WARNING: This chapter contains detailed descriptions of depression, self-harm, and more dark themes. It also contains suicidal thoughts and a suicide attempt. If this triggers you in any way, this is probably a book you should skip.
Chapter Two: Withdraw (of weapons and addiction)
hey. i'm sorry, dean. love you.
-sammy
"Sammy?"
The young man anxiously pounded his fist into the locked door. I swear to God, kid. I swear to fucking God I'll break this door down. "Open this fucking door, Sam!"
His heart had dropped out of his chest when he'd read Sam's text message, and the longer his little brother didn't answer him, the colder with fear his blood was growing. Nobody came to open the door, and Dean slammed another fist into it before getting to work lock-picking.
For such an experienced hunter, Dean found himself stumbling with the lock, his hands shaking violently. He didn't know what the text meant, but it was some sort of a goodbye, and Dean couldn't lose his brother. The door finally clicked open, and Dean swung it open... his gaze flashing over the room in a keen panic.
Everything was tidy, ready to go. Dean took a sharp breath, begging whatever the hell was out there that the text had been some sick joke.
"Sammy?" The young man repeated, wading into the room with uncertainty. His hand rested against his gun in case something supernatural was in the room with him.
It was the choked sound of a muffled sob that sent Dean into an overdrive. His eyes darted to the bathroom, where the door had been pulled shut. The young Winchester pulled out his gun and took a deep breath as he eased the door open.
Aiming his gun at the dark form in the shower, Dean's heart stopped. Because he wasn't the only one pointing a gun at his little brother. And it was all clicking together. This… this was either a possession or something of Dean's worst nightmares.
Dean immediately placed his gun on the bathroom sink and took a step closer to where his brother was curled into a ball. Holding a gun to his chin and not bothering to fight back sobs. He was shaking, and the raw emotion in his eyes when he finally looked at Dean answered the hunter's question. This wasn't a possession.
"Hey… hey, Sammy, what're you doing?" He inched forward, hands held out placatingly. He needed that gun out of Sam's hands, now.
Sam's lips opened and shut as he tried to force words out in between sobs, "Dean." the teenager croaked at last. His grip on the gun tightened, and Dean eyed Sam's middle finger warily as it drew closer to the trigger. "Stop… stay back, De."
The older brother scoffed, shaking his head at the baffling question. But when he took another step, Sam's finger landed on the gun's trigger, and Dean froze. "Okay. Okay, fine. I'll… I'll stay here. Whatever you need."
Oh, what the Winchester wouldn't do to just get that gun pointed at him instead.
Sam stared at his brother with those wide doe eyes. "Leave," he pleaded quietly. "Please leave." There was weakness in his eyes, and Dean found himself latching onto it.
His brother hadn't made up his mind. Or at least, he had, but he was having trouble following through. Dean could… he could try to work with that. "I can't, Sammy. I won't leave you. Can you put the gun down? Let's just talk. That's all I want, is to talk." Dean's voice had softened, trying his best not to set Sam off.
"I…" Sam's finger strayed from the trigger for a moment as he shook his head. "I can't. Dean, I can't do this anymore. I can't." His voice caught in his throat, and his Adam's apple bobbed as he suppressed a sob.
Dean's throat constricted, making it hard to breathe. How had he not noticed how much pain Sam was in? What kind of an older brother did that make him? The shit kind. "Sammy, just listen. 'Kay? Just… just listen."
A hesitant pause, and then the youngest Winchester nodded warily. He didn't move the gun.
"Sammy, I need you. You can't…" the words caught painfully. "...do this. Sammy, I can't live without you. How am I suppose to live without you?" Dean's voice wavered, and he fought back tears. Sam's life was dependent on whether Dean could convince him to stay.
"No… you don't…" was the choked response. "It doesn't kill you like it kills me. Hell, you haven't even spent more than ten minutes with me in months! You don't need me! I just get in the way, and you know it!" Sam was yelling now, any hesitance vaporizing by the minute.
