Hey everybody, back with a new story. Well, it's not so much a story with a real plot or anything as it is my chance to get into Sam's head. Which I must say I love doing. Each journal entry is going to coincide with an episode of Supernatural. In order, obviousy, so we're starting with the Pilot. Enjoy.
I don't know what posessed me to buy a journal, let alone write in one. It could be that it's easier to write what I need to say rather than actually have to say it. Or maybe I'm afraid that if I let everything bottle up inside of me, I may become just as dangerous and screwed up as some of the things we hunt. Either way, here it is, my story, my life, the written word of Sam Winchester.
For a moment it was like watching it happen to somebody else. Like one of those late night horror movies Dean and I used to watch when we were kids and dad was gone for days at a time. I saw blood,felt it even, but it didn't hit me until I saw the flames. I remember screaming her name, Jess, no, Jess! I was helpless, at least that's how I felt. I couldn't move, all I could do was lay there and watch her beautiful skin blacken under scorching heat. All I could think was, please God, let it be a dream, let it be another horrible, incredibly vivid nightmare. And I could feel the monstrous flames now, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from her as her mouth seemed to move, seemed to beg me to save her. And I couldn't, but I could have, and that's what mattered. And for a moment I was ready to let the flames take me away. And then Dean was there. I don't remember hearing him, I don't know how he knew, how he always knows, but he knew that he had to get me out of there. And he did, and I fought him the entire time. I wanted, no I needed, to save Jessica. Even as the room erupted into flames, as I saw my entire dream of normalcy slipping away right before my eyes, I struggled to get back into that room. The next thing I knew, there were flashing lights, red and blue, noise everywhere, men in uniforms shoving silver badges in my face and asking me what I knew, what happened. I couldn't answer them because I didn't understand it myself. I kept shaking my head, a nonverbal plea to leave me alone. And then Dean was there again, he pulled me away from them, might have even exchanged a few foul words and he asked me if I was alright. The only thing I remember, the only detail that is perfectly clear to me from that night, is what I replied to him.
"No," I said, and to an outsider looking in, this response doesn't seem so strange, so incomprehensible. But Dean's face softened and he looked surprised and concerned, because that wasn't the patented Winchester response. I was supposed to tell him that I was "fine," was supposed to put up a strong façade. But I couldn't. All I could do was leave him with that answer and walk to the trunk of the Impala. I checked knives for sharpness, I loaded guns, I examined every weapon we had and I geared up to return to this life. I'd never had a choice in life, it was clear to me now. I was born a soldier, trained and raised as a soldier, and forever I would remain just that; A soldier.
Dean appeared next to me, I could sense his glance and I looked to him with a gun in my hands. I threw it into the trunk and before I slammed it shut, I told him, "We've got work to do."