effect.
Sam is up and at 'em as the sun breaks over the horizon and lights up the grey storm clouds. He mentions the fact that is looks like snow. Dean grins because he's sounding more like Sam.
They load up the car and head out just as the first flakes begin to fall, and by the time they make it to the house Dean can barely see through the windshield.
"Damn," he mutters, "it's gonna be fucking cold huntin' for those graves out there." It's not a pleasant thought.
Sam nods absentmindedly and steps outside, letting a gust of cold wind into the car. Dean shivers.
"Split up?" Sam asks after they've gathered their guns and shovels.
No way in hell, Dean thinks. "Nah, I think we have an idea of the general location," he says instead. Sam shrugs and they head around the side of the old building, towards the line of trees bordering east. It's quiet save the howling wind, and Dean wonders where the poltergeist is if he's not out here throwing them around in the storm. He reaches up to brush a bit of snow from his hair.
They only have to go a little ways into the woods before they come across the small makeshift cemetery. Dean frowns when he sees how many graves there actually are.
"Which one do you think it is?" he asks, but Sam is already walking over to one of the smaller headstones.
"Andy Myers," Sam murmurs. "Killed himself."
Dean glances at his brother. "Probably it, then."
Sam digs first, starts doing so without question, and Dean looks up into the pelting snow. It stings as it flutters into his eyes. He looks down and wipes a hand over his face.
"Okay, Sammy," he says after a few minutes. "Break time." Sam climbs out of the hole he's started and hands Dean the shovel without a word, turning and looking back at the house warily. "Wonder where..."
"You and me both," Dean grunts as he digs the metal tool into the ground. The earth is surprisingly soft considering the temperatures lately. Hell, it was even cold in South Dakota.
It only takes about fifteen minutes before Dean's shovel bangs off of wood, and then he's clearing the dirt away and lifting the lid of the coffin to reveal some pretty ancient-looking bones. Dean frowns, because the house must have been abandoned longer then he thought.
"You sure this is the right one?" he asks, raising his voice over the wind. Sam looks down and nods.
"Positive. There were other deaths here right after his suicide in 1874, but no one really paid attneiton. Then people stopped coming here."
Dean nods. It makes sense. He sprinkles salt over the bones before climbing out of the grave, and then he lights the end of a small twig on fire and drops it into the pit. The flames crackle and snap and steam rises into the air along with smoke as the snow melts.
Only when they're halfway through filling the grave back up does Dean suddenly find himself airborne as a deep, angry voice booms, "Leave!"
He curses as his shoulder makes abrupt contact with the nearest tree and halts his lesson in aerodynamics. "Sam!" he calls, sitting up, but his brother is already taking off for the house.
"There must be something in the house!" he shouts over his shoulder.
Dean curses again and staggers to his feet, sprinting after the younger man. The front door slams once, twice as they both burst into the house.
"Look upstairs," Sam orders, and Dean wants to protest but he can't, so he leaps up the stairway and starts tearing the floor apart, trying desperately to find the object that the spirit could be tied to. He hears crashing from downstairs, the same booming voice from before, and then comes across a large wardrobe in what looks like it might be a bedroom.
"Sam!" he yells, "up here!"
He can hear his brother's pounding footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly the air is knocked out of his lungs as the wardrobe comes down on top of him.
"Guh," he gasps, trying to push the thing off, but a very, very pissed off looking ghost has just appeared to the right of him, and somehow he doesn't think that only gravity is holding the piece of furniture down.
"Get out!" the spirit shrieks. Its long, messy hair falls in front of its pale face.
"Sam," Dean says, because his gun, he can't reach his gun...
Sam stops in the doorway, appraising the situation. He raises his gun to take the shot.
But then that gun, too, is halfway across the room, and Dean waits for his younger brother to go after it. He doesn't.
When the spirit knocks the gun out of Sam's hands, suddenly Sam can't move. He stares at the weapon, and then back to the spirit. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the poltergeist has murder in his eyes. Sam just can't bring himself to care.
Even as Dean is screaming, "The gun, Sam! Get the gun!" Even as the ghost has him against the wall with its hands tight around his throat, cutting off his air supply. Death is suddenly just fine. Welcome, even. He closes his eyes and doesn't fight, and the last thing he thinks as the darkness takes him is, I'm sorry, Dean.
