ohsam | Summer Comment-fic meme!

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It's been forever since we had a straight-up comment-fic meme, am I right? So let's get this show on the road!

SPREAD THE WORD

THE RULES

→ Leave a comment here with your prompt. This is a Sam-focused hurt/comfort community, so Sam should be the one in the hurt/comforted role. Your prompts may involve sick!Sam, hurt!Sam, angsty!Sam, basically anything that results in Sam being on the receiving end of hurt/comfort. (No rules against whumping other characters as well, of course, but you have to whump Sam first. ;) )
→ In your prompt, please state your desired characters or pairings. All genres/pairings welcome, but no real-person (RPF) prompts.

Example A: “Sam, Dean, gen, set in season 2. Sam has a vision and passes out. Cue caring!Dean and limp!Sam.”
Example B: “Sam/Dean, trauma. Sam is injured on a hunt, Dean freaks out when he thinks Sam might be dead.”

→ Post as many prompts as you like - but one prompt per comment. If you've got a couple, comment with each separately.
→ Prompts can be as short or detailed as you like. Remember though - more detail means less wriggle room for the writer, which might lower the chances of someone picking up your prompt.
→ Go through the prompts! If you find one you like, write a fic for it. There's no limit to how many users can reply to a prompt, or how many prompts someone can write for.
→ When replying to a prompt with your comment-fic, put ‘filled’ in your subject line and then anything else you want, like a title if you have one/part numbers. It’s not a big deal if you forget this step, but it will make it easier for people to find your fic. As subject lines are no more, please begin your fills with the word FILLED and a TITLE in BOLD - the first box on this page shows you how to position the bold tag for proper results.
→ If you notice that your fic is not on the master list after a decent amount of time (say, two days), please poke me in a PM. I might have missed it.
→ Anon posting enabled.
→ NO SPOILERS FOR UNAIRED EPISODES.
→ Play nice - no flaming and no character bashing, period. Any comments that break this rule will be deleted without warning.
→ Feedback is catnip for writers. Leave some author-love!
→ No spam comments.
→ Contact one of the mods if you have a question.
→ Spread the Sam love - pimp this meme!
→ Have fun!

Master List of Fills

Mod Note: I have severely restricted access to the Internet these days, due mostly to time constraints. Bear with me if your fills don't appear right away, okay? :)

Priorities; by

center_galaxy; Outsider POV: pizza guy/girl. Goes to deliver a pie (veggie lover's delight?) to a remote motel. The big guy that answers the door is in no way healthy (either he's woefully sick or beaten all to hell.) Or maybe the door is ajar and the delivery person can see someone passed out on the floor.

Winchester Luck; by

chaos_slave; Sam falls/gets thrown off a cliff.

Bath Time Blues; by

cherry916; Sam Dean John gen Pre-series. Sam has a back injury or some sort of back problem, he's not paralysed, but he can't lift anything. Dean and John are fussing over him and watching him like a hawk to make sure he follows the doctor's orders.

The Itch You Can't Scratch; by

cherry916; Sam gets a nasty rash from the hellhound blood all over him.

Side Effects; by

center_galaxy; "Everybody Hates Hitler" AU. What if the Nazi Necromancer poison didn't go away nearly as quickly as it did in the actual ep? Or had some nasty aftereffects?

The Very Thought of You; by

center_galaxy; Jess has worked the late night shift at a diner for months now. But when the tall guy with the dimples that calls in every night for a coffee suddenly stops coming, she gets worried because no one seems to notice he's missing but her. Then a few nights later he stumbles into the diner, all beat up and bloody.

Occupational Hazard; by

omh_6; It's the summer of Sam's 13th year. Dean is already Dad's right-hand man and Too Cool for School, and Sam has been scrambling to keep up, then KAPOW. Growth spurt. Almost overnight, Sam finds himself eye-to-eye with his 'big' brother and you'd think that'd make him happy, right? But no, this is Sam Winchester we're talking, here. Cue the growing pains, eternal hunger, long ungainly limbs, screwed up center of gravity.

Angry Spirits Don't Care About Mud; by

calypsobard;"Maybe Sam should've listened to his brother before he decided to play the hero and run back into that house."

