Warning: Self Harm
Written after S6 and before S7 :)
Sometimes Sam Winchester figured he wasn't cut out for this world. Or more to the point; this world wasn't cut out for him. He didn't fit anywhere. Not really human and not a fully fledged monster either...Hopefully. Just something in between.
He wanted to be more like his older brother. All through everything, Dean remained human. Granted, as a baby no evil demon blood entered his mouth and maybe the Yellow-Eyed Demon never targeted him as he did Sam, but he was a chosen one. Chosen to destroy the world right alongside his evil younger brother. Only while Sam gave in and shifted into darkness, Dean never did.
And when it came down to it, Sam was the only one who said the big 'Yes.'
It didn't matter to Sam how close Dean came, how he had every intention of consenting to Michael. Even went about writing letters, packing up his belongings in a cardboard box and offering some last goodbyes...because it never happened. Sam sat for a while and pondered why. Was it really because Dean didn't want to let his brother down or was it just because it was simply Sam's destiny to be nothing more and nothing less than the ultimate evil; Lucifer.
Either way, Sam Winchester was not proud of himself. Who he was and who he had become regardless of his sacrifice was someone he hated, despised even. If he could climb out of his mind, body and soul he would. Leave it all behind smushed on the pavement and happily crawl into a dark, hidden corner somewhere nearby so he could watch as passerbys stomped all over his remnants.
At times when he realised that wasn't possible he would crave death. If only death could mean nothingness, he'd take that too. Willingly. He didn't want heaven, hell or purgatory; just complete and pure nothingness.
He was a contradiction, Sam Winchester was.
Because most nights once his brother found his way to sleep he would sit in the dark under the covers and scratch at his arms and thighs until they bled. Feel the liquid warmth trickle down his skin and take comfort in the pain. If Dean knew, he'd literally freak so he took extra special care not to let any blood drip onto the white scratchy sheets. On the many occasions he failed that mission too, instead of scrubbing them clean, the constant presence of his brother gave him no choice but to make the bed with rapid roughness and sleep in the stained linen until they moved onto the next place.
But then Sam Winchester disgusted himself daily.
Yet the only thing paining him about his newly formed scars was not his wounds. What sent regret waves through his every pore when he woke with his own dried skin stuck thick under his fingernails was the thought of Dean spotting them.
Dean had questioned his younger brother on his recent obsession for the need of intense privacy. Even yelled the crap out of him when Sam almost tore off his arm by ripping the bathroom door out of his grasp after a shower. But when Dean put it down to it being a side effect from hell, much to Sam's horror, he took the easy way out and let him believe so. He just didn't see another choice.
He made himself sick.
'You ready?' Dean asked clutching his keys and giving him one of his mischievous smiles. He really did enjoy killing evil sons of bitches, especially when this evil son of a bitch was haunting none other than their angel friend, Castiel.
'Yeah.' Sam nodded pulling on his jacket. Before a job, he'd often find himself hot with anxiety and automatically turn to roll up his sleeves. So far, as if by some miracle, Dean was yet to spot a single scar but Sam knew that wasn't out of luck. He had to be careful. When it came to him; miracles just did not happen.
'Leave your jacket dude.' Dean said, seriously considering tearing off his own t-shirt before he slinked into the Impala. 'It's never been so freaking hot.'
It was yet to be proven these recent temperatures were not the hottest they'd suffered through. Typical, Sam thought. The one time he really needed it to be jacket weather, it was hitting record highs. Maybe a job in Australia would come up next. It was winter there. 'This is cold compared to where we've been.' He joked already feeling plenty of sweat spots erupting. One of those concerned big brother looks smacked his eyes away. His joke was lame; wrong even...using hell to be funny. Hell wasn't funny. Nothing about hell was funny.
So he changed the subject. 'I still don't get why Cas can't just flick this thing into oblivion with a swipe of his hand.'
'Me either…Him either.' Dean chuckled. 'That's what makes it so damn hilarious.'
Sam faked a laugh. The thought of Cas running around with some random ghost chasing his tail might sound amusing to Dean but it seemed ludicrous to him. Still who was he to start with the sanctimonious crap? Since when was he ever right - about anything? A big fat 'never' so he shut his mouth and waited for his still giggling brother to start walking.
'You're sweet with doing this right?' Dean stopped mid-step causing Sam to do the same.
'Yeah of course.' He replied motioning for Dean to take the lead out the door. No way known was he ever going to do that again. He'd finally learnt his place was to follow; especially when it came to his brother. Follow, listen and obey. Just like he should have done all his life. Following himself, his own gut instinct never paved the way to greatness. For anyone.
'So we go salt and burn the bones and then call Cas. See if this thing really is old Jackson.'
Why Cas couldn't salt and burn the bones himself, Sam had no idea. Would probably take less than a second the way that angel could flash around and get things done, but Sam didn't question it. Dean had discussed this with his friend. They had a plan, this was the plan. Sam was along to help. Case closed.
Dean laughed to himself again and shook his head while he unlocked Sam's side of the car before moving around to his own. The babying didn't worry the younger Winchester anymore. He was sick of fighting it. Dean knew best, Dean had suffered enough so Dean got his way. Simple as that.
'Long drive. I'm pumping Seger.' Seger drowned out the roar of the Impala and messed with Sam's head. He was no classic rock fan and that kind of music made his mind fill with less than desirable thoughts, but Dean loved it and it was kind of awesome hearing him sing along and see an occasional smile shot his way.
