Too Little, Too Late.

Summary. . . . . . . . Sam's POV whilst listening to a song after leaving Dean in Everyone Loves A Clown.

Disclaimer. . . . . . . Still not mine, and neither are the song lyrics.

A.N. . . . . . . . So Darksupernatural has been toying with song lyrics for a while now and fitting them into her oneshots( If you haven't already, check them out, they're amazing.) and I think she's rubbed off on me now, as every time I listen to a song, I find myself wondering how I could fight the words into a fic. Thanks Buddy for the inspiration. Here's one of my efforts, a look into Sam's mind after John's death, set to lyrics from Mike And The Mechanics, The Living Years. Enjoy, Peanut x

"I'm not okay. . . . . . . . .but neither are you!"

Sam turned away from his brother after he spoke, he'd showed his cards, laying the guilty ones down on the table so to speak, in an effort to get Dean to open up about their Father's death, so that they could both begin, with each others help, to heal; but Dean still stood there, his face the stoic mask Sam was beginning to hate. He stopped at the steps to the porch, unwilling to return so soon to a house he was starting to feel trapped in, instead looking at the jumbled mass of destruction that stood silently to his left, feeling the urge to hide beneath the rusted heaps, to get lost within their depths. As he listened to the repeated clanging of metal on metal, Sam felt the need to drown out the sound, he quickly rushed inside, picking up an item before heading back into the cloying heat. Striding purposefully, he entered the tight corridors, pushing his way through the maze until he found what he was looking for, a slight opening near the back of the property, the chain link fence before him looking directly onto a neatly kept pasture and the rolling hills behind. Even though he was alone, he knew he would be safe here, Bobby's protective sigils noticed by his expert eyes. Settling down, his back resting against the shell of an old dodge charger, Sam took the small contraption he had picked up earlier from his pocket and proceeded to place the small buds on the end of a coated wire into his ears. Turning on the MP3 he allowed the sounds to ease his growing tension and release the grief that he had built. Lulled by the music and the sun, he stared at the picture perfect before him, for the first time in a long time allowing himself to forget everything else. He started as the music changed from the guitar rifts of Clapton, to a more mellow and soulful sound, the song known to him, a song he wasn't ready to listen to just yet. He tried to get his hands to move to forward to the next one, but he couldn't seem to get his digits to respond in time and all he could do was sit, listen, and soak up the powerful words; tears stinging and budding in is eyes.

Every generation, blames the one before,

And all of their frustrations, come beating on your door,

I know that I'm a prisoner to all my father held so dear,

I know that I'm a hostage to all his hopes and fears,

I just wish I could have told him in the living years.

How fitting, Sam thought as he sat compelled. The words, to his mind, echoing his own life. Hadn't he always felt frustrated? Hadn't he always blamed his Father for the life he had been given? Hadn't he always felt that he was a prisoner in his own home? Hadn't he always felt that his Dad's hopes for defeating the demon, his fears that he wouldn't, had been the carrot dangled at the end of a stick that kept the man dragging both him and Dean from one side of the country to the other, no matter how hard he tried to be set free, a hostage to his family? He'd always blamed his Dad for not having the picture perfect lifestyle, his limited friends had, but at the end of the day, was it really the man's fault? As he sat on the dusty arid earth Sam wondered if his Dad had blamed someone too, having never known of his family, was there someone else who could have started all of this?

Crumpled bits of paper, filled with imperfect thoughts,

Stilted conversations, I'm afraid that's all we've got,

You say you just don't see it, he says it's perfect sense,

We all talk a different language, talking in defense.

Sam's mind took him back to that dreadful night as the next few lines were remembered, that dreadful night he had told his family he was leaving. He remembered his Father's angered eyes, his fists clenched lethally at his sides, how his whole demeanor seemed to grow along with his rage. He remembered how Dean looked in comparison, how Dean's eyes looked dull and saddened, how his brother seemed deflated and weary, how he just stood there defeated, looking on as his Father crushed Sam's dreams and heart as easily as he crumpled the piece of paper with the full ride written on it. Sam remembered looking for support as he yelled at his Father to "just see how this world is killing me" but Dean was lost too. He remembered his Dad's words, "it makes perfect sense Sam, you are not going" remembered how they had infuriated him to the point where his stubbornness had grown and he knew they would never reach an agreement in this present tense, so he had left, grabbed his stuff quickly and walked out the door, his Father's parting words ringing in his ears for months to come. "If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back!"

So we open up a quarrel, between the present and the past,

We only sacrifice the future, it's the bitterness that lasts.

The tears that had been building flowed as he listened further to the song, Dean was right, all he ever did was argue and pick fights whenever he had seen his Father these past few months. Instead of being happy that the man was okay, happy that they were together again, something he had been pressing for all year, he had chosen to lash out every time, picking over previous battles wanting to prove he was right, to win for once, but all he had really done was waste the limited time they had been given, and pushed his brother in between them once again. Hell even on that morning, he had pushed a battle. He should have been happy that Dean was awake and alive, but he wasn't. He had been livid at his Father's attitude, his son was dying and all he could think about was summoning the demon. He knew now why, but at the time it had hurt, and always the emotional one he had attacked.

I wasn't there that morning, when my father passed away,

I didn't get to tell him, all the things I had to say.

He should have been there, Sam realized. He should have known some thing was amiss, but still angry and bitter he hadn't seen the signs and had chosen instead to agree to his Father's orders for once and go and get the coffee he requested. He pounded his hand against the metal hulk beside him in anger at his stupidity, relishing the pain that radiated as it overrode the sadness for a few fleeting seconds. Needing to feel it more and more he struck again and again and again, until the sadness was null, and his hand throbbed in tune to his heart. If only he had been as defiant as usual, maybe he would have been able to stop what transpired, maybe he could have saved his father, but at what cost? He had no doubt now that his Dad had made a deal, if he had been there to save him, would he have lost Dean? That didn't even bare thinking about. But neither did the loss of his Father, when there was still some many things he needed to have said to the man.

Say it loud, say it clear,

You can listen as well as you hear,

It's too late, when we die,

To admit we don't see eye to eye.

How true those words felt to Sam as he sat there wishing for some time over again. He knew now how different he would have been, how he would have taken time before he reacted, how he would have insisted on saying the things that needed to be said, instead of bottling them all up inside and pushing them aside to be used when the time was right. He realized now, the time would never be right. Yeah, he would never see eye to eye with the man, but he had loved him dearly, yet had never told him so. He had forgiven him a long time ago for the words said in fear and anger, but had kept that forgiveness to himself. He had allowed his Father to slip away fearing that his youngest son was angry with him; and now there was no way to tell him differently. Dean's words entered his mind as the songs tune died away, words spoken in anger but still not making them any less meaningful. "Too little, too late." Sam realized now just how true those words were.

A.N. . . . . . . . . Thanks as always for stopping by and reading, I hope that you liked this little one shot. Will be back soon with more, until then enjoy what looks to be an amazing episode tonight, Peanut x