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Title: When God Is Gone And The Devil Takes Hold… (2/?)

Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam and Dean (Gen)
Summary: Takes place after 4.22 Lucifer Rising. Sam wants to feel clean for once in his life.
Warnings: Spoilers for 4. 22 Lucifer Rising and to be safe everything that has aired up to now.
A/N: So, here's the second chapter. Sorry it's late but I was away on a little vacation and I couldn't write. Anyway, hope you enjoy. I love comments so I'd really appreciate it if you comment after reading and I'm always open for con-crit  so don't hesitate=)
Disclaimer: Me? Own Sam and Dean? I wish...

1. Who'll Have Mercy On Your Soul?

2. O’ Death, Won’t You Spare Me Over Another Year?



White. Cold. Damp.


So white.


So cold.


And so damp.


That was all Dean could think of. Only those three words. That was how Sam’s skin was like the last time he touched his brother. That was… he actually had no idea how long ago that was. He had lost his sense of space and time somewhere along the line while the paramedics besieged Sam like vultures circling a pray.


Dean kept looking but he saw nothing. The only thing he did was squeeze the folded white paper in his grip tightly and hold on to it.


He was still holding it tightly as he sat at the uncomfortable chair in the waiting room, trying to make sense of what happened between the moment paramedics tore him away from Sam’s unresponsive body and the moment he found himself at the hospital. It was simple, really. His eyes had sent the signals to his brain but his brain hadn’t processed them. Somehow, his mind had closed up on itself, shielding from the outer world – it was probably a self-defense mechanism to keep him sane, like the dreams he kept seeing while he was in Hell.


He shook his head, only now remembering how he came to be sitting on this chair. One of them had checked Sam’s pulse, yelling at another one urgently. Then they put an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Sam already looked… dead – there, there’s the fourth word.










            Dean could make very little out of the blur that was his memories but he remembered them tying tourniquets around Sam’s arms and then they pretty much lost no time on putting him on a stretcher, strapping him in and carrying him to the ambulance.


            They wouldn’t let Dean come. He remembered following them down the stairs like a little child trailing after his mother, making a move to get on the vehicle but one of them, a young woman, put her hand on his chest and stopped him.


            “No, sir, you can’t. I’m sorry.”


            Dean opened his mouth but it was Bobby’s voice that answered.


            “It’s his brother.”


            She shook her head sympathetically. “I’m sorry. We need to do the best we can until we reach the hospital and there’s not enough room.” She paused, looking miserable. “You can’t come with us.”


            “He’s my brother,” mumbled Dean as she shut the door closed to his face.


            Then Bobby dragged him to his car and they followed the ambulance to the hospital. Once arriving at the ER, the paramedics rolled Sam out of sight in a flash, explaining his condition to the doctor who’d materialized beside them. Although Dean ran after them, it was still hard to catch up and he was getting frustrated even more as he couldn’t understand a damn word from what was being said about his brother. Then once again, he was told he couldn’t go past a door; the door to the trauma room.


            Bobby had come to his side and put a hand on his shoulder, leading him towards the waiting room with a grim expression on his face. On one side, Sam was fighting – or not fighting – for his life and on the other, Dean was… not himself. Bobby was worried about him. The Dean he knew would have kicked down the door to that room and still gotten inside but this, this young man that walked beside him could only be a shadow of his true self; an empty shell. He suddenly had a nasty flashback to two years ago, to Dean in this same condition and his heart broke. He didn’t understand why these boys had to be in the middle of every damn single evil game that was being played. Hadn’t they suffered enough already?


            He sat Dean at a chair in the waiting room and went to get coffee, telling him to stay still.


            But Dean wasn’t going anywhere.


            That was how the older Winchester had ended up on that uncomfortable chair in the waiting room. He sat there silently and remembered all this in the few minutes it took Bobby to come back from the vending machine. He sat there and balled his fists in frustration – he needed to do something.


            The TV on the other side of the room was muted on some news show – CNN, FOX, MSNBC or something else entirely – and it was showing some kind of a tornado strike at a town on the Atlantic coast.  


            Dean clenched his fists more tightly and let out a big breath, raising his head. He caught the view of the TV but the natural disaster didn’t interest him much. He had bigger problems. Sam was… since when was Sam suicidal?


            He tilted his head down once again and stared at the now-crunched paper in his grip. He had seen his name on it: Sam wrote a suicide note and addressed it to him. That was great.


            He wasn’t going to read it. Sam could tell him all about whatever the hell he wrote on that paper when he got out of the hospital. It’s not like he wasn’t going to. He was. Going to be okay. Until Dean gave him the beating he deserved, anyway.


Still, a suicide note is supposed to be read when the person who wrote it was dead.


