Fanfic - SPN: Letters in My Mind, 2-8 of 8 (Sam, Dean)

[writingbyebonio]

Title: Letters in My Mind, 2-8 of 8 [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Prompt: 062-Melancholy. 003-Angry. 089-Sick. 024-Cynical. 073-Pessimistic. 085-Satisfied. and 027-Devious. For 100moods, challenge table here.
Word Count: 2,807 words exactly.
Rating: R for language, violence, and implied sexuality.
Warnings/Spoilers: Gen/Pre-Slash. Angst! DARK! Future. Apocalypse. Violence. Implied non-con. Character study. Plot. AU after "Simon Said". Spoilers for "Home", "Nightmare", "In My Time of Dying", and "Bloodlust". Potential vague spoilers for Season 1, generally.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing.
Summary: During his brutal confinement, Sam reaches out to his brother, even if it's only in his mind. These are the last seven letters. Very dark, but I promise it's worth it!
Author's Notes: Set during the events of Destiny Found Him Early and Alone. These are the seven letters that follow after Letters in My Mind, 1 of 8. Oh, and if you haven't already seen them, orphan_project wrote these awesome letters from Dean here and here, in response to my Letter #1, and then these, in response to this new set of letters! For more info about my Evil!Sammy Universe, including links to all installments, please go here.


Letters: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight


Letter #2 (Melancholy):

Dean,

I think I've killed more rabbits, now, than I've killed supernatural beasties.

It was hard at first, you know, and not just because they had to "encourage" me with all the pain. It used to take a lot of focus and concentration and sometimes it just wasn't possible for me to do it. It's gotten easier, though. Everything has.

It's been so long, I know it now.

They say you've stopped asking around for me. I don't really believe them. That's not how you are. You're never good at letting things go. But … I just keep thinking that if it was even possible to find me, you would've found me by now. If there ever was a trail to follow, it's been cold for far too long.

I know you won't give up and I won't either, but I gotta face the possibility that you're not coming, that if I'm gonna make it, I'll have to do it on my own. I still believe in you, man, I do, but this place, these people, they grind on something inside me and I just want out so bad.

I know that I'm alive and that my health is pretty good, considering, but I dunno, man, being here … I feel like I'm dying. I haven't had a vision or anything, so don't wig out on me. I'm still here, but sometimes I can feel something heavy pressing down on me, like something I can't see is crushing me.

I think this place is killing me, Dean.

And I can't keep waiting for you anymore. I'm starting to realize that I can only depend on me.

Sam

* * *

Letter #3 (Angry):

Dean,

They don't really make a sound when they die.

Rabbits, that is.

I mean, they might make some kind of short squeak, but they don't make any heart-wrenching noises that make me want to save them or anything. I know I've never felt good about killing. I still don't. But the other day I started to wonder why I was fighting, really. It's a rabbit, and, granted, it's never done anything to me, but it's just a rabbit. Why would I make them hurt me, nearly crippling me with pain, to give a rabbit five more minutes of life? They always end up dead anyway. Half the time I'm not even strong enough to hold out for that long.

Being here makes me see how fucking weak I am, man.

Someone came to my cell last night. He didn't even put me down with meds. He just … yanked at my insides until I couldn't fight, couldn't move for all the hurt. He just … told me he'd be gentle if I'd be quiet.

He just … took what he wanted.

His hands were cold and I just … I can't … I can't do this anymore, Dean. I was so fucking weak! I just let him … and I cried. I balled my little eyes out like some fucking two year old. I should've … but I didn't, because I'm fucking weak, man. I wouldn't even be here at all if I wasn't so fucking weak!

I bet if it'd been you they'd tried to take, they'd all be ashes and dust by now, 'cause you're always playing the savior-hero, Dean, always. Maybe you're better off without me holding you back. I mean, I don't believe it. I don't, but I could. You're a natural in ways that I'll never be, but I know, now, that there are other ways for me to be strong.

I can't keep playing it courageous, Dean, can't keep trying to save everyone but me.

These abilities they want to see me develop may be the result of some bit of Fallen in my soul, but they're all I have at this point. At least, if I want to live as anything other than a doormat … or a whore. And I won't live like that.

He said that he'd be back and … if I'd been fighting for me instead of dumb animals all this time, I would've already progressed enough to hurt him like he hurt me. So later, when they come to make me squeeze the life out of some little rabbit, I'm going to try to learn something, try to actually improve. I'll feel sorry for the rabbit, I know I will, and you'll probably think less of me for giving in to the plans these people have for me, but I'm not turning to the dark side here, Dean.

