Disclaimer – Still don't own Supernatural or the boys.
Author Notes – Personally I think that there wasn't enough angst after episode 2:17 Heart. This is my way of rectifying that.
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Forgetting To Breath
"Guilt is the very nerve of sorrow"
– Horace Brushnell
Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes it hurts so bad that it is all I can think about, all I can feel, and those are the times when I forget to breathe. Dean does not like those days, says I am freaking him out; that I have got to snap out of it, but how can I? Is it so strange that I forget to breathe when I am trying so hard not to remember anything? But he does not understand that; he says he does but it is all a lie, because if he did he would be sitting right beside me forgetting to breathe.
There is so much I want to forget, so many painful memories, but they always latch on. No matter what I do, how much evil I kill, how many miles I put behind me, the memories will not go away. They take hold of me and drags me down to the bottom of this black pit resting in my stomach. They suffocate me with their intensity and leave me shaking no matter how warm I get.
But I fake a smile, for Dean's sake, and pretend that I have forgotten. I joke and laugh and fool around as if there never had been any sadness in my life and I was just a normal guy. I think he buys it sometimes, thinks he has dragged me out of my depression, and I let him. It is easier that way.
But it never really goes away; it is always lurking under the surface trying to get a hold of me. Most days I outrun it, but it always catches up to me in my sleep. I have no protection there, can not run or hide or even wake myself up. I know they are dreams, nightmares, twisted memories, but still they feel so real. I can see her burning, feel the heath against my skin and always hear her words. You did this. You killed me. And I yell to her that I did not, that I am going to save her, but she only sneers and burn faster.
Those dreams make me wake up with a scream, my hands reaching for something that is not there, my skin flushed and sweaty. Dean is always awake, gives me that sad look before turning away and trying to give me some privacy. He thinks those dreams will make me break down and does not realise that I broke long before that.
Time has passed quickly and painfully slow. Some days it feels like yesterday, other times I think decades have dragged by. Maybe that is just the way it is, or maybe that is a sign of my mind giving up.
Sometimes I dream of him, sir, and there is always hate in his eyes. You're not good enough. I turn my back on him, leave him, because I have heard it before, heard it a million times, one more does not matter. I walk away because it really should not matter what he thinks, what he wants, because he never cared. He dragged me along until I was big enough to walk away. Sammy. And then he is on the floor, dying, and it does matter what he thinks, what he wants, because he is my dad and I love him even though I hate him. But he dies, always, because I turned my back on him.
I wake slowly from that dream, a lingering ache in my heart and a knowledge that I failed. It's a different kind of hurt, more hollow and dark, but no less painful. Dean does not know of these dreams, he never wakes up because I do not make a sound. Maybe that is better, maybe it would hurt more if he tried to tell me it was not true. Deep down I know dad did not hate me, but it still feels as if he did. I can still taste the acid in his words. Hearing Dean trying to make me see clear would only hurt more because he was always the perfect son, was always all the things I could not be.
Hunting goes on routine; new job, new town, new motel, new research, new hunts. It should make more of an impact on me but it does not. The pain and the hurt are always there, taking front seats, even when I am hunting. The adrenaline rush is no longer there because the memories are blocking it out.
The dreams of her are almost the worst. She is so beautiful, so funny that I even manage to feel alive, and then the dream crashes. There is a werewolf, distorting all that beauty in to something ugly and evil. Shot me. No, I can't, I won't! I can't live like this! I scream but there is no sound and my tears fall to the floor with dull thuds. Shot me! And I do. For her. You killed me. But then it is no longer the werewolf, she is back; beautiful but dying. I sit beside her, hug her to me, begs for forgiveness, trying to take it all back. You killed me, just like you killed everyone else. She dies; always she dies.
I do not wake up from those dreams. They always linger in the back of my head and it hurts more then anything else because I know there is no excuse this time. Jess was killed (you killed her), dad made that deal (you killed him) but Maddy . . . I murdered her.
The pain is unbearable at times, crushing me, and I think Dean is the only reason I can go on. He tries; he really does, even though he can not understand. He is my big brother; I won't let anything hurt you, and sees it as his responsibility. But I know it will change one day. He will leave, like everyone else, because they all die. I always let them die.
The memories plague me all the time – broke me a long time ago – and the pain is constant. I try to forget, all the time, but the only thing I can not remember is breathing.