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Come On, Oblivion

Chapter Text

 

In this farewell
There's no blood, there's no alibi
'Cause I've drawn regret
From the truth of a thousand lies
So let mercy come and wash away
What I've done

I'll face myself to cross out what I've become
Erase myself
And let go of what I've done

Put to rest what you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands of uncertainty
So let mercy come and wash away
What I've done

I'll face myself to cross out what I've become
Erase myself
And let go of what I've done

-“What I’ve Done” Linkin Park

 

It was quiet. The only sound in the shitty closet-size motel room was the thrumming and wheezing of the ancient heater in the corner.

Sam hated it.

For days now silence had been Sam’s only company. Dean spent every waking moment he could either at the bar or fruitlessly searching for a lead on the whereabouts of God; generally just trying to get as far away from Sam as possible.

Sam couldn’t blame him. He wished he could get away from himself. Even he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror.

Five hours ago by now Dean had left for the nearest dive bar without sparing a glance or a word at Sam. After the door slammed behind him, cheap doorframe rattling in its hinges with the force of it, Sam curled up on the bed furthest from the door. Not knowing what else to do. He lay there, for an indeterminable amount of time. The sky grew dark and then black, and he figured Dean wasn’t coming back for the night. Maybe not ever, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered.

Every wrong choice he made that led them to where they are now, Lucifer topside and the whole fucking world doomed and Dean hating his guts, flooded his mind. If only he’d listened to his brother. If only he’d killed Ruby when he had the chance. If only he’d never been born.

The heater gave one last pathetic wheeze before puffing out its last burst of warm air and dying. Almost immediately, the temperature in the room began to plummet. Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. He curled up into a tighter ball for warmth but didn’t even have the energy to crawl under the covers. Maybe he’d do the world a favor and freeze to death.


 

One week later and Sam was alone again. One week of silences so tense they made Sam feel like he was choking. One week of Dean refusing to look at him, and when he did, it was with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes. One week of Sam slowly drowning in those looks and those silences, too tired to even attempt to fight back.

All it took was one week and Dean had left him.

Sam was in another nameless shitty motel room in a nameless town in a nameless state in a string of nameless shitty motel rooms in nameless towns in nameless states. His whole life was a shitty motel room.

But this time, he was alone. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly alone for good. Dean wanted nothing to do with him. When Dean had finally sat him down and told him to “pick a hemisphere,” a part of Sam had wanted to kick and scream and beg. Beg for a forgiveness that he knew he didn’t deserve, but he needed anyway. He’d get down on his knees if he had to. But he saw the determination in Dean’s eyes, saw the finality in Dean’s decision, and couldn’t bring himself to voice how sorry he really was.

Dean was the only thing in his life that had ever brought him any comfort, the only bright spot and source of happiness in his shitty motel room of a life. He didn’t deserve any form of comfort, let alone happiness, not after what he’d done.

So Sam did what Dean asked and left; what was left of him dying with each and every step he took away from his brother.

After driving in a stolen piece of crap for twelve hours straight Sam stopped at the first motel advertising vacancies, not even able to see straight at that point. He collapsed on the bed in his room without bothering to grab his bags from the trunk, again curling up in a ball. Only then did he let himself cry for the first time since it happened.

That night he dreamt of Lucifer for the first time.


 

In a sick way, it all made sense. Yellow Eyes ‘choosing’ him, the demon blood, never fitting in… it was all because he was Lucifer’s vessel. He was never meant for the light or to be normal, or good. He was meant to house the Devil himself. God, Dean was right to get away when he did.

Every night he would come to Sam in his dreams, disguised as John, Mary, or Jess. Or worst of all, Dean. When he was “Dean,” the dreams would start out just like any of his other dreams starring his brother. “Dean” would smile at him, that same knowing smile that made Sam’s heart skip a beat and want to wipe it off his face at the same time. He would hold Sam, let Sam burrow in close so his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder and their bodies aligned. They’d kiss, and Sam was flying. And then he’d try to seduce Sam to say “one, tiny little word.”

Yes.

And Sam… Sam almost would. One more touch, one more kiss, and he didn’t know what would happen. He knew it wasn’t real, but god, he could taste Dean’s lips…

Which is why he had to do this. One more dream and he might crumble. If he crumbled, the world ended. So the best option was simply taking himself out of the equation. Lucifer had said he’d just bring Sam back. Well, he’d just have to test that theory.

Sam rolled the barrel of the gun between his fingers nervously. His cellphone sat on the edge of the bed beside him, he reached for it before hesitantly pulling his hand back before he could grasp it. He wanted, more than anything, to hear Dean’s voice just one last time. Maybe so he could apologize and beg for Dean’s forgiveness, but really just to hear Dean’s voice again. But he knew Dean wouldn’t want that. Dean couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him anymore. Dean didn’t want him anymore.

You’re one of the filthy things we hunt.

Pick a hemisphere.

Resolve strengthened, Sam put the gun to his head. It was the Devil after all. The Devil lied. Maybe he wouldn’t bring Sam back after all.

A deep breath.

Sam pulled the trigger.

Blissful nothingness.


 

Sam was going insane. Attempting to function on two hours of sleep a night will do that pretty fast, he learned. But he didn’t know what to do. Ever since his initial attempt to escape his fate as Lucifer’s vessel, Lucifer had escalated his attempts to get Sam to say yes. Every night, every day, every dream, he was there whispering in Sam’s ear. Sometimes he swore he heard Lucifer’s voice in the middle of the day, though that could have been the sleep deprivation.

The only way he got any sleep these days was at the bottom of a bottle of pills or the barrel of his gun. He doubted you could technically call death sleep, but it was the only peace he got. Through his many ‘experiments’ he’d found that it generally took 2-3 hours for him to come back. Longer if he used messier methods.

Tonight was a particularly bad night. Of course, every night was a bad night, but tonight especially. Weeks without sleep were taking their toll and most of the time Sam didn’t have the energy to get out of the lumpy motel bed. The motel had his credit card on file, so it was fine. And if he starved to death, he’d get a nice ‘nap’ out of it, a win-win.

His phone had rang for the first time in weeks. The sudden piercing trill had startled him something fierce, but jumping out of bed and scrambling to find the damn thing had been the most alive he’d felt in weeks. What if it was It could Dean? be Dean. It might be Dean. The only reason he’d bothered to keep his phone charged was just in case he didn’t miss a call from Dean.

It was the cell phone company notifying him his bill hadn’t been paid.

A small, shaky bubble of laughter escaped from Sam’s lips. Another, and then another. It sounded hysterical even to his ears, but he just couldn’t stop it. Of course it wasn’t Dean! Why would it be? Dean hated him now. How could he be so stupid? To think that Dean could ever want him again. Poor, stupid Sammy. So. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid.

Whole body shaking, Sam picked up his duffel and dug through it, throwing everything out onto the floor until he reached the bottom. Hysterical laughter long turned to sobs, Sam pulled out Dean’s old AC/DC shirt with trembling hands. He held it close, burying his face in the familiar scent of his brother, faded as it was. Before he’d left for Stanford he’d swiped it from Dean’s duffel. Maybe it was just his imagination, but to him it still smelt of sweat, whiskey, and Old Spice. Dean.

Sam crawled back onto the bed, shirt clutched in hand. After grabbing his gun off the edge of the bed, he made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as one could get on a motel bed. Surrounded by the scent of Dean, he finally allowed himself to relax, letting all the tension out in one deep breath. It would all be over soon, at least for a little while.

Normally he settled for a bottle of sleeping pills to help him ‘sleep,’ but tonight he just couldn’t wait for them to take effect. He needed out, now. Another second in this shitty motel room in this shitty reality was the worst torture he could imagine.

He pulled a scratchy pillow over his head (to muffle the sound, Sam did learn from his mistakes, see?), aimed the gun at his head… and pulled the trigger.

Dean found him like that four hours later.