His words felt worse than being shot, and Dean winced at the sheer agony in Sam's voice. "I thought you needed space. Sammy, I can't do this without you. I just… I can't…"
Sam blinked away his tears, clearly fighting the urge to wipe them away. Both Winchesters knew the moment Sam lowered the gun, his chance to end things would be gone, and where that brought Dean hope, it clearly brought Sam despair. "You have to. I can't do this anymore! Every day just gets worse and worse! I'm in so much pain, De! All the fucking time! I can't take it! I'll never be the son or brother or Winchester you guys need, so stop! Stoppretending you need a failure like me!"
His little brother was growing less careful the angrier got, and Dean found himself scrambling for a way to calm him down, but nothing was coming to mind. How could he possibly convince Sam that he literally couldn't live without him? How could he get Sam to realize he was the only reason Dean woke up every day?
"Sammy…" Dean's voice hardened slightly, growing resolute. "If… if you do this... I'll be right behind you. There is nothing in this world, absolutely nothing that means more to me than you. Without you, Sam, without you, there's no reason for me to stay. So if you…" he still couldn't say the words. "I'll go with you."
Sam froze, his eyes flashing up to Dean in horror. His head shook slightly with shock. "No… no, no, no, no! You're ruining this, Dean! Please! I can't! I can't live like this anymore! Please!"
Dean's heart lunged as his little brother hit himself in the head with the gun as if he was trying to knock the thoughts out of his head with the weapon. And the young man went for it. Leaping forward, his arms lurched for the gun, and before Sam's brain could even register what was happening, they both had hands on the weapon.
"Let go!" the older brother hissed, trying to pull it away.
But Sam's grip was stronger than Dean had planned, and he refused to drop it, "Dean stop!"
A wave of noise washed over the bathroom as they pulled on the weapon -gunshot- and silence as the gun clattered to the floor.
"No!"
There was so much blood, Dean felt like he'd drown in it before he could do anything to help. It stuck to his skin, painted the shower, and pooled from Sam's crumpled body.
Ears ringing from the gunshot, the young man felt sick at the silence. It had all happened so quickly that he couldn't even tell what had happened. He could only see all of the blood and hear the humming of his eardrums. He was shouting now; Dean was sure of it because his throat ached for silence.
After a couple of moments, the hums faded into background noise, and Dean desperately grabbed at his brother's limp body, pulling the teenager into his lap. "Sammy!" he gasped, heart thudding so hard in his chest his ribs hurt. "C'mon, kid, c'mon, please!" There was too much blood to tell where he'd been shot.
Sam didn't stir at first, but his hand shakily reached for his heart, his eyes dazed as they tried to focus on Dean.
"Nononono," The older brother cried out, brushing aside the hand in an instant and clutching the area. "You're going to be okay, Sam, just focus on me. Please, Sam, please, c'mon, stay with me!" His choked sobs didn't even raise a flutter of consciousness from Sam.
A hospital. Call the fucking hospital. Dean scrambled to pull his phone out of his pocket. His crimson-stained hand barely registered on the phone screen as he pounded in 911.
Hold on, Sammy. The brother pleaded, refusing to go of his brother, who was now being cradled in the young man's arms. His blood flow was being stunted by Dean's grip, but it still gushed through his fingers that weren't pressed tightly enough together. The phone clicked, and Dean blurted the address out.
He didn't know how he was going to explain what had happened. Hospitals always asked so many questions. But how would Dean even possibly explain it was a suicide fail? How the hell was he supposed to get those words out?
How the hell had this happened in the first place?
"Hey, Sammy…" Dean whispered, his voice scratchy and weak. His hand rubbed at his throat, gently trying to ease the pain screaming had done to him. His brother didn't move. If it wasn't for the faint rising and falling of his chest, Dean wouldn't have believed the doctors when they'd said he'd survived. "This is so fucking stupid."