The Worst Thing; by

scribble2much; The memories of the cage are so strong that Sam begins to show psychosomatic symptoms to some of Lucifer's tortures.

On the Side of the Road; by

jasmineisland; Back in season 5, after Dean and Sam split up; Sam hitchhikes, thing is, the angels are out to tear him apart, now that they’ve got them split up; they recruit a demon or something to that effect, to do their dirty work. The demon ends up raping him on the side of the road., while or right before Dean ends up calling him to reconcile.

Anything For You; by

center_galaxy; Remember Sam's broken wrist way back when? He had a cast, it healed, all was well. Until somewhere in his late 30s the pain he's been ignoring for a while becomes a constant thing. They discover that Sam's been walking around with an improperly healed carpal bone and as a result has some nasty degenerative arthritis, and Dean decides this is a good time to hang it up and retire. But, just because they're done with the supernatural, doesn't mean that it's done with them and when Dean goes missing - Sam and his swollen, knobby "it's not entirely useless, dammit" hand have to find him. It's frustrating, it's dangerous, it hurts - but it's his brother, you know?

What I Would Give for You by

center_galaxy Sam gets tuberculosis.

And a Pillar of Fire by Night by

ladyarcherfan3 (gen please) At the end of 8.23, Sam tries to "let go" of the trials. The glow leaves his arms and he shows Dean with a smile before crying out in pain and collapsing. What if Sam''s collapse was caused by the Angels falling rather than just the trial's; side effects? He could be overloading on the same thing the Batcave is sensing when the machines turn on.

Better Than it Was by

calypsobard Post season 8; The boys run into Jody Mills. She's still (quite understandably) shaken and freaked by her near-death-by-Crowley. However, once she sees how ill Sam looks, she seizes upon nursing Sam back to health as her new mission.

Just Press Reset by

scribble2much In the wake of s8 there would have to be some lingering trust issues for Sam regarding Dean's forgiveness and respect. So maybe something years down the line when they are in one of their desperate situations and Dean does a "we're good, right?" check and somehow realizes that Sam flat out doesn't believe him, and has just gotten used to the idea that Dean loves him, sure, but won't ever think well of him or believe that Sam has lived down his mistakes. And Dean is all "YES I LOVE YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE MY LITTLE BROTHER BUT I ALSO LOVE YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE AWESOME" in some very convincing way and then Sam cries

Overflow by

monicawoe Sam/Dean or gen; Getting all charged up for the Trials and then not discharging that energy by closing the gates of hell may not have been such a great idea. Sam's not sick any more, but his powers are back -- visions, telekinesis, other freaky stuff -- and he has no control over it and he's starting fires and hurting people. And then it gets worse and he's causing little cracks in the reality around him, cracks between earth and heaven and hell and purgatory and the fae realm. At this point it's not even that discharging the energy all at once will probably kill him, it's that they don't know how to do it without blowing the whole thing apart.

Helpless by

jasmineisland Sam breaks his collar bone and needs help with the very basics of daily life, IE. getting dressed, brushing his hair and so on.

One Soul, Needfully Patched by

indiachick While Death is building the Great Wall of Sam, he tries to fix as much of the hell trauma as he can. Sam's head is one messy place though.

Work in Progress by

mentholpixie Sam and Dean are at a bar and for some reason (up to the author) a bunch of guys start bad mouthing Sam and making fun of him. Sam just shrugs it off, but NOBODY is allowed to hurt Sam's feelings on Dean's watch, so Dean pretty much knocks the crap outta these guys and makes sure his brother is OK. :)

Anything At All by

center_galaxy Gen, pls! Remember Sam's broken wrist way back when? He had a cast, it healed, all was well. Until somewhere in his late 30s the pain he's been ignoring for a while becomes a constant thing, a constant sense of pain that he feels when it's cold, when rain's coming. It's difficult to use his dominant hand - he can barely hold a pen or a fork, let alone a gun. Under the appropriate assumed identity, Dean takes Sam to get it checked out. They discover that Sam's been walking around with an improperly healed carpal bone and as a result has some nasty degenerative arthritis. It's been years and the doc they go to see doesn't think that there are a great deal of surgical options. He recommends injections to reduce the inflammation, some ibuprofen for daily use, some lortab or percocet when it's particularly bad, and for Sam to do what he can to start training his left hand while at the same time working to keep maximized function of his right. Dean decides this is a good time to hang it up and retire. Little place, little jobs, and Sam and Dean get by - working out Sam's hand, getting injections, and living. But, just because they're done with the supernatural, doesn't mean that it's done with them and when Dean goes missing - Sam and his swollen, knobby "it's not entirely useless, dammit" hand have to find him. It's frustrating, it's dangerous, it hurts - but it's his brother, you know?

