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Sam feels completely numb. Dream had gotten his attention a few minutes ago to say, in a callous, abrasive tone, “Come collect Tommy.”
”I can’t yet,” Sam had said, frustrated with himself. It’s funny, how a possible prison break-in had seemed important, only two minutes ago.
”He’s dead,” Dream had explained, voice just as cold and uncaring.
Sam’s stomach had dropped out of his body. He had felt as if he had been floating. “What?” He had breathed.
”He was running his mouth,” Dream had said unfeelingly, “So I beat him into the ground, until he was dead.”
”You... what?” Sam had whispered.
”You heard me,” Dream had snapped, in return, “Now come collect him. I don’t want to be stuck, with a corpse.”
So now, Sam is heading across the lava, on the moving bridge, feeling as if his knees are about to collapse out from under him. Dream is laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, looking bored. Looking like he hadn’t just murdered a child.
There, laying on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, is Tommy. He’s sleeping, Sam tells himself adamantly, when he sees Tommy’s closed eyelids. He’s sleeping, Sam tells himself, when he sees how painfully young he looks. He’s sleeping, Sam tells himself, when he notices the way Tommy looks more peaceful than he ever had, in life.
He kneels next to him and runs his hands gently through Tommy’s hair. The blonde locks are sticky and matted, with still-warm blood. “Tommy,” he says, voice choked, “Tommy, kiddo, wake up, for me.”
The boy doesn’t respond. And he looks every bit a boy, lying here limply. “Tommy, wake up,” Sam says, cupping his cheek lightly and moving his thumb in circles. He puts an ear to the kid’s mouth. There’s not even the faintest breath, indicating that Sam might be able to save him. He tries his heart next. There’s no heartbeat. Not even a flutter.
”He’s not going to wake up,” Dream sighs, sounding bored.
”You’re a miserable bastard,” Sam says, in his coldest tone.
”Maybe,” Dream shrugs, “But, I can bring him back, you know?”
”Fuck you,” Sam spits, rising to his feet. Before he can stop himself, he takes Dream, by the collar of his shirt, and slams him roughly into the wall. “Fuck you,” he screams, feeling the part of him that is a creeper hiss and spit, with barely restrained dynamite. “You just murdered a fucking child and you don’t give a shit.”
”I can bring him back,” Dream smirks, “He was just a thorn in my side anyway, why should I feel bad?”
”He is sixteen fucking years old,” Sam growls.
”Was sixteen,” Dream corrects and Sam snaps. He slams Dream’s head into the wall roughly, reveling in the man’s cry of pain.
”The only reason I don’t put my trident through your fucking heart right this second, is that you might have a sliver of a chance, of bringing my little brother back to life,” Sam whispers harshly, before flinging Dream back onto the bed. “Don’t you dare ever speak to me again,” he adds over his shoulder.
He picks up Tommy’s limp, frail body, in trembling arms. He’s half waiting for the teen to tuck his face into Sam’s chest; the same way he had, the time that he had collapsed from exhaustion, after staying up for three days straight. Sam had promised to protect him. Sam had lied.
Sam had broken his promise. This was all Sam’s fault. It was all his fault, all his fault, all his fucking fault. He leaves the prison, in a complete daze.
There are people near the prison, when he leaves it, but he doesn’t care. He lays Tommy’s body gently down, into the grass and collapses to his knees beside him, cradling him, in his arms. And the powerful, stoic warrior completely and utterly breaks. A crowd draws around him, eventually, all looking to see what he might be holding.
He’s sobbing so hard he can’t breath and he can’t see and he can’t feel anything, except for the blood, on Tommy’s body. Even through his numb haze, he can tell, when the first person sees Tommy. A piercing, heartbroken scream causes everyone in the field to shiver. A second, horrified scream of, “Tommy,” goes straight to Sam’s heart.
Tubbo flings himself at the two and, from that point on, is inconsolable. Nobody can get Sam, or Tubbo, to leave Tommy that day. Nobody tries, after the first half an hour. Ranboo is the only one who stays with them, in a silent vigil. Jack Manifold stumbles off into town, like a drunken man, laughing hysterically and sobbing so hard his shoulders shake, at random intervals.
The entirety of the SMP mourns for the boy that most had thought they wanted dead. Turns out, fantasizing about the death of a sixteen year old boy is much easier than seeing the results. The good always die young, of course. Heroes often die younger.