"I think about how there are certain people who come into your life and leave a mark. The ones who are as much a part of you as your own soul. Their place in your heart is tender; a bruise of longing, a pulse of unfinished business. Just hearing their names pushes and pulls at you in a hundred ways, and when you try to define those hundred ways, describe them even to yourself, words are useless. If you had a lifetime to talk, there would still be things left unsaid."
Sam can't remember when he first started hating his reflection. Just one day he looked in the mirror and the sight before him was...not him. It took weeks to pass until he finally understood what had changed.
It was a lie. The person that everybody saw was an illusion.
From the perspective of a stranger, he was a healthy young man with a bright future. How could he possibly be anything other than happy?
The sad part is, when Sam had been college bound he would have agreed with them. Of course, in those times he believed his life was going to work out. His dreams at night were of white picket fences and a girl with curly, blond hair.
But that hope no longer existed. Now he strived to follow the expectations set for him: hunt evil, don't get killed, and don't get attached. If he abided by those three things Dean had told him, he would be golden. So he did. Yet as heads rolled, wounds healed, and relationships were discarded, he felt a fire inside him slowly dying.
For instance, the mornings became a dreaded occasion. Instead of feeling curiosity or excitement, he would ask himself the same question. Can you make it through another 24 hours?
Dean didn't catch on. And if he did, he certainly didn't act on it. Then again, neither of them were really experts on how to deal with emotions. They were better with physical pain; pain you could fix with alcohol and dirty rags rather than a sit down therapy session.
Sam didn't bother bringing it up. He decided to let the months crawl past him, each one clawing at the ground in order to move forward. Time kept going and he was getting worse, dropping his guard like an idiot.
"Caught wind of another case." Dean chirped, probably already planning his attack.
"Sure."
"Sure, what?"
"You want to do it, so sure Dean".
"If it's such a chore for you, you can stay here."
"I can't."
"What's wrong with you, Sammy?"
"Nothing…nothing."
He was also staring out windows a lot, imagining what it'd be like to sit beneath a tree and not worry. To have a cool breeze on his face, a book in his lap. Maybe it would be similar to Alice in Wonderland, and he would suddenly be transported to an entirely different world.
Dean had caught him daydreaming once and called him a drama queen. Sam only shrugged. He wanted that to be his response for everything, a shrug. They were careless, non-committal. Funny, that's beginning to sound like himself.
Besides thinking more, his avoidance of his own reflection increased as well. The Impala gleaming in the sunshine, his favorite gun, sink faucets, they were all ignored. Even when he looked at his brother, he could swear Dean's eyes worked just like a mirror. So he stopped.
His sight became limited to the ground. There was a slight crick in his neck from it, but it was safer that way. Dean tried to ask him about it, he really tried.
"Did I get hideously ugly?"
"No."
"Then c'mon Sam, talk to me."
"…"
"Oh, now you're not talking at all?"
"…"
"Fine, be a freakin' mute, see if I care."
Sam thought about that conversation quite often. "Oh, now you're not talking at all?"
Not talking. Not saying anything. Not provoking fights, or attempting to explain his feelings. Just silence.
It took over a week for Dean to accept it.
At first, he kept calling it a joke and announcing that tomorrow there would be the punch line. It seemed easier for him to make a comedy bit out of it; tell himself that it was another one of Sam's weird phases. Except as weeks turned to months and Sam didn't speak a word, Dean began to wonder if he was wrong.
His mind was still processing when Sam threw down a newspaper in front of him with an article circled. A case. Was it smart to bring him along? What if he saw the monster or whatever it is and he couldn't alert Dean?
Figuring that he could always lock Sam in the car when they got there, he agreed and later that night they were setting off.
The coarse rope dug into Sam's wrists, his head a dull ache from having gotten slammed into a wall.
He really hated Vetalas. They had snuck up on him not two seconds after Dean told him to stay put in the front area of the abandoned house. Next thing Sam knew, he was bound and suspended and missing blood.
Scattered around what he presumed was a basement, were several bodies already sucked dry. He wasn't keen on dying, so he hoped that his brother had noticed his absence by now and was somewhat eager to find him.
As if on cue, the door at the top of the stairs creaked open, flooding the room with light. Sam glanced at the silhouette, tugging on his restraints to try and make any kind of noise.
"Sammy." Dean greeted, relief evident in his voice.
And it was at that moment Sam realized what an idiot he had been.
He had stopped talking because he figured it was best for him, but what was best for him was being able to say Dean's name. Growl it when he was angry, shout it when he was desperate, chuckle around it when he heard the same song or reference or joke for the millionth time in a row. It could be every feeling he didn't know how to articulate properly.
It was in the rumble of the Impala's engine, the clink of beer bottles after a long day, AC/DC on the radio. It's what runs through Sam's mind constantly, and the few seconds it takes to speak it are not enough.
It reflects the person who he's been with his entire life, and who he basically worshipped as a kid. It's more important than anyone could fathom.
"Dean." He whispered, and the world felt right again.