Washed Up Like Poison by

starling_night The thing about being human is that you can know things with your mind, believe them with all of your soul, and still have this little place in your heart that doesn't give a shit. Ruby lied to Sam, she manipulated him, and when he was with her - he was as close to being evil as he's ever been, barring the soulless Sam debacle. If she was brought back to life, he wouldn't hesitate to do everything he had to to make certain that it wasn't for very damned long. But, still, here and there, now and then, he thinks of her, he misses her just the tiniest bit. Sure, she was a vile, lying demon, using him to bring about the rise of the Devil and the eventual end of the world, but there were quiet moments, peaceful ones where they'd lie together while the sun came up, while the candles burned down, while the world went from silence to waking. And no matter how it frustrates him, how much he hates himself every time he thinks of her instead of those he misses that actually deserve it (i.e. the Good Saint Jessica), he is unable to do anything with that tiny little place in his heart that thinks "I know it wasn't real, I know she lied and was truly Evil with a capital E, but sometimes, I still miss her."

Scapegoat by

reggie11 Teenchesters. In retaliation to Dean stealing his girl/showing him up/whatever, a school bully (or bullies) drags Sam into the school bathroom and cuts his hair off. Cue distraught Sammy and protective, pissed off, big brother Dean; Gen please!

A City Broken Into by

sharktheory Naomi orders Castiel to kill Sam

Nutcracker by

jasmineisland Sam is hiding that he's injured or more injured than Dean thinks or that he's sick from Dean 'cause he thinks that Dean has enough to 'deal with' already, love it to be canon; Skin, The Benders, Devils Trap, any of the episodes from early Season 2, pretty much any episode in Season 5, Let it Bleed, Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie and sooooo many more episodes where this could happen; Dean gets all guilty when he finds Sam treating himself and mother-hens Sam back to health; Gen or Slash

Instinct written by

monicawoe art by

quickreaver After the trials, Sam doesn't get better. Kevin's theory is that it's cancer: the trials are supposed to purge him of all physical and spiritual impurities, so tuberculosis is out, and cancer is the only reason left for Sam to be coughing his lungs up when he's supposed to be the pinnacle of human perfection. Nope. Sam's falling apart because the demon blood is gone.

Surfacing by

a_starfish Cas's completely, face-palmingly nonsensical "fix" for Hallucifer doesn't work. Not quite all the way, and not forever; Gen or Wincest, any rating.

Time and Time Again by

center_galaxy Kid!Sam time travels forward and meets current!Dean (without current!Sam, preferably, but I'm not that picky). Dean's having a bad time with his PTSD from . Sam freaks out and is generally scared of the big gruff hunter who's trying to help him get home. And then he finds the amulet tucked away somewhere. Or maybe he sees a picture of himself and Dean. Or he's just smart enough to put two and two together. Whatever the case, he figures out that this is what his big brother becomes and he's terrified. Bonus points for wee!Sam witness torturer!Dean.

42 Blankets and Towels by

hadassah934 Sam and Dean are both sick. Charlie finds out and brings chicken soup and geeky movies to the batcave.

Save or Kill by

of_nightingales John shoots Sam. On purpose or accident -- repercussions are going to be severe in any case.

Like Groundhog Day by

foolscapper Gen, during Mystery Spot. So, after countless Tuesdays, let's say Sam's gotten a little desperate. I mean, if Dean dying means resetting the day, then maybe him dying will end the loop? The youngest Winchester figures it's worth a try and starts to put himself in situations where Dean usually died (ex: walking into the middle of the street with a speeding car coming at him). Dean, on the other hand, can't figure out what the heck is going on with his brother. Bonus points if Sam eventually breaks down in tears, puts a gun to his head and Dean has to talk him down from pulling the trigger.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

Ugh I suck at comment fills :( I'm sorry everyone.
It's a Long Walk Home (7/?)

