Title: Walking Disaster
Author: RemyTehFrog
Rating: PG-15
Summary: Sam knows he is nothing but a tiresome burden.
Word Count: 4,254
Author's Notes: My first Supernatural one-shot. Reviews are, as always, appreciated. Partly inspired by Walking Disaster and Pieces, both by the awesomeness known as Sum 41.
Disclaimer: Yeah, like I have the time to think up something like Supernatural. I'd rather drool over the Winchesters, thanks a lot.
Dean and John are fighting again.
Sam hates it when they do that, partly because the fights are always followed by a few tense hours in which Dean doesn't talk much and John snaps at Sam for no reason while ignoring his older son. But the major reason he hates it is that they always fight about him.
Today it's because Sam forgot to draw a salt boundary in front of their front door. Every other day it is Sam's job, and he usually remembers, but he didn't today because he was preoccupied with – he can't even remember now.
"He is so irresponsible!" John is saying.
"Just cut him some slack, Dad!" answers Dean. For some reason he always sticks up for Sam, even though Sam knows Dad doesn't like it.
"Do you have any idea what could have happened if I hadn't noticed there was no salt line?"
"But it didn't, Dad! It won't happen again, okay?" Dean is trying to end it, but John is not satisfied.
"Anything – anything – could have entered the house! Do you really think I can handle losing you two after Mary?"
Even through the door, Dean's groan is audible. Dean hates it whenever Mary is dragged into an argument. On the other side, safe in the room he shares with Dean, Sam suppresses a shiver. John seems to be getting angrier by the second.
"Dad –"
"Dean, you don't understand! How will he ever learn to defend himself if he can't remember simple things? How will he ever survive on his own?"
There is a moment's silence. Then Dean says, his voice determined, "He won't ever have to be on his own."
John sighs. "You can't be with him all the time, you know."
"I can try."
And just like that, the argument is over. After another, longer silence the door opens and Dean enters. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Sam. But Sam feels guilty – if he had remembered the salt line this argument wouldn't have happened.
After around ten minutes or so, Dean asks, rather abruptly, "Got any homework, Sammy?"
For once, Sam doesn't object to being called "Sammy", even though he feels at the age of thirteen he's not a child anymore. He is, of course, but he wishes he wasn't, so he can just leave and then Dean and his father won't have to put up with him.
"No," he answers, a second later, and then kicks his shoes off. It is only after he has wrapped the covers of his bed around himself that Dean turns around to look at him.
"Are you going to sleep?" he asks.
Sam nods. Dean is sitting in his rickety old chair, looking at Sam in an unnerving way. Sam figures Dean is finally tired of him.
"Dean," he says, unsure of what to do.
"How come you forgot the salt line, huh, Sammy?" Dean asks suddenly, and Sam is at a loss for words.
"I didn't mean to," he says finally. "It won't happen again, Dean, I promise."
Dean is tired. He doesn't know why, but he is, and the argument with his father hasn't helped any.
The sight of Sam wrapped in blankets has always been somewhat endearing for Dean, but today it just makes him feel even more tired. Perhaps he is absorbing all the stress from the air. He makes a mental note to look it up and see if that is possible.
But right now, he says, "Dad's right, though, Sam." He means it in the sense that anything could get to them if even a tiny blunder is committed, and to him it makes perfect sense, but he sees Sam deflate a little at the words.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
It takes Sam a few seconds to answer. "Wha – yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
The reply is too hasty for it to be convincing, and Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. "Doesn't sound like it."
"I'm just tired, that's all," Sam says, again not very convincingly.
Dean is not in the mood for another argument, so he just says, "Okay. Get some sleep."
Sam nods again, before rolling on his side and turning his back on Dean.
But Sam cannot sleep. Dean's words echo in his mind – "Dad's right, though, Sam." It is confirmation of what he has feared all along – that he is a burden on his family, and they are better off without him because he cannot even properly look after himself. What chance does he have of being useful in case of trouble?
