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Post by SAM WINCHESTER on Dec 2, 2012 1:41:23 GMT -8
Sam Winchester rolled over on his back on Bobby's rather disgusting couch to look up at the ceiling. It took him less than thirty seconds to realized he despised that posture,(because of what had happened last time he had lain in it) and rolled over on his side to face the back of the couch. He had grown used to sleeping in strange places, without a bed and rather contorted positions. But tonight was different.
Sam was terrified. He had lost his father, his girlfriend, and his mother, all in the span of one lifetime. He could not seem to get the thoughts out of his head. The guilt, the hurt that came with the loss of a parent, and now the fear.
Sam knew that Dean was right by the couch, nestled in a bundle of woolen quilts. It did not erase his fear at all.
Sam had not been able to save Jessica because he had rationalized his clairvoyance as mere night terrors, the ones that children had in beds at night. The death of Mary Winchester must have snuck into his subconscious, after all. Sam had predicted the death of his girlfriend, but done nothing. Dreams of his father's death had never touched their sinister hands on his fragile sleep. To a certain level, he felt responsible. While Sam had felt apprehension on the subject of his sanity, now he wondered if there was something horribly wrong because he had never been subjected to viewing John Winchester's death prior to the event taking place. Sam now faced the daunting thought that if Dean came into any danger, Sam might not be able to predict it. And as a result, he would not be able to save Dean.
Sam rolled his body over on the couch once more to face his older brother's body, just checking to make sure Dean was still there. He tossed and turned for another hour or so, struggling to fall into the soothing darkness of sleep, but nothing came. Finally, he stood up, and tip toed around his brother's sleeping form to the bathroom.
As he fumbled with fingers numb from tiredness to unbuckle his pants, the realization hit him. Even though he had been terrified of losing Dean the way he had lost Jessica, and now his father, it occurred that even though he was over eighteen...He was an orphan.
Sam collapsed to his knees, as if he had been kicked in the stomach. Heaving, he leaned into the toilet, and emptied out the contents of his stomach.
He leaned against the bathtub. Sam's body was overcome with tremors and his rib muscles ached as if they had been pounded with a hammer. Finally, Sam flushed the toilet and stood up to clean himself off in the bathroom sink.
Five minutes later, after he had scrubbed the taste of bile out of his mouth with a toothbrush, Sam crawled back on top of the couch and closed his eyes.
It was another half an hour before Sam finally gave up on sleep.
He needed to talk to Dean. As bellicose, and apathetic as he was, Sam needed to talk to him. He needed to talk to someone before the guilt rotted in his stomach the way it had with Jessica. He trusted Dean with his life and besides, Dean was the only person Sam had left who he could trust.
"Dean?" He whispered.
"Are you awake?"
Sam yearned for the days when he was a child. When it was normal for him to have nightmares. When it would have been normal for Sam to climb into his older brother's bed and tell him he was scared of the dark. The period of time where he had done that had not lasted longer, along with the age where he had wet the bed. But he wished he could have that again, even just for tonight.
That way he wouldn't feel so weak.
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Post by DEAN WINCHESTER on Dec 2, 2012 3:46:42 GMT -8
Despite the fact that he hadn't lost his girlfriend as Sam had, the pain that was associated with the loss of a parent wasn't lost on Dean. If anything, he felt it more acutely as he'd been old enough when their mother had died to remember here whereas Sam had only been six months old. It was because of this that, though he may not have had as recent a loss as Jessica was to his younger brother, the idea that their father had now left them as well was a hard one to swallow - much less accept. After all, they had both grown up thinking that their father was invincible. All the nights spent on the road, chasing monsters that even the imaginations of children their age would have trouble dreaming up; it had forced both himself and Sam to mature at an age that a psychologist would probably consider unhealthy. Still, their immersion into the world of the supernatural(not to mention the heavy training they'd received by their father even as kids) so early in their lives had probably saved them from death more than once.
