#a character study

Sam knew from a young age that he was different, even if he didn’t understand how or why. Even as a young child he didn’t cry at sad moments in Disney movies – when Mufasa died and Dean was trying his hardest to hide his tears and save face, Sam wasn’t feeling much of anything. When a classmate cried, he didn’t feel pangs of sympathy – he just froze up, not sure what to say or do. What does one say to someone who lost a loved one? Is he supposed to care about some kid’s parents’ divorce? He once got angry and pushed another kid, and when the boy skinned his knee and cried he just felt… nothing. He felt something when a teacher came over to check on the boy: fear of being sent to the Principal’s office. Fear of consequences – reason enough to not do it again.

When his father came home in bad shape, mourning a difficult hunt and lives lost, Dean always seemed to know what to say and do. Luckily, less was expected from Sam as the younger son, but when Dean wasn’t around to help he tended to avoid their father. He didn’t know how to help carry the weight of the man’s burdens. He could never quite relate to the drive that pushed him to avenge his wife’s death – Sam felt nothing towards his mother. He never knew her, was too young to have memories of her, so why would he mourn? How could he really relate to his father’s feelings?

When Dean was hurt, Sam felt worry about him until he could confirm his brother would survive. He made sure that the injury wasn’t severe as he patched Dean up with young hands that shouldn’t be so accustomed to the task. Sam knew he loved his brother, more than he knew anything, but even Dean’s sorrow on the anniversary of their mother’s death wasn’t enough to make Sam cry. Dean saw nothing wrong; as far as he was concerned, Sam was perfect. He saw the best in him with something approximating an unconditional mother’s love.

But Sam feared himself. Feared that he wasn’t normal, that he was evil, that one day he would do something impulsive and destructive and feel no grief for it. To teachers, he was a “good kid” – a little quiet, but conscientious and well-mannered. But no matter how much praise a teacher heaped on, he couldn’t brush off the feeling that something was very wrong with him.

He’d learned a sense of right and wrong from Dad's teachings and Dean’s example; Dean, despite his macho façade, had greater feelings of empathy than Sam did. If Sam was gifted with one thing it was a fundamental desire to be good, to be the hero and not the villain. That desire kept him within the constraints of a carefully constructed morality. He flagellated himself with his own shame until his outside behavior hardly matched his inside.

As he aged, he learned. He watched the way people addressed others’ feelings, in movies and in real life. He learned how to express sympathy, how to lay on the pathos until those around him viewed him as perfectly kind and empathetic. And he felt like an imposter, a liar, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His ability to act only made him more conscious of what was missing on a deeper level, that implicit care and empathy people seemed to have for others. If someone’s crisis was similar to something he’d experienced in the past, he could call upon his own memories: what would have made him feel better when it happened to him? But it was still an intellectual exercise more than anything else.

Jess was the first and only person he broke down and told.

“I don’t… feel things, for other people. I mean I’m capable of love, I think—no, I know I am. But when other people are upset I’m just… not. I don’t know how to deal with other people’s feelings. Sometimes I just feel… empty. I think something’s wrong with me. I can’t fix it, I can’t make myself feel what I’m supposed to feel and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I’m scared that I’m evil, deep down. It's like something in me is missing.”

Jess was encouraging.

“Sam, you’re one of the kindest people I know. You’re so sweet to me when I’m upset, whether you ‘get it’ or not. Isn’t that what matters? How you treat people? Even if you’re a little different, you’re a good guy, Sam. I promise.”

It really didn’t make him feel any better.

When Jess died, Sam began to understand much better how that kind of loss felt for other people. Or rather, he knew how it felt for him and then could extrapolate it to victims’ families. His ability to “fake it” made him a better hunter; Dean even began to view him as the one who was better at handling grieving people, often letting him take the lead in that department. But with every bit of false care and sentiment he directed at others, Sam felt a sour taste in his mouth. He wished more than anything that any of it was real.

When he found out about the demon blood that tainted him as a child, Sam began to suspect that he’d finally found the reason why he was the way he was. There was just a bit of Demon inside of him, just a bit of unfeeling and cold calculation. He couldn’t confirm this really, but it seemed unlikely that it wasn’t related. He wondered what kind of person he would have been had Azazel not interfered. Maybe he wouldn’t have spent his entire life feeling like something was deeply wrong with him.

Sam never knew for sure why he was so good at fighting the pull towards evil, better than Ava and the other Special Children. But if he had to guess, he’d suspect that fighting his nature for his entire childhood gave him a lot of skill and practice for denying his darker impulses. That bit of coldness inside of him was fully overcome by the ever-present need to feel just a little less evil, just a little less broken. And he had Dean’s example to follow – a man who didn’t always do right, but always tried.

When Sam regained his soul and had to contend with memories of being soul-less, he was most disturbed by the similarities between himself and that self. Of course, with his soul he helped people, made choices out of an intellectual construction of morality. Being soul-less took away the love he had, for Dean and close loved ones, but when dealing with strangers things weren’t so different. He didn’t lose empathy – he just lost the desire to fake having it, unless he absolutely had to for a case. He got a little worse at pretending, as he found "better" things to put his time and energy toward.

