Chapter Text
Eventually, the concern from the others starts to weigh on Sam a bit too much for his liking. Limply wiping his tears away with his sleeves, he says, "I'm going back to my room...again."
"Are you sure, Sam?" Mary asks, and the gentle tone that was comforting before grates. "We should really talk about this."
"Later, please? I just...want to be alone, right now."
Mary shares a look with Dean, and Dean says, "Okay, man. I don't think any of us are goin' back to sleep-"
"No," Mary agrees, as Jack lightly shakes his head.
"-But we'll give you your space. Can't promise it'll be for long, though."
"Didn't think it would," Sam says with the flicker of a weak smile. "I just need some time to process...everything."
"We understand," Castiel chimes in. "You can go."
Mary gently pats Sam's back before drawing her hand away, and Dean ruffles Sam's hair as he does the same. Sam smooths his hair back down with a half-hearted glare, rolling his eyes fondly in response to Dean's grin. "Jerk."
"Bitch."
The fact they're all treating this like it's normal is nice...however briefly, and however wrong they are.
Sam glances around at the group and turns to leave, taking a second to watch as they start grabbing books off the table, assumedly to return them to the shelves. He glances at the crack he'd made in the wall with that one book, and his hands twitch.
He doesn't like being this strong. It reminds him of being hyped up on demon blood...of Lucifer.
in a blink, he remembers sitting in a time-worn church, his hands - but not really his, not anymore - covered in blood. He remembers white-hot rage as he stared through the mirror at his own face, how he'd growled, "I'm gonna rip you apart from the inside out."
It's been a long time since he's resonated so much with that. Lucifer should feel lucky they left him behind in Apocalypse World, or else Sam wouldn't be held responsible for his actions. Bastard deserves it for everything he's done, but turning Sam into this...
He swallows, blinking more tears away and continuing his walk down the hall. His hand slips a few times as he's opening his bedroom door, but he manages and steps inside, shutting the door behind him.
Only then, when he's finally alone, does he sink to the floor, drop his head into his knees, and sob.
///
Starting to become routine, but Sam doesn't know how much time passes from there. He runs out of tears soon enough - it might be the last of them; he doesn't know if vampires can even cry - and he moves to the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His hand falls limply over his chest, where his heartbeat once was, and the silence is still painful.
At some point, he gets up and stumbles to the bathroom, coming face-to-face with his reflection again. His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around them pink, but that's likely more from all the crying than anything else. His skin has lost more of its color, and as he grazes his fingers over his cheek, he confirms it's still cold to the touch.
He never completely came back after what happened to him - he knows that, but he's never understood it so profoundly until now. He never came back alive; he's still dead, he's just masquerading among the living.
Resting one hand on the edge of the sink, he puts the other on his head with a bitter laugh at that last thought. He never did belong, did he?
For the first time since Apocalypse World, at least that he's noticed, his stomach rumbles. He realizes then that he's been starving for the last few days; even eating food, before it had lost its taste, hadn't done anything for him. He needs blood, and soon, or else-
His brain stutters, and he plants both hands on the sink to ground himself.
-Or else he'll become like the vampires that killed him. A mindless husk, tearing apart the first thing he can catch that has a pulse.
Before he can stop himself, he's dry-heaving, but nothing comes out - it's not like he's eaten anything. He turns on the faucet and practically slaps himself with the cold water, staring resolutely into his own eyes in the mirror. It won't come to that, it won't. He'll just have to...adapt to his new diet.
"Regularly drinking blood again," He muses quietly, and he hates how resigned he sounds, and feels. "Guess I don't have a choice."
On that last word, his voice breaks, and he sets his jaw. He still can't bring himself to cry anymore, but a strangled noise comes from his lips as he bows his head. "Dammit."
Just once, he wants to dictate his own life - or, afterlife. The path has always been laid out for him, he's always been made into a monster. Even letting Lucifer in was pre-destined.
Leaving the bathroom, he lays back down and resumes his staring contest with the ceiling. He doesn't have to blink as often now, he notices after some time. Counting the cracks and marks, like always, takes his mind off this living nightmare, just for a little.
Small mercies.
///
There's a knock at the door, and Sam flinches. He can hear each individual grain of wood pressing against knuckles. He'll have to work on managing his enhanced senses.
"It's open," He calls out before the knocking can start again, turning his head to snap his fingers next to his ear. They're not ringing, but oddly, it still makes him feel better.
Dean opens the door and comes in, shutting it behind him. "Hey, man. How you holding up?"
"Not - Not great."
"Yeah, stupid question."
A beat passes, and they both laugh softly - for a moment, Sam feels lighter than he has in days. Then Dean wanders over and pulls out the chair at the desk, sitting backwards so he can face the bed. "It's not the same, and it was so damn long ago, but I remember when I was turned."
"Yeah, me too."
"Wasn't the best couple of hours. It's been, like, a week for you, hasn't it?"
"Yeah, but it - it just started getting bad."
"You damn near put a hole in the wall. I think 'bad' is being generous."
Sam chuckles dryly, adjusting his folded hands on his chest. "Fair."
His eyes have wandered back to the ceiling, but they return to Dean as he says, "You're not a monster, Sammy."
"Of course you'd say that."
" 'Cause it's true. We've ganked probably hundreds of vamps, and you're nothing like them. Besides, not all of 'em are bad - remember Benny?"
"I barely knew the guy."
"Well, my point stands. He was an exception; you can be one too."
Sam sighs and sits up, running a hand through his hair. "I know. I'm starting to accept that this is forever...that I'm gonna have to live off blood, that I'm never going to die again...but it's hard."
"Since when have our lives been easy?" Dean asks, and he chuckles again. "Stop making sense."
Dean gets up and comes over, sitting on the edge of the bed facing him. "We're gonna do this together, yeah? All of us, we're gonna help you through it. I'll get used to keeping the radio at a normal volume, for one."
He grins when Sam musters another weak laugh. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You were there for me when I was in your spot. We might not be able to cure you, but I can still return the favor."
"Thanks, Dean."
"Least I could do. You're my brother, and nothing's gonna change that."
There are still no tears, but Sam feels pressure behind his eyes anyway as he nods. Dean gives him a brief hug, patting his arm after. "We'll take it one step at a time."
"Yeah," Sam nods again, shutting his eyes and letting out a small breath. Some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders.
It's not an instant relief or anything - there's still the empty ache in his chest weighing on him, and he's going to have to muster a lot of willpower to even try drinking blood again - but he can do this.
One step at a time.