Begin: Remember
Fandom: SPN
Author: nightrose_spn
Pairing: Sam/Jess, implied Sam/girl!Dean, non-con John/girl!Dean
Genre: Angst/Family
Rating: R
Warnings: non- and dub-con, underaged, prostitution, dark themes, incest, character death
Summary: AU. At his graduation from Stanford, Sam remembers his sister Deanna and the father who killed her.
Feedback: Is my life.
Wordcount: 2369
Author's Notes: This is a very dark little ficlet. However, I hope you enjoy. Also, keep in mind that none of the warnings are graphic. Those are themes, rather than actual scenes.
(A bright, sunny day in May. The scene is set on a stage in Palo Alto, California. Rows of graduates are sweltering in their black robes. A young man walks to the podium and gives the crowd a smile, his eyes lingering on a baby bassinet in the front row.)
Hi. Um, I'm Sam. Most of you probably know me already. I'm the valedictorian for this year's graduating class, and this… I had my typical trite commencement speech all written out, but then… Well, I talked to the dean, and he said this was okay. So here goes. Just to warn you, this is my life's story, and I haven't had a pretty life. You might want to excuse yourselves if you're squeamish.
(Some of the parents in the back stand up, heading for the exits. So does one girl with thick glasses.)
Let me start over.
Hi. Um, I'm Sam. Most of you probably know me already. I'm the valedictorian for this year's graduating class, and the women I love die. Seriously, if I ask you out, say "no."
(Laughter, tinged with nervousness, from the audience.)
People have probably heard about my girlfriend, Jessica Moore. She was a student here, and she passed away in a terrible accident in our apartment two years ago. We were gonna get married.
But that's not when it started. When I was six months old, my mother was killed in a fire, much like Jess was. The same fire that killed my sister Deanna twenty-four years later.
My parents had been very much in love, and losing my mother drove my father John insane. He became convinced that she'd been killed, not by a tragic mischance, but by a demon.
(Some shocked giggles from the crowd. They hit the young man hard, even though he was expecting it.)
I know. It sounds ridiculous. But this was my life. He spent my childhood trying to train me as a soldier, to teach me how to fight these things he saw everywhere. You should see his journal… there's some crazy stuff in there. He raised me as a warrior in the fight against the ghosts in his head—but De was a girl. In his mind, she was no good, she couldn't fight.
I never… God forgive me, I never knew. Never knew why she looked so damn scared every time he said she looked like our mother. Why she was so happy every time he went away, even if it meant we were left on our own for days, weeks, months at a time. Even if there wasn't enough food or money.
I was a child and she was my protector. When Dad left, she went hungry so I could have enough to eat, so I could have the Lucky Charms or whatever. When Dad raged and screamed at me for not training hard enough, she stepped between us without even considering what it would cost her. When I made A's on tests, she was genuinely excited, proud of me, every single time, no matter the horrors she had to face. She was the one who tucked me in and kissed me goodnight, made me meals and washed my clothes, helped me with homework and went to parent teacher conferences, held me through nightmares and told me secret stories about a mother who'd loved us.
Even though Dad didn't think she was strong, she taught me everything I know about fighting. She wrestled with me, taught me how to use a knife, hold a gun, shoot a bow, patch a wound.
When Dad swore and hit me, driven to rage by his madness, his psychotic belief that I had to kill what had killed my mother, she'd hold me close, tease me, make me laugh until I forgot my problems.
De was my sister, my father, my mother, my best and only friend. She was four years older than me, but it seemed like a thousand.
(He's made his point. The watching crowds are half in love with this remembered girl, just as he is. Now they are drawn in, into the darkness.)
Because I never knew. She loved me more than anyone else in the world, but I was always a child to her. Not until the very end did she come to me for help… and by then it was too late.
See, De was a girl, so she couldn't hunt. But my dad's mad quest meant he never worked. His solution was simple.
(A pause. He's not sure he can say the words.)
I think it was three years after the fire when Dad started pimping De out. She was seven years old, and you'd be surprised at how many perverts there are in the world. Easier than credit card scams, not as risky as hustling pool. Besides, she was only a girl. What else was she good for?
(The bitterness in his voice makes them lean back. He slams a fist down on the podium, but then the rage fades, like water rolling over a hill.)
I'm sorry. This… this isn't easy for me to talk about.
(Sniffing back tears, unashamed of them but determined to keep talking.)
I didn't exactly mean to start crying in front of all of you.
Like I said, I don't know for sure when it started. When she was a child, because as far back as I can really remember, I remember her falling into bed next to me, her lips bloody and her face bruised, late at night.
She did look like my mother, and when she hit puberty, that just got more apparent, and Dad wasn't just content with selling her anymore.
(His face is streaked with tears, his voice broken and his breath breaking him.)
I… I can't talk about this… I've never… I mean, seriously, the only people I even ever met growing up were De and Dad, and Dad lived in his own head. He was always fighting imaginary enemies with the help of make-believe friends. When he wasn't busy hurting my sister.
I'm not even sure he knew he was doing it. In his mind, I was his son, the rightful heir to his crusade. And De… she turned into my mother.
My father wasn't a monster. He was a very, very sick man who let his demons tear him apart.
