This is a short drabble that I've had in my head for a while. It is WAAAAY more angst than what I usually write and it's all from Sam's POV. I hope you enjoy and even if you disagree with me, state it respectfully because I don't take kindly to flames.

What is living really? Breathing, walking, seeing, feeling? I breath because I have to. I walk on endlessly without a destination. I see without ever really seeing. I don't feel. I've discovered you have to be whole to feel. I am not. The man I used to be is gone, the one that wasn't just going through the motions. The one that could feel. The one that wasn't numb. God what I wouldn't give to feel.

Maybe death was what was always in the cards for me. Maybe death was my reprieve, my light at the end of the tunnel. I don't remember pain or fear. Now, that's all I know, it's the only thing that's constant. All I see is darkness, a looming promise of a fate that I can't change. My fate was supposed to end with me. Being brought back screwed with fate, screwed with me, and now I feel like I'm being pulled under, drowning, and no matter how hard I fight, the current is always so much stronger than I could ever hope to be.

The only thing, the only small glimmer of hope that I can ever wish to cling to saccrificed his life for me. Saccrificed his own soul so that he could bring back a shell, void of feeling, of emotion, of anything that made me human. So what am I if not human? Maybe I'm nothing. Maybe I've become so insignificant that I have no title.

So tell me, what possible reason is there for me to keep on pretending day after day? Why should I live life when death was so much kinder? Why doesn't anybody see it or care or help me? God somebody please help me. Take away the pain, take away the fear, just take it away. If I can't feel everything I don't want to feel anything.

But I know deep down that nobody can help me. Nobody will ever be able to help me because nobody knows, not for sure, at least. And you're too stubborn to admit it, to be willing to admit that death was and still is what I need more than life. I slap on a big fake grin and go through day after day and pretend that I am who I used to be. But I see it in your eyes, Dean. I see the way you look at me and you know, don't you? You know that what you brought back isn't what you were hoping for.

I've changed and I'm never, ever going to be the same again. No, it isn't a demon. I have not and will not give in to a side that is darker than the space that fills me now. No this is something different, something that cannot be fixed. I was ripped out of a sweet release to suffer what I've been made to suffer my entire being. And it hurts, Dean, and you can't fix it. Maybe you can fix it, maybe you can, but you won't. My life is unimportant now, because life is not important if you aren't living it. So why can't I give you mine and go back to my sweet release, and keep you away from the burning embers that threaten you at the end of your short existance? Why won't you set me free?