Why was he talking to Sam when what he said couldn't be heard?
"You went into surgery. They say you're lucky," Dean didn't possibly know how someone in Sam's circumstances could be viewed as lucky. "But… but I guess you wouldn't think so, huh?" The older brother tried to joke shakily, the words falling from his mouth only adding to the weight on his chest.
How had things gotten so bad? When had things gotten so bad? A silent sob wracked Dean's chest, and he had to jerk his gaze from Sam's body. He couldn't stand being in the room, but he was too scared to leave. What if he left and his brother died? Died alone in a hospital room?
"Why didn't…" Dean bit his tongue to keep a wave of grief from spilling over. He didn't want to cry, not in some stupid hospital. Not anywhere. "Why didn't you tell me? How hurt ya are? I could've helped. Sammy, I would've helped."
His brother didn't stir, and Dean sank back into his chair, shaking his head. This is stupid. He won't answer you. The doctors are fucking idiots. How was talking to Sam's motionless body supposed to fix anything?
Dean was still as helpless as ever. This time, however, he was being left to drown without Sam.
Sam awoke later that day, around the same time Dean had managed to calm down. He didn't say anything at first, but his hiss of pain when he tried to sit up alerted Dean.
The older Winchester was up in seconds, lurching toward his brother and gently reaching out to Sam. Everything he'd planned to say all felt so irrelevant at that moment, as Sammy stared at Dean. First confused, then resigned. Neither of them spoke of what had happened because the gravity of it all was too suffocating.
It felt like ages, but at last, Sam took Dean's hand and sank into his brother's touch. His body and mind craving physical support, the teenager desperately tried to pull Dean in closer. Dean didn't understand the grief-stricken scrambles at first, but once it clicked, he brought the young man into an embrace.
Both sobbed, finally allowing themselves to be weak in each other's sober, conscious company.
"Dean…" The teenager croaked, not even opening his eyes. Dean glanced at the kid in his arms, who didn't look sixteen anymore. Sam only looked… frail, lost, small. "Dean… Dean," Sam repeated, his voice quiet as he focused on his older brother. Dean didn't respond because he knew it wasn't a question, but instead a cry for affection. A desperate way to ground himself with something familiar.
Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Dean thought, clutching his brother tighter. He didn't -couldn't- let go, not again. Not after what happened. Not… not knowing that Sam almost died thinking Dean didn't want him around. Sammy, Sammy. I love you, Sammy.
They didn't speak to each other for a long time, just allowing themselves to be in the moment. Sam's fingernails dug into Dean's back as he clung to his older brother, but Dean didn't even care. "God, Sammy… you… you scared me so fucking bad." Dean smoothed a hand over his little brother's back and rested his chin on Sam's head.
"'M sorry…" Sam murmured, his face still hidden into Dean's shoulder. "'M sorry."
Dean didn't respond right away, too scared of saying something wrong. Then, quietly, "You died. The doctors did surgery, and your heart stopped…" the older brother didn't know why he was telling Sam, but he just couldn't keep it in. "For… for two minutes, Sammy. Two minutes…"
His little brother's grip loosened slightly, and Sam shakily inhaled. "Oh."
Oh? That was all the kid had to say? Dean pulled away from Sam, his eyes imploringly searching his brother's. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but when Sam just looked resigned, Dean knew what he'd needed. Dean had needed to see regret, guilt, something telling him that Sam hadn't wanted to die. "Did you hear me? You killed yourself, Sam. You killed yourself."
"I know," Sam whispered, his gaze flickering from Dean's eyes to the floor. "That's kinda what I'd been going for."
Breathing was becoming difficult again, and Dean found himself fighting back tears. He'd known that… but to hear Sam say it… it was like experiencing it all over again. "Why?" his voice scratched with emotion. "Why would you do that?" The question had begun to feel like a malfunctioned record to Dean, playing on repeat.
