sam loves solitude.

pretty morning streams of sunlight seeping through the blinds. your hair splayed on the right side of his bed. tangled white sheets, tangled bodies. he loves solitude but he was never meant to be a lover. never planned to be one. never wanted to be somebody's lover. he didn't fell in love, he walked into love with you, with eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way.

but if he could, sam would go back to the moment just before we met. he would find you about to cross that road to that bus stop. tell you all about this. tell you to choose differently. tell you to run, never look back. you're one he've ever wanted to set free. when he's the one that needs setting free.

he tried to change. closed his mouth more, tried to be colder, sharper, volatile, and less awake. he can't make homes out of human beings. sam knows that. but it's for dean. it's for you. maybe you'll come back and see him. maybe we'll argue at how stubborn you were for ever running back. maybe he's not cursed. maybe that he could really live a life.

on some level he thinks he always understood, that these hands of his were clumsy, not careful. and he tried to do the best that he ever could, but try as he might, he still couldn't bring himself to hold you. not now. he never should.

he hates it. he despised being soaked in your blood, his trembling hand covering the gaping wound threatening to spill your guts. and finally, he hates himself more for having to do this. had to bite down his tears. had to cradle you like it's the last time against the tomb, holding the stake you had guided him to end this, to prevent choronzon to take your body as its rightful vessel, your body being the last hold it have in this world that kept it existing. to end all of this and save everyone.

"on the count of three.."