Chapter 13
Sam sat up in bed, gasping for the air his nightmare stated was no longer his. He shivered, filled with clinging fear, as his gaze darted around the darkened room looking for any evidence the thing stalking him in his dreams might actually be there for real.
He almost jumped out of bed when one of his roommates turned on his side, the springs in the old mattress creaking. The knife he usually hid under his pillow was already primed for throwing in his hand. With a shuddering breath, he forced his hand down and put the blade away again.
A year and a half ago, when he first came here, the old dreams had plagued him almost every night. He knew they'd stemmed from his insecurities, from being in a strange place, but also from the fear that had been his constant companion since childhood. Fear of the things his father and brother found out there in the darkness.
Sam swept his damp hair away from his eyes and rose to his feet. Moving quietly across the room, he made his way to the bathroom and closed the door behind him.
After that first month though, once he got used to the flow of things at school, once he was convinced he wouldn't be expelled as a fraud, the nightmares pretty much vanished. Until Dean started to fill him in regularly on the jobs he and their father were working…
Turning on the light, he avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror and turned on the water at the sink. He dipped his hands into the running water and watched them unseeing.
He'd been denying the truth, telling himself the nightmares and the calls weren't related -- that the gripping feelings of terror welling in him again had nothing to do with the constant reminders of the monsters he'd hoped to leave behind. He no longer felt safe.
Sam cupped his hands and brought the water to his face and leaned into the coolness of it, a soft groan escaping his lips.
The nightmares and fear weren't the only problem though. Not by far. Dean wanted him to come home. He wanted the three of them to be a family again, something Sam wasn't sure was even possible. His father didn't want him. He'd made that more than abundantly clear. Dean said different, but then Dean had never understood. He would never understand. Sam would just never be good enough.
He gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. No, never had been, never would be.
The wounds were still there. That was something else Dean didn't get. They were still there and were as fresh as the day he got them. And every time Dean hinted at him coming home for a visit, or to send their father an email, they were punctured and would bleed again and everything would come flooding back -- the anger, the frustration, the pain, everything.
He'd so hoped time would make it better. He'd so hoped time and distance would gloss things over, but it wasn't working.
Sam raised his head, his reflected image staring back at him. Fear stared back at him. He was so very tired of it. He wasn't making headway. Not in getting rid of it, not in being normal, not in feeling safe, not in anything. At this rate, he would never belong. Not in his old world or this new one.
He looked away from the mirror. He knew what he had to do. Had known for some time. And he would do it, and it had to be soon. He just wasn't sure if he would survive it.