At some point there was little left to do. There was no one to talk to unless he caved to bothering either Dean or Bobby, and stubbornness and fear held him back from both, respectively. He thought of going for a walk, maybe never stopping. Eventually he'd run through every memory of Bobby that came to mind, once, twice, overlapping, broken apart and pieced back together. Thinking of Bobby made him physically exhausted, but it didn't seem his mind had run the full gamut of miserable contemplation.

He thought of what Dean had said instead--that he'd stayed with Lisa and Ben for a full year. He'd listened, however reluctantly, to Sam's request.

Dean still danced around the subject like it would be the push that made Sam fall the descent to madness, but it didn't take a genius to piece together what had drawn him back out.

It made Sam's stomach ache.

He'd tried to end Bobby's life, and he had ended Dean's.

The two forms of himself, bodiless and soulless both, had a year that he still didn't know the extent of.

The only parts he could piece together had resulted in brutally harming his family and condemning strangers to death.

He wanted the other part. He wanted the memory of his time below. He wanted it to wash over him, not like a flood, but like baptismal water. His soul was the only part of him that he was sure had paid its penance, and he wanted its suffering back.

Sam wondered if he could head out now, on foot, and find it himself. It made a distant sort of sense. Dean could go back to Lisa and Bobby wouldn't have to look over his shoulder inside his own house. Sam wouldn't have to come back-- he could cripple his soul and go off like an old dog to die or its tangible suffering would bring some kind of peace. But he also knew this only worked in a hypothetical; in practice Dean would drag the bottom of the oceans to find Sam, and he would demand Bobby's help every step of the way. Even if it wasn't a selfish idea in itself, if he actually made a go of it he'd be the only one who might find peace from it.

So instead of making his way outside and walking until he could catch a ride out of town, Sam pressed his palms into his eyes and laid down on the couch again. He pushed hard, as though he might crush his memories this way.

He couldn't make them fade away then and they pestered him while he was awake, but they disappeared quickly the moment he fell asleep. His sleep was different right now, than it had been. It was solid but restless, though that wasn't the way it felt new. The new part was that, while he'd heard no sleep was truly dreamless, he could never think of anything but black behind his eyes the next morning. He was sure that would end soon. He'd had dreams, deep and vivid, since he was a child, even before they had become premonitions. It was a nice change. He was grateful for it.

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 7b/?

When Bobby came out some time later, it was for no other reason than to get a beer from the fridge.

It had been said many times throughout the years that Bobby Singer was a drunk. Hell, it'd even been said he was a pathetic one; the kind some folks around here seemed to expect would wind up sleeping under a newspaper blanket at night.

It had never been said, however, that he was unobservant.

The very first thing he noticed when he stepped out was the silence that filled the house.

The next thing he noticed was a phantom ache at the base of his skull. An echo of the metal pipe that had left him knocked out cold in his own junkyard.

The closest gun he had was a revolver. He grabbed it. He didn't know which gut reaction to trust; the one that said to expect the same wallop that had felled him before, or the one that said to look for whatever was keeping the man who'd done it quiet.

He went the middle road: He looked for Sam, but didn't call his name.

It took only a few seconds for his heart to stop its anxious beat in his throat and settle to its normal drum behind his ribs.

Sam was sleeping on his couch, fetaled tight with knees drawn in and hands protecting his face.

Bobby dropped a sharp sigh, glad no one had been around to see him get so worked up. "You God dang...." he trailed off when Sam twitched, and sighed once more.

Letting his gun hand fall back to his side, he walked over close to the couch and looked down at its occupant. After a moment of silence, he used his free hand to pull the blanket that was strewn over the back of the sofa down to cover Sam's sleeping form.

Sam stirred again, but again didn't wake up.

"Getting rusty, boy, ought to sleep lighter'n that," he muttered to himself as he finally made his way to the kitchen. His words were not without fondness.

A light went on inside his head the same moment one illuminated the bottles of beer in his fridge. Before his soul had gotten plunked back in him by Death, Sam hadn't slept for a year. Maybe the kid still needed his beauty sleep the same way he'd eaten like he'd been starved. Bobby rolled his eyes as he grabbed his drink and knocked the fridge closed. The whole situation was more than he wanted to think about.