Dean had been angry…, at first, once he'd had a moment to actually comprehend what had happened. Sam was in surgery, the bullet having hit far closer to his heart than any doctors would've liked, and Dean had nearly swung at the nurse who just wouldn't stop asking questions. Was he alone when you found him? Who shot him? Do you ever get angry at your brother? Were any of you drinking? Where are your parents? But now… all the older Winchester could be was broken and scared.
Sam took a long moment to understand, gears shifting around in his head. Until, finally, "I dunno," Dean fixed him with a look, calling his bullshit, and Sam paused again. "Because 'm tired."
Breathing hitching, Dean felt darkness slink around the edges of his vision. That night… Sam had tried to talk to Dean. It'd been months, but suddenly, their conversation was all Dean could think of.
"I'm tired, Dean."
"Hunting… all of it. Do you ever just… feel like you can't take it?"
His little brother had basically fucking begged him to understand! All of the signs were there, how hadn't he seen them? Why hadn't he helped? Maybe if he'd just listened, Sam wouldn't be in the hospital. Maybe he wouldn't have been hurting so much.
"I'm so sorry, Sammy… I'm sorry I didn't… didn't see…" Dean's gaze rested sadly on his little brother, who still refused to meet his eyes. The older brother's gaze flickered downward, at the scars coating Sam's arms, and bit his lip. He hadn't seen them until Sam was brought to the room after his surgery. At first, he'd almost attacked the nurse, refusing to believe they were self-caused, but it was the age of a few of them that halted his rage.
Sam had been cutting himself for… months.
The teenager glanced back at Dean, before following his gaze down to the scars. His face twisted in shame, and he quickly tucked his arms under the thin hospital blanket. "Please don't yell at me," Sam whispered anxiously, clenching his eyes shut.
"I…" Dean's voice shook. How could he promise that? "I won't… But why would you… why would you hurt yourself like that? How could you?" The older brother's voice was cutting in and out as he tried to focus his breathing, but now that everything was being addressed, the simplest things seemed impossible.
Sam didn't move, and Dean gently grabbed his hand in his own. The young Winchester glanced to his brother, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I didn't know what else to do…" he finally choked out. "Everything was… falling apart, and I wanted to feel real."
Feel real? Dean pursed his lips, taking a deep breath as he desperately tried to understand. The young man didn't understand suicide, or depression, or anything like that. Maybe he experienced some of it, but he'd never… never planned to hurt himself, to… to kill himself. And it tore him apart inside knowing that his sixteen-year-old brother had.
"Dean, I'm sorry. I don't know… why I tried…" Sad gratitude swelled in Dean's stomach when Sam didn't finish what he'd been saying. "I don't…" his voice cracked. "I don't wanna die, De… I don't."
Then why would you try to shoot yourself? "I don't understand. But I've gotcha, Sammy. You just… you need to open up to me. You need to let me help." I need to know why!
Sam pulled his hand from Dean's grasp, wiping at his eyes and the tears that had slipped down his face. Then he fixed Dean with a conflicted look, chewing softly on his lip. "I don't know that it'll ever get better. I don't know how it can. I just don't know, Dean. Anything, anymore. I don't want to die… but I can't exist anymore. And I don't know what to do."
The young man's heart yearned to just steal all of Sam's pain, to shoulder all of his brother's troubles. It wasn't fair that Sam had to go through so much when Dean didn't. Dean was his older brother, he was supposed to protect Sam. That was his job.
"Just… hold on a little longer? I can't live without you, kiddo."
A beat of heavy silence, "I love you, Dean."
Labored, sporadic breaths.
Dean's eyes flickered open, and when the spot beside him -the place which had formerly been occupied by Sam- was empty, he lunged upward. "Sammy?" he breathed into the cold darkness of the motel. Not again. God, please, not again.
