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Fandom: SPN
Rating: PG-13 (language/adult themes)
Category: Dean,Sam (gen)
Words: 1110
Disclaimer: Don't I wish! :-D
Spoilers: Set after 2.05
Notes: Starting to get a plot. Waaay behind on the November Writing Month thing, but now that I have plottage *rubs hands together*… *g* Now we’re getting somewhere.

Make It Right
Chapter 2



Sam knows he comes by his stubbornness honestly. Pig headedness certainly runs in the family, he thinks wryly and glances surreptitiously at his brother. It should be on the family crest, he decides, and knows he’s starting to get loopy.

It’s his latest bought of insanity, he knows, and probably as pathetic as sticking his head in the sand and trying to wish it all away. It hasn’t stopped him from doing it for the last month, though, and while it’s been somewhat successful, it’s not without its repercussions.

Avoiding sleep only works for so long. He’s come to terms with this. He gets too sloppy on the hunt, and has endangered Dean enough to know it’s not the answer. Well, it’s not the *whole* answer.

After all, this all started as a way to try to avoid the nightmares. Not that he hasn’t gotten good at catching the scream before it leaves his throat, and stumbling to the bathroom first; shutting the door and turning on the fan before he dry heaves into the toilet. But no sleep makes Sam mercurial, and that’s the last thing he needs with how Dean’s been lately.

Dean’s hanging by a thread, and his brittle flashes of smile and bitter jabs have gotten far from brotherly. They’re sharp and painful, and meant to cut, which they do. He’ll never say a word about it, though. Hell, he’d be happy to be Dean’s punching bag physically as well if he’d let him. If it would help. But other than that once, Dean hasn’t touched him since, which leaves the barbs.

Thankfully, although he knows Dean’s suspicious, he hasn’t figured out what’s going on yet. Benadryl combined with a couple of warm beers he saves for late at night, when he’s finally too exhausted to fight sleep anymore, have worked. Well, mostly.

At first he thought the headaches were a slight hangover from his self medication, but he knows better now. He’s starting to remember flashes of his dreams, no, visions, these last few days, and knows his reprieve is mostly over.

The headaches were always too sharp, the lights too bright, and his bones felt too big for his skin, so really, he should have known better. Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt. When the pain gets too much, sometimes he feels maudlin and wonders how easy it would be to just drift away with his visions; not fight them, and not care if he ever makes it back. He won’t, though, and always brings his train of thought back to what’s important: taking care of Dean.

He catches himself now before his mind takes him to things too unbearable. Don’t think about it. Think of something else. Don’t go there, Sam, he screams in his mind when he sees the back of a woman on the sidewalk and could *swear* it’s Jess. When he sees her in the shoplifter mirror tucked in the corner of the Qwik-e-Mart, or just last night, driving by in the back of a pickup with a group of other college kids as he’d been pumping gas.

Time slowed as she passed, and he can still see her long hair swirl around and whip into her face as the kids motor on to their football game, or homecoming, or wherever the hell they’re going to. Each time he sees her, she always has a gentle smile, and there’s no blame in her eyes. She’s sad, though, and looks tired. Almost apologetic.

Certainly nothing like she’d been in life. She’d been vibrant; the brightest thing in the room. People naturally gravitated to her. With a raunchy joke and a bright, hearty laugh, she’d captivated Sam from the moment he saw her, and it still made him ache in a way that made him feel broken and twisted inside, whereas losing Dad just makes him feel lost and empty.

He’s made into a game, desperately searching the roadside for something, anything to distract him, when he thinks he sees her. He likes to call it the avoidance game, and knows he’s really not dealing well, and might even be going a little mad, but refuses to think about it too much, which amuses him, as it’s a self perpetuating loop.

This latest round of avoidance ironically has also given him a means of avoiding visions during the day. Well, avoiding them isn’t the right word, he amends silently. Desperately holding them off until he’s out of sight of Dean is more the reality.

He’s also begun to employ the same focus to *not* seeing the visions that he’s been using for *not* thinking about Dad and Jess, and how he almost lost Dean, and still could if he’s not vigilant.

Now he gets the vision pain with only mild impressions of what happens. Something bad happens, people die, and his body is either a conduit of evil, or just a magnet for it. Yadda yadda. Same story, different day. A Shakespeare tragedy. His inner voice is getting snarky enough, Sam’s begun to wonder if he’s not channeling his inner Dean.

Granted, trying to forestall the visions means he’s been annoying the hell out of his brother for more frequent road stops, but it’s been worth it so far. The side affects; an even more diminished appetite, frequent nose bleeds, and the ever constant headache are worth it, he’s decided. He doesn’t care, dammit. It’s not a gift, it’s a curse, and if he could give it back, even if it meant he had to carve out part of his brain with a spoon, he’d do it.

He feels filthy, inside and out. Tainted, corrupt somehow. There’s no question Mom died because of something the Demon wanted from him. Jess, too. Now Dad’s dead anyway, despite his pathetic attempts, and Dean’s a hair’s breath from suicidal as well. It doesn’t take a genius to know that if he was taken out of the equation, the Winchester family would be one hell of a happy place, and makes him sympathize with those people who have obsessive compulsive disorder, and do things like bleach their hands and scrub their skin until it bleeds. He’d do it, too, if he wasn’t positive Dean would notice it in a heartbeat.

So he does this instead. It’s his way of coping. And while Dean’s suspicious, he hasn’t figured it out. The fact that it’s working less and less every day, and that he’s no longer as able to hide how much weight he’s lost under layers and layers of clothes is beside the point. For today, it’s working, so for today, it’s what he goes with.
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