It's Not a Baby, It's a Timebomb
Author's Note: I am a terrible person. Here you go!
Warnings for attempted suicide (murder?), self-hate, negative thoughts and suicidal thoughts, lack of self-worth things, suicidal ideation.
BEWARE IS A HEAVIER FIC WITH SAD THOUGHTS.
*****
It’s strange, how well he remembers a place he hadn’t been to since he was six months old. But his old room is all too familiar - the mobile, the clock on the wall, the blue tint that hasn’t gone orange yet.
He was stuck. Stranded back in time, in some familiar pocket of universe; the idea to return to this place hadn’t even necessarily been his own. It had been more-so from the lips of a god, one who had rolled his eyes and spoke with wry annoyance at even the appearance of a Winchester in his day. It would have been so much easier if you had died. That’s what he’d said. Why here? Why now? Sam had tried to comprehend it. He’d been a fan of It’s a Wonderful Life, and isn’t this just the very opposite of that tale? Where’s his Clarence? Because he could use Cas right about now. Then again, maybe he didn’t deserve divine intervention; maybe this is just what he needed, after seeing all those glimpses of the future -
- watching his mother laughing, sun in her hair, smiling and alive; there’s Dean, all freckles and vibrant energy, nothing like the silent and sometimes cold kid Sam remembers, who would watch him like a guard, a hawk, protective but distant, supportive at some of those times where things felt too heavy. Dad… Dad is happy. He doesn’t look like he smells of alcohol and corpse-fueled smoke. He’s carrying Dean on his shoulders, helping him across the monkey bars, and Dean looks loved, and Mary looks loved, and John looks loved - and Sam is not there -
It would have been so much easier if you had died.
Sam flinches as if struck by the memory, leaning over the sleeping infant in the crib. He’s a cute kid, all fat and content, fingers curled up close to his mouth. This would be Sammy, the old face that received the name, that deserved it. There are days long since the apocalypse where Sam thinks it’s a good name to have, that he and this child are synonymous, the same. Other days… Sam wonders just how much of him is in this room. How much of him had been chipped away all these years. How much even survived the night of the fire.
- Sam wasn’t alive in the world he’d visited before this one, where Jess had been preparing for a wedding, nervous and blushing. Sam stood there, gobsmacked by the world he was dropped into; had complimented her dress as she’d left the church, and she had thanked him, despite him being a stranger among the throng of people. A dead man. She got into a car, her hand clasped in someone other than Sam’s, which was how it should’ve been; should have never been his; her mother and father are crying tears of joy, and there are no black umbrellas, no black suits or coffins and tombstones, no nightmares about the smell of burnt flesh, just Jessia, alive, happy -
His hands slowly drift, hovering over the baby’s softly exhaling chest.
It would have been so much easier -
It’s a lie, it has to be. The god’s just trying to destroy him in the most painful way he knows how. Sam dying wouldn’t have fixed anything. Bad things would have happened: his family was still cursed under Azazel’s watchful stare, and angels still missed their father. Nothing. Changes. And yet he’s seen Jody watching her son graduate with her husband by her side, and he’d seen Ellen and Jo working at their bar, older but content; he saw Bobby squabbling at Garth, and Cas as an angel, different but more whole than he’s been in a long time… no longer lost, no longer trying to find his way.
And then there’s Dean -
- smiling brightly, going to an old rock concert with a couple of friends and a pretty girl next to him; has the windows down and he’s just cruising, letting the Impala rumble and hum around him, the summer sky bright and warm, and everyone’s laughing, putting their feet up and talking about music, music and cars, because Dean still can’t help but love it all, and Dean’s just happy to be there and living -
And Sam… is not there.
He puts his hands over the baby’s throat, gritting his teeth, temples throbbing with pain.
Boy-king, abomination, freak. Shitty brother, blood junkie, leaving a trail of dead lovers in his wake, needing a chaperon, failing every single thing that mattered. Murderer. Nutcase. Meat suit. Monster. Monster. Monster.
it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb, it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb, it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb -
He squeezes slightly, but he can’t get his fingers to wrap around his throat hard enough, because the baby is just a baby, and he couldn’t - it’s barely even him, it’s better than him, always will be better than him. He’s shaking, convulsively almost, with tears dripping down his face. The baby stirs, looking back at him with eyes that haven’t quite found their final color. He rasps, “It’d be easier this way. There’s just a sliver of a chance for things to be okay, and I need to… I just - we’re so fucked up later, and I don’t know how else to fix this. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’d be easier…”
He feels fucking pathetic, but he can’t. He couldn’t…
“I can’t do it,” he chokes out, while Sammy makes a gurgling little sound of contentment. The small hand curls around one of his fingers and Sam leans his head against the railing, trying to control himself, breathing in and out, trying not to lose it here and now - and then there’s a noise behind him (wood creaking underfoot, bare feet patting), and he whirls around, eyes wide, his silhouette no doubt intimidating.
