WHO: Sam & Heather. WHAT: They need to talk. WHEN: Evening. WHERE: The Winchester home. RATING: PG-13. STATUS: COMPLETE. =[
They were all right. Every last one of them. Sam had denied it with every breath he had to spare, he had argued it until he was blue in the face and hoarse in the throat. At the end of the day though, the unbearable knowledge of them all being more than correct about the thing he was desperate to deny would circle back through his mind, haunting him into such a state that he found himself feeling sick beyond his belief. He felt sick now, as he heavily climbed the stairs up to his room, an invisible weight heaving itself onto his wide shoulders. But he knew that they were right. He was not happy. Not by a long shot.
He looked resigned, sick, tired. The dark circles under his eyes didn't help his appearance much, nor did the wrinkled clothes and the ruffled state of his hair. He hadn't slept the former night. It was practically impossible to get his eyes shut, so he had spent his time pacing back and forth, going over every last detail that he could get his hands on in hopes of being able to instill some sort of hope that wasn't false so that he could find a way out of what he had to face. There was, unfortunately, no way for him to escape the brutal truth. He could no longer pretend that everything was perfectly okay. He could have tried. Sam could play along, pretend that everything was all right. For how long though? How much longer was he going to have to deal with feeling sick on the inside for keeping the truth from surfacing? It was hurting his family. It was hurting him. Sam Winchester needed to face the truth. He needed to stop lying to himself and the rest of the world.
Fingers scraping over the shadow on his jaw, Sam slowly crossed the hall to his room, reached for the doorknob and...he hesitated. He slowly drew his hand back and forced his eyes shut, a wave of unbearable emotion trucking it's way through him. Was he really going to do this? After everything that they had been through together, was he going to be the one to take it all away?
Eyes stinging, Sam stepped back warily and drew in a heavy breath. Get it together, Winchester, he urged, steadying himself. It had to be done. Several minutes spent on stabilizing himself right there in that hallway kept him from entering the room before him. He couldn't go in there looking like a walking poster of doom. This was a delicate situation and Sam would be damned if he didn't try to do everything in his power to keep it all from spiraling out of control.
Shoulders straight, chin up high, Sam gave himself another minute. He had to keep this stance. Neutral. Normal. If it weren't for his tired appearance, maybe he'd look okay to Heather. Maybe, just maybe, he'd look like he wasn't about to walk in that room and rip her heart out of her chest. Fist balling over the doorknob, Sam slowly drew in one final breath before he pushed his way into his bedroom. He was a soldier with a gun. Now he had to walk in and take his place on the line. Maybe if he closed his eyes and took aim, he'd miss the blindfolded victim standing in front of him. Maybe she'd get away. God, he hoped that she did.