who. sam winchester
what. sam rendezvous with buffy at the hotel.
when. during the abel/wesley/lilah thread.
locked. buffy
status. incomplete
One is the loneliest number, two is company, and three is a crowd. Sam felt biased, if you will, over the principles of life that the flavor became sticky stale and his fingers were frozen from raw mutilation. He smelled the air, quivered from the vehement stench of death, which seemed to leave a residue that was stained; incapable of being removed no matter how many times you scrubbed, until your fingers bleed and your lips quiver from the frustration. He
was frustrated, but more importantly, he was tired - tired of the burdens life bestowed upon him, as if it were his responsibility to mend them together with his enchanted needle and thread, and if he hadn't disappointment would surely followed. Life was a bitch. His worries were a plague and despite his recollection of his diagnosis, he hadn't known it was curable - especially but a woman, who stole his heart and he would rip hers in to pieces. He was a tortured soul, doomed to annihilate those who were capable of giving themselves fully to him. He wanted to tell Buffy he was incapable of seeing her and neglect any proper excuse to bide him the acceptation, but he couldn't lie - even to a complete stranger - and he certainly couldn't tell her the truth, that even if boyish charms passed him as an ally, he was the farthest of a saint and capable of something much darker - but more remotely, he couldn't explain exactly what because the anonymous stain was still unknown to himself. He couldn't ignore his duties either, when a lady in distress called for his help, because if he did then everything he had done was worthless - even if he helped so many, he couldn't stop now and take a rain check, because that wasn't how it worked.
( i'll be there )