Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam Winchester killed himself on a cold Thursday night.

He checked into a dingy motel just off highway 74, escaping from the bunker under the guise of ‘needing to clear his head’.

He’d been doing that a lot lately.

Six weeks trapped alone with his thoughts left him plenty of time to think, yet every night, without fail, he was driving up and down the rural highways, extending the stay inside his mental prison.

Tonight was no different. It shouldn’t have been.

But with shaky hands, Sam turned on the faucet on the bath.

With shaky hands, Sam fumbled the cap off the bottle of whiskey. The brand of whiskey John drank.

With shaky hands Sam lowered himself into the lukewarm bathwater. Fully clothed, his jeans started to weigh his knees down.

With shaky hands Sam drank, and drank, and drank, gasping for air between glutinous gulps of whisky.

With shaky hands and a ringing mind Sam leaned his head against the cool tile, covering his face. Hiding from no one. Hiding from everyone.

With shaky hands and a shaky breath Sam examined the demon blade, beautiful as it glint in the pale light of the motel bathroom.

***

Sam hadn’t answered his phone all night.

It was odd but Dean brushed it off. That kid was going through things, and he still wasn’t one to do much of the ‘feelings’ thing. Sam would stumble home one way or another.

Dean went to bed.

***

Over the ringing in his ears, Sam could hear his phone ring again. He turned his head, his bleary vision attempted to focus on his phone atop the sink, but he couldn’t.

His head lulled back to the tile, eyelids drooping.

The water was crimson and cool and the ringing started to dull.

***

When Sam wasn’t home the next morning, Dean called again.

Sam didn’t answer.

Dean called again to no avail, pulling up their cell phone tracking app. He was surprised to find Sam a meek hour's drive away.

The engine purred as Dean sped the Impala down desolate highways, the needle on the speedometer flickering to digits it had never pushed before.

***

The first thing to hit Dean is the subtle smell of copper. He pushes down the worries that swell in his stomach, not assuming the worst. Cautiously, he steps into the motel room.

“Sammy!” Dean calls into the room, turning his head as he scans the empty room. The lack of response makes his stomach turn even as he attempts to qualm it.

He gently troops over the cheap motel carpet, approaching the cracked bathroom door. The smell of copper hits harder. Deans stomach twists further.

“Sammy..?” He whispers, inching the door open.

Dean keels over and empties his guts on the dirty tile floor.

***

It takes what feels like hours of dry heaving on the floor, staring at his dinner spread on the tile in front of him, before he dares look up again.

His knees buckle in his kneeled position on the floor.

Sammy. His Sammy.

His breath comes in shallow pants as he takes in the scene.

It’s gruesome. It’s messy.

It’s Sammy.

The water is almost black with blood.

He looks away again, feeling his stomach lurch.

Disbelieving eyes fight their way back to the scene.

Blood. There was so much blood. Sammy's blood. It decorated the walls in trickles and streams, falling from messy smears. A bottle reminiscent of John lay empty on the floor, a smeared red hand print pressed into its smooth surface.

That’s when his eyes fall upon it. The Blade.

Ruby's Demon Blade. The blade Sam carved into his skin. Glinting steel contrasting merlot and cherry, slowly crusting over and rusting the once glorious weapon.

What had he done? What had his precious Sammy done?

“Sammy-” Dean's voice cracked like a teen, “Sammy I’m here. I’m here Sammy”

The man crawled to the edge of the tub, resting his chin in a puddle of crimson. “I’m- I’m here Sammy. I’m here. It’s okay I’m here”

He lifted a hand to the pale, cool cheek of his younger brother. “I’m here. I’m here Sammy”
The helpless words tumbled from his mouth like dominos. No other words came to mind. He just repeated them again and again. “I’m here Sammy. I’m here.”

His words trembled before they broke out into an outright sob. “Sammy! Sammy what did you do!” His chest billowed with heavy cries. His Sammy. His baby brother.

***

Sam's blood stained Dean's face and hands as he stood outside the bathroom. He tapped his foot as the line rang until the click of an answer interrupted. Dean waited for minutes, unable to process any sound on the other end of the line, the numb words crawling up his throat like more vomit. “Bobby. I need you to come to the motel off of highway 74. Outside Fairfield Nebraska,” He hesitated, only for a moment “Sammy’s dead.”