            Sam wasn’t dead.


            And he wasn’t going to die. Dean would… he would make sure of that. He would do something – as soon as they let him know how his brother was doing, that is.


            He raised his head up in expectation, his chest tightening suddenly, as he heard footsteps approaching; maybe a doctor… But no, it was Bobby. Back from the coffee mission.


            The older hunter offered one of the steaming cups to Dean who was now breathing shallowly with an inexplicable expression on his face. Bobby could almost swear the boy hadn’t noticed the paper cup in front of his eyes – he was definitely staring right through it.


            “Dean?” asked Bobby cautiously, still his voice carrying the slightest hint of worry in it.


            The younger man blinked slowly, his eyes finally focusing on the dark, dark brown liquid in his vision.


            “No, thanks,” he mumbled with a tight throat, his voice coming out strained.


            Bobby insisted. “C’mon, boy.”


            Dean took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and his eyes falling shut. When he opened them again, he raised his eyes upwards to meet Bobby’s and hissed from between his teeth.


            “I said no.”


            Bobby, strangely, liked his reaction, no actually loved the rise he got out of him – it had a twinge of the real Dean in it; it had anger.


            “All right,” he muttered nonchalantly, shrugging as he dumped the full cup into the waste basket nearby. Then he walked back and took a seat next to Dean.


            Dean didn’t say anything.


            Bobby sighed deeply.


            “Aren’t you gonna read it?” he ended up asking.


            Dean’s hand gave an involuntary spasm around the crunched paper in his grip.


            “No.” His eyes were glazed over when he responded.


            “Why not?” Bobby asked, perplexed. “I mean, maybe there’s something important in th –”


            “No,” said Dean once again, his vice higher this time as he interrupted the older hunter. “I’m not gonna read it, Bobby. If he has anything to say to me, he’ll say it once he’s out of here.” He sounded like he was walking the fine line between plain old desperate and the much shinier hysterical.


            “But Dean, that’s –”


            “No, Bobby!” he exclaimed loudly, making heads with disapproving looks turn in their direction. “Suicide notes are written to be read when the writer is –” he paused abruptly, gulped forcefully and spit out the next word in disgust. “– dead. Sam’s not dead. He’s gonna be fine.” Now he was closer to hysterical.


            Bobby cast his eyes downward in something resembling guilt and nodded silently. He remembered how Dean had simply frozen up that time he saw Sam having that demon-blood-withdrawal seizure. Then he flashed upon only an hour ago; Dean on the floor with Sam dying in his arms. He wondered how much more pain these boys could take before drowning in it themselves. Then he thought of Sam lying on the bathroom floor; lifeless as a puppet whose strings have been cut – maybe he had already drowned.


            “I can’t Bobby…” muttered Dean absently. “I’m tired,” he paused again, blinking furiously and looking the other way to hide his pained expression. “I can’t go on without him, Bobby. I can’t.” He shook his head. “He can’t…” He sounded on the brink of tears; his throat closed up and sore, his voice nasal and strained. Still he kept talking. “He has to…”


            Dean couldn’t finish the sentence. He let out a big breath as he covered his face with one hand. His hand slid down from his eyes to his chin slowly, a single tear following it traitorously.


            Bobby sighed again.


            “I know, son. I know,” he started miserably, “Let’s just hope that Sam is –”


            Hope?” flared Dean once again, raising an angry brow at him. “You talking to me about hope, Bobby? Next thing I know, you’re gonna tell me angels are watching over him!”


            The other man ducked his head in embarrassment, revealing the greasy once-upon-a-time-white backside of his trucker hat. “Those bastards…” he muttered, shaking his head as he recalled Dean’s words on the angels’ betrayal. “Where’s Castiel, anyway?” he asked suddenly, eyes wild as he looked up into Dean’s cold, cloudy ones.


            “How the hell am I supposed to know?” snapped the other, “Probably out somewhere doing God’s work…” He sounded disgusted with the word “God”.


            Bobby didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say; he didn’t even know why he’d asked Castiel’s whereabouts. For the second time in two years, he had no idea how to deal with Dean’s grief. So the old hunter just shook his head and stayed silent next to Dean, deciding to be strong for him. The best thing he could possibly do was not let him see his pain and be the dependable rock that Dean could hold onto. He needed to be strong in order to share that strength with the grieving boy. But Bobby was in pain, too, yes he was. Sam was like a son to him. Both of the boys were. And he sometimes, sometimes really hated John for dragging them into this mess in the first place.


            “Sometimes,” came Dean’s weak voice from beside him, his tone holding none of the sharp quality it did a minute ago. “Sometimes I wish…” he paused for a shaky breath. “I wish I’d never gone to Palo Alto, ya know?” The side of his lip twitched. “Never gotten Sammy involved in all this crap again.” his shoulders sagged with the press of the unbearable weight of guilt and he hung his head.