But he is only thirteen, and he doesn't know what to do. He has no friends, and no other family. He has, in short, no one to turn to and nowhere to go. But he knows he cannot stay. Staying means more fights with his father, more Dean vs. John arguments and more of being told he is useless. Of course, no one ever says it directly – it is the little things that give them away. Little things like not entrusting even the simplest tasks to him (they know they will be let down if they do), not letting him out on his own and definitely not letting him in on secrets. They are all convinced he is nothing but a child, but he's not a baby anymore and he knows he can handle the truth. It's their smooth deception that gets to him.
Sam lies still until nighttime, valiantly keeping up his façade, until he is quite sure Dean and John are both asleep. Then he quietly gets out of bed. It is 2 AM. He looks around before tiptoeing into the bathroom.
His face is a mess, he realizes as he looks into the mirror. His hair is all messed up, and he looks as if he has never heard of washing one's face. He turns the tap on to do so, but at the last moment turns it off, thinking, who cares?
When he is satisfied with his appearance, he goes back to his room and quietly, carefully – please don't wake up, Dean – packs a few clothes and some of the money he's saved up into his bag. Then he tiptoes out – Dean doesn't stir, so Sam figures he must be really tired – and steps out of the front door, silent as a ghost, as one of the demons his father hunts.
Purely out of instinct he checks for the salt line. It is there, and feeling slightly disgusted with himself Sam steps over it and walks away.
But it doesn't feel as liberating as he thought it would. Sam realizes that when he is two blocks away from his home. It is getting harder to focus on the future now, when all he can remember is the past.
Dean holding his hand and guiding him when he learned how to walk …
His father buying him a normal RC car for once, and not a gun …
His first day of school, when he was so afraid to leave Dean's side …
And the first time he got into a fight, at age six (since the perpetrator had the unfair advantage of being around thrice Sam's size, Dean and John loaded Sam with defensive moves and sent him off to school. The guy never knew what hit him).
Sam shakes his head, as if to rid himself of these memories, and walks on. Dean's words are echoing in his mind again, and his father's disappointment in him stabs into him like a knife.
He is not sure what he is going to do. Perhaps he can just live in the subway. Or else someone will take him in. He isn't sure who, though – he knows nobody in this town except for his father and brother. Once upon a time he might have gone to Bobby, but John and Bobby don't talk anymore and Sam isn't sure if Bobby would have him.
With a sigh that is strangely reminiscent of his father, he continues walking in weary, measured steps.
He is not sure how much distance there is between him and home now. He only knows that he has been walking for what seems like hours. At this time of night, there aren't much cars going by. Part of him wishes there were, so he could at least hitch a ride, but another part of is glad there aren't so no one will ask strange questions and then take him to the nearest police station. If that happens then his father will never forgive him.
As he passes a lonely, somewhat eerie playground he becomes suddenly, painfully aware of the agony in his feet. He checks his watch. It is 4 AM. Without giving it much conscious thought, he pushes his way into the playground and shuffles over to the swings. Setting his bag down by his feet, he sits and rests his head against the cool metal of the swing's supports.
Around five minutes later he hears hushed voices, and discovers he is no longer alone. A discreet glance reveals the newcomers to be a group of four or five teenage boys. They appear to be older than Sam, and they are all dressed in overlarge clothes. One of them says something, and the rest laugh. Then they notice Sam.
Immediately Sam gets a bad feeling in his stomach. They cannot mean any good – it is obvious in the way they leer at him as they stealthily approach. Sam doesn't move from his place, though. He is very tired and he hopes that if he acts like they are not there, they will go away.
They don't, though. They are too near for him to be able to escape successfully. One of them – the ringleader, the one who was speaking earlier – does not stop walking until he is face-to-face with Sam, and then says, "Got any dough?"
"No." From his weary lips the lie falls easily, but it is not convincing.
"Let's check, shall we?" The Guy (he is intimidating enough for Sam to think of him as a person who deserves a capitalized title) says. "Just to make sure you're not a dirty little liar."
He picks up Sam's bag, without any protest from Sam. He is glad because his money is in his pocket, and he tries his best not to glance down at it too much.
