[FIC] Responsibility
Title: Responsibility
Beta: none
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Everything up to and including 8.05
Warnings: None
Genre: Sam/Amelia, mostly dialogue. Sort of "Gen" since Sam and Amelia are not together by the end of this.
Word count: 1363
Summary: Sam wants to talk about his feelings. Amelia doesn't. They argue and it ends with Sam leaving for Whitefish, Montana.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. This is a work of fiction. No profit is being made off of this work.
Read elsewhere: AO3
“Damnit, Sam, we’ve talked about this.” Amelia has her hands on her hips one second and then she’s dropped them to her sides the next. She’s a nervous ball of energy. She always gets like this when they fight.
“Amelia, I don’t understand why we can’t just talk about this-” Sam starts, moving toward her, his hands held palms up in a gesture of peace.
“Because, Sam,” she says, stressing both words. She turns to look away, but then jerks her head back around and advances a step. “I don’t want to talk about this.” She says it with conviction. Sam understands that this is a sensitive topic, but he just wants to help. All he’s ever wanted to do is help.
Why won’t be just let him?
“Amelia, I know you don’t want to talk about this, believe me, I get it-”
“Then leave it! Just leave it, Sam! I’m so sick and tired of always having to… to justify myself to you! Just let it be!”
“You don’t need to justify yourself, Amelia. I just want to help,” he counters.
“And that’s it. You always want to help. You want to listen. You want to talk, communicate, share, emote. Sam, I swear to god, sometimes I think that I’m the man in this relationship. I’m so sick of having to tell you to screw off. Why can’t we just shut up about it? I do not want to talk this over.” Amelia is shaking with anger now. Her right arm is twitching and Sam knows that she’s past her tipping point. So, he concedes.
He holds his hands up and steps back. “Okay, okay, we don’t have to talk about this now. It’s okay.”
“No Sam, it’s not. It’s not a question of when, I just don’t want to fucking talk about it.” She raises her hands above her head as she speaks, enunciating clearly, and then drops them. She clenches her hands into fists.
“Okay, fine, not at all,” Sam says. He knows that he’ll bring it up later.
“Oh my god, you’re thinking of when to bring this up, aren’t you? No, Sam!”
“Fine, I am! I just don’t get it. Don’t you even want to respect him or honour his memory?”
“Yes, I do! In my own way. I don’t need to talk about it or share my feelings. I’ve talked about it. I’ve talked to death about it. And I’m sick of it. I’m with you and I’m ready to move on.”
“But never to me,” Sam says quietly.
“You’re right. I’m done talking. I told you about him before. You know who he was. How he died. What he meant to me. And you know what you mean to me, too.” Amelia smiles, finally. “Sam, I don’t want to always live in the past. My ghosts-they’re gone. They’ve moved on, and so have I. I want to move forward.” She looks down at her hands. Her breathing is calmer now and she’s less on edge.
“I guess… I guess I’m just having a hard time. The only way I’ve been able to deal with the shit in my life is to talk it out. I always had Dean for that, even if he was a bitch about it.” His lips twist into a smile.
“Sam, I’m not Dean. You can’t replace him.”
“And I’m not trying to! Look, I know you’re not him. You’re something-someone-different. And I love you for it, but I need to talk about these things.”
“I can’t, Sam. You know I can’t. I can’t keep revisiting old wounds. And it’s not healthy for you, either.”
“Well, it’s not healthy for you to bottle it up! You know what my brother did? Exactly that. It got so bad that he’d wake up and pour himself a glass of whiskey. It wouldn’t even be good. It was just there and he’d need it in the morning, one for lunch, one for dinner, and a few after that to help him sleep. He’d chase away the pain with booze and violence and it didn’t work.”
“Well, Sam, I’m not your alcoholic brother! I’m not drinking-”
Sam frowns.
“Not anymore and not as much,” she amends, “and I’m not… repressing this, or whatever you think I’m doing. I’m just living, Sam, and you should do the same.”
“But I am,” he replies quietly. “We just have different ways of living.”
Amelia smiles, but this time her smile is very sad. “No, Sam. You’re stuck in the past of remembering everyone you’ve lost. You think about them every day. I know because you told me. I know all of this about you because you tell me these things.”
“And that’s how I’ve gotten better! Damnit, don’t you see? After Dean died, I was a fucking wreck. I drank, too. And I got smashed and taken in to a police station once or twice. And I sobered up and it sucked. But talking about it with you helped. It helped so much. I was falling apart and you helped put me back together. You were there for me, Amelia.” This time, he’s the one smiling.
Amelia shakes her head.
“No, Sam. I can’t do it anymore. I was there for you, but I can’t take it.”
