Nov. 27th, 1990

collegedropout: credit = ??? (pic#7056336)
 
 
 



Sam Winchester died.


 
 
 
Okay, so it's not really that surprising to him. After all, he's a Winchester, and they are fated to die
on multiple occasions. Usually, though, they just don't stay dead. It had all started on a normal hunt, 
a completely straight-forward salt and burn for a ghost that had out-deaded it's time at some old, 
crusty mansion people kept dying at (you would think someone would notice such a string of bad 
luck, but ah well). It had been normal until Sam was faced with the rage-stricken man's spirit, ended
up taking a meat cleaver across his gut, deep enough that he had to hold them in his body, writhing
and waiting for Dean to realize something was wrong; it's usually pretty quick, and he was right. After
being dragged to the Impala, laid out sloppily in the back seat, Sam considered how it was ending —

Because he was definitely not surviving this one. Blood had pumped out so fast, all over him, covering
the upholstery, his clothes, his brother. That was the worst thing of all; to die like this, fuck up Dean's 
life with him by making this the last memory he had of him, sprawled out in the back seat, saying
don't think I'm okay
(fucking obvious, Sam, duh) in a wheezing, horrible voice, until finally you're just
choking on your own blood and your only family in the world has to pull over to see if he can save you
from suffocating.

As it turns out, all he had left to offer Dean was dribbling blood all over the man's jacket sleeve and then
just... going. Only — he didn't go. He was still here, still watching in horror, waiting for something to 
change, for the scene to get better. Was he going to Heaven now? Why did he — well, no, it's obvious
why he didn't go. Looking at Dean, he realized far too easily why he couldn't. He just.

He couldn't go.

 
 
 ***


Two weeks later, Dean is still a fucking zombie, and it's driving Sam crazy by proxy. He's still trying to
learn how to Swayze things, so the efforts have been... mildly unhelpful, despite his hopeful attempts.
He'd been trying to move anything, something, and it just wasn't working. The best he was good for
was making some rooms a little colder, sparingly. One time, he had tried to pick up a picture of him 
and Dean and Kevin and ended up dropping it and shattering it from the shelf; felt like a dick for
a while after that. Would've maybe even cried in frustration, if it were easier to physically cry like that,
as a spirit. Ah well. Small mercies.

He actually can't migrate through the whole house, though. He's strong enough to barely reach
Dean's room from the garage; what he's attached to, he's not 100% sure yet. He thinks he has an 
educated idea. A very heart-heavy, educated idea. He really misses the library, eating, being able
to lay in his bed and sleep everything off. He misses being in the big meeting room and just having
coffee after a run.

He spends a few days mourning, too. Because it's all fucked, now. 

All over a shitty ghost hunt.

For being a spirit, it sure feels like his chest physically hurts.