The breaths, now more recognizable as sobs, were coming from the floor, and as the older brother got to his feet, he spotted Sam rocking back and forth. The kid's legs were pulled up to his chest, and his back was pressed to the wall. Sam's hands gripped his pale arms, and Dean was at his side in seconds, desperate to keep his brother from harming himself.
"Hey, hey, kiddo, I'm right here…" The young man reassured, gently -firmly- unfurling Sam's fingers from his arm. Freckles of blood were trickling out of the indents his nails had left, and Dean swallowed hard before holding his brother's hands in his own. "It's okay. You're okay. I've got you, Sammy… I've got you…"
Shaking violently, Dean witnessed Sam fighting himself for control. He'd flinch away from Dean, struggling against his hold, and then relax into the embrace. That process repeated more times than Dean could count before finally Sam wrenched his hands away and wrapped them around his older brother's waist.
Sam's body was shuddering with grief, but his lips were tightly pressed together, trapping his sobs inside his body.
"What happened? Sammy, what happened?" The older Winchester glanced back at the alarm clock, which read four in the morning. His stomach twisted with the realization Sam could've been up for hours before he'd woken Dean. "What happened?"
"She… I…" Sam's lips mouthed an outpour of words, but nearly all of it was intelligible. "Dean…" the teenager once again attempted to pull himself out of Dean's embrace. "Let… go. Let go. Let go of me! Dean, let go!"
His brother's struggle was weak against Dean, but it was the raw panic and suffocation in Sam's eyes that had him releasing the teenager.
The young man's breathing didn't settle for what felt like a lifetime, as he hugged his stomach with bleeding arms and writhed against his own touch. It reminded Dean of an abused puppy, scared out of its mind with distrust and fear, fighting against its core need for love. It hurt Dean, more than he'd have liked to admit. He wasn't in pain, not in the same way Sam was, but his heart was tearing at the seams because it felt like there was nothing he could do.
It was a quarter to five when Sam finally calmed down. Both Winchesters were still seated on the ground, neither having moved from their spots in nearly an hour. Now, Sam's eyes fluttered with exhaustion, and his arms hung at his side.
"Sammy…?" Dean tried, silently begging whatever was out there that his brother wouldn't react poorly to his inquiry. Sam turned his dazed attention to the young man. His eyes were red and puffy, while his face was discolored from the tears. "What happened?"
"I couldn't… sleep," The teenager whispered, rubbing at his arms and fighting a wince. He hadn't done much damage to the skin, and the excessive bleeding had only been due to reopening an old scar. "So I called her…" Dean didn't know who her was, but he just nodded, listening.
His brother was quiet for longer than expected, and he broke eye contact to stare at the carpet.
Dean opened his mouth to push him further, but Sam spoke up again before any words became a reality. "I broke up with her. With… Gwen. She told… she…" Sam was sputtering, fighting for a feeling of focus. "She said I'd used… used her. Just… yelled, for… so long…" Sam's voice shuddered, "I hurt her… De, she was sobbing."
The older brother smoothed a hand over his brother's forehead, tucking his messy hair behind his ear. Dean didn't speak… just… allowed Sam to empty his thoughts.
"How do I deserve… to live… if I just hurt people…?"
Sighing heavily, Dean carefully drew his brother into another hug. "Sammy, kiddo, you do so much more than hurt people." The young man hadn't spoken about his feelings in this much capacity and meaning in what could possibly be his entire life… but biting his tongue had been what put them both in this situation. "You can't help everyone, Sammy…"
Placing a hand on Dean's shoulder and struggling to his feet; Sam staggered to the bed and collapsed in the blankets. The young man stood up as well, his own legs giving a small shudder at being in the same position for so long.
While Dean had… so much more to say, it was clear nothing he could do would make Sam feel better. And it wasn't Dean's pace that they were working at... it was Sam's.
There was nothing that Dean could do about Sam deciding he was done talking, nothing but try to respect it.
His weapons were gone.
