1100 words? God I'm so incompetent. Months go by and this is all I can provide? I'm literally such a terrible person.
This is just a stupid little rant. So if you want to skip it that's fine; the (small) chapter is below.
I'm sorry for keeping y'all waiting. I really am. And I'm sorry this update is, like, nothing. But you have to understand something. I never meant for this story to be more than a one-shot. And suddenly, it becomes my most followed story, with tons of fucking amazing reviews from amazing, amazing people, and I'm scrambling to come up with a plot.
I have a basic idea of some things, but I don't have the desire to write this story at all. This doesn't mean I will abandon it, of course. I wouldn't do that. But what it does mean, is unfortunately, the updates might continue like this.
The past few months my mental health has really declined. Everything that has been an interest of mine just suddenly seems so...bland. Video editing was a real passion I had—now I can't even bring myself to open up my software. Writing was a real passion I had—now I can't even get to my computer and open a document. Soccer was a passion I had—now it's something I can't help but feel a chore, even though I know I love it.
I dont know if that even makes sense.The point is, it's hard for me to write currently. Things are getting bad, and I'm starting to lose hope that it'll get better, y'know? Everything just seems so downhill, and it doesn't seem like it ever goes up. And if I do have a good day(s)? It strikes me down tenfold again, and it hurts worse and worse each time.
Part of me feels like I'm letting you guys down. That it should be the least I could do for you guys who take the time to acknowledge my work and support it. And I wish I could give you guys more—you deserve more. And I wish I was mentally healthy enough. And I wish I was strong enough. And I wish I was productive enough.
But I'm not.
And for that I apologise. If you want some more of my work, and some more hurt!sam, I encourage you to look at my other story, Gallows. It was completely written months before, when I still was mentally capable enough to bring myself to write, so updates shouldn't be too far apart.
Again, I reiterate, I am not abandoning this story. But I need time to sort out my issues, and try to get back on my feet—if that's even possible. So please don't expect more too quickly. I will try my best.
Thank you.
Dean knew his brother was planning something and it was pissing him off.
After Sam's stint last year going behind Dean's back with the Mark of Cain and releasing Amara, it was a little unnerving that he'd given up so easily during their fight an hour ago. He was half-expecting Sam to fight tooth and nail through proverbial blood and bone until Dean had concaved and chained him up in the basement, which made him more than a little surprised when the younger hunter just shook his head and left the room.
After all, it was kind of Sam's thing to go do exactly what Dean told him not to. Not that Dean hadn't done the same...but when Sam thought he was doing the right thing, then oftentimes he wasn't to be messed with. And sometimes it almost got him killed.
That's the thing. Ever since the Werther Box incident, where Sam had nearly killed himself just for the codex to the Book of the Damned, Dean had been on Sammy-alert constantly. Despite the fact it was a hallucination and faux reality that was trying to usher Sam into depositing all of his blood into that basin, it still terrified him how steadfast Sam was to go through with the deed.
Sam was smart enough to know how to avoid that kind of bullshit. Which made Dean not entirely convinced when his brother said in his most soft and gentle tone that it was just a mishap and he'd been fooled by the Werther's ministrations.
Sam's willingness to toss his life away genuinely made Dean scared. Because although you could argue that Dean was a hypocrite, was the exact same way, it was his goddamn brother and his goddamn brother was not supposed to think so little of himself. Sam had been through so much more than anyone else on this spinning piece of garbage that he didn't deserve to have such low self-esteem.
Christ their lives were so messed up.
Speaking of Sam, Dean had watched on as he'd continued on his way to the library after being interrupted so graciously by Dean's own presence, and Dean had fairly came to the decision he didn't want Sam alone until he knew he had a grasp on this whole Mark of Cain thing. So, he came up with some half-assed excuse that he would have to spout and entered the room of archives, closing the door slowly behind him.
"Figured you'd want some help," he said in his best honesty impersonation. "I'd rather both of us be doing something than—"
As he turned around to face the room, he realized with disappointment that the place was empty. No Sam. Could just be a coincidence.
Could be something more.
That was enough to spur him into movement. He reopened the wooden door with newfound fervor and bounded down the halls, making his way to Sam's room. While he hoped this was just a simple misunderstanding and his doofus of a brother was sleeping again, he wasn't surprised when his search gave him the same results as the library.
Shit.
Sam tugged his jacket closer around his shoulders as the breeze rippled through his clothing. The sun was just setting over the horizon, sinking like a capsized ship into the waters beneath. Sleep tugged at his eyelids, but he knew he couldn't rest. Dean ought to be on his ass by now.
He'd taken a plane to get here. That should've slowed his brother down enough to give him a few hours' headstart, he hoped. Lebanon to San Diego is quite a drive, even for Dean's vehicular skills, and he managed to score a new credit card that shouldn't be able to be tracked by known aliases. All in all, he should be under the radar now.
He now stood on the edge of the dock of Oceanside's pier, thinking, waiting. Sam would be lying if he said he wasn't feeling regret for what he was doing. He knew how it felt to know your brother was on a suicide mission. But Chuck's words...they reverberate in his head, echoing on such a high reverb setting that he can't dampen with music or noise suppression.
"You will not be hurting yourself here, but as for your brother… Lord only knows what will happen."
If he stayed, it would only be worse than if he were to just disappear. Nothing hurt more than to watch your only family succumb to something irreversible, slowly fading, and not being able to do a damn thing about it. Sam's had the unfortunate privilege of dealing with both.
Mystery Spot. Mark of Cain. The demon deal. Dean cannot catch a fucking break from death and now Sam was forced to put even more heartache upon his brother. Whichever would hurt Dean less, nevermore if it would be worse for Sam, he'd opt for in a second, though.
A presence to his right stood out from the other tourists passing by on the boardwalk. He didn't shift his focus from the waves beneath him, even though his hairs began to stand up on his arms.
"Sam Winchester."
Sam tilted his head, focusing. "You're in a live vessel. I told you to only possess a dead one."
"Slim pickings, I'm afraid. You shouldn't worry. I won't harm him."
Finally, Sam turned to look at the demon. He's an average-sized man with a slim build, dusty hair falling down in a messy mop. "I'll hold you to that," he said.
The demon, too, leans against the railing, falling into a similar position as Sam's own. "How'd you know what vessel I was in?"
"Does it matter?"
"No. It would be great if you could satisfy my curiosity, though, for what I'm going to do for you."
Sam rolled his eyes and sighed, shifting his feet so that he's more comfortable. After a moment, he said curtly, "You're here for one reason, and one reason only. I get the feeling you already know. So shove that crap back up your ass and forget about it, or I will end you in a heartbeat."
The demon seemed to get the message, looking away for a moment at a group of children playing by the walls of the restaurant.
"Don't even think about it," Sam growled. "You get me what I need, I let you live. That's the deal."
The demon seemed surprised. "I wasn't going to do anything," it insisted, raising its hands in mock surrender. "Jumpy, are we?"
"You were thinking about it," Sam muttered.
"I'm hurt you'd even consider I'd do such a thing."
"Good."
The demon huffed, shoulders dropping for a moment, before placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, and the Winchester soon found himself in a place he didn't recognize. He stumbled upon landing, instantly taking stock of his surroundings. Dark, hot. Quite the opposite of where he knew he was going.
He let the warmth sink into his skin for a final time, then shook his head as he realized how stupid, how pointless that was.
The Cage never cared about his body temperature anyway.