Okay, you guys ready for shit to get weird? Get a soda, and a couple of cookies, and lets do this shit.
THEN
They sat on the curb as Sam took everything in.
John cleared his throat, alerting the brothers to the fact that he had come up behind them. Dean had heard him coming, but Sam jumped.
"You done?" their father asked. It wasn't clear who he had addressed the question to.
Dean kept his eyes on the gravel. "No," he said.
"It's been over an hour."
Dean rubbed his eyes. Hard. "I know. A lot of things needed to be said."
"What did you tell him?"
"Right here, dad," Sam grumbled.
"Everything."
John looked at him hard. "Everything," Dean repeated softly.
"Sam, go inside."
"Dad, I know—"
"Go inside damnit!"
Sam jerked back, and Dean looked up. A familiar surge reeled up inside his chest. He had to fight the urge not to stand and report, to try and draw the attention away from Sam.
Dean closed his eyes. Those days were long gone.
He felts Sam's hesitation, the unspoken plea for Dean to tell their father that Sam should stay. Dean said nothing, and there was a rush of air on his neck as Sam got to his feet and stalked away. Such a drama queen.
The smile that played at his lips felt strange and sad.
"You knew I would tell him," Dean said at last, when he had heard the motel door close.
John moved to stand in front of him.
"You had me do your dirty work for you," Dean said bitterly. "You just didn't have the guts to tell him yourself."
"Tell him what? That I would likely have to kill him in the future? That he was going to turn into something that his father and brothers would one day have to hunt? I wasn't ever going to tell him."
"Sam needs to know the stakes."
"Does he? How sure are you that what brought you back was doing us a favor?"
"You mean stopping Sam from killing himself? What, that work also too dirty for you?"
John hesitated. "No."
"So what then? What was your plan? Kill him in his sleep when he goes to college? Make sure he never leaves the cage you made for him?"
"Sam's not going anywhere."
Dean snorted.
John kicked at the gravel, scuffing his boots, and stirring white stone dust into the air. "What am I supposed to do then? Let him go? He's got demons after him, demons that can take his girlfriends, his teachers, his friends. The number of wards I have to put up, every goddamn time we move—And it never stops them. Not for long. I don't know what poison they've been putting in his head when I'm not there—"
"Sam's a good kid. He can make his own choices."
"Clearly."
"Suicide's not a choice."
John was silent. Dean finally looked up, taking in his father's too-old-too-young face. "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong. It's not any better without him."
John took a breath, a short, sharp one. He looked down, then up, then at his hands, which Dean noticed for the first time were shaking. "We wouldn't have to kill him," John said quickly.
And then he let his breath out and he swayed. He was pale and sweating in the cold air.
Dean got to his feet, and was surprised to find that he wasn't angry. Somehow he had known this was going to happen—that this is what John had always thought. How many bottles of liquor had fueled the raging debate in this man's head in the last few years?
Sam had killed himself, and John hated himself for being relieved.
"Maybe," John cleared his throat, "Maybe it's for the best if he… if he can choose to end it his own way."
Dean looked at him blankly.
Sam let the fall back into place, slowly, carefully. He couldn't listen or watch anymore.
"It's not a choice, dad," Dean advanced slowly. "Sam thinks he doesn't have any options. He made a decision. And it was a bad one—one that no one should ever have to make. Just because we can sit in the darkness, just because we can live like this, it doesn't mean that Sam can. He's not at fault, or stupid, or crazy. He just can't see a way out."
Always
Their father had been secretive, and manipulative. Hunters survived by grifting, and John just hadn't known when to put down the act.
John never allowed them to believe in a safety net. The danger was immediate and it was everywhere. Everything was coming at once, and being prepared was only half the battle, you had to go out and attack first.
Find the monsters, and hit them while you had the leverage or the surprise.
But Dean had learned one thing in the past few years of hell. John had been wrong about some things.
The lesson wasn't earth shattering, he was only a man after all, but Dean's life had been based around his father's rules for as long as he could remember.
But he had been wrong to keep information from his sons, from Bobby. Cryptic clues and clandestine solo missions were not how the hunting game was meant to be played. Hunters depended on information and trust. They bartered with it, survived by it. When you can only kill some enemies with ancient bones, or silver, or blood-drawn sigils, you had to know what you were dealing with.
Then
Dean,
I'm sorry.
Sam tapped the pen against his chin, staring into the middle distance. He just wasn't good with words. Everything sounded… stilted. Adam would have been great at this, but what could Sam do? Ask him for a critique on his suicide note?
He cringed at the thought… At the name given to this piece of torn note-book paper. Suicide note. Why did he feel like he needed one now? What more was there to say than 'I'm sorry?'
I love you.
I can't
I can't what? The list was endless, and it started with things like 'breathe' and 'live.'
They were going to be so angry. They were going to be so… sad. Sam leaned over the desk and slammed his head onto the desk. Fuck.
Fuck.
He tore the paper into strips and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
Dean,
I'm so sorry.
Fuck.
His hands trembled.
The door opened and Sam whipped around, his hands slamming over the evidence.
"Bobby's here!" Young Adam announced, bouncing in through the door with his hands full of shopping bags. Dean came in behind him and stopped at the sight of Sam sitting alone in the semi-darkness.
"What are you doing?" Dean asked.
Sam raised his eyebrows innocently and worked his throat. Fucking words. "Nothing!" he said, his voice a squeak. His brother stared at him suspiciously, and once again Sam couldn't help but notice the differences between this Dean and the one that had been through hell.
Does he know? Does he know what's in store for him?
But there was no time for that thought to sink in because Bonbby appeared at the door, and Sam unwisely tried to smile. He could feel it twisting on his face, the misery betraying him. He needed to act happy dammit!
He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, really.