I just have to start looking out for me.

Sam

* * *

Letter #4 (Sick):

Dean,

They tried something new today.

Bad new, Dean, not good new.

Remember how I said rabbits don't make sounds. Well, dogs do. These high-pitched whines that break my heart.

I hate this! I love dogs! Why'd it have to be dogs, damnit?!

And she was pretty too. They saw me resisting though, thought they'd have to start "encouraging" me again, and they did something different, something worse I think. They built up pain in both of us, said it would take a long time for her to die that way, and she just kept making that keening-wailing sound and I just … wanted that terrible noise to end, wanted all her pain to end.

But they didn't stop like usual with just one for the day.

They kept bringing them in, kept hurting me and hurting them, kept bombarding me with those tormented howls, and I just … kept putting them out of their misery, until I couldn't do it anymore. I don't even know how many, Dean. I don't even know. I closed my eyes after the third one and tried to remember what AC/DC sounded like blaring in my ears, but I couldn't remember, Dean, not single word.

I threw up in the corner, when they were done with me, and I told them anything but dogs next time, anything. I swear I'd almost rather die than kill dogs like that again.

Sam

* * *

Letter #5 (Cynical):

Dean,

Scratch that whole last letter. Once I had some time to think about it, rather than just freak out like some murder-virgin, I realized that I was letting my emotions get the best of me.

My fatal flaw, I guess.

And here it's a flaw that actually has the potential to get me killed. My emotions are fucking with my chances of survival and I can hardly remember what they're good for anyway.

My logic for freaking out over killing dogs more than killing rabbits is entirely fictional, something my heart made up because I like dogs and don't really care about rabbits. If I have to choose between myself and a dog, why should my answer be different than when the other player was a rabbit? I gotta stop caring so much, man, or I won't make it here.

They're going to die.

I'm going to kill them.

End of story.

Sam

* * *

Letter #6 (Pessimistic):

Dean,

I'm so tired. And hungry. And thirsty. And cold.

When I ask them what I've done to deserve punishment like this, they won't tell me. They won't tell me, Dean, but I swear I've been good. I know it.

Part of me thinks it's sick that "being good" means killing animals on command now. But other parts of me just want to survive, man.

They keep waking me up, feels like every hour, never let me really sleep anymore. The food is all but nonexistent now and I'm damn near tempted to eat what I kill, like we used to do, camping out in the woods on a Hunt, except there's no fire here to use to cook anything. The water must be rationed, seems like only just enough to keep me slightly more alive than dead. But when I have it, it feels like a drug, like I'm in withdrawal and finally get a hit of something that makes me feel human again.

Human. Again

They say I'm not, you know. Not human, not really.

They say I should stop trying to be something I'm not. That's why my visions always hurt me. They told me so. It's because I've been fighting who I was, trying to suppress my "gifts" and my "heritage," instead of embracing that part of me. They say if I let it control me, it'll just get more painful, but if I learn to embrace it, let it really be a part of me, then it won't hurt so much.

It kinda makes sense, Dean, if you think about it. And somehow that worries me more than anything, because if they're right about this, then they might be right about other things too.

They keep saying they're my friends, my allies, so I asked them why they have me locked up like a prisoner and they said it's because I wouldn't have listened to them otherwise. And I really wouldn't have, Dean. It made me think about those vamps we ran into, the ones who only drank animal blood. They had to kidnap me, just to get me to really listen.

Maybe all this, all the torture and the deprivation is just the use of extreme measures to make me see truths that I want so badly to deny.

What if this whole damn situation is just the fault of my own stubbornness? If they only keep me like this because I can't let go of who and what I used to be, then maybe I should stop pretending this is just some nightmare I'll wake up from. Maybe I should just let myself be who and what they say that I'm supposed to be.

What I'm saying probably doesn't make any sense to you, but you're not here and I don't think you're gonna be. Most of them have been nice enough, since I started cooperating, and the one who … comes in at night … has had a rougher time getting what he wants from me, now that my gifts are so much stronger. Maybe I've been deluding myself, thinking I'm not one of them, thinking that my place is in your world more than theirs.

Maybe I've just been wrong about everything.

On my first day, I remember, they hurt me just to hurt me, like to see how much I could take, make me understand how punishments would feel. It was bitter discipline and I was shocked at how much power they could wield, how much pain I could handle. But when I asked why they were hurting me like that, all they said was that "pain brings clarity." It's kind of been a mantra around here, and one I didn't really get. Now, it's starting to make more sense to me, all of it.

