[Sam snaps into life again, and for a moment he's not so sure it's even life; memories return in bits and pieces: laying in the hallways, Arya trying desperately to pull him along, and then Dean, with Sam letting his brother know it was okay to end it all. For a moment, he thinks maybe Dean had gone through with it, because all he can see are blinding lights and he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, just watched the world through a haze. He's thrown back out, fully clothed, spattered with blood long-since from horrible nosebleeds that had been accompanied by cruel insomnia and scratchy, short visions.
He crawls into life and coughs and hacks, his shirt contouring his shivering figure, and then he drags himself blankly to his feet. There's such an overwhelming sense of defeat and loneliness among a throng of confused or otherwise annoyed people, he's not sure how he can even feel like this. But he does. His heart is heavy in his chest and he wanders to the showers, letting the jettison of water clear off the blue from his body. The blood is stained into his clothes, but even that lessens with time.
He rings out his clothes. It's all mechanical. He goes back to his locker, intending to relocate his usual belongings; his gun, the cellphone — that horrible symbol of the future Sam that he's scared to shape into. He wonders where Dean is, if he'd even want to see him. Frankly, Sam's not so sure he wants to see Dean, not with the ugliness of Sam laid out raw and vulnerable — maybe he could just blame it on the insomnia. Or the delusional ramblings of a man trapped in the hallways for too long. He could shrug it all off, pretend he didn't want his brother to just snap his neck or something with his vampire strength.
Yeah. He rubs his eyes, wishing something would hit him hard enough to wipe his memory of his stay aboard the ship. Re-do. Start over. Not a killer, not a failure, not gonna hurt his friends and family, not gonna become the hunted. God. Jesus christ. His eyes sting but that's about as far as his misery shines, as he closes his locker. Then he schools his face into something calm, like young Sam in class, trying to blend into the classroom and hoping it worked.
He's awake now. Missed a month, but he doesn't feel like anything's changed.
Sam Winchester | Pods | Showers | Lockers | ota
He crawls into life and coughs and hacks, his shirt contouring his shivering figure, and then he drags himself blankly to his feet. There's such an overwhelming sense of defeat and loneliness among a throng of confused or otherwise annoyed people, he's not sure how he can even feel like this. But he does. His heart is heavy in his chest and he wanders to the showers, letting the jettison of water clear off the blue from his body. The blood is stained into his clothes, but even that lessens with time.
He rings out his clothes. It's all mechanical. He goes back to his locker, intending to relocate his usual belongings; his gun, the cellphone — that horrible symbol of the future Sam that he's scared to shape into. He wonders where Dean is, if he'd even want to see him. Frankly, Sam's not so sure he wants to see Dean, not with the ugliness of Sam laid out raw and vulnerable — maybe he could just blame it on the insomnia. Or the delusional ramblings of a man trapped in the hallways for too long. He could shrug it all off, pretend he didn't want his brother to just snap his neck or something with his vampire strength.
Yeah. He rubs his eyes, wishing something would hit him hard enough to wipe his memory of his stay aboard the ship. Re-do. Start over. Not a killer, not a failure, not gonna hurt his friends and family, not gonna become the hunted. God. Jesus christ. His eyes sting but that's about as far as his misery shines, as he closes his locker. Then he schools his face into something calm, like young Sam in class, trying to blend into the classroom and hoping it worked.
He's awake now. Missed a month, but he doesn't feel like anything's changed.
It's all still super fucked up.]