I try to make it through my life
In my way, there's you
I try to make it through these lies
And thats all I do
Just dont deny it
Dont try and fight this
and deal with it
and thats just part of it
If you were dead or still alive
I dont care
I dont care
Just go and leave this all behind
'Cause I swear
I dont care
“I’m not doing this.” Sam told the two men next to him tiredly. “This is stupid.”
“It’s not stupid, ya knucklehead, its gonna save ya! Unscrew that big head o' yours for a second!” Bobby Singer, ever so concise, said, looking at Sam through his bushy eyebrows and trucker cap. But Sam wouldn’t have listened to that, not now.
“Sam.” Dean said, looking him straight in the eye, his own eyes deep and wide and worried. His voice was the hoarse mutter he adopted when he was especially anxious. “Please.”
Sam sighed and walked to the front of the room. There was a little stage and a podium, adding to the melodramatic effect and making Sam feel even more like an idiot. He looked around the little room again, insides churning.
It was a small crowd in a big room, ordinary, harmless people looking bored or tired or cranky but not at all threatening. So why were Sam’s insides acting like this was such a big deal?
He sucked in a breath and turned to the two men behind him. The crowd was no big deal. It was saying it, out loud, admitting to himself and his brother and the guy closest to his father exactly who he was and where he was and why.
Most of all, this would put a brick wall between him and what he wanted. Once he came clean, Ruby would be dead meat and his supply would be unreachable. Everything he’d had hanging before him like a treasure would be snatched away.
Power. He’d been planning on power. Finally Dean wouldn’t be the one saving little Sammy’s ass all the time. Finally he’d be in control. He could still taste the fear, the sour swollen fear in his mouth as Dean was taken, torn and broken and screaming and then he was gone, lights gone dark in his eyes, stupid damn green eyes he’d left open. Sam had had to look at those big stupid dead green eyes till he buried Dean, days later, when he scrambled around, a drowning man flailing helplessly, trying to save Dean, find a way to save his idiot masochist suicidal martyr of an older brother, the one who always managed to find a way to save him.
Ruby’s blood made him strong. Stronger than he’d ever been. He could kill demons, he could kill Lilith, gank the demon bitch who painted the bulls-eye on Dean’s shoulder in the first place. Finally, he was strong, powerful, feared, in control. He just wanted some damn control on his shitty spinning calamity of a life.
But he wasn’t in control. Ruby was. She had him on a string, and he’d do anything for her just to get the next fix. He’d thought she was his bitch. Turned out, he was hers.
And that’s why he had to come clean. That’s why he had to say it out loud in a roomful of strangers. Step away from Ruby, survey the damage, fix it. Back to Little Sammy again.
Dean was here, wasn’t he? Back in this world. So everything was okay. Who needs power, strength, control, when they’ve got a handy-dandy older brother to save Sammy, the damsel in distress?
“Uh…Hey. I’m Sam. And, uh, well…” Sam looked back at the two men by the door and rolled his eyes, shoving his hair backwards with one large palm. The two looked back at him, waiting. Sam huffed and went on. “Right. Okay. You know what?”
He paused for a moment, as though expecting the small assemblage to respond to his obviously rhetorical question, then huffed again and said, “I’ll just start over, alright? Okay. Well.”
He grinned, the kind of ridiculously bitter, disappearing grin grinned when someone is nervous as hell.
“Okay. I’m Sam, and I’m… I’m a demon-blood addict.” The last five words were out in a rush, the speed making them almost impossible to make out from the static of conversations in the back row.
Sam looked at Dean, who tried and failed to look encouraging; and at Bobby, who frowned and whispered “Jist say it, y’idjit!” loudly.
“I’m a demon blood addict.” He looked back at Bobby. “There, y’happy?” He spread his arms wide. “I am powerless!” he shook his head, his eyes getting slightly wild. “I wanted control, I wanted to fix things, but I’m a damn mess!” His mouth twisted into a slightly insane smile.
“But guess what.” He said, his eyes silently daring someone in the stupidly passive audience to venture a guess on his next words. “I don’t care.”
His eyes picked one victim in the small crowd, a balding white guy in a green t-shirt and jeans, with unusually thin lips, and glared at him. “I don’t give a rat’s ass.” His eyes seemed to get darker as he said, “Because guess what. I’d rather play bitch to a demon than become Little Sammy again.”
And with that, he clenched his fists and strode down the stage, out of the small room, shrugging Dean and Bobby’s hands off his shoulders as he passed them, and blocking out their calls as he escaped the stupid stifling room and all the idiots staring and muttering at his exit.
Spoilers for The Rapture.
Chapter end notes:
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