I think I finally understand.

I know you've never understood it, but I never really fit with the Hunter lifestyle or … it didn't really fit with me. Dean, I know I fit with you, that we were meant to be as close as we've been and I would never trade that for anything. But even though you made me feel safer when we were together, I never felt safe in that life. And it's not that I feel safe here. I don't. But I was thinking about that Gordon guy and those animaltarian vamps we helped out. You remember. He and I could hardly be civil, let alone be friends, but you were all buddy-buddy with him.

He'd probably Hunt me now, just like he was Hunting those vamps. All the Hunters would, wouldn't they? Bobby and Ellen and everybody, man.

Maybe I never liked Hunting, never felt safe, because some part of me always knew I was a fake, knew I wasn't like them, knew they could never really be my friends, only dad's, only yours.

Even you got weird sometimes about my powers. Even you, Dean! And you always have this sense about things, about people. It hurt to watch you try to squash your anxiety around me, because even then I knew something had to be really wrong if you were actually afraid of me. Maybe your instincts were right.

Maybe I am something to fear.

Maybe after all this time, I'd even end up on your case list, man. I don't know anymore.

The people here are like me. I can feel it now. I know it. Maybe I would be safest among my own kind, Dean. And maybe this isn't about giving in to them.

Maybe it's about accepting me.

Sam

* * *

Letter #7 (Satisfied):

Dean

I know I haven't written in a while. I've been busy. Not that you haven't been, I'm sure. I don't know what time it is, but I bet you're out Hunting so-called evil or laid up under some bottle-blond diner girl. Still, I kinda wanted to tell you that I finally made a breakthrough.

I hit a plateau this week, Dean, in terms of my powers. My progress slowed gradually and then it outright stopped. I just figured that was all I had in me, but the others-like-me coached me down into myself and I found my connection to the Fallen, to my Fallen father, Dean. It was only a moment of contact, but it felt like the power was searing into my skin. A bit of it sank in and I could feel the difference, taste the spice of the dark on my tongue. And I knew just what to save it all for.

I think I understand you better now than I ever did when we were on the road together, or even when we were just kids. That sense of satisfaction you could get from a kill was never anything I could feel after a Hunt.

But the one who put his hands on me? When he came to try again last night, I hurt him pretty bad. Bad enough that he passed out, and even though I did too, it meant he was here this morning when the others came to train me. I was awake by then, and he wasn't, but they seemed less upset with me, and more upset with him.

Turns out that wasn't really part of the plan, him taking me while I was conscious, at least.

Doesn't really matter now, though, does it? If I could have, I would've killed him last night for what he's done to me.

I'm just not strong enough yet.

They told me, when they dragged him out, that he wouldn't be allowed anywhere near me again, which was good, but not good enough. I told them to keep him around until I wanted to see him again.

I think, for once, that I managed to shock them.

I wonder if they put him in a cell somewhere, like mine. I wonder if he's sitting all alone in there, knowing that his death is near, and that I will be his executioner. And don't you dare give me shit about moral high ground, Dean.

You know if you were here that you'd fucking kill him too.

Sam

* * *

Letter #8 (Devious):

Dean,

He's dead.

You know who.

I had to reach down deep into the darkness, call up power from the energies of my Fallen father. And it was like a well that had no floor. I just kept drinking it all in, all that power burning through my veins.

I made him scream for me.

I don't know why I ever resisted, man, all this heat, all this strength. I said I wanted to be safe, didn't I? The might of the Fallen can give me what I need. I can see that now. It's so simple, Dean. The more power I have, the less chance there is that I will ever be anyone's victim ever again.

The others-like-me? Yeah, they can't hold me anymore, but they don't want to. And there's no justice to mete out for keeping me here, even though it was rough sometimes. I know they only did what was necessary to lead me to my true self, to my destined path.

"Pain brings clarity," they said. And it does.

I was a fool to think that this could end any other way, that it should end any other way.

The Fallen have always refused to bow to humans, to see themselves as lesser beings. And with power like this, who could blame them? The rules don't apply to us, man. We're above them. None of us should be living in the shadows, scared to death of punks like Gordon.

This world should be ours.

And it will be.

But don't worry, brother, I still want you by my side. It might take time to set everything in motion, but it really won't be long now. So don't worry, Dean.

I'm coming for you.

Sam

Letters: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight