AN: I'm not sure if anyone will read this, as my first Supernatural fic didn't get much feedback. I'm hoping it's not because it was terrible, and people are just too busy and/or don't like to review. But either way, here's my little tag to last night's (awesome) episode, "Exile on Main Street". Hope you all enjoy!
Thank you so much to Twinchester Angel, Katrin Van Helsing, sarahsrr, SouliesforEver, and IamyourCOUSIN, who reviewed "Falling", and made my day with their kind words!
"Do you remember it?"
"What."
"The Cage."
"Yeah."
"Do you wanna-"
"No."
…Why would he? Talking never helped. Talking only made him more confused, only mixed him up, scrambled his logic. Talking only made Sam feel more lost. And not for the first time in his life, Sam is afraid that if he gets any more lost…he'll never be found.
So he won't talk. He won't say a word. Dean doesn't need to know about it. The choices, the threats, the nightmares, the torture. Dean doesn't need to know about any of it. And Sam doesn't want to remember. Therefore, what's the point in talking?
"Well if anybody can relate…"
"Dean, I don't wanna talk about it. I'm back. I get to breathe fresh air, have a beer, hunt with my family, see you again. So why exactly would I want to think about hell?"
Why? The question that's plagued the Winchesters their entire lives. Their very existences were based around the constantly unanswered question, the simple yet never simple inquiry. Why? When Sam stood beneath that streetlight and watched his brother, the only person he'd ever really trusted, really cared about for his entire life, and he saw the raw grief on his face, he pleaded for answers. Why? Why am I back? What should I do?
Then came the sickening moment of decision, a decision that could—and would—only end in the breaking of a bond. Whether it's his bond with his brother, or Dean's new love for Lisa and Ben…something was going to break. Someone was going to get hurt. Why does it have to be this way? Why?
Sam was met with only silence, piercing through the night, filling his mind, filling his heart. He hated the silence. Because silence always begged to be filled. And memories, those memories, bad memories…they were begging to fill Sam's mind. Fill his heart. Ruin him.
Sam sighed regretfully, and continued to stare at his brother.
Do I stay? It would be so easy. To just walk up, knock on the door. We could be together again, beating the odds, defying death. Just like the old days. But would that really be a good thing? Whenever I'm involved, things just get more screwed-up. Do I go? He'd never forgive me…But maybe that's the way it should be. I've done plenty of things in my life that didn't deserve forgiveness, yet it was granted to me freely. This might be the exception. And though knowing my brother is just within reach, but unable to touch him, talk to him, feel his presence…though it's going to be hard, maybe it's what I deserve. My punishment. The moment I hit that wet, darkened ground, I knew that there was a catch. Perhaps, by some grand scheme of destiny, this is the catch. But is it really that bad overall? Dean can move on, live his life, be with his newfound family. He'll be sad for a while, but…he can fill the void. He has Lisa, Ben, Bobby…Dean can live. In my eyes, a difficult but worthy sacrifice. His grief, my longing. His life, my ghost of existence.
Definitely a worthy sacrifice.
So Sam turned around. Sam walked away. Sam never said a word, always stayed in the shadows. He'd keep checking up on his brother, but with that first step away from the house, he sealed a sad fate. That backward motion spoke of a life bound to the darkness, paired with loneliness. In that moment, Sam ceased to be a living, breathing person. He became a ghost. Because ghosts are the ones lurking in the shadows. Because ghosts can't go to Dean and tear apart his new life. Because ghosts can't hurt people. So Sam became a ghost. A living, breathing, tortured ghost.
And now he stood before his brother, asking the question that never left his mind. The how was important, the who was vital, but the why…that was the question that really meant something. And more often than not, that was the question that never had a clear-cut answer.
"Why exactly would I wanna think about Hell?"
Thoughts and memories roamed his mind, the question and topic poisoning Sam's clear head, mixing it up. This is why he didn't want to talk about Hell. He needed to keep his head in the game.
I won't do it. No talking about Hell. No talking about me. If we have to, we'll work in silence, because I refuse to do it. I can't. I won't. I can't…
…Why would he? Talking never helped. Talking only made him more confused, only mixed him up, scrambled his logic. Talking only made Sam feel more lost.
And not for the first time in his life, Sam is afraid that if he gets any more lost…he'll never be found.
So he won't talk. He won't say a word.