Bobby was suddenly there, wrapping him in a bear hug. "Sam—"
And then Sam couldn't do anything else. He sobbed into Bobby's shirt. "I'm sorry," he tried to say—he couldn't stop saying it, but the words were so garbled he had to keep trying again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"It's okay, boy. It's going to be okay."
Lie. A lie. It's all going to go so horribly wrong. Did you know that I'm supposed to end the world, that my whole family dies, that I'm addicted to demon blood. That I killed my mother, and probably all my friends? Did you know that I'm a demon?
It doesn't matter. Tonight I'm leaving.
Tonight I'll wait for them to sleep, and then I can go.
They ate dinner and Bobby talked about the changes he had made to the yard. The conversation was delicate. John and Old Dean avoided each other's gaze, but Sam's eyes kept catching on the two older Winchesters.
Would it be a comfort to John now, to know that Sam was going to take responsibility?
He talked cheerfully with Bobby and ten-year old Adam about the road trip they would take tomorrow. It was no trouble at all to use the correct pronouns. Tomorrow we will have to go pick up snacks and gas for the road.
But every time, there was an electric buzz. Tomorrow youwillhave to pick up salt and gasoline.
It was a hedonistic pleasure, a frightening thrill that flipped his stomach and shocked him with vertigo. SO much better than a rollercoaster. Sam was high, flying on a fucking kite. He had given up on the note. It's not like he had anything left to announce.
Salt and burn my bones. Salt and burn my bones.
"This is really good, Bobby," Sam said.
Bobby beamed. "Good to see you eating. You're looking like a wendigo there."
Salt and burn my bones. Salt and burn my bones.
Sam laughed a little too heartily, and the conversation waned as all five Winchesters watched him carefully.
Tonight.
He grinned down at his plate, at the dish Bobby had carefully prepared for him. He had helped prepare it—had carefully sifted the mash potatoes.
He'd be prepared this time. No time-travelling brothers could make him miss.
Now
Bobby sat down to read in a chair, a small heap of books on the table beside him. John and Dean had protested that they could take the first watch, but they were all feeling effects of the mashed potatoes now.
Sam crawled obediently into bed, closely followed by his Dean and Adam. The other two sat at the table, talking quietly with Bobby, probably about that blue skinned creature.
Good luck. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
The lights turned out one by one.
Bobby's head slammed down onto the desk. Sam winced and hissed in sympathy.
"Time we went to…" the Older Adam started, his words slurring together. Sam looked up in time to see his younger-older brother try to stand from his chair and collapse onto the ground.
"Adam?" Older dean asked, his voice wavering. "What-?"
Sam sat up, his Adam was fast asleep. His Dean was looking at him, his face starting to register with horror. "Sam, Sam what did—"
"I'm so sorry," Sam said.
There was the sound of shattering glass from the bathroom and John emerged, his shirt wet with water. "Boys," he started uncertainly, and fell to his knees. "Boys there's something—"
"I'm sorry," Sam repeated, looking to his father now, "I'm so sorry. I'm going to fix it I promise."
"Sam, don't, just… fucking… Just don't." Dean said, the older Dean. He was trying to resist, but Sam had been thorough.
"I'm so sorry."
"Wait. Sam, just wait—" His eyes closed involuntarily. John's torso fell to the floor like a sack of meat. "Sam—wait."
But his voice was fading, mumbling to silence.
"Sam…Please… Don't."
Sam switched off all the lights and lay back down between Adam and Dean. He closed his eyes for a single moment, savoring this last memory, this last moment on earth.
If he was going to hell, he felt he needed this strength.
And then something happened.
-Come.
Sam started in bed and scrambled back as he realized something was standing at the foot of his bed. There was not much light in the room, only a dim glow from the bathroom tucked away in the corner. It was barely enough to see the silhouette of a massive man standing at the end of the bed.
And his skin was blue.
A Super long Author's note. Skip if you hate sob-story biographies. There's not going to be a quiz.
So as soon as I finish this story I'm going to go back and reply to everyone's reviews, but there are some that I think shouldn't wait. And there are reasonable reasons for that.
So.. some of you are reacting quite strongly to some of the issues I bring up in this fic: namely le suicidal ideation.
And that is fine, and great, after all that is a big reason of why I posted this story. But I feel like I should tell you that I am a super happy person. I even occasionally wear colors like pink and yellow, but I am one of those social pariah- one of the Great Depressed. How can I be happy and wear bright colors you ask? How can you function in a normal society and use words like 'bombastic' in everyday life when you are plagued by mental issues of such a degree? And the answer is: I told someone. A doctor. The first person I have ever revealed to that I was planning on ending my life, and had been planning to do so for over six long years.
And I took a ride in an ambulance. And spent about an hour of my life telling a woman in a power-suit that I didn't want to hurt anyone but myself. I lost 90% of my body's moisture from my eyes. I lied, and wheedled, and smiled nervously, and played card-games with some of the sweetest, most interesting people on the planet. A burly orderly showed me how to braid bracelets.
I learned what a code white was, and how booty-juice was administered.
And a bald man with really cool shoes asked me stupid questions that were really hard to answer.
I had good days.
And bad days.
And days where I felt nothing.
But the point is, I got better. Sometimes I'm even happy, and I couldn't really remember what that felt like before I went to the hospital. It had been over ten years since I had felt anything close to it. So please. Please. If you are considering anything close to this, If you feel like you're suffocating on unshared tears, tell a doctor, or a police officer, someone that can get you to a safe place with people you can trust. No matter how shallow or deep your rabbit hole is, there's someone that can help you find your way out, and make it worth your while.
It's worth it to be happy, even if you never lose your obsession.
But if you're not quite ready to take that leap of faith, and you want the anonymity of the internet, you can always reach me at AngstyAly at gmail dot com. I want to help.