Bobby pulled the nearest chair back with his foot and all but threw himself into the seat. He stared ahead at the shadowed wall, eyes unfocused and taking in nothing. He was in a daze until, several sips in, he realized he hadn't even turned the lights on when he'd come in the room. Wasn't this a sorry sight, he scoffed at himself internally, an old man sittin' in the dark with a gun in one hand and a drink in the other.

This seemed only to bolster him.

He took another drink, longer this time, more deliberate. Then he swung his hand up so it laid, gun held loose, on the length of his thigh.

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 8/?

The man who came to kill Sam Winchester didn't spend much of his day away from Bobby's house.

The first thing he'd done had been to go to the nearest gas station. While he was there, he topped off his tank. He didn't need to. He knew exactly how much gas he had and how far it would take him after his job was over. Just the same he was glad he had; not only was it better to be safe than sorry, an idea struck him as he hung the pump back up.

He shelved it in the back of his mind walked to the store to pay for his gas. He gave his hood a tug up just before he stepped through the door. The store had large windows unobstructed besides a sign taped near the bottom (Hiring friendly cashiers! Inquire within!) and big glass doors, and even if he couldn't see so much of it without taking a step inside, the store was small. It was easy to work out where the camera would be, lodged up in the left-hand corner near the Employees Only room. He could avoid it without being conspicuous.

Slapped in the middle aisle was a coffee machine, next to a rack of slowly-cooking hot dogs. While poured himself a cup of coffee he looked them over. They were shining with grease and their browned leather skin said they were old, in no way worth the $1.39 the tag on the machine said they cost. He got one anyway.

He paid for it all in cash. He felt more fiscally responsible than most people were these days; he used a credit card only in emergency.

Of course, none of the cards he had were in his name, so maybe that didn't matter much.

He checked on his idea only once he parked his car back in the safe space a quarter mile from Bobby's house. By then his hot dog was gone, but he continued to nurse his cooling coffee.

He popped his trunk.

Inside there wasn't much. Even the inside of his car wasn't armed to the teeth: a pistol stashed beneath the driver's seat, a bottle of Aquafina filled with holy water next to a silver-bladed butterfly knife in the center console, and a crucifix dangling from his rearview mirror were all he needed to feel safe. On the floor in the back was a gray metal lock-box, the key for which hung from a gold chain around his neck. Though he went all over the country killing monsters and the people they inhabited, in this box were the only things he felt he'd be unable to explain to the police, and while they facilitated his kills they were not harmful. For it was filled with license plates from every contiguous state, bought off of a friend who exported cars to Lebanon. Only the South Dakota plates were missing.

The trunk, however, was exactly what newscasters recommended every year before winter storms. There was a box filled with emergency rations, a blanket, and the other 11 bottles from a case of Aquafina. There was a bag of road salt, rope, a toolkit, and a small handful of nondescript odds and ends that seemed to have ended up there only because he had no other place for them. While the only true weapon he had in his trunk was his .22, which he pulled out and slung over his body, the hammer that lay free from his case had a head of iron, and all the tools had received the blessing of a priest.

'Please, Father,' he had said, many, many years ago. 'I'm a carpenter. Last month I nearly died on the job, an accident, I fell and---' he'd shaken his head. 'I nearly died. Bless them for me?'

The Father had. Minutes later, he'd gone to the church down the road to confess to another priest about lying to the first. 'I told him I was a carpenter,' he'd said.

Most of it was true. He had had an accident on the job and nearly been killed. He'd been unexpectedly thrown thirty feet in the air, stopping only when he'd struck a tree. Unable to move, worrying he'd been paralyzed, been saved by the skin of his teeth by his partner. He'd been laid up for nearly a week. He'd gone so stir-crazy being unable to move he'd decided Sonny Bono's death was a conspiracy, that the skiing accident was covering up some monster-hunt gone wrong like his own.

It'd been a hard week.

All he pulled out of the trunk now was a piece of clear, thick plastic tubing. He set it over his shoulders.

Then he closed the trunk and began his hike back to Bobby's.

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 9/?

Once there, it was several long hours of waiting.

Waiting for the Impala to reappear.

Waiting for Sam to come out again.

Waiting for Bobby to come out for the first time.