It’s Dean.
It’s Dean with that little funny bowl cut, wearing his pajamas and holding a small teddy bear under his arm. He’s staring silently at the looming figure before him - judging, calm, certain - and all Sam can do is step away from the crib, his hands raised slightly. “I’m sorry,” he manages, eyes red as he backs away toward the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m leaving. I was… just going to leave. I’m sorry.”
He really is. For so many things.
Dean looks him over for a moment more before wandering quickly passed him, putting himself between Samand Sammy, blocking him from coming back over to the bed. Protecting him. Sam stutters on a breath, but leaves the room; keeps going, until he’s in the doorway outside of the nursery while Dean’s climbing into the crib like he’s done it more than once, ever-watchful as he sits with his brother. He doesn’t stop watching after Sam until he’s in the hallway, and Sam can hear his brother’s small voice say, “It’s okay, Sammy. It’ll be okay.”
Everything’s spinning.
He turns, and John’s got a gun aimed at him, yelling for Mary to grab the boys as he fires. Each shot is a small, sharp punch, and he falls and keeps falling. Never stops falling. It’ll be okay, Sammy. It’ll be okay.Castiel’s wings flap, encase him, mangled but somehow still carrying him, and they’re moving up, up - “I’ve got you, Sam, hang on…!” And then suddenly Sam is lying in cold, wet grass, unsure of how he got there. Dean and Cas are hovering over him, brows pinched with concern, hands pawing at his torn, slightly bloodied shirt (-bullet holes from his father, interesting to think about, isn’t it, Sam?). Castiel’s voice drifts through the air. “He’d been shot… I’ve healed those wounds… found him years ago… in the past…”
They take note of Sam’s lucidity, and lean in. Dean’s breath smells like onions from the last diner meal they’d had, and Sam tries pathetically to push him back, even if his arms feel like jelly.
“You alright, Sam?” Dean puts his hand on Sam’s expanding chest. Sam blinks back tears and nods, and it’s one of the biggest lies of his life. But he curls his hand around Dean’s, his brother’s confused face melting into blackness. He’s too tired to be here right now. He’s exhausted.
Sam’ll pretend everything’s okay when he wakes up.
Warnings for attempted suicide (murder?), self-hate, negative thoughts and suicidal thoughts, lack of self-worth things, suicidal ideation.
BEWARE IS A HEAVIER FIC WITH SAD THOUGHTS.
*****
It’s strange, how well he remembers a place he hadn’t been to since he was six months old. But his old room is all too familiar - the mobile, the clock on the wall, the blue tint that hasn’t gone orange yet.
He was stuck. Stranded back in time, in some familiar pocket of universe; the idea to return to this place hadn’t even necessarily been his own. It had been more-so from the lips of a god, one who had rolled his eyes and spoke with wry annoyance at even the appearance of a Winchester in his day. It would have been so much easier if you had died. That’s what he’d said. Why here? Why now? Sam had tried to comprehend it. He’d been a fan of It’s a Wonderful Life, and isn’t this just the very opposite of that tale? Where’s his Clarence? Because he could use Cas right about now. Then again, maybe he didn’t deserve divine intervention; maybe this is just what he needed, after seeing all those glimpses of the future -
- watching his mother laughing, sun in her hair, smiling and alive; there’s Dean, all freckles and vibrant energy, nothing like the silent and sometimes cold kid Sam remembers, who would watch him like a guard, a hawk, protective but distant, supportive at some of those times where things felt too heavy. Dad… Dad is happy. He doesn’t look like he smells of alcohol and corpse-fueled smoke. He’s carrying Dean on his shoulders, helping him across the monkey bars, and Dean looks loved, and Mary looks loved, and John looks loved - and Sam is not there -
It would have been so much easier if you had died.
Sam flinches as if struck by the memory, leaning over the sleeping infant in the crib. He’s a cute kid, all fat and content, fingers curled up close to his mouth. This would be Sammy, the old face that received the name, that deserved it. There are days long since the apocalypse where Sam thinks it’s a good name to have, that he and this child are synonymous, the same. Other days… Sam wonders just how much of him is in this room. How much of him had been chipped away all these years. How much even survived the night of the fire.
- Sam wasn’t alive in the world he’d visited before this one, where Jess had been preparing for a wedding, nervous and blushing. Sam stood there, gobsmacked by the world he was dropped into; had complimented her dress as she’d left the church, and she had thanked him, despite him being a stranger among the throng of people. A dead man. She got into a car, her hand clasped in someone other than Sam’s, which was how it should’ve been; should have never been his; her mother and father are crying tears of joy, and there are no black umbrellas, no black suits or coffins and tombstones, no nightmares about the smell of burnt flesh, just Jessia, alive, happy -
His hands slowly drift, hovering over the baby’s softly exhaling chest.
