Echoes of Hell (Supernatural Fanfiction Book 4)

Unspoken Words

Sam's Point of View

Dean wheeled himself out of his room for a quick meal, his movements slow and deliberate. He was still in the wheelchair, using it more out of necessity than convenience. He barely touched his food, eating mechanically before retreating back into his room. I watched him go, my heart aching at the sight of his retreating back.

I've been trying to give him space, hoping he'll open up when he's ready. But every day is a battle. Dean hasn't spoken a word in days, and it feels like I'm losing him piece by piece. I can hear him in his room now, the scratch of a pen against paper. I want to go in, to see what he's writing, but I don't want to intrude on what might be deeply personal thoughts.

The silence that follows is suffocating. I wish I knew what was going on in his mind. It's hard to remain patient, to hold back my worry, but I do. I let him have his space, even though every second feels like an eternity.

Dean's Point of View

The room is dim, the only light coming from the small lamp on my bedside table. I've been sitting here for hours, scribbling down thoughts that I can't seem to keep inside anymore. My hands are shaking, but I can't stop. I need to get these words out, to say the things I can't bring myself to say aloud.

I haven't talked in days. My voice feels foreign to me now, like a relic of a past life. It's easier to write. Easier to pour out my thoughts on paper, even if it means facing truths I'd rather ignore.

I've written several letters, each one a desperate attempt to make sense of the chaos in my head. To who, I'm not entirely sure. To Sam, to Mom, to anyone who will listen. It feels like a futile exercise, but I can't stop myself.

The words come out in a torrent:

Dear Sam,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything. For the pain I've caused you, for the times I've pushed you away when all you were trying to do was help. I don't know how to fix this, how to make it right. I'm lost in my own head, and the guilt is suffocating.

I keep thinking about that moment when Crowley had me under control. The look on your face, the fear. I don't want to hurt you, but I'm terrified that I'm going to. I feel like I'm a danger to everyone around me, and it's tearing me apart.

I've tried to keep the darkness at bay, but it's creeping in. I don't know how much longer I can hold on. I don't know if I'm strong enough to keep fighting. I feel like I'm slipping, and I'm afraid of what I might do if I let myself fall.

I'm writing this because I need you to know that I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to get better, to be the person you need me to be. But I'm struggling, and I don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden.

I love you, Sam. More than you'll ever know. Please forgive me for everything. I just want to be okay again.

- Dean

I fold the letter carefully, my hands still trembling. I've written a few others, each one a mirror of my fractured mind. They're scattered around the room, a testament to the turmoil I can't seem to escape.

I know Sam is outside, waiting for me to talk. But I can't. Not yet. I'm afraid of what will happen if I open up completely. The guilt, the fear—it's overwhelming. I feel like I'm on the edge of something dark, and I don't want Sam to see me like this.

I take a deep breath and push the letters into a drawer, closing it tightly. I don't want Sam to see them, not yet. Not until I'm ready to face what's inside them myself.