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There had been a time when Sam didn't eat like he did now, he was sure of it... He just couldn't remember exactly. Instead of late night TV meals and take-away, he was sure that there had been a time when he had eaten some kind of not deep-fried form of vegetable? But now, like most nights Dean and their dad were out on a job and all that Sam had to eat was whatever he could manage to find in the mini bar, which consisted mainly of chocolate, soft drink and… peanuts. Sam didn't like to eat this way; it was more that he didn't have a choice. But he was only 15 and he weighed over 250lbs and he was pretty short by any measure. Dean and dad always say that when he gets his growth spurt, that the weight will distribute throughout his body that he'll grow into his size… Then again, Dean never had these problems and when he had his (limited) spurt, he seemed to gain weight? Or should he say muscle.
He was 15, the pinnacle of his youth and nothing over a centimetre had happened in over a couple of months, Sam was beginning to grow accustomed to the fact that he may be this size for a really, really long time. Slowly starting over to the mini-fridge, Sam toed his way past old already eaten wrappers of candy bars and chip bags that were now strewn across a tacky 70's inspired décor, his feet sinking in around the swirling and brightly patterned carpet. Step by slow step was tedious and stressful on Sam's feet, he could feel the lobs of fat that gathered at his stomach and thighs weighing down on his knees, his ankles and each and every toe but it was worth it, the food made the pain go away, it made it numb for a while and that's all he needed, a while, just to relax and not feel the ache anymore. Step by step he got closer, using the top of the two single beds and the tops of the cheap wooden chairs as a support to make it to the front of the motel room. He placed his hand on the last support before the fridge, pushing all of his weight off the last chair and onto this one, he heard this dangerous and ominous creak, a rather large groan from the chair itself crackled of the legs and then CRACK, it gave way.
Sam was stunned as he lay on the ground, his face pressing into the dusty and mysteriously stained carpet, he could feel that he still had the top of the chair in his hand, it must have broken off as well. 'Fuck, Dad's going to kill me..' he thought. For a few seconds, he considered trying to get up, but then he realised the futility of that thought, he needed help. Splinters from the chairs legs lay all over the carpet, in front of his eyes, he couldn't count how many there were in front of him and his eyes began to well.
'Why did this have to happen to me?', 'Am I some kind of joke to you, God?', 'I want to disappear', all of these thoughts raced through Sam's mind as he lay in the dust and splinters of the fall, his hand still gripping the top of the chair tight, his pudgy fingers white with the strain. He closed his eyes, and the tears began to silently fall, running over the hills and crevasses of his face and blotching the fibres below.
Sam doesn't know how long he laid there, whether it was seconds, minutes, hours or days, he only knew that he never wanted to get up, that he was where he belonged, on the bottom of the world. A bright light flashed over the room, beaming in through the windows, the light tainted and distorted by the bright purple curtains that blocked the view, there was the rumble of an engine and the light died. 'Oh no… no no no nononoononono' he thought, 'please God, not them!' Sam now desperate began to try and heave his body up off the ground, to no avail. His arms simply couldn't bear the weight of his upper torso, but still he clambered, splinters digging into his wrists and palms, fingers sliding through the carpet, slipping. The tears started getting heavier, blurring Sam's vision, making it harder for him to get up, harder for him to try , 'WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY' screamed through his mind, footsteps sounded, heavy boots slapping the concrete outside, a deep husky laughter harmonising with the brutish sound, his father. A more subtle laughter echoed, not as deep, not light but a youthful mix of in-between, Dean.
"Fuck…FUCK!" wailed Sam, not them, anyone else but them, it was too late, over the sounds of his tears and whines, Sam could hear the key slowly turning the lock in the door, slowly but surely revealing his shame, an exit for any respect that he never really had for himself, unlocking the door to his family.
Not a word was said for a full minute, nothing could be said, what could be said?
"Sammy… you ok?" Dean was so, tentative, so careful, Sam hated it. There was a look of, a mixture of, pity? Worry? Confusion? His father on the other hand had a completely obvious look, something he had seen before, embarrassment.
"Dean, get your brother up, I'll go ask management for something to clean this up with. " It was clear that this was in no way a suggestion, it was an order, his father wouldn't even look Sam in the eye, matter of fact, his head hung low, oh so low. Turing his back to his fallen son, the door was closed ever so quietly and the footsteps gradually disappeared. Sighing, Dean pushed forward from the doorway and made his way towards his brother, dodging the fractured chair until he hung above, his light hair casting a spiked shadow over Sam's face, "how'd this happen Sammy?" Sam had no words; he was too ashamed to even look Dean in the eyes so he directed them again to the carpet, focused on watching the frizzy fibres. Dean leant down and placed a firm hand on Sam's meaty forearm and with a big breath hefted him up. Sam was thankful that Dean had developed that muscle, otherwise the first fall wouldn't have been the last embarrassment that he would have experienced that night.
"Come on Sammy, let's just get you back to the bed and check you out ok?" Dean sounded so kind, patient… Something that was not the norm, Sam was used to a very brutish and masculine version of Dean, a version that mirrored their father. "Please, don't touch me" Sam whimpered, he felt so worthless, so fat. Dean gave him a look and released his arm, stumbling and sore Sam unsteadily made his way back to the bed, relishing the soft, in comparison to the floor, duvet and sheets. He could feel the fabric cushioning, embracing him and he instantly felt better. Dean began the process of picking up the pieces of Sam's mess, "wow, you nearly ate us out of house and home this time Sammy…" mumbled Dean, Sam twitched with anger, and sadness; his hands clenched tightly into the bed sheets. He turned his head away from Dean and started trying to get under the sheets, to escape his horrid reality.
Sweat started beading at Sam's forehead as he heaved himself up one last time that night, turning to the pull the sheets back he plumped himself down on the mattress as it let out this subtle but all the same noticed groan, lifting his legs he awkwardly slid them under the lifted sheets Sam finally let said sheets fall; his body engraving the mattress below him and stretching the sheets above. Sam eventually fell asleep to the lullaby of Dean cleaning and mildly cursing and their father's eventual return with a small broom and bottle of whiskey, with the softly uttered 'fuck's and 'shit's and the spicy aroma from the alcohol, Sam slept.