Don't own SPN.
Warnings for swearing, depressing thoughts, prepare for anything.Sam will be about 15
Dean will be 19
How long does it take to stop trying? To stop fighting? To stop standing up to what you believe in? You don't notice it at first. Teenage angst is a viable explanation. Being told to clean the guns, the same ones you hold and kill with, usually sparked a groan or a protest. Not anymore. Even though touching the things make you relive the horrors your own family did.
He'd complain and hate himself. There was conflict both ways, either obey or follow your heart. Learning to obey without question was their dad's dream but Sam's nightmare. To be so cold and empty that you'd kill a living thing without hesitation was scary. What happens if someone jumped him while he was handling a gun? By instinct he'd shoot, making a regrettable and life altering mistake. Would it be worth it? Still, even then?
How long did it take to realize that he had turned into that person he was afraid of? Feeling empty and distant enough that listening to every order no longer made him lash out. No longer sparked a response except for yes sir. Shouldn't they notice a change? The parent and sibling that unconditionally loved him? They are on a high, so happy he finally joined their cult. They are so happy he listens that they can't remember why he hadn't beforehand. They don't question why the change happened and just blame it on 5 star parenting. They actually think they're doing the right thing. That's the scary part.
The school bells rang signaling the dismissal of yet another uneventful school day. Sam walked out the doors squinting at the sun that welcomed him back. Diverting himself from the loads of other children and teens, he started towards the sidewalk. Each of his steps pattered on the concrete without any real purpose. He had no desire to go home so he was left to stall. With orders to go straight home lingering on his mind, he walked slowly kicking every pebble that lay in his path. Everyday doing the same thing was making him bland. Get up, get ready, go to school, get good grades, walk home, clean, sleep, repeat. Somewhere between there eat. No events took him by surprise anymore. He's already seen it, smelt it, killed it. Monsters, dreams, pretty much everything. He couldn't help the sigh, turning the corner marking half way home.
His pace was halted abruptly by three other kids. Their faces painted with smirks from power, bodies threatening, hight above his own. He didn't change his expression to fear or even annoyance, though that one was getting hard to mask. His unfazed temper triggered the bullies. They grabbed him by the arms, squeezing tightly and threw him on the ground. The imprint of fingers resonated, elbows now scraped from the concrete. Still, he didn't give them the satisfaction they were searching for. The pain, crying, pleas. He didn't give it to them, even hoping they'd beat him up so he could feel something. He just needed to feel something to stop the numb rage building in his gut he know he can't release.
Their smirks changed to scowls. The sun outlined their figures, dancing as they started to kick his abdomen. Pressure invaded strongly. His stomach and ribs screamed for the protection of his arms, but his mind didn't allow them to move. He won't let them win his pain ever again.
" Jesus, why," Kick," Won't." kick," You." Kick," React?!" One of them said. Frustration was clear in his desperate tone. Each kick harder than the last.
" Whatever, lets go before someone comes by," Another, more calm one said. They all took the hint and ran off, leaving him on the ground limp.
No blood this time. That was a small victory, now each time they tried to hurt him they do less and less. They were starting to give up on him and go onto another poor kid. Sam emotionlessly stood up with an inward grunt and fully straightened himself. He chuckled to himself. They kick like 9 year old girls.
Even if the bruises didn't believe him, he had won. Another few minutes of dreaded walking and stalling lead him to the hotel room they were staying at. He hadn't even looked at the sign that was illuminated by lights the whole time he had stayed there. No point really, just one of hundreds he has and will stay at. The lack of concern was scaring him, even though he was the one experiencing it. He almost didn't care what happened to him because his life has made it pretty obvious that it didn't matter what he thought. It didn't matter what he wanted, liked, believed, or chose. He was at the mercy of his father and his unforgiving temper.
Sam opened the door and carefully put this bag under the bed so it wasn't in the way. He looked around the room spotting wrappers and beer cans littering the table and floor. Shaking his head he went over and picked the wrappers up and threw them away. So weird, a concept he learned at three years old, yet his grown ass father couldn't figure it out. He was so selfish and only thought about himself and his well-being. He didn't acknowledge them unless it was for his own benefit. Still, the same message was drilled into his mind to respect his father. Respect the man that ruined his and his children's lives. Finally flopping onto the bed, Sam reached for his book. Reading was an escape that Dean and his dad didn't understand. They didn't get that reading was his only way out. Your mind takes consideration of the printed words and forms another reality that he follows for hours on end without interruption. That was a blessing.
He didn't know how long he had been lost in the pages, but Dean stomped through the door. He didn't necessarily look angry, but his whole demeanor shook. Debating to confront him or not, Sam put his book on the night stand and waited. He waited for something to happen, to be said, or even yelled. He knew taking lead of a conversation right now was dangerous. He didn't want to upset his brother any farther, but still had the compassion to wonder why. Why was he always so upset?
" Dad will be here soon, I'm going to the store," Dean said, swiftly pacing towards the door. His keys jingled in his hands.
Sam couldn't help himself," The store or the bar?" He asked with no slip of emotion. It's clear he's been through this before. Both his father and brother had the tendency to run from their issues and drink to forget. The problem would linger and linger until it was nearly impossible to fix.
Dean shot him a glare," THE STORE."
Sam sank in defeat, knowing he should have just kept his mouth shut. One more remark he kept on his conscience. One more reason why they should ignore him. Dean left with a puff of air and Sam was alone once again. The empty, quiet hotel room.
Empty, empty. It was nothing and everything at the same time. What kind of life was this? When someone's life is filled with emptiness and coated with sorrow! It wasn't. It just wasn't. He felt like he was missing something or maybe even someone he hasn't met or seen. How was the even possible? He felt like it was ripped from his grasp. Maybe it was his innocence. As it died screaming in his soul, at some point it left. He wasn't a kid anymore, someone's kid, a person. He was a nobody that everybody hated. He listens to orders and pretends to want to, but still even then his past mistakes stop any recovery from beginning.
Exhaustion exploded his emotions, and even though he wasn't tired his soul was. Slipping into a sleeping position, he danced off into a dreamless sleep. Free from people and feelings.