You asked us to write something for you, Ms. Higgins.  You asked us to bring you the story of our lives, to write the truth, plain and simple.  I wasn't sure what to write; the truth or a work of fiction.  If I wrote you the truth, you wouldn't believe it.  You would call me a liar and give me a failing grade, something I've never experienced before.  If I wrote you a piece of fiction, you would believe it even though not a word of it would be true. 

I want to tell the truth.  I choose to tell the truth.  Even if you don't believe me.

Ms. Higgins had given the class the entire hour to start writing the stories of their lives.  But for at least ten minutes, Sam Winchester had sat at his desk, his pencil hovering over the blank sheet of paper in his notebook.  He kept glancing at the clock, as if that would somehow make it tick faster and release him from this awkward moment of confusion.  Normally, when given any assignment in any class and with class time allotted to work on it, Sam would be writing furiously away at the paper before him until his wrist ached.  When he was really deep in thought or working out a complex problem, he would numbly chew away at his pencil with his head down and his nose almost touching the paper. 

But today was different.  Today he was conflicted over the assignment, debating whether to tell the truth or lie.  He looked up, glancing at the other students.  Some were working away, writing, scratching out misspelled words and re-writing.  Others were doodling idly on their papers with their foreheads resting in the palms of their hands.  At least two were passed out and drooling on their sleeves.  He looked up to the front of the class where Ms. Higgins was sitting at her desk, for once relishing the silence that this assignment required.  He caught her eye and she smiled encouragingly at him.  He faked his own smile back. 

He knew that she was proud of him.  He knew that he helped to reinforce her belief in what she was doing as an educator.  He knew he was one of her favourites.  Which is what, in part, made him want to tell her the truth. 

The other part was something he wouldn't admit to himself and something he could never bring to his father or his brother. 

He set his pencil to the notebook and began writing.