Of course their lives sucked ass but it was all they'd ever known and there seemed to be no escaping it. Sam had tried to get away from the monster hunting and the rest of everything that made them 'world class freaks' to anyone who hadn't grown up living the life of a hunter. Hell, his little brother had even managed to get into Stanford on a full ride(though he still didn't understand how that had happened) but it never made any difference. There was always something that ended up pulling those who got out right back in. The world we're in is kind of like a huge rubber band, he thought to himself, wondering what Sam would think of his comparison. There really is no escaping the life once you're in it. The harder you try to pull away and stretch out the distance between yourself and hunting will just be more pain for you in the end when the tension's too tight and it snaps backwards; pulling you along with it. The simile was a harsh one but that didn't make it any less true. Though he sometimes hated it, he knew in his heart that they would always be dragged back into this life of blood and death - no matter how hard they tried to get out.
Oddly enough, however, it wasn't the death of his father that kept him from the sleep he so desperately craved at that moment. Normally, sleep deprivation(as well as crappy motel rooms, diner food, and countless hours spent on the road) came as part of the job description for them but the idea of forgetting everything that had happened in the last couple of days was sounding better and better with each passing moment. No matter how hard he tried though, he couldn't seem to shut his brain off long enough to succumb to the only darkness he'd learned to trust over the years. Of course, his father's final words that seemed to be running on repeat through his mind weren't helping any. "Save your brother Dean," his father had whispered in his ear during their last encounter before the death of the infamous John Winchester, "and if you can't save him, kill him. He's a greater threat to this world than even you could ever imagine." Chancing a glance over at his brother's form on the couch, Dean still didn't understand what his dad had meant. How could little Sammy, the brother he'd practically raised when they were younger, ever be a threat to anyone?
The question only seemed to be even more realistic when, only a few minutes after it had originally flitted into his head, he heard Sam puking his lungs up in the small bathroom that was reserved for whoever Bobby was housing at the time, which happened to currently be them. It didn't add up, at least not to him it didn't, and yet the urgency Dean had heard in his father's voice was one he knew all too well. That specific tone had always been reserved for the direst of situations when they were kids and nothing less. If there had been a chance of a monster attacking or they were at risk in some other way of being harmed by whatever John had been hunting at the time, those were the only occasions in which his dad's voice had been wrought with the combination of fear and pain that he'd heard at the hospital. Dean knew with every ounce of his being that his father had meant what he'd said - he simply didn't understand why he'd said it. Dad always said that Sammy couldn't hurt a fly unless the damned thing was trying to kill him first, he thought to himself, so what could possibly have changed his mind? I know he had his crazy moments but this is a pretty big jump; even for him.
Rolling his eyes as his silent musings were interrupted by the sound of his brother's voice breaking the silence, Dean figured it would probably be best to pretend that he'd been asleep this whole time; if only to save Sam the embarrassment of knowing that he'd heard him throwing up a lung not that long ago. They may kill demons for a living but that didn't mean they were completely heartless dicks, at least not to one another anyways. It was because of this that he let out a low groan which could have almost doubled for a combined stretch/yawn. He just hoped Sam would buy it as it was quite a bit harder to fool a guy you were with literally twenty-four hours of the day. "If I wasn't before I certainly am now," he grumbled in what he prayed sounded like a half-asleep whisper, feigning a note of annoyance in his voice when all he really felt at the moment was overwhelming confusion and a dull ache in his chest that always appeared after the death of someone he cared about. "After all, it's not like Bobby's floor is the most comfortable place at the best of times. Even with all the blankets, it's freaking impossible to get comfy. Anyways, what do you want? I doubt I'm gonna get any sleep tonight so spit it out, would you?"
 TAGGED Sam Winchester WORD COUNT 1,077 ATTIRE Click!
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[/b] young – hollywood undead NOTES You gotta love them <3 CREDIT sam ! of Confronting the Faceless. Don't remove this credit for any reason or I will find you. [/center][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote] |
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Post by SAM WINCHESTER on Dec 3, 2012 20:55:12 GMT -8
The sound of Dean's breath filled the room and it calmed Sam's own breathing to a gentle lull, instead of hyperventilation. It wasn't an aphrodisiac, but a small comfort, safety. Safe the way a mother's heart beat is to a child inside of the womb. It was the breathing he had grown used to in hotel rooms, right across from him, and against his shoulder as kids curled up in the back seat of the Impala. Sadly, it was safer than the smell of John Winchester's cologne. Because even though he complained about Dean's amorality, Dean had never let him down, even with the differences in perception. The rest of their family were six feet under now. All he had left was a crass older brother with barely any respect for authority, besides their father. And he needed that crass older brother, because he had tried to fight with the man who had put bread on the table and taught them everything they knew about guns.