It kind of chipped away a little of this new hurt anyway. Not more than two hours ago Sam caught the tail end of one of Dean's secret calls to Bobby. He was supposed to be at the store picking up some milk and bread but it was Sunday and in this small town, stores were closed on Sundays. Once that become apparent, he considered taking an aimless drive around the area just to pass some time but changed his mind at the last second and took the left into the gravel street leading to their secluded motel.
If only he hadn't. And if only he didn't lurk around the motel door and listen in on his brother's side of the conversation.
Yet again and not surprisingly, Dean was trying to force the point of reconciliation onto the man. Same as he'd been doing for close to eight months now. Sam wished he wouldn't. His brother was always trying to fix the unfixable. This was a lost cause. It wasn't like Sam was happy being cast out. He missed Bobby so much it hurt, but Bobby had every reason to disown him. It was the least he deserved.
And Bobby had explained it to him nice enough too. One on one, over his kitchen table and it made sense. He saw Sam as a son, treated him like a son and loved him like a son. Yet this 'son' set out to slaughter him.
The horror of that night shot him to pieces, sent him reeling to the point of no return. He had tried, for weeks, he really had but nothing he or Sam could do would change it. And in the end he felt he had to go ahead and do the one thing he said he never would and cut Sam out. He hoped he understood. It wasn't because he didn't love him. It was because he couldn't trust him. Soul or not, intellectually he just could not trust him.
Dean thought the man was being a stubborn old coot. And told him so. Repeatedly. Only to receive the same answer. Bobby Singer could forgive a lot, but he could not forgive that.
Dean was worried. The younger Winchester needed someone other than himself and an angel who wasn't the best at communication. Sam hardly bothered even attempting to make small talk with Cas anymore. He had withdrawn even further into himself, trusted no one except Dean and seemed to be falling into an enormous, black hole of apathy.
And if there was one thing Dean Winchester could not take from his brother, it was him not caring. That wasn't his brother. His brother Sam cared about everything. That was his brother. And even though when soul returned so did compassion and thoughtfulness, as time left them, so did his self worth and importance. Bobby was sorry for that, reiterated he still loved the kid, but just couldn't face him. That, he told Dean, just wasn't going to change.
Sam hated catching any part of these phone calls. It made him want to scream. But he never did. Instead he would hang back behind the door or in a corner, unable to pry himself away, until Dean gave in and disconnected. Never once letting on he'd heard a thing.
The aftermath was hard to take for both boys. For Dean, Bobby not wanting to have any contact with his brother was almost unbearable and while he had been strict with keeping a lid on his increasing feelings of frustration and resentment with the man it was becoming more and more difficult. For Sam, Bobby's rejections were a stab to the heart - every damn time. It was just better if he didn't hear a second of either side of the conversation. Just better not to know.
Back in the Impala, Sam might not have made out the words Dean spoke over the music but the blurred mumble of his voice stirred him awake. Much to his dismay he still felt the lead ball weighing heavily in his stomach before he turned to his brother and said a confused and sleepy: 'Sorry?'
Dean turned down the stereo. The Bob Segar cassette tilted sideways on the console. Some other song from some other band played now. It sounded familiar but Sam couldn't place it at such a low volume. 'We're here.' Dean repeated with a smile.
Instead of speaking, Sam spun his head around surprised to set eyes on the mass of grave beds laying flat on the field to his right. This was one of those grey, dull cemeteries only occasionally punctuated with spurts of color from small flower bouquets placed by people who still made the effort to care. He must have been asleep for hours instead of minutes. It aggravated him how crap his company was lately. Maybe Cas should have taken the trip with Dean. Would at least be more fun for him.
Sam unclipped his seat belt and made a move to open the door.
'Hold up. You need to wake up first. Here...' Dean reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out a cold can of Coke from a cooler filled with ice. Dean always remembered this kind of stuff, always had what they needed on tap… unless he didn't. But even then he knew what to do to get it. Sam admired him. He was useless at thinking two minutes into the future now. 'Drink this. Caffeine hit.'
'Thanks.' The fizziness tickled and closed his throat as he gulped it down but the coldness was refreshing. Dean was right; he needed a quick hit; his eyes were still threatening to close. Conscious not to drink it all so Dean could take the dregs, he was both relieved and disappointed when his brother shook his head and told him to finish it.
'You can go back to sleep if you want.' Dean said as Sam attempted to conceal a yawn. 'Simple salt and burn. I can get this one.'
Since when had anything ever been simple? No. Knowing his luck, this would be one of those times when things went awry. If anything happened to Dean while Sam was selfishly sleeping...
'I'm fine.' Again Sam reached for the door handle. Dean's voice stopped him for a second time. 'Why so tired?'
Oh I was too busy drawing blood all night. Want to see?
No the truth wasn't always an option.
'I'm not anymore.' He did his best to impersonate someone with a genuine smile and this time succeeded in opeing the door. With stiff legs he stepped onto the grass and without thinking and no run up, attempted to jump the waist-height fence. Not the greatest of ideas. Instead of making it over with ease, he felt the pull of material against sharp steel and heard the shred of jacket just as he landed with a thump...right onto a freshly twisted ankle.
Not really a cliffy but Chapter 1 turned out to be way too long so I had to split in half. Amazing how much you can ramble when you don't have a word count on hand and the power goes out for hours. :)