Sam stumbled away from his duffel bag with a sharp inhale of fear. Shit. Dean was going to kick his ass. Had somebody -something- robbed him? Panic clutched at the young man's chest painfully. John was in the Impala... they were waiting on him.
But his weapons were gone. He was a hunter with no weapons. Useless.
His hand clutched at his throat, and he dragged a thumb over his windpipe, begging to stimulate the air passageway. He couldn't breathe. Why did this all have to happen to him? Just the night before, he'd had a panic attack about Gwen. She probably hates me. Why was he such a failure? Dean's going to hate you too.
Sam frantically rolled up his sleeves and stared at his scars with tears beading in his eyes. It was all too much. He'd promised Dean he would try to stop the cutting, but it was one of the only things that helped, and now… now it was like an addiction. It needed to be done. He needed to just… break through the scars and watch the blood drizzle down his skin.
He swallowed hard. No.
He was… clean. Four days clean? Sam's hands shook alongside his body.
I can't do this anymore. Why did Dean have to show up that night? That had been Sam's one chance. Now look at him, alive but falling apart again. Everything he did he messed up. It was like he had the reverse Midas touch. That made Sam pause and scrunch up his eyebrows. Was that the right person?
The teenager was learning nothing in school. Hell, at the rate he was going, he was planning to drop out before he graduated. Dean did it. And it wasn't like Sam would make it to adulthood, be the reason hunting or suicide.
No. He couldn't think like that.
"Sammy?" At Dean's voice, Sam thrust his sleeve back down over his scarred skin. "Hey… what's up? We've been waitin' for like ten minutes." Ten minutes? Sam's mind was foggy; had it really been that long? He just wanted to collapse and pretend nothing was happening, but instead, he pulled himself into a standing position and cast a concerned look at Dean.
"They're gone…" He whispered, hating the shudder in his tone. The young man winced in preparation, staring at the floor and rubbing harshly at his arms. The fabric of Sam's sleeves caught against his scars, and he fought back a gasp of pain. He hadn't realized what he was doing and dropped his hands to his sides. "My weapons. All of them… gone."
Dean didn't yell, didn't laugh, didn't even scoff. He sighed and placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Yeah, I know. I… had to take them."
The young man went rigid with surprise and felt his blood run cold with… anger? "What?" His question was bleak, broken. He knew the answer, he knew the reasoning, but it hurt. Hurt like fucking hell. Did Dean not trust him anymore?
"Sammy, you gotta understand…"
Sam nodded and bent down to zip up his bag. "I do."
You hate me. You don't trust me. I'm the worst. I should've died. You don't trust me.
Lips sewn shut with spiteful silence, Sam refused to talk.
John had questions, so many questions. The young man just wanted to sleep, to ignore. Dean was as ready as ever to resume his role as mediator, but Sam didn't even give him the chance to showcase his experience at being the middleman. They could talk all they wanted, Sam was done.
It wasn't like he owed anyone an explanation. Sam crossed his arms, and leaned back heavily in his seat. He wanted a drink; He hadn't had one in… a while. Dean had been adamant about keeping alcohol away from him, and he was too defeated to go out looking for it.
"What were you tryin' to achieve?" John growled. Sam tried not to judge him. Nobody in his family dealt with things properly. Avoid or get pissed. That was it. All Sam was deciding to do was avoid. He stared out the window.
All the trees flickered by like smears of green paint. Why was his dad driving so fast? It made Sam's stomach turn just slightly.
Perhaps this question was different from the rest because this time John snapped. "Fucking answer me, Sam!"
Dean immediately threw himself into the fray, hoping to put out the fire before it got worse. "Dad, it's fine. He just got out of the hospital, let off…" Then he threw a glance toward Sam. The teenager felt hisses of alienation haunt his mind and wished, briefly, that Dean hadn't decided to sit in the front. He felt alone. "Sammy… just… answer him…"
Sam rested his head against the cold window and sighed. Yeah. He felt really alone. Why couldn't anyone just be there? Care? He knew John and Dean loved him, but could they… for once, show it? Show it in a way that was screaming and arguing and violence?