Sam blinks, clearing his fuzzy vision, and looks around. It's warm and dry, and the sun is just beginning to set over the clouds. It looks like he's in some sort of park.
"What the f—"
"Hello, Sam," a familiar voice says from behind him. "It's been a while."
Sam whirls around to face Lucifer. "What the hell did you do?" he asks lowly.
Lucifer shakes his head. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he sighs. "When will you learn? I told you I would just bring you back. I am a man of my word, if nothing else." He smiles, genuine. "Walk with me."
Sam knows that he has no choice but to do what he says, but puts a few feet of distance between then nevertheless. "What is this?" he asks. "Why not just bring me back right away?"
"Well," Lucifer says, "two reasons. One, it's nice chatting with you. Two, I realise now that I need to set some priorities in that not-so-smart little brain of yours."
Sam grits his teeth and clenches his fists. "I have my priorities in order, thank you very much," he snaps.
"Obviously not," Lucifer disagrees, and smiles patiently as though teaching a small child. "How could you leave your brother like that?"
Sam pauses at this. "What do you mean?" he asks cautiously.
"Your brother needs you, Sam," Lucifer says. "You can't just leave him by himself. You have a duty to him, after all. Especially after all that you've done."
Sam looks up at the setting sun. As much as he hates to say it, Lucifer is right. Dean needs him. What was he thinking? All this time, Dean needed him, and he wasn't there. He can put his emotions aside for a little while longer, bear the guilt just a little more. For Dean. What happens in the future won't matter until they get there.
"Are you ready to go back now, Sam?" Lucifer questions softly. Sam nods. The devil smiles. "I knew you were just a bit misguided," he says, putting two fingers to Sam's temple.
When Sam wakes up, Dean is trying to break his ribs under his hands as he does compressions, tear tracks staining his face. He's mumbling something, and it takes Sam a minute to decipher the words.
"Don't do this to me, Sammy. Not now. Please, god, not now. Just come back. Come back to me. Please, Sam."
"Dean," Sam croaks, reaching out and touching Dean's cheek with a shaking hand, and Dean's head snaps up.
"Oh thank god," Dean gasps, hugging Sam fiercely.
Not quite, Sam thinks.
"Don't you ever do that again, you hear me?" Dean growls, giving Sam a harsh shake. "Jesus, Sam, I know you feel bad. I know you're unhappy. But you can't—you can't—" His voice catches in his throat, and when he speaks again, it trembles with barely retained tears. "You gotta talk to me, man. You gotta tell me when it gets this bad. You can't—get yourself killed over it." Sam hears what Dean can't say. You can't try to kill yourself just because there's nothing left for you to live for.
"Okay," Sam says.
"I thought I lost you," Dean cries, suddenly unable to hold back his grief. "God, Sammy, I thought I lost you. You have to let me in. Please. You have to let me fix it, Sammy. I can't do this without you." A choked sob cuts him off, and Sam hold him a little tighter, trying to give comfort he doesn't have.
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam apologizes, and Dean lets go of him before sitting back. He doesn't look at the younger man. For a few moments it's silent.
"You didn't even try for the gun," Dean says quietly then.
Sam turns his head away. "I know."
"You let that spirit kill you. You died."
"I know."
"Promise me," Dean demands, and he doesn't have to explain for Sam to know what he means.
Sam hesitates. He doesn't like lying to his brother. But Dean needs this, needs this like he needs oxygen, and if there's anything in the world that Sam can understand it's the need to believe that eventually, everything will be okay. So he'll give Dean the lies he needs, because right now, that's the only thing he can give.
"I promise."
I heard you tellin' lies; Some get dealt simple hands, So, collect your scars and wear 'em well.
I heard you say you weren't born of our blood.
I know we're the crooked kind,
But you're crooked too, boy, and it shows.
Some walk the common paths, all nice and worn.
But all folks are damaged goods;
It ain't a talk of "if", just one of "when" and "how".
Your blood's as good an ink as any.
Go scratch your name into the clouds,
And pull 'em all... down.
End.
The last song is The Crooked Kind by Radical Face. I hope you enjoyed the story! =)