The Guy has now finished dragging Sam's clothes out of his bag and throwing them around. Sam knows he should stop him, but he doesn't. All his energy seems to have abandoned him. The Guy straightens up and says, "You know what, kid?"
Sam doesn't respond, so The Guy turns to his cronies. "Y'all know what I think?" he yells.
"No," they respond in unison, amid snickers and grins.
"I think," here he pauses for dramatic effect, "I think this kid here – he lyin' to me!"
They all agree in an extremely raucous manner. Sam feels his palms breaking out in a sweat. He knows they will search his pockets now.
"And you know what Imma do? Imma search his pockets, 'cause he lyin' to me!"
Sam groans inwardly.
Dean wakes up with a start, his throat feeling strangely constricted. Something about his room is not right; it is almost as if it looks incomplete. Out of pure instinct Dean looks towards Sam's bed, and his heart skips a beat when he sees it empty.
His first thought is perhaps something got Sam, but then he remembers the salt line. Sam is probably in the bathroom, and there is nothing to worry about.
Except with the Winchesters, it is never like that.
Getting thoroughly creeped out every second, Dean gets out of bed and walks into the hallway outside their room. Sam is not in the bathroom; or the living-room or the kitchen. That leaves only John's room, and Dean just knows that there is no chance Sam would be there.
Nevertheless he runs in there and starts shaking John, mindless of the consequences. "Dad, wake up!"
John groans and slowly opens his eyes. "What is it? Can't it wait till morning?"
"Dad, Sammy's missing!"
John bolts upright, suddenly wide awake. "Get your coat on," he says without further ado, and Dean obeys.
When he runs back to his father's room he sees John all ready, with his leather-bound journal and a shotgun. "Let's go," the older Winchester says.
Sam literally has his nose in the dirt. And it is very uncomfortable.
He is lying on his stomach with his face pressed into the soil, and he can feel The Guy's hands going through every pocket in his jeans. Finally he finds what he's looking for and loosens his hold on Sam, straightening up and grinning. "Twenty bucks. Not bad."
But then his tone changes. "But you lied to me, huh, punk? You think you so smart?"
"No," Sam mutters. Feeling suddenly reckless, he adds, "You'd lie too, if it was your money."
"He's bein' a smartass now," The Guy announces to his friends. As if they don't already know.
Sam knows he should get up and fight them. That is what is expected of him. That is what Dean would do in his place. And John – John wouldn't get in a situation like this in the first place. So Sam rises to his feet and steadies himself. "Give me my money back," he says, fighting to keep the weariness from his voice. It is his hard-earned pocket money, and they have absolutely no right to it.
The Guy laughs. Unlike Dean's laugh, it is not a soothing sound. "I don't think I will," he says, before turning to his stupid cronies. "Should I, boys?"
They all laugh and boo. They remind Sam of possessed people – unable to think for themselves. Sam has seen what possessed people are like, and frankly they frighten him (of course, Dean is the only person who knows this).
Suddenly overcome with anger, Sam swings a fist at The Guy. It hits him square on the face, and Sam has a feeling he has hurt himself more than he has hurt The Guy. Who, by the way, looks much annoyed now.
Sam stifles a cry of pain as his fist is grabbed by The Guy, who isn't feeling nice at all. The youngest Winchester bites on his bottom lip as he suffers blows to the stomach and ribs. He wants to struggle and give them a hard time, he really does, but his hands are held behind his back and the others are making sure he cannot hurt their leader.
Unfair bastards …
But nothing in life is fair, Sam remembers. Dean used to tell him that all the time. It is also evident in the fact that instead of having a normal life like everyone else, he is stuck with accompanying his father and brother on hunts, vainly attempting to find whatever got his mom. Vaguely he wonders how life would have been if she was alive, and if they weren't hunters.
The family business, it is called.
The blows are coming down much harder now. Sam's whole body hurts, and he can no longer hear what The Guy and his friends are saying. He doesn't want to, either. He just wants Dean and home – and maybe even his father. For the first time in hours, he regrets running away.
