Chapter Text
Sam Winchester is just a human, yet many people see him differently. He has feelings, emotions, passions, and even makes mistakes. Sometimes people forget this, even he himself, seeing him as someone different. He would define himself as a freak. Dean surely sees him as a burden, or as the person who has ruined his entire life from childhood to the present.
Sam has never had a happy life; he has always lived with anguish and fear. If we look back, we could say that he didn't have a very happy childhood either.
It's not something Sam would admit, but sometimes, very rarely, a small part of his brain felt jealous of Dean. It's not that he didn't love Dean, but Dean was able to have a "normal" life, in quotes, for four years. He was able to be a happy baby, he had a mom and dad who loved and cared for him, he was able to celebrate Christmas with his family, he was able to have a room and daycare just for him, he had many toys and stuffed animals. Sam never had that. For as long as he can remember, he recalls his life as a tragic one, moving to different motels every week, without his own belongings or toys, and eating greasy, unhealthy food for someone so small. He never had anyone to give him security. Of course, he had Dean, but Dean was just a child at the time. Despite that, Dean tried to give him the best childhood he could, despite his young age, but it wasn't enough. Many people would say that Sam was ungrateful and hypocritical; however, Sam was sometimes just a little boy who needed security and protection from a figure, whether a father or a mother.
Present
Lately, Sam had been awake for hours, unable to sleep. Not because he wasn't tired—it was something more than that—but because sleep had become a dangerous and painful act for him. When Sam slept, his stupid brain decided it was the perfect moment to remind him of all his failures as a person, all the times he had ruined everything, just by being there… Sam remembered different moments from his life in his dreams, or rather, his nightmares. He remembered current events, as well as things from the past, but all of them were painful. Sometimes he heard Jess's screams while feeling the fire burning his face. Other times he remembered the intense cold he felt when he was with Lucifer in the cage. Other times he remembered the coppery taste of demon blood while feeling the intense burning it caused throughout his body. Tonight was no different. Every time he tried to close his eyes, he could feel Lucifer's cold touch, while he remembered all the words that damned bastard repeated to him day after day during his time in the cage. He tried to ignore them. And go back to sleep, but the nightmares didn't disappear; on the contrary, every minute that passed trying to fall asleep, his nightmares felt more real. Having no other option, he decided he wouldn't sleep tonight. It wasn't anything new for him; lately, he hadn't been able to sleep. Sometimes, during road trips, he would take advantage of the moment and have a short nap. It wasn't something he would admit, but Dean's presence so close to him while he sang some silly Led Zeppelin or Metallica song was truly comforting.
Sometimes Sam missed Dean, he really missed him. The Dean who was snoring loudly in the next bed wasn't the same Dean from 10 years ago. The Dean of now was a tired man. Age had been kind to him physically, but mentally, with each passing year, Dean became more and more withdrawn. He wasn't the same kind, playful, and affectionate Dean who had come to Stanford for Sam because he missed him. Well, that's what Sam wanted to believe. A part of his brain told him that Dean had only sought him out out of necessity and to find his father, not to reconnect with his little brother.
Sam winced at the thought of why Dean had come looking for him. He decided to drop the subject and not dwell on it. After a few minutes of doing nothing, he got bored. He didn't know what to do; it was around 2 a.m., and he couldn't get up to investigate because he'd surely wake Dean, and if he did, Dean would be irritable and grumpy all day. Besides, he didn't want to widen the gap between him and Dean; their brotherly relationship hadn't been the best lately.
Sam winced again at the memory, so he decided to shift his thoughts once more. Now, to pass the time, he stared at the motel ceiling. A large crack ran across the paint, and a large patch of mold covered it, making Sam nauseous. Even though he'd lived in motels his entire life, the facilities of certain motels still filled him with disgust. This was often why, from a young age, Sam had always longed for his own house. Throughout his childhood, he'd dreamed of having his own room, like the ones the protagonists in movies had, and a garden where he and Dean could play ball, have picnics, or simply cuddle up together while gazing at the stars. He'd also longed for a large kitchen where he and Dean could cook and bake while laughing together like a happy family. However, he knew these dreams would never come true. As an adult, he realized it was all foolish, not because he didn't want that life, but because he could never have it.
He turned his head just enough to check that Dean was still asleep in the other bed. He was sleeping on his side, one leg dangling, breathing deeply, while continuing to snore loudly. Dean always slept as if nothing traumatic had ever happened in their lives, another reason why Sam sometimes got jealous of his brother. His brother acted so relaxed, always making sarcastic jokes as if the world weren't terrifying and cruel.
Sam sat up slowly, careful not to make too much noise. The floor was too cold under his feet. He stayed like that for a moment, hunched over, his shoulders slumped, enjoying the strange sensation in his feet. The cold was comforting, like an anchor reminding him that this was real and he wasn't dreaming, although sometimes he also associated the cold with the cage. However, the sensation he felt right now was different; you could even say it was relaxing.