Waiting for things that didn't happen.

He almost wished he'd had a book.

The only interruption came as the sun was setting almost ten hours later, by way of a phone call. His contacts held ten numbers, and nine of them were to his own other disposable phones. The only real one belonged to the one person so important that he might not want to waste time punching the digits in by hand. It was his partner, under the name Mom. Their phones could be thrown away if it came to it, but even names could be traced. He doubted his long-dead mother would mind.

He looked around for anyone to appear, then scooted a few feet backwards to take the call. A rise in the dirt made him unable to see the house, and he hoped it offer the same protection to him. "Hey," he said softly when he picked up.

"Hey," the distinctly male voice answered. "All quiet on the western front?"

Code for, Are you free to talk?

"Yeah," he said. "I'm alone. Another couple hours, I think. I'll be done by midnight."

"Not going to be any problems?"

"I'll handle it," he assured. After a thoughtful pause he said, "Jim, his brother left this morning. Dean. He's not back yet."

"You think that means something?"

He shrugged even reflexively. They were so used to each other's manner that he was sure Jim could hear it, but he elaborated for the sake of conversation. "I don't know. It means one less person here, that's as far as it matters to me." He thought more than that. The lights hadn't been turned on yet, at least none he could see in the windows, though it was getting dark quickly and the thickness of the sky made him think tonight would be a moonless one. Maybe they were turning in early tonight and setting out after Dean before sunrise.

"Yeah, well. Be careful, anyway," Jim said. "Remember, I'm not there to save your ass."

"Yes, Mom," he answered, amusing himself more than the man on the other end of the line. "I'll catch up to you tomorrow."

"Okay."

They both hung up at the same time. He pocketed his phone and crawled back up on top of the mound of dirt.

He watched the house for a few minutes more, but the phone call had re-excited him, and with no movement for the past ten hours he decided it was unlikely to happen in the next five minutes. He unzipped his jacket and set it on the ground next to him to lay bare the darker clothes underneath, to fade in with the night more than with the ground.

This run was a fast one, so he didn't pick up his gun as he ran the length to the yard. He took only his knife and the length of tubing.

He kept his eyes fixed on the door as he made his way down to the lot of cars parked in front.

He looked over all of them, but most seemed to be useless. They tireless with hoods popped up, rust worn straight through the metal in spots. The only one he decided had a chance of running was the old Ford truck, parked closest to the house. He pressed in close to it as he opened it up to him, took off the gas cap, and shoved one end of the tube inside. The other end he took into his mouth. He inhaled as though it was a massive straw, a novelty one for children with his cheeks hollowed out just the same, until he took in a mouthful of gasoline.

He sputtered as he spit the tube out. Not loudly, but sharp enough in the stillness of the night for him to look over his shoulder.

The gasoline continued chugging out of the car onto the dirt. It was so regular, chug, chug, chug, that it seemed to have a heartbeat, pulsing its blood out beneath its body. He knew this could take a while, and if anyone peaked out they'd be more apt to see a man than a piece of clear tubing dangling from the side of the truck. He left it to drain and went back up to his post to wait.

It was two more hours of waiting for a light to come on in the window before he decided it was time.

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 10/?

Bobby found himself peaking in on Sam frequently through his next two beers.

It wasn't in any serious sort of way. He'd just take a few steps in to the room and look over him for a minute before returning to his seat. Once he readjusted the blanket. That time Sam didn't even stir.

Bobby thought on it a little more. It was hard to wrap his brain around any of it. The part that unnerved him the most was easy enough to figure out. It wasn't even the part where Sam had tried to blood sacrifice him like he was some screaming virgin. The thing that really gnawed at him was it'd taken a full year and an angel's hand inside Sam's guts to put two and two together. Dean had been quicker on the draw, but even he couldn't pin it down, not all the way.

But he'd dismissed it entirely. He didn't know much about Hell, at least not the gritty details of it, but he'd figured it had to knock a screw or two loose. Sam had passed all the tests he knew to give, including the one that couldn't be checked with holy water or blades of silver.

"Don't tell Dean," Sam had said. "I want him to have a real life."