As a finishing touch (Sam can't feel the rest of his body anymore; maybe he has been decapitated), The Guy grabs Sam's head and smashes it into the metal supports of the swing. The excruciating pain indicates he hasn't been decapitated after all. It is a small relief.
Sam slumps onto the ground. Satisfied, they leave. All is still. Nothing stirs.
Maybe this is it, Sam thinks. Maybe this is my time. He knows he is exaggerating – surely he can't die of wounds obtained in a routine mugging. Besides, they just used fists and feet. No weapons.
Now more than ever, it occurs to Sam just how useless he is. He cannot even defend himself. Dad was right; Dean was right. Sam is nothing but a burden, and it is best he just remains here for all eternity. He hopes they will not forget him, though. Maybe one day, years later, when he is strong enough, he will return to them and prove he is not a dead weight.
But that day is yet to come.
Sam lets the tears flow.
Dean cannot stop his fingers from restlessly tapping the window. He is frightened and worried for Sam. This is much, much worse than the time Sam got a concussion in school during gym class.
John has not spoken much. He is just driving tensely, looking at both sides of the road and searching for any sign of Sam. There is no mention of the argument he and Dean had. They are united now in their search for the one person they both cannot live without, though neither will admit it.
Little bits and pieces of memories come back to Dean as his father drives. The first time Sam's tiny fingers clenched around Dean's, as if asking for guidance. The first step Sam took, hand-in-hand with a proud Dean. Sam's first word. He had only been able to pronounce it as "Dee", but it was enough.
Dean is brought back to the real world when John brakes abruptly. "Sam," he breathes before jumping out of the car. Heart pounding in his ears, Dean follows.
Sam is lying in a heap at the base of a swing frame in some playground, and he is not moving. John and Dean hurry over. Dean gets their first, and he gathers Sam into his arms and shakes him. "Sam! Sammy! Can you hear me?"
There is blood all over Sam's face and it is mixed with what looks like tears. Sam slowly looks up at Dean. He looks shocked to see his big brother and father suddenly hovering over him and looking worried. But before he can express any of it, Dean hugs him.
Sam has never been one for hugs. In Dean's words, it is too chick-flicky, and Sam is not a girl. Generally he is quite content to leave the hugging to the girls in his class, thank you very much.
And that is why he is astonished to find that, as Dean holds him close, he doesn't mind it very much. In fact, it feels quite safe. Like home.
But they were not supposed to find him. He is nothing but a burden. Sam surprises both Dean and his father when he weakly pulls away. "Dean –" he starts, but is interrupted.
"Let's get you home. Everything else can come afterwards." His father's voice is sweetly, unusually gentle.
Dean lifts him up, but Sam is too weak to protest. He feels relieved and safe, but also a bit terrified. They are not going to be happy with him.
When Sam is all cleaned up and it is concluded that his injuries are not too severe, Deans puts him in bed and for the first time in years, he is tucked in by his father. It feels good to receive affection from John, but Sam is not sure how long this is going to last.
John sits down on the side of Sam's bed, next to Dean. "Listen, Sam," he starts. "I am not going to ask you what's wrong; I already know. And I'm sorry."
"No," Sam says, his voice thick. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."
There is no need to specify. They all know.
"But if I hadn't, you wouldn't have," John points out.
"I shouldn't have anyway," Sam says. "It wasn't the right thing to do. I'm sorry."
John nods. "Me too."
A silent understanding passes between them. Sam gets the feeling it might get better now. Then John stands up and offers a rare smile to his sons. "Good night, boys."
They answer, and he is gone.
Just for the record, Dean hates showing his emotions; it is too girly. But now he feels he has to. "Sam, why'd you do that?" he asks.
Sam sighs. "You know, Dean."
Yes, Dean knows. "But I want to hear it from you."
"There's nothing to hear. I made a mistake. That's all."
"No, it's not. You wouldn't have done that if it wasn't for a really huge reason."