“Can’t take what?” He frowns. He doesn’t understand.
“Picking you up, putting you back together. You’re not some fucking… puzzle, Sam! You’re a person with feelings and emotions. And I can’t… I can’t have that responsibility.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been a burden, then.” He’s not frowning and he’s not smiling. He has that terrifying blank expression that Amelia has only seen a few times. It scares her, but she needs this. Now, she’s finally ready to talk.
“That’s not it. You’re not a burden. You’re humble and gentle, but I’m not. I’m crass and I’m rude and I lived in a motel for three months because I didn’t want to bother finding a house. It wasn’t that it was hard or sad; I just couldn’t be bothered. I ran away and found a small town and couldn’t be bothered to find a house. I’m a slacker, and so what? But you’re… you’re always looking for something. And you haven’t found it, Sam. I’m not leaving, but you’re going to.”
“I’m not leaving you, Amelia. I wouldn’t do that to you. I love you.”
“I love you too. And that’s okay. It’s okay if we love one another, but it doesn’t work out.”
Sam bows his head. He doesn’t know what to say.
The silence progresses until Riot whines. Sam glances over to him and realizes that he has forgotten to feed him. It’s twenty minutes past the usual time and Riot has always been used to a strict feeding schedule.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he says at last.
“You have to, Sam. You always said that you ran away after Dean died. You were always wrong. You’ve been running to something; you just never knew what.”
Riot whines again.
“Okay, okay,” Sam says and follows Riot into the kitchen. He picks up Riot’s bowl, brings it over to the cupboard, and pulls the hunking bag of dog food out of the cupboard and onto the floor. He shovels out the appropriate amount of food into the bowl, puts the bag back into the cupboard, and then sets the bowl of kibble on the ground. Riot whines again and he fills up the bowl. Once both are set side by side, Riot wags his tail and begins to eat.
Amelia is leaning against the doorframe with her arms and legs crossed. Sam can tell that she has been watching him the entire time.
“Amelia. I’m not leaving. I have nowhere to go,” he explains.
“Yes, you do. Go bury those ghosts, Sam.”
Two days later, Sam has all his possessions packed in the impala and he begins the drive to Whitefish, Monata.
When Sam and Amelia finally part ways, neither of them say, “see you later” or: “see you around” or even, “have a nice life.”
They say, “goodbye” and then Sam is gone.
Beta: none
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Everything up to and including 8.05
Warnings: None
Genre: Sam/Amelia, mostly dialogue. Sort of "Gen" since Sam and Amelia are not together by the end of this.
Word count: 1363
Summary: Sam wants to talk about his feelings. Amelia doesn't. They argue and it ends with Sam leaving for Whitefish, Montana.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or its characters. This is a work of fiction. No profit is being made off of this work.
Read elsewhere: AO3
“Damnit, Sam, we’ve talked about this.” Amelia has her hands on her hips one second and then she’s dropped them to her sides the next. She’s a nervous ball of energy. She always gets like this when they fight.
“Amelia, I don’t understand why we can’t just talk about this-” Sam starts, moving toward her, his hands held palms up in a gesture of peace.
“Because, Sam,” she says, stressing both words. She turns to look away, but then jerks her head back around and advances a step. “I don’t want to talk about this.” She says it with conviction. Sam understands that this is a sensitive topic, but he just wants to help. All he’s ever wanted to do is help.
Why won’t be just let him?
“Amelia, I know you don’t want to talk about this, believe me, I get it-”
“Then leave it! Just leave it, Sam! I’m so sick and tired of always having to… to justify myself to you! Just let it be!”
“You don’t need to justify yourself, Amelia. I just want to help,” he counters.
“And that’s it. You always want to help. You want to listen. You want to talk, communicate, share, emote. Sam, I swear to god, sometimes I think that I’m the man in this relationship. I’m so sick of having to tell you to screw off. Why can’t we just shut up about it? I do not want to talk this over.” Amelia is shaking with anger now. Her right arm is twitching and Sam knows that she’s past her tipping point. So, he concedes.
He holds his hands up and steps back. “Okay, okay, we don’t have to talk about this now. It’s okay.”
“No Sam, it’s not. It’s not a question of when, I just don’t want to fucking talk about it.” She raises her hands above her head as she speaks, enunciating clearly, and then drops them. She clenches her hands into fists.
“Okay, fine, not at all,” Sam says. He knows that he’ll bring it up later.
“Oh my god, you’re thinking of when to bring this up, aren’t you? No, Sam!”
“Fine, I am! I just don’t get it. Don’t you even want to respect him or honour his memory?”