That had been the point that Bobby had needed some convincing on, Sam needed to go on a bit about Lisa and Ben, but it had also been the clincher that said Sam was the real deal. He'd hugged Sam right then and not a moment before. "Glad to have you back, Boy," he'd said. Sam had returned the embrace awkwardly, patting him on the back and waiting for him to let go. It wasn't like Sam had been disgusted by it, though, more like he was confused by the pure existence of affection.

Truth be told, that made sense. Things weren't all that lovey-dovey down in The Pit.

If Sam hadn't been quite himself even past the point of being standoffish, Bobby figured that was to be expected. Being Lucifer's chewtoy for no matter how short of a time, well, he figured he ought to be grateful Sam had it together as well as he did.

But even if he could explain why it had happened, it didn't excuse the fact that for an entire year Bobby had drawn a wolf in sheep's clothing into his flock.

And it didn't change the fact he wasn't sure if he could ever know who Sam was. Not 100%. Sam still had the same reasons for breaking down he did a year ago. That wall would crack, it had cracked already. If the effects didn't kill Sam outright, they were sure to change him-- but so could shapeshifters, demons, any number of monster that wanted to crawl inside a Winchester. They would never be able to tell if Sam was Sam or a bloodthirsty husk of Sam, and he knew now that even if he went through every test in the book every time Sam's body walked through his door, the only thing it would prove was that it wasn't something he could test for.

Bobby rubbed his eyes and took another drink.

He wondered if he shouldn't just cut his losses and turn them both out, at least until this whole mess was over.

They'd be dead in a week without me around he decided, and somehow, at least right now, it was just that simple. That was that, he didn't think about it anymore.

It was half a bottle later that he heard movement in the living room. It was the kind of sound that came when a person was trying hard for silence, trying to avoid all the squeaky parts of the floor.

Aw, Hell he thought. It made more sense for Sam to have slept all day to make a run for it at night.

Bobby took another drink and stood up. A bitter little part of him wanted to say let him go if he wants to so bad, but it wasn't large enough to even have a voice, never mind an actual say in the matter.

He walked back out to the living room.

Instead he saw the back of a man. There was a clear outline of a rifle in his left hand, but it was the knife in his right that seemed to be looking for action. His grip on it was adjusting and readjusting as he slowly moving around the couch, looking for the right approach.

It struck Bobby as almost surreal, but neither that nor the beer filling his belly was enough to slow his reflexes.

His gun was up and he was in front of the couch and in front of Sam so quickly he almost didn't know how he got there.

It was there he saw the man's face. Recognized it but aimed at it just the same, unflinchingly.

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 11/?

Bobby jerked his head fast to indicate the weapons held in the man's hands, but never broke his gaze.

"Drop 'em, or I drop you," Bobby said. His eyes sure were bright for being so narrowed.

It was at Bobby's voice that Sam woke , and it was Bobby's face behind a gun that Sam saw first when he opened his eyes.

Sam was already through a sleep-muddled, "Please, Bobby...," before he realized that Bobby's gun was trained past him, at the third man behind the arm of the couch.

"Bob," the man said, now. He lowered his gun, but not all the way. Not even half the way. If he was good, it wouldn't even slow his reaction time by enough for it to matter; it was just a hunter's way of saying he heard, he understood the position but he respectfully disagreed. "Maybe we should go talk this out in the kitchen. Yeah?"

Sam was watching the stranger now, but he heard Bobby make a noise so disgusted he could picture it on his face. "Pete, you fix to kill a man, he's the only one you owe an explanation."

"You know him," Sam interrupted dazedly, turning his head back to Bobby.

"Yeah, I know him. We ain't friends," Bobby muttered back without shifting his gaze. "Wouldn't expect him to come breakin' in to gank my houseguests, either."

"Look..." This man, Pete, chewed his lip. He was doing calculations in his head without trying to hide them, openly figuring out how he could get this to work in his favor.

No one ever so blatantly weighed how to get out of a situation alive if they actually thought there was a chance no one would get killed.

Finally Pete continued, eyebrows raised in earnest. "I don't have a beef with you, Bobby. Just Sam. I know you've been holed up here playing librarian to him and his brother for God knows how long, but you got your connections. You must've heard the things people are saying about him, and they aren't wrong. If you stay loyal to Sam Winchester, you're going to end up dead."

