Chapter Text
"SAMMY!"
"DEAN!"
Sam lurches with a sharp gasp, his hands automatically roaming over his neck. Once his brain has remembered there's no more bite marks - or chunks of flesh missing - he falls back on the bed, hands now tangling in his hair as his breathing slowly steadies.
It's been almost a week since, and he doesn't expect the nightmares to ever stop. If he thinks hard enough, he can still feel himself being ripped apart.
He folds his hands on his chest, staring up at the ceiling. As the haze lifts from his eyes, he distracts himself from the nightmare by counting the tiny cracks and marks showing the bunker's age. It feels like he's never noticed them before.
Satisfied, he rolls out of bed, checking the time on the way - close to 4AM. He heads for the dingy little en-suite and flicks on the light, barely taking time to blink before turning the tap on and splashing water on his face. With a deep exhale, he blindly grabs a hand-towel to wipe the water away, then drapes it over the faucet and finally dares to look in the mirror.
His reflection hasn't looked the same to him since Hell. He's always been able to make out the lines of exhaustion under his eyes, which are perpetually haunted. Every time he's died since, it's been a struggle to face that again, and this most recent brush has been no exception. He's barely glances at himself in the last few days, until now, but he can see he looks gaunt. His eyes are even more sunken than usual, red, if he squints, and his skin is almost a sickly pale.
The thought that this must be what his corpse looked like - apart from this last time, knowing there was barely anything left by the end - has him dry-heaving into the sink. He quickly splashes more water on his face, this time roughly wiping it away with his wrist, and stumbles out of the bathroom to throw himself back into bed.
He isn't graced by the nightmare again, but the reprieve is hardly welcome knowing it will be back tomorrow.
///
The morning boasts a classic hearty breakfast from Dean, who's no doubt thrilled that the Apocalypse World Hunters are gradually finding their way out of the bunker. Less mouths to feed, he'd say - although if you ask Sam, his brother will take any excuse to cook.
As for Sam himself, he checks in with the group still at the bunker and makes some calls to the ones who've left, just to see how they're doing, then finally allows himself time to eat. A big helping of scrambled eggs are dumped on his plate, along with a few slabs of bacon as Dean says, "Get your protein in. We're hitting the road in an hour."
"Yeah, thanks, Dean."
Their first proper hunt since...since.
Shaking off that thought, Sam stabs a few eggs with a fork and shoves them in his mouth, chewing. It only takes a few seconds to notice something's off.
Dean is always sure to fry his eggs in butter and half a dozen spices, to the point where he triple-checks their shopping lists for the right ingredients. But after sitting there working his teeth to the bone for almost half a minute, Sam realizes he tastes nothing.
What the hell?
"Sam?" Mary asks from the seat beside him. "Are you alright? You've just been staring into space."
Sam swallows and gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "Yeah, I'm fine, Mom. Just...you know."
Mary nods, and something inside him twists seeing the sorrow barely hidden in her eyes. She reaches out to briefly rub her hand in a comforting circle on his back, then returns to her own breakfast.
Before Dean can start nagging him again, Sam sets down his fork and picks up a piece of bacon, taking a bite. He can barely taste it, but knowing he needs the energy, he keeps going.
He's not hungry anymore.
///
After what was arguably the most uncomfortable breakfast of his life, Sam gears up, grabs his duffel, and follows Dean out the door. They toss their duffels in the back of Baby and hop in, heading out on the open road.
Dean, of course, turns on his usual classic rock straight away. Sam normally wouldn't mind the music reverberating through the car, but the first drum-kick seems to stab through his ears. It feels like he can make out each individual instrument, and suddenly everything hurts.
Putting on as casual of an affect as possible - which, in his state, likely isn't that convincing - he asks, "Hey, can you turn it down?"
Glancing at him, Dean squints, then chuckles in disbelief. "You serious?"
Sam vaguely gestures to his head. "Headache."
"Never thought I'd have to remind you of the rule-"
"I know the rule, Dean! Just...please?"
Sam may have sounded just a little too desperate, because Dean's eyes flash with concern. But at long last, he does lower the volume by a few notches. "Alright."
The relief almost overwhelming, Sam slumps a little in his seat, willing away the faint ringing still in his ears. He somehow manages to hear Dean say, "Watch me make that your alarm next time I have the chance."
It almost feels like a test, silently asking if Sam is okay. Luckily, he doesn't miss a beat. "Shut up, jerk."
"Bitch."
Sam stifles a sigh of relief, turning his attention to the landscape speeding past the window. Hopefully this hunt is as quick as it sounds.
///
The hunt is quick; they picked up word of what sounded like a rugaru, thankfully in the area, so it should be a straight shot back to the bunker. That's the one consolation Sam has when everything goes to shit.
It's easy to find the rugaru, considering they've already mapped out the victim pattern. Unfortunately, they end up walking into an active crime scene.
The smell hits Sam first; a rotten, pungent odor that he knows far too well for his liking. He'd normally be unfazed, but his stomach churns even as he follows Dean to the kitchen, passing a family photo of parents and what looks like their teenage children on the way.
Everything hits him all at once even before they hit the treshold; the smell is ten times worse, his eyes practically sting with it. The whole room is spattered with red, human remains everywhere. The rugaru is crouched over what looks like the father, still ravenous as ever and seemingly not noticing them.
Flamethrower in hand, Dean lights the thing up, adding a charred scent to the viscera Sam is already experiencing. Once the creature's guttural screams have stopped, they search the house top to bottom just in case, and thankfully come up empty. Counting the bodies - what's left of them - makes it clear that there were no survivors. Neither of them expected any, but it's still awful.
Sam is moving on autopilot as they leave the house, his nerves humming and stomach still rolling. Dean asks right before they get in the car, "You good?", and he gives a jerky nod in response.
He bites down on his tongue as they drive, hand white-knuckling the door. The moment Dean stops so he can take a call from Cas, luckily on a back-road where cops won't be roaming around to check for DNA soon enough, Sam flings the door open. He stumbles only a few steps before keeling over and vomiting straight into the bushes.
"The hell - Cas, I'll call you back!" Dean hangs up the phone, practically throwing it in his haste to leave the car and reach Sam's side. "Sam!"
"Uuungh..."
"Jesus, man, what's the matter with you?"
Flexing his jaw, Sam weakly answers, "Couldn't handle it."
"The hunt? We've fought tons of rugarus! That was nothing!"
"Blood...so much-"
Just the reminder has Sam hurling again, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Dean kneels with him when he finally buckles, a hand on his back. "Let it out, Sammy. Just let it out."
///
It feels like minutes before Sam finally stops puking - that'd be his entire, tasteless breakfast gone. Dean slides a hand over his forehead, and Sam barely manages to choke out, "Don't have a fever."
"No shit, you're freezing. Come on, back in the car. Easy does it."
Dean helps Sam to his feet, doing most of the work as they walk back to Baby. Sam unceremoniously falls back into his seat, slumping down as Dean shuts the door and circles to get in the driver's side.
While Dean is searching for wherever his phone ended up, Sam wraps his arms around his middle, head tilting slightly to the side. He manages a glimpse of his reflection in the rear-view, and regrets it even faster than he had the night before; his skin is nearly white, and there's the makings of deep, blue-ish pink rings around his eyes. He only snaps out of the trance when Dean revs the engine and says, "Try to get some rest, man. We'll be home soon."
Sam nods numbly, turning his head as far away from the mirror as possible. He rests his temple on the window as the car starts moving, barely feeling the warmer air when Dean cranks up the heat on the AC.
What the hell is wrong with me?