Supernatural Oneshots | ✓

Lost {Sam}

Prompt inspiration: http://writeworld.org/post/137750586711/no-matter-how-loud-i-screamed-no-one-could-hear

Prompt: No matter how loud I screamed, no one could hear me.

Summary/prompt change: You can't remember anything. Well, that's not true–flashes of a memory, a name. You'd given up hope of being saved, even by the figure in your mind, the face you can't quite see.

Warnings: it's really sad. Character death (not either of the Winchesters). Also, a funeral. And some memory loss. You might want to keep a box of tissues close if you're one of those people that gets upset easily with these things.

Pairing(s): reader/Sam

You couldn't remember anything.

The last vivid memory you had was of a man, his arms around you, shaking you, screaming your name. You had a vague awareness of a gaping, stretching void in your head where memories should have been. It seemed to grow larger the more you pushed, and you eventually gave up, dropping your head against the wall behind you. The wall was cold, and it sunk straight through your thin shirt, straight through layers of skin and muscle and bone.

Winchester.

You didn't know where the name came from, or why it was in your head. Something linked it to the man in your memory, to the faceless person that towered above you both. You could feel the chill of the night, the feeling of the rain as it hit your face, as it dripped off of the man's hair and onto your skin. You could hear his voice, brittle and tremulous, as it said one word, again and again–your name. You could feel his hands, his strong grip, on your jacket, your shirt.

Winchester.

You said the name aloud, needing to hear it, even though it sounded grating and hoarse in your ears, even though your throat ached and burned with every syllable. You'd learned what felt like days ago that no matter how loud you screamed, no one could hear you.

You were weak with dehydration and hunger. Over time, little pieces of memories had returned–two sets of eyes, one green and one hazel. Lying in the backseat of a car, shuddering, freezing, an inescapable pain settling over you like fog. A classic rock song playing quietly on the radio, hushed murmurs of conversation, a jacket tossed haphazardly over your barely-conscious figure. A shovel striking dirt. Striking a match, dropping it into a pit, watching the contents go up in flames. Lying in a lumpy bed, the warmth of a person wrapped around you, pressed against your back.

The dark was starting to get to you. You'd started imagining two silhouettes, moving just at the edges of your vision, darting across the space, always just far enough out of the way that you couldn't make out any details other than the smudge of their shadows. You were delirious, you told yourself. On the verge of a breakdown. But part of you wondered if you were really crazy or if you were seeing things as they were. The idea that you weren't alone in this cold, dark prison was so much more terrifying than the vague acceptance of your insanity that had settled in the back of your mind.

Something told you that you were waiting. For whom–or for what–you didn't know.

And so you continued to wait.

You were vaguely aware of a door opening from somewhere above, of footsteps hitting a set of old wooden stairs. Of a sudden light that made the insides of your eyelids turn red. You squinted in the brightness, but you couldn't make out anything other than a tall silhouette of a person. You were too weary and too frail to try determining anything else, and you distantly wondered if death had finally come for you.

But then where is the Reaper? Part of you, the part with the memories, wondered. If I were dead, if I had died, I would have seen a Reaper by now.

"Y/N?" Your name echoed in your head, sunk straight through to your memories. "Sammy! I found her!"

The voice was familiar in a way that was foreign to you–it was not the voice of the man in your dreams, the one that had cried out your name as you faded out into the dark, but a different one. One that had carried your broken body from somewhere else, one that had screamed for the man that begged you to stay, one that had tossed a thick jacket over you and climbed into the driver's seat of a car, one that had sped off into the night to patch you up before you died of blood loss. One that had saved you long before you'd died in the arms of his brother.

You didn't hear the sound of running footsteps, didn't hear the sound of the second man nearly tumbling down the stairs in his haste to reach you, didn't even realize they'd gotten close until your eyes fluttered open to find two shadows, outlined in white light, crouching beside you.

"Y/N?"

"Winchester," you croaked, a smile pulling at your cracked lips. You could barely keep your eyes open. "Was wondering when you'd find me, you ass." These words were not yours, but you sensed that you were right in saying them. You couldn't see his face, but you knew he was smiling.

"Dean, go get the car. I'll get her."

"Sam–"

"Go." The first man–Dean–turned and ran up the stairs, out of view. "Are you okay?"

"No," you couldn't move. "Dehydrated. Starving. Can't remember shit. Just your name. Winchester. Some other things, too."

He sighed. "We've got to get you out of here. You've been here for nearly a week." He started to slide his arms under you and then froze. "You trust me still, right?" It sounded like it pained him to say it.

"'Course." You mumbled. You were fading, and fast.

He lifted you easily and stood, and your head fell against his chest. "We're going to take care of you, okay? You'll be fine."

"Hope so," you mumbled. Your eyes fell shut. "I love you, Sam."

His easy stride faltered a little, but he continued on. You weren't conscious long enough to hear if he replied.

Sam ran a hand over his face, watching as Dean pulled a book of matches from his pocket. "You want to do it?" The older Winchester asked, offering them to him.

Sam shook his head, his eyes on the body before him and Dean. "No. You do it."

Dean tossed the matches at Sam, who caught them without thinking. "You do it." Dean said. "I did it for Dad."

"Dean." It was all Sam could choke out. He shook his head and struck a match, tossing it onto the wood. He stood, silent, as it caught fire, watching for the second time as the girl he fell in love with went up in flames. He was silent for a long while.

"At least she went easy." Dean was surprised by the comment. He hadn't been expecting Sam to say anything.

Dean nodded slowly. "At least." He looked over at Sam. "She was a good hunter."

"She died too young."

"The good always do." Dean sighed. He looked back at you, wrapped in white cloth, slowly being eaten by the flames. "What's next?"

Sam was lost in his thoughts for so long that Dean was half-tempted to shake him out of it by the time he answered. "Maybe...maybe we should take a break for a while, you know? Get used to it being just us again."

"Sounds good." Dean said, sliding his hands into his front pockets. He hoped he looked steadier on the outside than he felt–he needed to be strong, just this once. For his brother. "Where to?"

"I don't know." Sam said. For the first time since they'd set you up to burn your body, he looked at Dean. "Somewhere far away from here."