A/N: It took me all day to finish this... and now I'm very sleepy, so I haven't exactly proofread it yet; bare the mistakes, please, I'll fix it tomorrow *makes puppy eyes*
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (I know, such a shame...)
Story Details: A companion fic (somewhat... maybe it's best to call it a sequel) to "97 Degrees Of Separation", so if you haven't read that... this won't make any sense. Sam's first week back at school and away from his brother.
Warnings for: bad language, hints of Wincest, incoherence, delirium... (seriously, I'm in a foul mood).
Sam has spent a great time of his life, visualising his adulthood; where he's gonna be, what he's gonna do... This isn't it.
His friends are smothering him; looking all kinds of pitying and sad, their faces twisting in ugly grimaces of sorrow everytime they see him... and their favorite words seem to be: "Sam, dude, I'm so sorry. Jess was such a nice girl... I can't believe we lost her like that."
And Sam doesn't get it; who are they to talk about Jess in past tense? Who are they to say they're sorry? If they knew a thing or two about the supernatural they would know that Jessica is, and always will be, the most amazing girl to walk the earth and heaven. Oh, she's in heaven, Sam is adamand about that; it's not hard to imagine the beautiful place she went to when she passed away. If it's anything similar to her soul... Sam pegs it as spectacular.
Dean would never do that; he'd never have the nerve to speak about Jessica like he knew all about her, like he lost her and so he can sympathise with how Sam feels, like the tragety of the situation crashes Dean's own bones and freezes his own blood. And not because Dean doesn't care, but because he understands that he has no right to invade Sam's sorrow like that- they have no right! Dammit! How the fuck dare they!
Ah... How alone Sam feels...
He's been dreaming about this moment his whole life; The day he would finally escape his father's dictatorship, and be able to decide for himself. Now, he's done that and he feels... He feels like he doesn't know what comes next.
You know what? Scratch that last one; Sam's going to be honest. In each and every one of these dreams, where he's away from his father and he's doing whatever he wants... Dean's right by his side.
But Dean's not here, and Sam has to figure out how to keep going. He has come to the realization that he's not as grown up as he thought he was and it's time to start. Without Dean, Sam can mold and re-shape himself and discover things about who he is. It's not necessarily good but it definitely isn't all bad and eventually he knows he'd have to stop feeling guilty every time he smiles or laughs (which doesn't happen at all, but that's neither here nor there); guilty because Dean's not here.
Dean's somewhere working hard to save as many people as he possibly can (most of who'll probably never even know about it) and Sam's somewhere else, having fun (well, fun in a crying sorta way, curled up naked in the shower- biting your knees- wishing you were dead kinda fun) like he's not going to get another chance. And as much as he often thinks the world should stop and wait for his brother to join it, it won't; and Sam has no other choice.
The days pass by him, in the same pattern; school, house (he can't call the new -tiny shit-hole- appartment home yet), avoiding his 'friends', school, house, studying. And, in between the breaks for food and rest, he sends Dean tones of texts, and leaves him millions of voice messages. Dean never actually answers... although he does send a text every night, always the same: "Dad's still MIA. Bobby's driving me crazy. Hunting's fun. Everything's fine. Goodnight, Sam."
And Sam knows something's wrong; everything's not fine, and hunting isn't fun. Everything are terrible, because Dean keep calling him "Sam". And when the fuck did that start? Dean's supposed to say "Goodnight, Sammy," Sam is supposed to correct him and Dean will call him "Sammy" again anyway. See? Everything are in dissarray; gone down the drain; dragging in the mud -and all the other idioms (is that even the right word? and who gives a fuck?) one can find.
Sam's sure that Dean's pushing himself; he wonders if Bobby can tell, if he'll be able to talk his brother into toning it down a bit. Sam knows hunting while trying to find Dad is extremelly stressful for Dean. He's afraid his brother doesn't even slow down enough to get proper rest; he prays Dean won't collapse from mere exhaustion.
The last time he saw Dean relaxed? Ooh... that's... that's a real brainwreck.
Summer of '95. Dad-John-'The grumpy one' had been injured, Sam can't recall how or from what, Dean had been too young to hunt by himself and Sam whether too young or old enough had never been allowed to hunt by himself, period. So they had spend a good three months lounging at Bobby's junk yard, working (playing really) with old, rusty trucks and ending up having more fun than Sam could remember during the last 10 years combined.
It had been a particurarly hot afternoon, Sam couldn't sleep and was dying for water; on the way to the kitchen he stumbled upon Dean, whom despite the heat was enjoying a nap (don't let Dean hear that word -sleeping, he was sleeping) on Bobby's couch.
Sam can't pinpoint why, but he fell a little bit in love with the peaceful looking blond that day.
He had wanted so badly to lie down next to Dean on the couch, to wrap his arms around him and sleep. Not fuck, like in... those movies; not even have sex. Shut up, it wasn't like that. Sam had wanted them to just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. It would have been so nice to wake up tangled with Dean. But, Sam lacked the courage and Dean had intimacy-issues and Sam was gawky and Dean was gorgeous and Sam was hopelessly boring and Dean was endlessly fascinating. So Sam had walk back to his bed and collapsed on the uncomfortable mattress, thinking that if people were rain, Sam himself would be a drizzle and Dean would be a hurricane.
Too poetic, huh? Sam'll break it down for y'all. Dammit, but he missed Dean.
