👻 - Gothic Ghost Case Fic Set In Pre-Series Era

The first thing Sam takes notice of is blood running down his hand, slipping in between his fingers: It’s hot, hotter than he thought it’d be—just this side of scalding, but he can’t be sure if that’s his subconscious making him see and feel things that aren’t there, like his father’s blood on his hands so hot it burns, so hot it leaves permanent damage, scarred forever reminding Sam of what he did. Sam’s breathing goes fast, hard, and heavy; he can’t seem to stop—you're hyperventilating, he thinks, not from within, but somewhere outside his body, looking at himself from above, taking in the scene from the outside, untethered.

Dad is on the ground. His eyes are closed. Sam’s hand is still wrapped around the hilt of a knife, blade stained red, dripping the same blood that covers Sam’s hands.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice coming from behind Sam—Dean came upon the scene with quiet steps, snuck up on Sam despite his vantage point above their heads. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, voice steady and low, careful as his steps. Sam doesn’t feel steady until Dean comes up behind him and holds him by the shoulders, pushing Sam back into himself, shuddering back under his skin when Dean presses close and holds him in his firm grip. “Why don’t you give me the knife, okay? You don’t need to hold onto it anymore, I got it.”

Dean’s hand moves from his shoulder and slides down Sam’s arm, his palm smearing through their father’s tacky blood, already drying on Sam’s skin, until he’s holding Sam’s hand over the handle of the knife, trying to work Sam’s fingers open.

For a moment, his grip slips, and his hand wraps around his wrist instead, molding to his bare skin like they belonged together—as if he were guiding Sam while he stabbed their father, as if he were with him, as if they did it together, and it’s that thought that makes Sam jump like a startled cat.

He drops the knife with a too-loud clatter and Dean’s voice is in his ear, soothing nonsense whispers, a hand on his back—it’s okay, we’re okay.

“I should be saying that to you,” Sam says, guilt lining his voice.

This is not what he expected but then again—Sam had no plan, no preparation. No thoughts at all, except violent impulse and fury and that cold crushing guilt in his heart.

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