A/N: This is just another little oneshot inspired by the episode "Shadows" and the conversation Dean and Sam had about Sam wanting to go back to school. Yes I finally reached that epsiode! Yippee me! Yeah, I'm a dork. Once again, do not reveal anything beyond the epi "Shadows" to me cause I want to remain unspoiled. I honestly don't know why.
A/N 2: This is a Sammy point of view fic cause its after Dean dies after the year is up. This is not related to my two other SPN fics.
A/N 3: I recommend listening to Evanescence's "Breathe No More" while you read this. The lyrics don't really fit, but the whole sound and feel of it seems to fit. At least it did when I wrote this. There's also some good SPN music videos done to this song.
Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. I hear it belongs to this guy Kripke. I do not make any money out of this fic or my other writings. Don't sue.
You Kill Yourself (Lies Only Lie For So Long)
The sound of luggage hitting the hardwood floors echoes dully through the empty apartment reminding you just how empty you are. How alone you are. You push the thoughts away as you stumble to the bare bed, bereft of sheets and coverings and even pillows. You fall upon it, bone deep exhausted, just so fucking tired of everything. But it's not a body exhaustion and you can't sleep, just toss and turn on that hard mattress. You try and tell yourself that there's another bed beside yours and there's some one that you've known all your life sleeping peacefully next to you. You know it's a lie, that its never gonna be that way again, but you're alone, so fucking alone that you take comfort in the stupid pipe dream you've created in your mind. Once you used to dream that she was there beside you, shifting softly in her innocent sleep but you had to let her go a long time ago. Now all you want is your brother, but he's gone to. Gone for you. Everybody just kept dying, for you. You tell the self-pitying thoughts to go to hell but they keep creeping up on you and you know this is going to be another night you wont sleep. So you push yourself from that poor excuse for a bed and grab your keys and nothing else, heading for the old familiar comfort of the family car. It had been dad's once and then Dean's. You can still see him now, smiling and as close to tears as you'd ever seen him in your young life, on his sixteenth birthday as dad gave him the keys to the Impala. How many days of his life had he spent in that damn car? So many memories, the good the bad, the fights, the apologies, the pranks, the remembrances of a life you never knew. You curse yourself now; that you walked away from all of that, that you let your own selfish desires get the best of you. It was only for four years but they were too much. You could have been there, with them in this car, but you threw it all away and fought every moment when it came back. Fought even when you knew he was going to die.
Again you shove those thoughts to the back of your mind because they just hurt too damn much. You tell yourself things will get better one day and you know they will, but you wonder if you'll die before it happens. You head to a bar because the voices that condemn won't shut up and maybe tequila will give you peace. You know half a bottle later in some sleazy little dive that Dean would have loved that you're wrong but you keep trying because at least it will be oblivion.
In the morning you wake cramped and cold in the back seat of the Impala, jaw aching and you remember dimly the fight you started the night before. Drunken and broken you'd sought the fight because adrenaline worked better than anything to kill the pain. But your dreams kept you un-rested and the hazy light of morning gave them a harder kick to your throbbing skull.
You turn the engine and drive back to your sad little apartment on the college grounds and stumble your way to your first classes in more than… how long have you been gone? It doesn't really seem to matter anymore, another lifetime that happened to you ages ago. You try to avoid your old haunts and the friends that used to be there, the memories of Jessica that used to be there. But people recognize you and call out your name and you have to stop and say hi and listen to their fake condolences of people they never knew. Before you reach your classes you want to scream, to tell them to leave you the fuck alone, but you don't, pasting a fake smile across your face as each one stops you. All through class you're not really paying attention and glad you were insightful enough to bring a tape recorder because your brain hasn't registered a damn thing. All that's swirling through your mind are memories of Jessica and the night your brother came to fetch you and the night she died. You're surprised that you can still see here vividly after all this time, pinned to the ceiling as blood dripped from her, eyes black as night. The pain is nothing but a small throb anymore, eclipsed by the more recent and traumatic loss of your family.
At the end of the class the teacher tells you to take extra time on your paper because he knows about your family. You paste on another fake smile and murmur empty "thank you's" as you walk away. The cold fucking truth is you don't give a shit about the paper or what grade you might get for it. Once you would have, when you'd been childish enough to believe that's all that mattered in your life. Now all school is, is a distraction, a place to hide from all the bad memories and the good. You hope that if you're surrounded in people and normalcy that it'll block out the pain.