And Sam sighs again. He just cannot hide things from Dean, who always reads him so well. "All right," he says. "But hear me out, and don't get mad, okay?"
Dean looks at the uncertain boy in the bed and nods.
"I just felt useless. So I thought you'd be better off without me."
Dean cannot believe his ears. "You what?"
"You heard me." Sam sounds weary, but Dean doesn't care.
"How could you think that, Sammy? Do you have any idea how much I'd give up for you?"
"Yes!" Sam exclaims. "And I can't do anything for you in return because I'm so damned useless! I can't even remember a salt line, how the hell am I ever going to be helpful when it really counts? I can't blame Dad for being disappointed in me – hell, I'm disappointed in me, too! I couldn't even save myself back there, and that was just five teenagers! What use will I be against demons and shapeshifters and werewolves and God knows what else!"
"Hang on," Dean says, his eyes wide. "You got mugged back there?"
Sam does not seem to hear him. "Why am I so damned weak? Why can't I be strong like you or brave like Dad? Hell, I'd be content with just a good memory but all I get is failure, failure and more failure! With me on your side, you don't need enemies! I'm less useful to you than –" Sam looks around for something adequate "–than a freakin' pillowcase!"
He would have continued but Dean says firmly, "That's enough, Sam."
Sam stops mid-word and looks at Dean. "But you said it too! You said Dad was right when he said I can't defend myself –"
Dean very nearly slaps his forehead. "Holy shit, Sam, that's not what I meant! When I said that, I meant he's right as in anything can get to us as a result of a small blunder! I don't think you're useless! In fact, you're a helluva lot more useful than I was at your age. You remember me? Always the wrong gun, or the wrong chant, or something!"
Reluctantly Sam nods. Now he remembers.
"And Sam, Dad doesn't hate you! He –"
"I never said he does!" But Sam knows he has thought it a lot of times.
"Shut up and listen. Dad doesn't hate you, Sam! He just wants you to be able to look after yourself so you don't end up like Mom! He can't handle the thought that we might be roasted alive too, Sammy! Ever think of that?" Without waiting for Sam to respond, he continues, "And do you have any idea what would happen to us without you? We'd be nothing, Sam. I know I'd be a damn catastrophe if you weren't around to watch my back. And Dad – Sam, no matter what it seems like, he loves you!"
"How would you know?" Sam feels confused, sad and regretful all at once, and this amalgamation of emotions is not one he likes.
Dean looks impatient. "Oh, only because he just checks in on me and you every night. Only because he keeps asking me about you all the time. And only because you are a half of all he's got. Yeah, that's about it. No big deal." He ends on a sarcastic note.
For the second time, Sam's eyes fill with tears. "I never knew that," he mutters.
"Well, you do now," Dean answers, somewhat awkwardly. Sam crying is something he hasn't witnessed in a long time.
When a big fat drop of H2O leaks out of Sam's left eye, Dean sighs softly and takes his hand. "Look, Sam, it's okay," he says. "You don't have to cry about it, you know."
Of course, that only makes Sam cry more. Without really realizing it Dean leans forward and hugs Sam again, wondering if he has been possessed by a female demon or something. He makes a mental note to look that up too.
Soon Sam's little sniffs fade into hiccups, and too late Dean comprehends that there are boogers all over the shoulder of his shirt. Sam's boogers, to be exact. He tries to push the thought away. Boogers are not a pleasant thought, after all, especially if they belong to your emotional baby brother.
He doesn't know how, but he ends up with a sleeping Sam in his arms. He wonders whether he should put Sam back onto his pillow and get on his own bed, and simply deny the next morning that anything ever happened. But on second thought, he carefully climbs into Sam's bed and settles, taking great care not to wake Sam. Nevertheless, Sam moves a little and Dean goes completely still, until Sam finally settles down with his head on his brother's chest.
Dean allows himself to indulge in a sleepy yet happy little smile. Perhaps in the morning they can both pretend they did not spend the night cuddling like a child and its teddy bear, and this incident will not leave their room after all.