It would have been so much easier -
It’s a lie, it has to be. The god’s just trying to destroy him in the most painful way he knows how. Sam dying wouldn’t have fixed anything. Bad things would have happened: his family was still cursed under Azazel’s watchful stare, and angels still missed their father. Nothing. Changes. And yet he’s seen Jody watching her son graduate with her husband by her side, and he’d seen Ellen and Jo working at their bar, older but content; he saw Bobby squabbling at Garth, and Cas as an angel, different but more whole than he’s been in a long time… no longer lost, no longer trying to find his way.
And then there’s Dean -
- smiling brightly, going to an old rock concert with a couple of friends and a pretty girl next to him; has the windows down and he’s just cruising, letting the Impala rumble and hum around him, the summer sky bright and warm, and everyone’s laughing, putting their feet up and talking about music, music and cars, because Dean still can’t help but love it all, and Dean’s just happy to be there and living -
And Sam… is not there.
He puts his hands over the baby’s throat, gritting his teeth, temples throbbing with pain.
Boy-king, abomination, freak. Shitty brother, blood junkie, leaving a trail of dead lovers in his wake, needing a chaperon, failing every single thing that mattered. Murderer. Nutcase. Meat suit. Monster. Monster. Monster.
it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb, it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb, it’s not a baby it’s a time-bomb -
He squeezes slightly, but he can’t get his fingers to wrap around his throat hard enough, because the baby is just a baby, and he couldn’t - it’s barely even him, it’s better than him, always will be better than him. He’s shaking, convulsively almost, with tears dripping down his face. The baby stirs, looking back at him with eyes that haven’t quite found their final color. He rasps, “It’d be easier this way. There’s just a sliver of a chance for things to be okay, and I need to… I just - we’re so fucked up later, and I don’t know how else to fix this. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it’d be easier…”
He feels fucking pathetic, but he can’t. He couldn’t…
“I can’t do it,” he chokes out, while Sammy makes a gurgling little sound of contentment. The small hand curls around one of his fingers and Sam leans his head against the railing, trying to control himself, breathing in and out, trying not to lose it here and now - and then there’s a noise behind him (wood creaking underfoot, bare feet patting), and he whirls around, eyes wide, his silhouette no doubt intimidating.
It’s Dean.
It’s Dean with that little funny bowl cut, wearing his pajamas and holding a small teddy bear under his arm. He’s staring silently at the looming figure before him - judging, calm, certain - and all Sam can do is step away from the crib, his hands raised slightly. “I’m sorry,” he manages, eyes red as he backs away toward the wall. “I’m sorry, I’m leaving. I was… just going to leave. I’m sorry.”
He really is. For so many things.
Dean looks him over for a moment more before wandering quickly passed him, putting himself between Samand Sammy, blocking him from coming back over to the bed. Protecting him. Sam stutters on a breath, but leaves the room; keeps going, until he’s in the doorway outside of the nursery while Dean’s climbing into the crib like he’s done it more than once, ever-watchful as he sits with his brother. He doesn’t stop watching after Sam until he’s in the hallway, and Sam can hear his brother’s small voice say, “It’s okay, Sammy. It’ll be okay.”
Everything’s spinning.
He turns, and John’s got a gun aimed at him, yelling for Mary to grab the boys as he fires. Each shot is a small, sharp punch, and he falls and keeps falling. Never stops falling. It’ll be okay, Sammy. It’ll be okay.Castiel’s wings flap, encase him, mangled but somehow still carrying him, and they’re moving up, up - “I’ve got you, Sam, hang on…!” And then suddenly Sam is lying in cold, wet grass, unsure of how he got there. Dean and Cas are hovering over him, brows pinched with concern, hands pawing at his torn, slightly bloodied shirt (-bullet holes from his father, interesting to think about, isn’t it, Sam?). Castiel’s voice drifts through the air. “He’d been shot… I’ve healed those wounds… found him years ago… in the past…”
They take note of Sam’s lucidity, and lean in. Dean’s breath smells like onions from the last diner meal they’d had, and Sam tries pathetically to push him back, even if his arms feel like jelly.
“You alright, Sam?” Dean puts his hand on Sam’s expanding chest. Sam blinks back tears and nods, and it’s one of the biggest lies of his life. But he curls his hand around Dean’s, his brother’s confused face melting into blackness. He’s too tired to be here right now. He’s exhausted.
Sam’ll pretend everything’s okay when he wakes up.