It was quite a shock that first night. Sam has this habbit, you see; when they check into a room, Sam by definition dumps his duffle on the bed closer to the door, and then Dean always moves it, placing it neatly on the floor next to the other one. When Sam left for Stanford, he unconsiously did the routine when he had landed in a cheap room for the night. You can understand it broke his heart a little bit when the duffle had stayed where Sam had left it. It might sound kind of stupid; but it was like... like this huge beacon with an unforgivingly glaring light and a siren which seemed to screech: "Dean's not here, Dean's not here, Dean's NOT HERE!"
So, yeah, Sam misses Dean; talking cold showers (Dean lacks restraint), searching for decent coffee in the ass crack of dawn (Dean can't make it out of bed without caffeine), being unable to un-pack (Dean won't stop for you to get your shit if you have to leave unexpectedly), smelling like gun-oil 24 hours 7 (if you work them well, they'll work well for you), ...he likes the way Dean laughs, and that he does it so rarely it's real when it happens, and that it always suprises him that Dean's capable to produce such a sound of utter bliss. He likes the way Dean makes him laugh; well, when he's not annoying the hell out of Sam. And he loves how brave Dean is; braver than what he gives himself credit for, -and he saved Sam's life; too many fuckin' times to count, -and Dean might be a bit snarky and cocky and sometimes a right-down moron, but, with Sam, he can also be gentle and kind and even sweet; Sam likes the way that makes him feel important to Dean, -and he likes that Dean understands things about him that other people don't, -And, to be painfully honest, right now, the thought of never seeing Dean again scares the crap out of Sam! ...what are we talking about again? Oh... yeah, err- ummm, Sam misses Dean and all that shit.
Going back on the road with Dean? Of course he thinks about it. But it's like... a matter of principal, you know? Sam does not give up -he's not the type; his brother taught him better than that.
And then it's also that, he doesn't want people to say that he can't make it on his own; that he needs Dean to baby-sit him.
Who would say that you ask?
Bobby is a good man, an impressive hunter and not the type to meddle in other people's businesses... But there are other hunters. And they're not like Bobby; they gossip worse than grumpy old maids. Sam learned that the hard way, when he run away. John-Dad-'The grumpy one' had organize a complete rescue-mission to find Sam; Sam had been young, so he had find it annoying that his father had made it seem like such a big deal; hunters from six different states had been told to be on the look out for him for days. Those men... they hadn't been nice, like Bobby is. They hadn't hesitated to throw it in Sam's face; that he can't make it on his own in this crazy world, that Daddy-John-'The grumpy one' has to clean up after him, that Dean guards him like a hawk cause he knows Sam means trouble.
Sam doesn't understand why everybody had to be so judgmental. He understands why Dean was judgmental. He thinks it's 'cause Dean had been scared for Sam's safety, partially. He thinks it's also 'cause, everyone else were lookin' at Dean like, "Hey, Sam's just a bum." "Sam's this," "Sam's that," "Sam's this."
"Sam's me, bro. Let me be me. When is that gonna start?" Sam had demanded, pissed with the land under his feet, the sky above his head... the whole world around him if we want to be exact.
What Sam had wanted was... to be acknowledged as something more than John's kid; something more than Dean's little brother.
Sam aches to be his own person.
"I never really fit anywhere, in my entire life. I guess... just for once, I want to feel like I belong somewhere; like I've found my place in the world." he sents Dean one night (the fourth- no, the fifth -you know what? time doesn't matter), after he has tucked himself into the bed.
And it's that message that sparks a different answer from Dean; an answer that is cruel, harsh, unfair... the complete truth, and that makes Sam wish Dean had stuck on his usual report, but it also makes him feel so guilty his gut twists in a gazillion knots.
"Your place in the motherfuckin' world? Whad'you think my side was made for Sam? Never fit anywhere, huh? You're the most ungreatful little shit ever! And I'm sick and tired of listening to how miserable you've been growing up! Well I was happy while I was raising you, Sam, but I guess I'm and idiot- so just spare me and at least don't rub it in my face, okay? Just, fuck you, Sam. Fuck you very much."
Sam reads it, again and again and again -until he can't comprehent anything beyond these words, and they've somehow materialise and are swimming around him; the words are swimming but Sam is drowning... aching to find a way to bend time and take his last message back, which he doesn't even know why he wrote now. It's not true. Basically all this? Are just a bunch of bullshit! Sam's not such a grown-up after all and he still needs his big brother, and goddammit- Sam's sorry. He's sorry, he's sorry, he's so fuckin' sorry he has trouble breathing right now-
But what's done is done.
To regret, and try to retaliate, is good. But, it's not enough; it doesn't confute the pain you caused, it doesn't give you tranquility, it doesn't help you sleep at night. If you kill and then regret, the life you took still remains unfairly lost. If you lie and then regret, you would have risked more than you would by telling the truth. If you steal and then regret, it doesn't alter the fact that you might have taken the most valuable thing someone possesed, resulting them to end up with nothing.
For all that, you should try to resist doing things that cause you to feel guilty.
To regret, is good; devine even... But it's not enough.
Sam sits down on his bed and sobs -groping inside his snatchel's pockets for something to wipe away the offending tears. He's ashamed and he doesn't want any proof that he's just a spoiled brat that only knows how to throw tantrums.
When he retracts his hand there's a piece of a well-worn cloth clenched in his fist. The faded emerald stamp on his favorite 'Metallica' t-shirt barely manages to flicker in the dim light of the moon that splays streaks of silver across Sam's grubby skin. With one shaking hand, he tries to slid it on and sobs even harder at his own stupidity.
It doesn't fit.
Of course it doesn't fit.
A/N: Sam's messed up, huh? Well, he shouldn't have left Dean, if you ask me.