“Yes, I do! In my own way. I don’t need to talk about it or share my feelings. I’ve talked about it. I’ve talked to death about it. And I’m sick of it. I’m with you and I’m ready to move on.”
“But never to me,” Sam says quietly.
“You’re right. I’m done talking. I told you about him before. You know who he was. How he died. What he meant to me. And you know what you mean to me, too.” Amelia smiles, finally. “Sam, I don’t want to always live in the past. My ghosts-they’re gone. They’ve moved on, and so have I. I want to move forward.” She looks down at her hands. Her breathing is calmer now and she’s less on edge.
“I guess… I guess I’m just having a hard time. The only way I’ve been able to deal with the shit in my life is to talk it out. I always had Dean for that, even if he was a bitch about it.” His lips twist into a smile.
“Sam, I’m not Dean. You can’t replace him.”
“And I’m not trying to! Look, I know you’re not him. You’re something-someone-different. And I love you for it, but I need to talk about these things.”
“I can’t, Sam. You know I can’t. I can’t keep revisiting old wounds. And it’s not healthy for you, either.”
“Well, it’s not healthy for you to bottle it up! You know what my brother did? Exactly that. It got so bad that he’d wake up and pour himself a glass of whiskey. It wouldn’t even be good. It was just there and he’d need it in the morning, one for lunch, one for dinner, and a few after that to help him sleep. He’d chase away the pain with booze and violence and it didn’t work.”
“Well, Sam, I’m not your alcoholic brother! I’m not drinking-”
Sam frowns.
“Not anymore and not as much,” she amends, “and I’m not… repressing this, or whatever you think I’m doing. I’m just living, Sam, and you should do the same.”
“But I am,” he replies quietly. “We just have different ways of living.”
Amelia smiles, but this time her smile is very sad. “No, Sam. You’re stuck in the past of remembering everyone you’ve lost. You think about them every day. I know because you told me. I know all of this about you because you tell me these things.”
“And that’s how I’ve gotten better! Damnit, don’t you see? After Dean died, I was a fucking wreck. I drank, too. And I got smashed and taken in to a police station once or twice. And I sobered up and it sucked. But talking about it with you helped. It helped so much. I was falling apart and you helped put me back together. You were there for me, Amelia.” This time, he’s the one smiling.
Amelia shakes her head.
“No, Sam. I can’t do it anymore. I was there for you, but I can’t take it.”
“Can’t take what?” He frowns. He doesn’t understand.
“Picking you up, putting you back together. You’re not some fucking… puzzle, Sam! You’re a person with feelings and emotions. And I can’t… I can’t have that responsibility.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve been a burden, then.” He’s not frowning and he’s not smiling. He has that terrifying blank expression that Amelia has only seen a few times. It scares her, but she needs this. Now, she’s finally ready to talk.
“That’s not it. You’re not a burden. You’re humble and gentle, but I’m not. I’m crass and I’m rude and I lived in a motel for three months because I didn’t want to bother finding a house. It wasn’t that it was hard or sad; I just couldn’t be bothered. I ran away and found a small town and couldn’t be bothered to find a house. I’m a slacker, and so what? But you’re… you’re always looking for something. And you haven’t found it, Sam. I’m not leaving, but you’re going to.”
“I’m not leaving you, Amelia. I wouldn’t do that to you. I love you.”
“I love you too. And that’s okay. It’s okay if we love one another, but it doesn’t work out.”
Sam bows his head. He doesn’t know what to say.
The silence progresses until Riot whines. Sam glances over to him and realizes that he has forgotten to feed him. It’s twenty minutes past the usual time and Riot has always been used to a strict feeding schedule.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he says at last.
“You have to, Sam. You always said that you ran away after Dean died. You were always wrong. You’ve been running to something; you just never knew what.”
Riot whines again.
“Okay, okay,” Sam says and follows Riot into the kitchen. He picks up Riot’s bowl, brings it over to the cupboard, and pulls the hunking bag of dog food out of the cupboard and onto the floor. He shovels out the appropriate amount of food into the bowl, puts the bag back into the cupboard, and then sets the bowl of kibble on the ground. Riot whines again and he fills up the bowl. Once both are set side by side, Riot wags his tail and begins to eat.
Amelia is leaning against the doorframe with her arms and legs crossed. Sam can tell that she has been watching him the entire time.
“Amelia. I’m not leaving. I have nowhere to go,” he explains.
“Yes, you do. Go bury those ghosts, Sam.”
Two days later, Sam has all his possessions packed in the impala and he begins the drive to Whitefish, Monata.
When Sam and Amelia finally part ways, neither of them say, “see you later” or: “see you around” or even, “have a nice life.”
They say, “goodbye” and then Sam is gone.