A/N So I am posting a story I wrote a long time ago. I know the writing isn't the best but I hope to improve it in the future. Odd enough, this wasn't even a fan fiction to begin with, I just tweaked it a bit to make it seem like one. I dunno, I mean when I read it for a second time this just screamed "this-is-totally-a-bad-childhood-memory-of-Sam-Winchester-I-mean-how-could-you-not-of-seen-that-before?"
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural... If I did I would own the characters... If I owned the characters the TV would be moved to Showtime with the rest of the adult-ish shows because of the kinkiness I would add...
Notes: Just letting you know that this is about Sam and John, Dean is left completely out of this fiction. Despite the fact that I think John is really a good man who did what he could in his situation, I am writing him as abusive.
There is a house that no one goes in to, no one touches, no one speaks of. There is a house that no one dares buy. The house is cursed, or so the legend goes.
They say that ten years ago a family lived there: a father and his two sons. That man was a good person, they say, a mechanic, and had just settled down into the town when it happened. A ghost, the locals say, a ghost possessed him and used his body to do horrible things. One of those things included beating his two sons to death. And when the ghost left his body, and the man had realized what he had done, the he killed himself.
Of course the newspapers were skeptical and called it hogwash, there were no bodies to be found. Yet still, no one dares set foot in the house.
A tall, pale boy shivers lightly in the moonlight, his sunken eyes move around the empty, grey-washed room until it lands on a long, brown floorboard. Silently he slips his nail between two cracks and feels around until he hears a light click. After carefully removing the dusty plank, he gently leans the wood on the wall. Reaching cautiously into the nook, a feels around for the rough texture of aged vellum and paper. When his arm retreats, his hand is full of the folded, dust coated, slips. He quickly unfolds a few, quickly reading through the smudged-filled pages. Unfolding a few newspaper clippings, he eyes the titles. "Local Family Goes Missing: Neighbors Speculate", "Search for Family Continues Could the Evidence be Ghosting?", "Ghouls Get Gone and So Does the Evidence". He reads through them before searching for the last yellowed paper. When he finally finds it, he lets go of the rest of the papers and they float gently towards the floor. His face hollows as the words on the old piece of partchment weave their way through his shaggy, brown hair.
I remember that we were fighting one night while you were drunk. During that "little" fight you started throwing everything within your reach at me. I remember seeing my papers, bullets, and whatever else was on the top of my drawer flashing by me in a blur. I thought you might kill me, it scared me so badly. When you left you turned off the lights and slammed my door and after your footsteps faded away, I dragged my self into the corner of my room and started to cry silently. This though, you probably know. What you don't know is that later, while I was cleaning the mess you made, I found something that twisted me into something I wish to never see again.
I was going through the papers you had thrown on the ground and I found something. Scribbled on a yellow lined piece of paper was the list of my hopes and dreams. The list of things I wanted to do and places that I wanted to see. My heart and soul's wants and desires inked onto parchment. But you had thrown it on the ground like a piece of trash. Like it was nothing. Like it didn't matter. The symbolism of that was enough for me. So, I picked up that piece of paper and held it in my hands, just for a moment, before ripping it to shreds. But I didn't rip it quickly, oh no, I could never do that. I was sad, not angry, and drowning in my own sorrow. No. Instead I ripped it at a agonizingly slow pace, listening to my hopes and dreams being torn apart. And with each section of paper I shredded, I could feel my heart unravel and slowly crumble away.
And this is what you did to me. You crushed my dreams, you broke my heart, and you took away my self esteem. You hurt me in ways I could never imagine. And tomorrow, when I wake up, you will pretend that nothings wrong, that everything is okay. But it's not okay. And it's not alright. But you can go ahead and live in your delusional little world. Your world where every one bows down to you and every one smiles. But one of these day days when you loose control again, some one will get hurt. Really hurt, maybe dead. So you be careful and I'll be cautious. Because chances are the person who will get hurt, is me.
The sunken-eyed boy slowly stands up taller, completely ridged. He knows the truth, he's one of the only living beings to know what really happened that night.
There was no ghost, there were no death's, and no one committed suicide. Instead, there was a bottle of Jack Daniels, a failed hunt, and a poor excuse for a father.
Lips pulled into a half-snarl, he collects the fallen papers before going out into the backyard. Quickly, he tosses the papers on the ground next to a old pile of bones before lighting them, ever so gently, on fire. Eyes now bright and glistening, he smiles. The last thought he has as he turns his muscled back to the inferno is, "I am free."
A/N I hope you enjoyed this and I am sorry that it is not my best quality writing. As I said, I wrote it awhile ago. Also, this wasn't betaed so all mistakes are my own.