AN: I'm not sure about this one, so please let me know what you think of it! (Criticism is always welcome). A tag of sorts to 6x08, "All Dogs Go to Heaven". Again, please drop me a line to let me know how I did! Thank you!
Warning: Spoilers for S6.
"Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know."
Sam is finally telling the truth. He's finally shedding his façade of falsehood. At last, after months and months of denial, deceit, and detachment, Sam is speaking with an honesty that hasn't been seen from him in over a year. He's expressing the muddled, cloudy emptiness inside of him in a way which he hopes Dean will understand. He hopes anyone will understand.
Sam needs everyone to understand that…he's not Sam.
At first, he denied it. He told himself that it'd just take some adjustment. He went about hunting and killing. Each day, he went out into the world, ready and willing to condemn others to a fate that the 'old Sam' wouldn't have wished upon his worst enemy.
But as he was beginning to realize, he wasn't the old Sam. He wasn't Sam at all.
So his day to day tasks continued, Sam having no emotion to tie him down. No moral barrier to hold him back.
It was simple, effortless. The twitch of his finger on the trigger, the smooth slash of the knife against flesh. None of it left any residual feeling in Sam. He did what he had to do, and consideration for others was a long faded memory. Like a one night stand or a boring movie. No big deal. Unworthy of a fleeting thought or passive recollection.
The death continued, not denting Sam's conscience—or lack thereof—in the least.
But somewhere between the gunshots, knife fights, one night stands, and boring movies, Sam started paying attention to what he was doing. He started thinking. He started remembering.
Random memories and flashes waded through Sam's mind. There were tears and screams. There was falling and yelling. Quiet whispers, tight embraces. Smiling, shoving, kissing, shooting.
All the musings and recollections that he'd been ignoring became more vivid, more real to Sam.
And after awhile, Sam finally began to realize that he wasn't the person he claimed to be.
Samuel Winchester. Sam. Sammy.
Though all of these names were familiar, and he knew the memories and flashes in his mind belonged to the person of the same name, this Sam, this Sammy…it wasn't him.
But he couldn't tell Dean that. Dean couldn't know that the man, who was supposed to be his brother, was in fact a complete stranger. A ruthless, calculating stranger. So Sam (called by this name for the sake of those around him, as he himself had no attachment to the moniker) did what even the old Sam seemed good at. One thing the new Sam and old Sam had in common, other than their name…Sam lied. And Sam kept lying. To his grandfather, to his brother…to himself.
Lies upon lies lingered beneath the surface, settling into Sam's being. With every word of deceit, every sin of omission, more venomous blasphemy made its way into Sam's core. It built and built until Sam wasn't sure there's any of him left anymore. Old Sam, New Sam…it didn't matter. The character, the mask, the 'person' inside was being pushed away. And that couldn't happen. Sam had work to do, and these lies were getting him nowhere.
Now Sam's telling the truth. Finally. As the words come out of his mouth, and he watches Dean's face…as he hears the bitterness and raw pain in his brother's voice…Something in Sam twinges. It's not physical, or even emotional…it just is. It's distant and buried, but it's there. And Sam doesn't know what it means. He's not sure if he wants to know.
"I was that other Sam for a long time, and it was kinda harder. But there are also things about it I remember that... Let's just say, I should probably go back to being him."
And just like that, the memories and flashes are back full force, giving Sam cruel glimpses of what used to be. Of what could be in the future if Sam became the real Sam…the old Sam. If Sam could be found.
If Sammy could be found.
Damnit, Sam thinks, feeling the familiar twinge deep in his chest.
Because no one understands. Bobby, Samuel, Dean…Not even Sam himself understands. Sam doesn't have a soul, so why is he allowing these memories to affect him?
Trying to shove the denial, deceit, and detachment in front of the empty mass growing in his chest, Sam looks away. But he knows. Damnit, he knows.
Damnit if, despite his numb core, Sam still wants to help people, to be good again, to do the right thing.
Damnit if he wants to do anything, everything, to keep himself from traveling down that path, that dark, unsavory walkway that leads to nothing but pain, suffering, death, or in his experience, all of the above.
Damnit if Sam doesn't want to be bad—he wants to be good. Damnit if Sam doesn't want to walk the wrong way anymore—he wants to do the right thing.
And damnit…Goddamnit…if Sam no longer knows the difference.
Sam, or pseudo-Sam, avoids his brother's gaze. Something about the faraway look in Dean's eyes is pushing him over the edge, and he doesn't want to fall off. He can't. He's taken too many dives, suffered too many tumbles, and isn't sure if he'd be able to pick himself up again. Old Sam might've been able to. But as he's learned over the past year—he's not Sam. Resilience in the physical sense is easy. However, one thing Sam can't remember is how to deal with the other kind of pain. The Old Sam probably could have. But Sam isn't Sam. Not anymore.
Yet at the same time, these memories keep resurfacing, and all he can see is Dean with those goddamn sad eyes. Dean just wants his brother. He just wants his family. And Sam, faux or not, wants to give him that.
The thoughts only serve to deepen the cosmic emptiness in him. The vast emptiness consuming him. The emptiness that is him.
Sam sighs resignedly.
Damnit if, though he still doesn't even know who the hell he is, he knows who he wants to be. And damnit if even the tiniest part of him thinks that's enough.
"Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty."
-Carry On Wayward Son, Kansas