Just as Sam was beginning to savor the calm he was experiencing, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, his brain decided to play a trick on him. It started with a simple thought: "Cage." From that thought, over a thousand images and memories were abruptly unleashed. He began to recall the cage, voices that screamed at him or whispered in his ear, not knowing which was worse. At that moment, he had the overwhelming certainty that the pain he would suffer would never end, because he was locked up with the devil himself. But was this what he deserved? Was this the insignificant punishment he deserved for having released the devil? Was it fair that he should still be alive after everything he had caused?
Sam clenched his teeth tightly, biting his lip hard. He could taste the blood as he hurt himself. He had learned to do it over time; it seemed the pain helped him control himself, to repress everything in his stupid brain until there was no room left to feel. It worked... sort of.
The problem was that lately, nothing seemed to work; everything seemed to seep through the cracks in his mind, while memories tormented him mercilessly.
There were moments, increasingly frequent, when he felt... different. As if the world struggled to accept him, he felt like an extra piece, something superfluous that no one wanted to admit. He'd been told this many times, by teachers, classmates, even his own father. He remembered the times John would get angry with him over some trivial thing and yell hurtful words, like he was worthless or just in the way. He could list all the hurtful words he heard from his father, but it would take forever. Despite that, sometimes John was right, like when he got drunk and blamed him for his mother's death. Sam knew he didn't even have the right to be on Earth. For God's sake, he should be dead. No one would really miss him. All his acquaintances were probably just friends out of obligation. Maybe they only liked Dean, and that's why they had to be friends with him. Dean probably only revived him because he didn't know anyone else at the time. He knew he'd be alone without Sam, but now Dean had Bobby, Castiel, Jody, and other people who cared about him and loved him. Dean probably regretted selling his soul for someone like Sam. Besides, Sam wasn't even useful to Dean anymore. After everything that had happened in the cage and everything else he'd been through in his life, everything was different. Lately, he had trouble concentrating, he had trouble reacting, he was slower, and he was almost always tired, even though he didn't openly admit it to others. Sometimes when his mind sank deep into his thoughts, he just wanted it all to end, for everything to be easier. He didn't want to be a burden to others anymore. Sometimes he would just think about the gun he kept under his pillow and how quickly he could end it all with a single movement, but he wasn't even good for that because he felt afraid. Despite all the times he had died, he felt afraid. He was a coward. He shouldn't even be considered a Winchester.
He walked slowly, his feet stumbling clumsily from the sheer volume of information his brain was processing—stupid brain. He cautiously made his way to the motel bathroom, trying not to make too much noise. As soon as he entered, the bright white light blinded him cruelly, and he shuddered with discomfort. After his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, he cautiously made his way to the sink, where he leaned against it to splash water on his face. He grimaced at his reflection in the mirror; it showed a gaunt face, with deep dark circles under his eyes, skin that was too pale, and eyes... tired in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.
He tightened his grip on the sink as he let out a weary sigh.
"I'm fine," he muttered, forcing a smile at his reflection.
The smile came easily; no one would realize it was fake. Maybe Dean, but lately, with how things were going between him and Dean, he most likely wouldn't notice. Dean didn't need to worry about anything else. He already had enough to deal with, having to live with Sam. Sam knew it and understood; he knew he was just a burden to Dean, which is why Dean no longer treated him with the same affection as before—you could even say he accepted him. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself.
What he didn't want to admit, not even silently, was how tired he was of being strong. Sometimes he felt ashamed of the sudden urge he had to hide, to run away, to leave everything behind, to have someone else make decisions for him, even if only for a while. The last thought was the worst. It was something he simply couldn't admit to anyone else because it was absurd, sometimes even absurd to him.
Sam looked at himself intently in the mirror again. He searched for the man he was supposed to be. The hunter who had survived Hell, Lucifer, even Azazel. He was still there.
But something about him was… different, something had changed, but he didn't know how to explain it.
He turned off the light and quietly returned to bed. He lay on his side, clutching his hip, curling up slightly without realizing it. The distant rumble of a passing truck startled him. He forced himself to take deep breaths as he relaxed and tried to get some sleep.
He wasn't in danger, he knew that, but his brain didn't. His brain was torturing him, forcing him to relive all his failures, and even though he tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, sleep wouldn't return.
This was curious because as soon as Dean woke up, Sam would be the same old Sam, the one who investigates to solve cases, the one who reasons and tries to figure everything out with his stupid brain, and the one who perseveres, according to his brother. He wouldn't be the troubled younger brother who refuses to admit that each night it gets harder to sleep and each day it gets harder to get out of bed, or even that each day it's harder to find meaning in his life.
It was obvious that he only lived to hunt; if he didn't hunt, his life would be meaningless, his continued existence pointless, because what else would the world need Sam Winchester for?
Sam Winchester was just a burden to the world, he muttered to himself, as he closed his eyes and curled up in his bed, managing to sleep for a few hours.