(It's not easy for him to admit, and it's not easy for the audience to understand, not now, as they're starting to realize the horrible shadows that lie behind this beautiful young man with the shining smile.)
She never told him no. That was the woman my sister was. I don't know, I'll never know, how much of it was what he did to her. How much was the horrific abuse and how much was my sister's own selflessness. She would have done anything for her family.
For Dad… and for Sammy.
Until the day she died, I never heard her call me anything but "Sammy."
When De was thirteen, and I was nine… I think that's when it changed, when my father went from using her to pay the bills to hurting her himself, exclusively.
De was always my mother, but I think it was when she was thirteen that our father made her his wife. De and I never shared a bed anymore, not when Dad was home. She slept with him. I wasn't allowed to touch her anymore, no matter how casually.
Dad was the jealous type. I saw him beat her once, for kissing me goodnight. In my child's mind, I didn't register how that was different from the smacks he'd give me for messing up during training.
I never knew.
De was so happy, so proud, when I got accepted here. Full scholarship, even with our constant moving around, and growing up on Ramen noodles and Hamburger Helper, and a single parent who cared more about exorcisms than logarithms.
She didn't even wince when Dad yelled that if I wanted to go, I should stay gone.
(Staring at the dark wood of the podium, he traces the wrinkles with his eyes, imagining what she would have looked like if she could have grown old. He is not crying anymore.)
I don't want to think of what she must have gone through in those years. Without me there to sometimes keep his fists and hands off of her.
This August, she showed up at my doorstop, mangled, broken, covered in blood and bruises so I could barely see her face.
I'd put two and two together in my years here, realized what had to have been happening to her. I'd tried to find her, but couldn't. Put the police on my dad's tail, but the couldn't find him or De.
When she came to my dorm, she was eight months pregnant.
There wasn't much I could do. De begged me not to go after Dad, wouldn't tell me where he was. I called off the cops. There would be plenty of time to find him after De had her baby. And revenge had destroyed my family once already.
(Now, he fully understand what a bleak god vengeance can be.)
She had the baby September 1st. The pain didn't even really seem to register—she'd been through much worse, many times. I named him Dean, for her. She threw a fit, but I could tell how much it meant to her.
(The rows of black-clad people are shocked to see a fond smile spread across his face. They do not know a pain that even approaches his… how can he ever smile again, with the things he's seen?)
Life was hard, but it was good. I had to ask friends to keep an eye out for her whenever I was in classes or at work, because I'd found her turning tricks twice—she thought she should help me out, pay for her own food, that kind of thing. She couldn't sleep alone, either. She came into my room one night, saying something about the nightmares I'd had as a kid, and slept there.
Little Dean is a perfect baby. A miracle, considering what De had gone through during the pregnancy—the physical abuse alone—not to mention the whole tangled genetic mess.
He was the joy of our lives. I saw, finally, what De must have felt for me in my childhood. What it's like to be a parent, something my sister learned at four years old in a blazing house when Dad told her to "Take Sammy and run."
We made plans, in those few months. I'd graduate, much like this, get a partnership in a firm, buy a house for De and Dean. She'd take care of the baby and I'd take care of her—something no one had ever done before. We'd be his parents, and she'd be safe. Our past couldn't hurt us anymore.
(This wound is still bleeding in his heart.)
It was only a month ago. Forgive me if I can't say this calmly. I… I was… watching a movie. De was sitting with me, feeding the baby. I had… had my arm around her. She liked to be touched. It comforted her.
That's when Dad came in. Screaming at me that "Deanna was his," that I "had no right to touch her."
He had a gun. And I realized it a second too late. I stood up to stop him just as he fired… and I was out of the way.
The bullet killed De instantly.
If I'd known, I would have thrown myself at the gun.
(He is desperate to prove that. He needs to convince all of them, convince himself. It wasn't his fault. It couldn't have been his fault.)
I'd have died for her in an instant… but it… it just all happened… so fast.
He shot himself then, just spun the gun around and fired, and I didn't raise a hand to help or stop him. Just cradled the crying baby and, then, as he collapsed, called the cops.
My son is also my nephew, and my brother. I'll tell him, when he's old enough to understand, about his family and his mother. I will give him everything De gave me, and I'll save him like I couldn't save her.
That's why I'm telling you this horrible, depressing story on what ought to be a happy day.
Not just because I can't smile and lie to you.
Not just because her seat is empty.
Because I want you to remember. As your lives start, as you fulfill all that shining potential everyone else who's making a speech today will tell you all about, remember.
Who do you love? Who has sacrificed for you? Who have you lost?
Try to be the person they thought you were.
That's the greatest gift I can give to De.
I'd like to thank the administration for letting me give this most unorthodox speech, Professor Iles for proofreading it for me, my friend Rebecca for everything she's done for me, De, and Dean—she's actually the one holding him, out there.
(He pauses to wave to a pretty girl, who smiles and rocks the baby carriage in front of her.)
And of course, all of you, for listening to my story.
Congratulations, seniors. As you move on, try to remember.
(He straightens his gown and walks off the stage. For a few moments, there is silence, except for hearts breaking and breaths in and out. Then, the world bursts into applause. When they finally quiet, a man dressed in a suit, with a sad smile, takes the stage, to resume the program.)
Ladies and gentlemen, our class valedictorian, Sam Winchester.