Bobby was thinking about it. Sam knew he was thinking about it, and it wasn't like anyone could blame him. Who wouldn't think about nearly being murdered in your own home by the very man you were protecting? Of being knocked out, hauled inside, and bound to be sacrificed (the man waiting until you regained consciousness, letting you see your own demise, wanting you to see he was your executioner). Yes, Bobby thought about what would have happened if Dean had walked in just three seconds later. If instead of saving him, Dean helped Sam get rid of his body instead-- if push came to shove, Bobby was sure Dean would take a living, soulless brother to a dead old, hunter.

Yes, he thought of all of it.

But his eyes didn't waver. His gun didn't waver. And for all his thought, his voice didn't hesitate. "If that's what it comes to," he said. "Figure I've stayed past my expiration date, anyhow."

Sam kept his eyes fixed on Bobby. He looked for a sign, something that said get a weapon, or even just move it but the only one there was just telling him to stay still. He owed it to Bobby to trust his instincts, and he didn't move. He felt he so owed Bobby his stillness that he barely even breathed.

There was something that stayed their hands for so long. There must've been. Some of it was the regret of having to kill another hunter, but for Bobby it must've mostly been about information, because the next words out of his mouth were, "You alone?"

"Here, yeah." There wasn't any reason to lie about it. " But there are just as many people who want him dead as don't. More, probably. This isn't---I'm not threatening here, I'm just telling you, flat out. Both of you," he added to Sam as an afterthought. "They'll come if you kill me."

From: (Anonymous)

It's a Long Walk Home 12/12

Bobby's head barely moved when he nodded, but his message came through loud and clear just the same. He believed. And it was irrelevant. "I raised this boy as much as his daddy ever did. He dies, it ain't gonna be under my roof. Don't matter how many come." It was still hard to kill a man after all this time. Maybe he had to give warning that he was going to. Just a little, and just because he knew he had the advantage; he wouldn't have bothered if there was a chance he'd lose. But gun already drawn and trained and finger on the trigger, they all knew he already had it. They all knew how it was going to end even if Pete hadn't quite accepted it. Time to quit yapping. "Well c'mon now. You're feeling froggy, jump," Bobby said to push this strange stalemate to the end they knew would come.

Pete sighed. "You're backing the wrong horse, Bob."

That was it. There was no fanfare. No announcement. When Pete lifted his gun it was to shoot Sam, not Bobby. Sam's death was the one he came for. He believed in finishing a job once started.

Bobby's gun went off before Pete's could move the four small inches it would've taken to take aim.

Sam rarely flinched at gunshots, but he did then.

Beyond Sam's quick gasp, there was no sound besides Pete's body hitting the floor. It was funny how much different dead weight was than live weight. How much heavier it was than a man who just tripped and fell on the sidewalk.

The silence of death was funny just as funny as its sound. It was unique. It was the only kind of silence that could remain even if everyone in the room started talking seconds later. There was a natural kind of noise that came straight from a person's energy, their soul, something, and it always took a minute or two for a room to find its balance again once it was gone from the world for good.

"You didn't let him kill me," Sam said. It actually nearly hurt to rip his eyes away from the still warm, still nearly-living corpse, but he had to see Bobby's face.

Bobby scoffed. "No, I'm just gonna let you bleed to death on my couch. What'd'ya take me for? You sure Death didn't stuff your common sense behind that wall of yours?"

"No idea," Sam answered, breathing out a laugh. His smile didn't reach his eyes but it was sincere.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Sam sat up completely and looked down at the old, worn floor. Bobby took seven steps, Sam counted them silently in his head, going a long way 'round to stand by the body and look down at the dead man he'd once known.

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam told the ground.

He looked up when Bobby's hand squeezed his shoulder.

I'm sorry, he wanted to continue when their eyes met. But there were some things words were insufficient for, so he said nothing.

Bobby's mouth stretched out into a line that was as reassuring as any smile. "Help me with this mess. He might'a been a Grade-A ass, but he was still a hunter."

Sam nodded.

Together they carried the body to an empty patch of dirt outside.

Then, with the same reverence as any funeral would have, Bobby went to get the salt and Sam the gasoline.

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A/N: First finished SPN fic! I might make this longer and clean it up for my journal later, but i figured this was too long for a comment fic as it was. Hope it was okay!