It should've been easier than it was.
It should've been a hell of a lot easier than it was.
It had only been everything he had ever wanted. His mother, a home—a stable home. One with a permanent street address, a permanent mailing address, and with that permanent house number on the side of the door's threshold with a mat proclaiming 'Welcome!' that laid at the ground.
It seemed the only permanence in his life was losing everything that mattered anything.
He loved hunting. As that little cliché so joyfully, deeply and philosophically stated, it wasn't what he did, it was who he was.
And it really was.
He couldn't imagine not hunting down the creepy, bumpy in the night. He lived for the thrill—the adrenaline rush as he rushed through tombstones or crappy movie sets, or haunted woods or darkened bank halls as he stalked whatever big bad thought it could mess with innocent people.
He supposed it wasn't healthy. The absolute and awesome drive of his thirst. And it was also why he figured that no matter the amount of salt and gasoline poured on his body, no matter the heat of the flame that burned his bones, and no matter the protection and binding charms laid into his coffin or urn or whatever would ever stop him from coming back.
He loved the thrill of the hunt too much.
He fought so hard on the side of the hunt and vowed suicide should he ever be presented with even the thought of the concept of normal. But as Shakespeare said, he protested just a little, too damn much.
He thought sometimes Sammy would see it. Just sometimes. And he was pretty sure little brother thought his eyes and mind were just playing tricks on him. It was what he wanted. Because if Sammy figured that hunting was wearing his big brother down—if Sammy knew of the times he feared that their all wouldn't be enough, that his all wouldn't be enough, then Sam would just decide the hell with it and stop fighting.
But fuck him. Fuck his own fears, fuck his own desires, and fuck his own wished. Sam was all that mattered. Sam in all his chick-flick, teen angst, puppy dog eyes, and much too goddamn pouty face glory. It was an obligation to protect Sammy. It was a duty. It was one he cherished, one he adored—though if he were ever called on it, he'd swear on all the cheeseburgers and frisky women in the world it wasn't true.
Because it was Sammy. It was all he had ever known. He'd give up everything for Sam.
So why the hell was the choice he made hanging so heavy over his head? Why was it there like a deceivingly deadly pillow held over his face, pressured and heavy and suffocating?
Why did choosing Sammy leave an empty, hungry, and gaping hole in him? Why did it feel like everything about him that was human, everything that was his soul, was being torn from him slowly and agonizingly?
It shouldn't feel this way. It shouldn't be this hard.
So why the hell was it?
close door number two...