Chapter Text
All Sam had done was run. Run away, and sidestep the conceived decisions made for him, sidestep the life that chopped him limbless. Made him stagnate.
It had just been another stupid motel, another hunting trip. Sam had sat there, fumbling with the hem of his jacket, sinking into the twin bed. Its thin covers had rippled around him, blending him into the setting. His eyes had fixated on the jarring pattern of the carpet, its faded orange pigmentations against the swirling periwinkle blues woven across it.
His feet made slight kicking motions, he had blurred out the conversation between Dad and Dean. As far as he was concerned, it was just another instance of them pairing off and leaving Sam to ruminate, to research, to stay out of harm’s way. To remain redundant.
“Sammy.” The voice was deep, stern, there was an edge to it. It was a warning which Sam noted and immediately straightened up.
Dad and Dean’s eyes were locked onto his. Dean had his arms crossed, eyes slightly averted, brows furrowed in sympathy. Dad’s eyes narrowed.
“Sam, what are you doing? You should be taking note of this, what we’re dealing with is serious and we’re going to need you to pay attention-”
“Dad-” Sam began to interject, arms raised passively.
“No. I don’t want to hear it. We need you here to research, to be paying attention,” at which he snapped his fingers in front of Sam, “how can you do that if you’re off in your own little world?” Dad hissed; jaw clenched.
“Dad, come on, he gets it. Let’s just leave.” Dean interjected, gripping Dad’s shoulder and pulling him back. His eyes flicked back to Sam, understanding and worry pooling in his gaze.
Reluctantly, John began to retreat, pull back. This egged Sam on, he helped on the occasional hunt, but it was mainly the sidelines where he was assigned to. It irked him, Dean had long hunted before age twelve, and yet, Sam was reduced to bleak day TV, motel beds with springs that dug into his back. He wasn’t even a hunter, not really, and yet, he was still a freak, a shadow in the light. He could see it in the gaze of every fresh face he met at some new nondescript school, the slight quirk in the brow, the scrunch of the nose. The condescension.
Sam could see it now; he was an unlit match in the ocean. He couldn’t hunt, couldn’t fit in. He could try though, hunting was futile. His sprained wrist, condemned to a cast, made it evident. However, he could be normal, live a normal life. He could play soccer.
“Wait!” Sam called out, voice cracking on the last note, gingerly he stood up.
“Sorry, I know this probably isn’t the best time, but-you know, I can make myself useful in another way.” Sam began, taking note of Dad’s tilted face, eyes attentive but narrowed. Dean looked startled, motioning to say, “what are you doing?”
“Well-you’re always saying I should be faster, more attentive; you know all that stuff…I was thinking maybe I could do soccer...?” Sam rambled, eyes darting around nervously, picking up on the cracked, peeling paint on the doorway. The dust collected in the unreachable corners of the walls.
It was silent, it was suffocating him.
“It would really help, you know? Maybe I could make some friends, and I know we’re always moving but maybe we could stay for a season-just one…or...” Sam was almost pleading now, clammy fists clenching and unclenching.
Dad pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched shut as he slowly shook his head, shoulders shaking. Was he laughing…crying?
His arms swung to his sides, eyes blazing, angry. Dad was shaking with anger.
“Your brother and I are risking our asses out there-and you…what? You want to play soccer-you want to play a little game? We can’t seriously be having this conversation right now!” John kept shaking his head, his voice rumbling with the embers of a blaze.
Sam could feel tears welling up, he averted his gaze, glaring at his scuffed shoes.
“Fine…whatever…” Sam uttered, turning around, he could already hear a set of shoes pacing off, John’s heavy-set stomping matching the pace of Sam’s racing heart.
Salt filled Sam’s senses; he held himself in tightly.
“Hey,” Dean’s voice was soft, placating.
Crouching, Dean met Sam’s eye level, his face was a mix of concern and pity, “I’ll talk to him man, he’ll come around.”
Sam turned his head away from Dean, an empty promise. He could try, but there was no use pushing against an immovable force.
“Hey, we’ll figure something out. We can kick around a monster’s head or something.” Sam wrinkled his nose at that. The beginnings of a smile curled his lips until he heard the familiar rumble of the impala’s engine, a consequential honk rung around Sam’s ears.
Dean winced, patting Sam’s shoulder as he straightened. He hesitantly backed away, looking back once at Sam with a reassuring nod. Then he was gone, leaving the motel room to feel all that emptier.
Freak. The thought resonated in his head, judgements pointed at him like the darts of a cruel game.
It was then that a dam inside him broke. His knees buckled as he crumpled onto the stiff carpet. He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes where tears streamed out, tears spilling into his fingers, the salt mixing with his skin, his saliva. His eyes clouded, vision blurring as choked gasps escaped out of him. He couldn’t be still in this moment; he couldn’t be useless anymore.
Sam rose swiftly, slightly tripping as he swung the door of the room open. The movement sent a splattering of chipped paint onto the carpet. Sam sprinted outside, face in the crook of his arm, wiping away tears. He gasped in the fresh air. Running, he could feel the crunch of the autumn leaves beneath his feet. He ran out of the car park, where rough concrete gave way to soft grass. Streetlamps gave way to arching leafless trees. More dead leaves littered his path, he couldn’t see where he was going. There was no direction. He ran, thoughts splintering, mind reeling. All he could focus on was the movement of his feet hitting the ground, grass fronds tearing in the momentum.
It was then, in his reverie that his foot got caught on a dark tree root. Wrenched out of his movement, Sam tumbled, eyes catching on the clifftop he approached. Squinting his eyes shut, it all went dark, his thoughts void.