            Bobby was horrified by what he thought. He was blaming this one on himself, too? Exactly how much self-loathing one could accommodate in himself before he burst into tiny pieces?


            “No!” called the older hunter with the most reassuring voice he could muster up at that moment. “No, Dean. This isn’t your fault. C’mon…”


            “Wish I’d never said a word. Never convinced him to come with me.”


            Bobby slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and when Dean didn’t respond, grabbed his chin to force him to face him. “You listen to me, boy. I am sick of this ‘everything’s my fault, Sam’s my responsibility’ crap, you hear me? The world doesn’t revolve around you and your mistakes, Dean. Face it! Sam’s a grown man, now, he’s an adult. And he makes his own decisions. He’s here because of his own damn choices.” He shook the Winchester boy’s shoulders a bit, squeezing them hard as if trying to physically embed his point into his skin. “Not everything is your fault. I thought you had changed, I thought you weren’t the same boy who practically told me his life didn’t mean anything. But you haven’t! You haven’t changed one bit. But let me tell you something, either you change that self-loathing shit you got goin’ on, boy or I make you!”


            He hadn’t realized he had started outright yelling but he noticed what he’d done once he saw that the waiting room was now empty. Dean looked shocked; even he didn’t have a comeback for what he just heard. Then his eyes hardened and became glassier, his jaw tightened; his teeth gritting against each other and he let out a low growl out of his throat. “You know, there’s a saying for what you just did, Bobby? Pot calling the kettle black.” He took a breath through her nose and ducked his head forward slightly, strengthening eye contact with the older man. “You tellin’ me you don’t hate yourself for killing your wife, huh? Tell me! Tell me you’re not punishing yourself every damn second of every friggin’ day! Living in that same house you murdered your wife in, guarding a salvage that doesn’t even have anything worth salvaging anymore and wearing that same old dirty trucker hat every friggin’ day. I bet you’re not grieving. Bet you’re not a self-loathing bastard at all…”


            Bobby blinked at the venom that was spilling over him from Dean’s sneering mouth. Now, he truly had nothing to say. So he ducked his head and started taking deep breaths. He was already in pain; he certainly didn’t need to be reminded of past ones, too.


            Suddenly, there was a sharp intake of breath from above his head – it sounded like as if Dean had touched something very hot and couldn’t help letting out that sound.


            “I’m sorry,” he mumbled shakily then. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I didn’t mean…” But he couldn’t find the words so he just put a hesitant hand on the older man’s shoulder and gave a little apologetic squeeze.


            Bobby gave an almost unnoticeable nod. But he understood. They were both a bundle of nerve wreckage, right now.


            Right at that moment, a doctor appeared at the door of the waiting room.


            The hunters both looked up at the sound of his footsteps.


            “You brought in the boy who slit his arms?” he asked silently, as if not to disturb someone sleeping nearby.


            Dean and Bobby shot up from their seats as they said the single word in unison.




( 7 have spilled their guts — Spill Your Guts )
Feb. 18th, 2010 09:20 pm (UTC)
I just found this, parts 1 and 2 today. The letter Sam wrote is all the things he should have said to Dean, and I love that you wrote it.

Now please tell me there is a conclusion to this! I NEED to know how it ends!
Feb. 19th, 2010 04:43 pm (UTC)
Thank you, I loved writing this, too and I had to make Sam say those things, somehow, because no one else did =)

Anyway, the story is not yet finished. I have it all in my head but I haven't really had the motivation to write it down, I guess :/
Feb. 19th, 2010 07:52 pm (UTC)
Please consider me to be your motivation!
Jun. 25th, 2010 01:46 am (UTC)
Just re-found this today. Begging for more? Please???
Jun. 25th, 2010 09:39 am (UTC)
Wow, it's been so long since I've updated this story. I wasn't really expecting anyone to remember it. So thank you very much, you made me smile =)

To be honest, I've been thinking about the story but this year took a lot out of me and I had so little time to write. But now I'm finally on vacation! So... okay. I won't have internet connection in the weekend. But I'll still have my laptop. Promise you, I'll write the next chapter and post it as soon as possible, hopefully on Monday!

Thanks again for your support =D
Jun. 25th, 2010 09:58 am (UTC)
Yay! I didn't think my plea would get such speedy results!

Lesson: pitiful begging works! :)
Jun. 25th, 2010 10:43 am (UTC)
Hee, apparently it does =P

Now, I gotta go pack a bag for my weekend getaway!
( 7 have spilled their guts — Spill Your Guts )

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