Costly by Whilom
Sam got a gift card to Target for his twentieth birthday. He was at Stanford, a freshman, and some guys had put twenty bucks on the card and given it to him, teasing him about finally being able to get that new CD he'd been pining for or maybe buy some dirty movie to watch. You know the ones. He didn't, actually. Never had the extra cash to spend on stuff like that. Still didn't have it, even though he wasn't sifting through pawn shops for silver anymore or clipping coupons from the newspaper so they could hoard enough gas for Dad to drive to Nebraska to get those herbs they'd been needing.
He had laughed, made the appropriate jokes, rolled his eyes just like he'd seen the other guys do when they got similarly lame presents. But he'd also stashed the card away in his pocket and immediately started making a list in his head. He needed shaving cream, toothpaste, was almost out of shampoo. He could buy a few shirts, the cheap ones, to expand his wardrobe. He got tired of having the guys tease him about how much he obviously liked that one blue shirt with the stripes because he wore it all the time and, gosh, Sam, don't you have anything else in your closet? And if there was enough he could snag a bag of chips, maybe.
Well, chips were a waste of money. Not enough nutrients, not filling, nothing to give you energy when you were stomping through mud in the woods somewhere. Jerky was the way to go. Dried fruit, if he was looking for a treat. Peanut butter—it stuck to your ribs and didn't go bad. You could eat it straight from the jar if you had to.
He wanted to spend the gift card on something frivolous. He wanted to be able to browse the music section, close his eyes and pick any CD he wanted, and then walk out of the store with something completely useless. After all, that's what he left Dad and Dean for, right? He could, in good conscience, finally buy something that wouldn't save his life someday.
Sam's hand curled around a jar of peanut butter, adding it to the shaving cream and pile of T-shirts he'd picked up.
Someday. Someday, he'd be able to laugh at the idea of getting a gift card from his buddies, be able to complain that next year they should get him something cool instead. He'd be able to groan with them at the truly awful piece of generic artwork he'd picked up with the money and snort at the Sharpie improvements they made to it in between throwing darts and then roasting s'mores over the whole thing when they finally took it out and burned it.
Sam folded his lips in a smile at the cashier, his hands jammed in his pockets next to the gift card, watching the numbers add up and mentally calculating if he had enough and what he'd take back if he didn't. He handed over the card, hoping desperately that the bored teenager wouldn't notice his hands were sweating.
Everything fit into one plastic bag. He carried it out, trying to look nonchalant and probably failing. It was stupid that he was so excited over the prospect of a new T-shirt. It was stupid that he had spent the gift card in the first place—he probably should have just thrown it away like it was nothing to him. He wanted to just not care anymore. Isn't that what everyone else did? Not care? That's all he wanted; to be like everyone else.
Later, back in his room, he emptied the bag on his mattress and wished the assortment didn't look so much like treasure. He wished he could ignore the common sense, the hunter's sense, his father had instilled in him. He wished he could will away the sick feeling in his stomach, the same feeling he'd gotten after settling in his dorm and realizing that the sense of wrong he thought went with the hunting life had followed him to school.
He wished he didn't feel that the only way to have normal was by crawling out of his own skin.