You find your old job and get it back because the scholarship doesn't pay for your food and for some reason you don't want to starve to death. Your old friends seek you out and coax you from your dorm room and the only reason you comply is because that's what normal people do and, goddamnit, you tell yourself that's what you want to be, what you've always wanted to be. You know these people that call you friend whisper behind your back and recount the rumors they've heard, wondering if you're the freak they think you are when you are so much more. You ignore them because you're too damn tired to really give a shit and can't see the harm in letting them titter away. You know they're really not your friends anymore, but you pretend because it would be too much trouble to find new ones.
You've been back for less than a month when you see the first case in the newspaper. You know what it is as soon as you see it, but you ignore it because normal people don't see ghosts in a murder. You ignore the next case after that as well and the next. But the fourth catches your eye because, fuck, it's gotten a kid this time. The guilt kicks in and rips at your insides because if you hadn't been so damn selfish that little blue eyed kid would still be alive. So you open up the trunk of the Impala for the first time since your brother died and you pull out the old familiar gear. Instead of researching your school paper you track down the monster. The books you look to for guidance aren't tomes on crime and punishment and obscure law loopholes, but musty rotting things about the creatures that go bump in the night. If anyone came in on you now they'd think you'd gone mad or religious and some would think they are the same thing. You don't really give a fuck because a little kid is dead because you didn't want to be a freak.
The next morning you head out, a bucket of lies already made up for why you're knocking at a stranger's door and asking them kindly to get the fuck out of their house because there's something not real there trying to kill them. But they don't listen and slam the door in your face and as you're walking down the stairs to try and find another way you hear the screams. Bursting through the door you know you're too late because you've stepped in somebody's intestines. The rock salt you shoot at the thing only makes it let the little kid go and you only have time to grab him up before you're both flung across the room. You hear bones break and don't know if they're yours because you're being pumped with fear and a lifetime of training telling you to get up and do what you came to do. The incantation pounds through your body and explodes from your mouth just before you end up like the man and woman splattered across the extravagant foyer. Ashes rain around you as a little boy sobs against you because his whole world just went to hell in a hand basket. There's gratefulness and hero worship in his eyes as he thanks you for saving his life, but all you can feel is that cold hard guilt twisting in your gut because you know you could have spared him ever knowing about this.
The police come and ask questions and you feed them old familiar lies and they let you go, the little boy taken away in an ambulance because his arm shattered when you hit that wall. In twenty years there will be a newspaper clip about this unsolved murder because the only description the little boy can give of the killer is that it was a monster. You've seen it before. So many cases left like that and you were the only one to remember the truth.
As you step back into your apartment and see the scattered school books, you know you can never come back to this, go back to being normal. You thought you could. You thought if you just went back to school, to you your job, to your friends that you could just get lost in it all. But you were wrong. You didn't fit anymore. Somewhere along the line you'd been broken into little pieces and when you were put back together something had been put back in wrong. You weren't normal and never could be. The realization hits hard and brutal and you think of all the life you've wasted trying to be something you're not, all the fights you caused with Dean and dad because of it. It's a cold irony that you've finally accepted you're a freak after they're dead. Because you are a freak. The first time you felt you in a long time was when you were in that house just hours ago, blowing a monster back to hell. You are what you are and you can't change it and now you've finally accepted it.
A vision hits hard and searing through your brain and you know where you have to go next, confirming what you have just realized. There was a job to do and you were the only one left to do it. So you hurry around the apartment and gather your gear leaving the school books and papers behind. You lock the door and hide the key under the mat and slip into the comfort of the Impala. Dean and dad are with you there, and you can almost see their smiles of approval. You leave the school without a note for all the fake people left behind and you know it's the last time you'll ever see it. You don't bother a good-bye glance over your shoulder because all that you ever cared about was in that car with you.
There will be an investigation into your disappearance and the police will consider foul play. But then they'll talk to your fake friends and they'll look on with sad faces as they tell California's finest that you were depressed and moody and withdrawn. You wouldn't study and were unfocused and they'll come to the sad conclusion that you killed yourself. And you can't help thinking that they're right, that the Sam Winchester you used to be was gone and the Sam Winchester you were supposed to be has finally been born.
Alright, ya'll know what you have to do. Just slide your mouse down and hit that pretty little "submit review" button. Or add this story to favorites, both make me happy cause I get these little messages in my otherwise empty email box. So pwease, pwetty pwease, with Sammy puppydog eyes on top? Okay, wait, gross literal meaning of words vision. Eww. Scratch that description. Hmm. Maybe ya'll could just review instead of me grossing you out:D
Thanks for reading!
Peace out