Author Missive One: This is a very quick one-shot I just put together. I know it's really short and bland with not much context, and I honestly don't know if it's any good, but it was something I spit out fast. I also know this has been done a multitude of times, but hey, here's my take on it. I challenged myself to keep minimal dialogue and let the descriptions explain themselves. So...if it's any good and you have time, lemme know with a review?

Author Missive Two: This takes place somewhere after 2x02 - Everybody Loves a Clown. Not too much further than that, though.

Author Missive Three: Man, I've been asking every holiday. Even last year's Valentine's, and this year's Halloween! But dang, it seems as though they're still holding strong on hanging on to those Winchester boys. I bet Sam feels blessed right now—I bet I put him through more pain than the writers, which is saying something! All in all: I do not own.

Author Missive Four: I've been working on a big project/story. It has 15,000 words done already, and I'm super excited. Probably will be another 2-3 months before it comes out though, because between my busy-ass schedule and schooling, I don't have much time to write, and I'm estimating around 8 chapters with a total of 40,000 words. Volition is on a slight hiatus. Saccharine Disposition...yeah, I don't know when I'll get to that. But, here's a sneak peek at the title of my new story: Gallows for the Wicked, Sanction for the Weeping. Take it as you please.

Fine, I'll shut up now. Enjoy!

Sam twirled the knife around in his fingers absentmindedly, deep in thought and beheld to nothing but the demons in his head. Various scenarios and happenings and vehement words race through one by one, each leaving a stinging imprint. It's a contrast to the scenery that stands before him now, in which the alluring buzzing of the night is there to keep him company in his intoxicated state. He wishes he were in the Impala right now, curled up next to his big brother under that old torn blanket that they used to love, listening to the soft yet comforting melody of 80's rock.

Because I want you to be honest with yourself! I'm dealing with Dad's death. Are you?

He scoffs at the memory. No, he's not dealing. In fact, he's as far away from coming to terms with his remaining parent's death as he is from getting out of the hunting lifestyle—which, in all honesty, is saying something. He could imagine John chastising him now, and he snorts at the thought. Something along the lines of, "We fight corporeal demons, Sammy. No room for mental ones." In this life, there is nothing besides blood and grime; there's no chance you'll be able to feel sorry for yourself, and if you do, you're dead. That's the way he was brought up, at least. Which, if he thinks about it, is slightly ironic for the situation he has put himself in now.

Impatiently, he taps his boot in the squishy mud, humming some tune that he has heard before but doesn't know the name of. A mosquito lands on his arm and swats at it, slurring verbal cusses and slang at the idiotic bug. Sam knows he's at his absolute drinking limit, and he really shouldn't keep raising the new bottle to his lips, but part of him just doesn't really care. After all, it won't matter soon. Alcohol poisoning won't kill him any quicker than the cards he has dealt himself now will.

How long has it been? He feels as though it's been way too long. Too long, too long, he repeats to himself, desperate and frustrated. Too long he's held a grudge against Dad. Too long he's been in this world. Too long everything. He maniacally laughs and throws the blade harshly to the ground beneath him, right between his feet. Now that he thinks about it, he's actually marginally surprised that it didn't hit any skin. Some of himself wishes it had.

More pain, more penance. Simple enough equation—Sam's known as the smart one in this family. A problem as simple as such should be nothing too difficult to wrap his mind around. Too long, too difficult. A burning panic makes it way up his throat and he retrieves the now-mudded silver from the dirt, this time throwing it somewhere over the horizon. It lands beyond his sight, and Sam silently pleads. He's breaking. He's breaking, and he knows it.

Why he'd only left that note at Bobby's home, he's not sure. It would've been so very easy to just go to his brother, to talk...but it's been obvious that Dean wants to remain in solitude for now. That theory was solidified the second they'd had their moment in the junkyard and Sam had overheard the smashing of their home's windows and hood, the glass raining down like the pieces of his life. What an analogy.

He's getting anxious and demoralized by each passing minute. Come on, he prayed. Come on, come on, come on. That mantra continued for a long while. Time passed, and Sam remained on the road, not daring to move. Moving may screw things up—after all, he wasn't entirely familiar on this process as a whole. It may have certain specifics he has no knowledge about, and could mess everything up again. Maybe with this though, he could finally fix things instead of break them. It was a long shot he understood, but it was a shot at that. Whatever suffices.

The glass case of hardcore whiskey is halfway gone when it shows up. It eyes him carefully and distastefully, blinking religiously and studying its surroundings. Sam asks what it takes, and it informs him. He knew. He knew the whole time it was going to go down like this, and he wished the note was enough. Checking his watch, he nods in humor at the 11:56 staring back at him.

It says it's not supposed to do this. That it's against its bosses' strict 'code of conduct.' He responds it doesn't matter, as long as it works, but a miniature section of him comments how that's yet another thing that's not right with him. Yet another thing that can be banished from this earth.

He agrees. It agrees. Sam accepts. Dean denies.

He's leaning in for the kiss the moment he gets yanked back; a shotgun blast resounds, and the ringing of his ears takes residence. Someone pulls him to the ground, but Sam knows it's not just someone. He shouldn't've left the note. He shouldn't've—

"Hey, Sammy." The voice is soothing. Calm. Opposite of the war raging inside Sam's brain, the anger and lividness and indignation at his failure overwhelming. It was going to bring back Mom. It was going to bring back Dad. Everything would be fine. Everything would be right. In his drunken mindset the tears come on unexpectedly. Lemme do it, lemme do it, lemme do it.

"Sammy no, no, no. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Maybe he had said that aloud. He didn't intend to. But why is Dean apologizing? Sam's the one who screwed up everything.

"Why?" Sam whispers.

"I don't want Mom and Dad," is the answer. "I want you. And if you're gone, then I'm right behind you. Sammy please, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I made you think that—" he chokes, but Sam gets the message. He lets his body fall lax, and accepts that this time he had been unsuccessful.

Maybe another day.