Sam sat on the pier. It was getting dark, but he really didn't mind, Dean wouldn't be home until early morning and his little brother was completely content to sit oceanside until he does so. Waiting up for him like a housewife even though those days are long gone.
Sam was young, maybe 12 when it started, the kissing on the lips, holding hands, the silly little romantic gestures. But it was over now. Last year, Dean decided that this was 'too weird'. This thing they had. Dean had broken it off and broken Sam's heart.
'I was a stupid kid, Sammy! I know, you think you love me that way, but you don't, I don't! Get over it!'
"Maybe I'm still a stupid kid," Sam wondered aloud, tears welling up. "Maybe I shouldn't be here..."
He wondered about his mother often, where she was, what she must have been thinking as she died. The fact that it was his fault.
'If I wasn't here, she'd be alive right now,' Sam pondered, 'Dean would be happy and normal. Dad wouldn't be so harsh. Everything would have been so perfect,' the tears began to fall, 'if only I didn't exist...'
Maybe that's why Dean hated him so much. He ruined his life. Forced him into hunting just as much as Dad and Dean had done so to Sam. He had taken the precious childhood that his big brother so often recounted. He destroyed the happiness of the love of his life.
He wished he'd joined his mother. Wish he'd died of SIDS or of smallpox or anything, it just had to have happened before he was six months old. He could already feel the soil around him, hushing him to rest, soothing him with constant pressure of what might have been. The box surrounding his body at the time would now be replaced with a pyre. If his body was ever found, that is.
He's been trapped for so long, tired, angry, then energetic, but too sad to move. Then he was broken up with.
Though, he supposed, it wasn't a breakup if there was no relationship to start...
His heart clenched, his brain replaying moments of love, of Dean's affection and attention and love.
How could Dean say that it was nothing?
Making everything seem so much more appealing than living.
Getting crushed by a car was better than going back to the hotel room of the week without a 'welcome home' kiss.
Getting lost in the city was better than seeing Dean again without saying those three words.
The knife calling for him to just slit his wrists more appealing than seeing Dean with somebody else.
The pull of the sea, waiting for him to enter and get lost much easier to cope with than living with this any longer.
He didn't want to hear Dean say anything.
Not about how funny he was or how clever he was. How much of a charming kid he could be or how entertaining he was. He didn't want Dean to compliment his hair or his face or his legs. Talking about how easily he'd get a girlfriend or boyfriend.
'If you're so great, then why did Dean leave you? Why are you all alone, sitting on a wall near the sea? Why does Dean not care that you're going to die? If he loves you so much, then why isn't he here for you?' Sam yelled at himself internally. 'If you're so loved, then why do you want so badly to die? I know exactly why, Sammy. Because that's just what you are. Alone. Nobody wants you, nobody requires your existence. Without Dean, you're a nobody.'
And he believed it so easily. His head seemed so clear. He couldn't believe that he hadn't killed himself earlier.
He imagined Dean coming back from his newest fling's house (away from someone better than him) and notice that Sam was gone. He saw Dean calling him, angry, and eventually, giving up, not giving Sam enough energy to care about him missing. Sam was sure he didn't deserve that energy.
Sam didn't have energy himself really.
He imagined Dad coming back, a bit upset that Sam was lost, but really, nobody cared. It was all for show. Attempted proof to themselves that they were good people. He was useless anyways...
Sam was so tired.
He pictured how much easier Dean's life will be after this.
He can almost hear Dean's voice.
He relaxed his body, allowing himself to fall into the water in a dead man, or soon to be dead man's, float.
He almost fell asleep with the lull of imaginary Dean's voice when hands grabbed him. He was about to protest, but he was so tired. The pills he took earlier finally catching up to him, he melted into the hands, falling unconcious.