For the first time in a long time, he wished he had his mom.
Maybe if he'd known her things would be different.
Kill yourself, and you'll both be in Heaven. The teenager swallowed the knot in his throat and felt like crying. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this. He couldn't breathe.
He felt sick. Sam's stomach was twisting like some medical student was rearranging his insides. And his head hurt more than usual. The teenager's head spun, and he stared at the back of John's seat to attempt to ground himself. What was happening to him? Why was this happening to him?
Please. Please, someone fucking help me. Sam's lips pulled away from each other, desperately trying to open wide enough to alert Dean of his ordeal, but the thread he'd sewn through them earlier refused to let up.
Sam felt like he was drowning in his own misery, it wasn't much different from his usual, but now it was physical, really physical symptoms. He couldn't breathe. He was going to throw up. The young man let out a croak of sorts, catching Dean's attention finally. He mouthed the word help before flashing a hand over his mouth.
"Dad, pull over real quick. Sammy's gonna hurl…" Dean's words were informal, lazy, but concern coated his expression and words.
The car screeched to a halt on the side of the road, and John flashed a worried, regretful look back to Sam. "Hurry. Throw up in my car, and I'll kill you."
It was the wrong thing to say at the wrong time, and Sam felt tears spill down his cheeks. Please. Please do. I can't do this anymore. He quickly scrambled out of the car and bent over, throwing up whatever was in his stomach. It wasn't much; he rarely ate. Not out of choice, just out of a lack of care for himself.
He heard Dean's door open, but no footsteps. It surprised Sam just slightly. Dean had always been there when Sam was sick.
He wanted to die. It was all too much. He wanted out of this place.
Once the nausea subdued, and Sam felt assured he wasn't going to be sick again, he stumbled back to the Impala. His fingers brushed against the door handle, and he pulled on it weakly. It didn't open. He swallowed hard -his mouth tasted like vomit- and pulled again, harder this time.
It's locked. Fear coursed through Sam. Were they going to leave him here? Anxiety flushed through his body, and he felt sick all over again. "Dad? Dean?"
He saw Dean through the window, reaching to unlock the door, but John stopped him slowly and rolled down the driver's seat window. The time it took for it to go down halfway was long enough to make Sam feel like he was going crazy. Maybe this was all a dream.
"Please let me in…" he choked out.
"Oh, now you're talking. All I had to do was lock you out, huh?" John sounded so angry. At Sam, at himself, at the world. Sam wished they could just forget about everything. "Here's what's going to happen. I let you in, and you answer my fucking questions. You don't, I'll leave you on the side of the road."
"Dad!" Dean hissed. Sam winced but nodded slowly. He just wanted inside the car before he passed out. And that was a dangerously probable situation.
It was harsh parenting, but Sam realized he shouldn't be surprised. This was nothing new. And usually, it wouldn't destroy Sam as much as it was doing now. But this wasn't usually. He was already on the edge, "Yes, sir."
Fine. He wanted answers? Fine.
Sam was too tired to fight.
A/N: I am so sorry for inactivity, so here's another extra long chapter. Real quick, I love all of your reviews and thank you so much for leaving them, I love them. I'm really sorry for my dip in activity, I've been struggling with some personal things but I am trying to stay active and reliable. Two more very important things. The first, I've decided to try and make this an actual book. Just because I have so many plans and could never fit it into two chapters.
And the second, this chapter is dedicated to my best friend, Angie. I miss you so much everyday you're gone.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope that you'll follow the journey I have planned out for the Winchesters this time. (Also John is not a character I like from my own trauma so I'm sorry if he's painted in a negative, almost cruel way. I am trying to humanize him a bit, however. Sorry John lovers, though.)