Hi! It's me again!

I have recently (2 months ago) fell in love with Supernatural, and just had to write something for it! I know I promised to update my HSM story, but, Supernatural is so, SO much better! :P

So, here is my pitiful attempt at a Supernatural story. I hope you like!


Samuel Winchester was pissed, to say the very least. He sat fuming on his bed, his back tight against the corner of the wall and his legs hugged to his chest. His shaggy brown hair fell forward over his eyes as he rested his head on his knees. He was seething once more, after having another fight with his 'ever loving' (he chuckled bitterly when he thought that) father.

All he had wanted to do was go back to school tonight, to audition for the lead role in the school play! But, no. Once again, he was forbidden. He wasn't allowed to anything! And when he said anything, he meant it.

The football team, the basketball team, the drama club, the after-school book club, the sports team, the list went on. He was banned because of the hunts. Oh yes, his father's precious 'killing sprees' as he called them, or 'son-of-a-bitch murdering time' as Dean favoured.

He distinctly remembered his father's harsh words only a few seconds ago:

"No Sam!" John roared to his youngest. When would he get the picture? "I am NOT letting you go wasting our time audition for some crappy school play when there are things that need sending back to hell! You are a WINCHESTER! Winchesters don't prance around on stage like a prissy little girl!"

Sam recoiled and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. His face was screwed up tightly.

"Dad, I don't WANT to hunt all the time! Its hunt after hunt after frikin hunt, and Im sick of it! I hate killing things! Im 15 years old dad and you don't let me have any other life than MURDER!" Sam yelled back, anger seeping into him, making him shake, and blink back the tears which now threatened to fall.

John closed his eyes angrily and slammed his fist hard on the table, causing Sam to jump back a few centimetres. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of winning though, he stood his ground and glared right on back at his father.

This was the fifth time they had argued this week and he was getting sick of losing to his dad.

"Why can't you be more like Dean? He never had any trouble! He wasn't a whiney little brat that never managed to kill anything on the hunts! He was a Winchester and a damn fine one at that! He wasn't a USELESS, UNGRATEFUL BASTARD, WHICH DID NOTHING BUT COMPLAIN ALL THE TIME, MOANING ABOUT HOW SHIT HIS WORTHLESS LIFE WAS! NO, HE DOES WHAT HE IS TOLD WITHOUT A DAMN WORD, AND GETS ON WITH IT!" He paused and took a heavy breath, looking his son in the eyes. "Why cant you be more like Dean?" he whispered sadly, talking even more to himself, than Sam.

Sam stood there, shock written on his features. He had never though he was that bad. Was he really that much of a failure, and an inconvenience to them both? Would his father really prefer it if he were dead? He gulped, the tears he had been holding back, spilling down his face, and looked across at Dean who had been sitting eerily still throughout the whole argument. Sam caught his eye as he looked up, and his breath hitched when Dean slowly shook his head in bitter disappointment and looked away.

"Oh God" he thought to himself "I really am that bad." He bit his lips and stared at the ground. He looked back up to his father who was now sitting down on a chair, and had his eyes closed. He opened them when Sam spoke again.

"Sorry dad, but im not Dean." he whispered his voice catching. "Now piss off and stay the hell away from me." He turned sharply, his face crumpling and charged up the stairs before either of the two Winchester men could say a word, jumped onto his bed and drew his legs up, sobbing into them .

He wiped his eyes and his sleeve, uncurled his limbs and stood up. He needed to get out of here, and soon. He launched himself across the room at speed, his blurred eyes making it a little trickier for him, and grabbed his duffel bag, and proceeded to pack his things.

He paused for while when he picked up his hunting knife. He thought about all the times when he had used it, and not just for them monsters.

He rolled up his sleeves and gazed at his arm. Six or seven short white scars, each about 2 inches long stood out from his bronze skin. He remembered the last time he had used it, which was only a month ago.

Dean and John never knew about what he did. Sam had done well to hide them in gym class from his friends, and made sure that at home he always wore long sleeves.

He pressed the blade against the soft skin and dragged it. Blood quickly seeped out of it and Sam could have almost cried with relief. He lifted off the blade and stuffed it into his bag, hurried into the bathroom across the hall, rinsed his arm and shot back into his room. He picked up a few more things, shoved them into his bag, and then rolled back down his sleeve.

He stopped suddenly when he heard a thumping of someone coming up the stairs. His heart pounded in his chest and he stood quietly, walking to the window. He unlocked the latch and put his hand on the sill. He got ready to jump, when the door opened and Dean walked in.

Both Winchesters stopped for a few seconds before Dean moved forwards shakily, taking in the sight before him. Sam was standing with his leg against the bottom of the window, perched ready to jump. His eyes flickered to the floor where a spot of blood glimmered in the evening light.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam beat him there.

"Don't Dean. Just don't." With that, he hitched his bag onto his shoulder, pushed forwards, and leapt. Then fell.

Dean gasped loudly, and swore. He ran to the window, getting ready to jump after Sam. He could see his little brother on haunches, breaking his fall, and stand up. He looked up at Dean and sped forward, just as his older brother followed him out of the window.

Sam sprinted to the front gate, and shot like a bullet through it, and turned right, heading down the road. Dean landed, cursed softly as his foot twisted beneath him. He grunted and tried to stand, but failing.

"DAD!!" he roared, grasping his ankle tightly. He grimaced and looked back up trying to locate Sam. But he was gone. Dean shifted onto his knees, then attempted to stand. He hopped forwards, holding onto the side of the fence next to the house, and moved onto the road.

He could see Sam's retreating back, and yelled his name. Sam paused, glanced back. He saw Dean standing there, making no effort to move, and he turned and continued running.

"Like they need me anyway," he thought bitterly, and turned down a side road, only stopping one more time, tears rolling down his cheeks.


Dean stood there, his heart sinking desperately as he yelled Sammy's name. The door banged loudly behind him and John sprinted out, calling for Dean. He rushed up next to him as Dean sunk to the ground.

"Dean, DEAN! What's wrong? Where's Sam?" he looked at his eldest, and seeing the look on his face, he had realised what he had done.

He had driven away his Sammy.