Dean's closeness wasn't enough tonight. Shivering not out of cold, but of anxiety. His eyelids were heavy, but they wouldn't drop down far enough without the images of those who he had lost reappearing in his mind.Most recently, his father. He had predicted Jessica, but not John. And now the possibility of losing Dean Winchester stung. Although they would never be a romantic couple, Sam needed Dean in the same way Rose had needed Jack Dawson. He wished for the days where he was a little boy again, when it would have been okay for him to leave the comfort of the couch and curl up right next to his brother and hide his face in his shoulder. When he could be weak without wondering if Dean thought he was being stupid. When it was okay to be afraid of the dark. Those days of innocence were long gone, lost in his closet, when his father had taught him how to load a gun and keep safe. He missed Stanford, but now more than ever it was all over.
Dean hadn't moved for a few hours and Sam felt a minimal amount of blood flush to his cheeks. Dean was managing. No matter how deep the wound he would always manage, on the surface at least. Sam was going to crack, he wasn't meant for the same stoniness that Dean had built himself into. Life full of gunshot wounds and sprits had never been for Sam, he had been meant to be a lawyer, an intellectual. He was supposed to be marrying Jessica Moore now. Would she even had said yes?
Sluggishly, Sam laid back down on the couch after his escapade into the bathroom. Every muscle felt pinned down by lead weights, aching. He could still smell the burning flesh of a funeral pyre, and the tears threatening to wet his cheeks again. Tension had filled the relationship of father and younger son. Dean was the perfect elder son, the heir to the Winchester legacy. Despite the tension, Sam had still loved his father, even without the blind faith that Dean felt for him. Everyone he loved died, and in all cases there had been nothing he was able to do to save them.
Would Dean even sympathize? Even understand? He was not the emotional type, he was crass, content to shove everything away until it backfired, like a bullet straight through his heart. Sam couldn't hold it in, there was no room in his heart. If he let the hurt fill it up it would turn black and rot out of his chest. But maybe then he would never have to feel the pain again. He would sleep peacefully, no nightmares to speak of. No one he ever felt like he had to save again.
Dean was the only reason he was staying in the job, and now leaving was never going to happen. Dean was bound to get himself killed alone. Protecting him was crucial, even if Dean claimed he wasn't afraid of anything. Sam was afraid right now, lying on a couch with plenty of salt, and weapons and capable hunters in the room with him. He had been reduced to a child again. Thankful that the lights were out, Sam rubbed at his eye, before Dean roused from his sleep and answered him with a sigh.
He felt the tears stop temporarily at the sound of Dean's breath, comforted for a moment, but then he felt slightly betrayed and stung at his older brother's comment. Granted, he had woken his brother up, but Sam had assumed that Dean would be awake, just like he was, and trying to pretend that everything was okay. It wasn't. Sam took a deep breath, before formulating his response in his head, carefully picking each word in case he was stepping onto a mine field with his topic of discussion. But he couldn't let it ruminate there.
"You could have taken the couch," Sam snapped back, a little frustrated.
Bringing up something as emotionally heavy and guilt ridden as this to Dean was tricky, but from the words Dean had said, he figured it was best to just jump right into it. Easier that way too, no way to regret telling Dean the primary thought in his head. Eventually, both would have figured out what was gnawing at their counterparts.
"I.."
Sam paused, and swallowed, even though his throat was completely dry.
"How come I didn't see it?"
Before he knew it, the words were pouring out, nothing he could do to stop it, nothing to be embarrassed about. He'd been afraid of worse after all, seen worse.
Jessica's body up against a burning ceiling, his dad on the floor of a sterile hospital, coffee forgotten.
"Dad's death, I mean. I dreamed about Jessica's, I dreamed about Max, I knew about all these things before they happened, we saved people because we knew. How come I didn't dream about dad? And don't tell me I'm crazy, because something's wrong, and I'm not just going to shrug it off."
Sam's breath hitched the entire time, fighting emotion and fighting the fear, the tears, everything that was normal in response to a death.
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