“Sorry to bother you this late Kazansky, but I figured you’d probably want me to pick her up instead of the MPs.” 

“Hi Uncle Ice.” You mutter and he nearly hisses at you. 

“What the hell happened?” 

“Kid who lives next door threw a party while his Dad’s out on business. Our neighbor across the street made some calls when they got out of control. Underage drinking, smoking, the lot. I recognized her as your goddaughter and figured she’d do better in your hands than those of the MPs.” Ice nods, moving to grab the back of your jacket as you wince. 

“Thanks Thatcher, I owe you one.”

“Tell her to stay out of trouble, you hear? I know Mitchell raised her to be a good kid and this isn’t like her. And I’m not sure they’re gonna let her walk off again.” Ice’s grip tightens on the back of your jacket. 

“Will do Thatcher. Thanks again.” 

“Night Kazansky.” The door shut and Ice all but growls as he drags you to the kitchen, setting you down in a chair. He moves around the kitchen table and stands there, hands on his hips. Ice’s anger can be felt through the air, growing with every passing minute. 

“I’m so unbelievably disappointed in you.” You don’t say anything to him as your hands sit on the table, fiddling with one of your rings. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” You shake your head. “What the hell has been up with you lately kid? You’ve been acting weird ever since your Dad left.” You don’t say anything, now picking at something that was stuck to the kitchen table. “Nothing?” He sighs, crossing his arms. “You’re so grounded. So, so grounded.” You raise an eyebrow, sitting back in your chairs with your arms crossed. 

“I’m not your kid Uncle Ice. I’m an adult and in college. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“So long as you live on this base and your Dad is gone, I can and I will. I’m your godfather and you will listen to me.”

“Oooo, so scary.” You mock. “Come off it Uncle Ice, you’re not my Dad, I don’t have to listen to you.” 

“Should we call him? I think he’d have a lot to say about this.” 

“Oh yeah, because he didn’t do this shit when he was my age. That’s funny Ice, you’re real funny.” Ice fixes you with a glare and the rational part of you is screaming at you to shut up. 

“Car keys. Phone. Now.” You sigh, pulling the keys from your jacket along with your phone, which is dead, and set it on the table. “Was that so hard?” 

“Very.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened? Because I’ll be getting the full story from Thatcher in the morning. Now’s your chance to get ahead of yourself.”

“Tom?” Sarah’s voice calls and you groan, sinking down in your chair. Even with alcohol swimming in your system, you know for however disappointed Ice is in you, Sarah will be more. She reaches the kitchen and pauses at the sight in front of her. “Hey sweetheart, why are you here? It’s like 3 in the morning, is everything okay?” Ice stands firm as you avoid Sarah’s eye. “Why do you smell like alcohol and cigarette smoke?” Ice clears his throat. 

“Thatcher picked her up at some Navy brat’s party. I’ll deal with it, why don’t you go back to bed?” She nods and leaves the kitchen but your eyes don’t leave the car keys that are sitting on the kitchen table, the little sunflower keychain your Dad had sent you from his last deployment hooked on to it. “An explanation.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have one. I shouldn’t have one for you, you’re not my Dad.” 

“Grounded. So grounded. Three weeks.” 

“God, it’s brutal out here.” You remark and he raises an eyebrow, his jaw locking. 

“Four.”

“No.” 

“No?”

“No.” What were you doing? You weren’t sure but between the ever-simmering anger you’d been feeling underneath your skin since Bradley took off and the alcohol in your body, you found it hard to care. 

“I’m not gonna let you crash and burn like this kid. You’re my responsibility while your Dad is gone and I’m not letting you throw away your career or life before it’s ever even had a chance to start.” 

“Well, maybe I don’t care about that.” He sighs. 

“Look, I know that even if you don’t say it, that you aren’t sure you want a career in the Navy and that’s fine, but-”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” There’s another break in Ice’s stone-cold character and the anger that had been seeping through is replaced with confusion as he plays back his words. “I’m going to bed.” You say, standing up from your seat. 

“Sit back down.”

“Goodnight Ice.”

-

You should not be listening to this conversation. Should not. But you can’t help but listen anyways, feeling your heart twist as you hear the words from both ends. 

“How is she?”

“She’s giving me one hell of a run for my money Mitchell.” 

There’s laughter from the other side of the conversation. “I highly doubt that Ice.”

“Thatcher picked her up from a party on base the other night.”

“Oh shit.”

“Also, I’m changing the lock on your liquor cabinet.” 

Your Dad sighs. “Ice, isn’t that a bit of an overreaction to getting busted at a house party?”

“Pete, she figured out the code, almost half of the cabinet is gone.” Shit. How’d he figure that one out? 

There’s a pause. “Jesus Christ.” 

“She’s never around and I don’t buy for a second that she’s sitting in her dorm room knitting.” 

“She tell you that?”

“She doesn’t tell me much of anything these days.”

“Oh.” His tone bleeds surprise.

“Yeah.” 

“Look Ice, she’s a college kid. She’s bound to make mistakes and do stupid shit. Look at who you’re talking to, yeah? It’s genetic.”

“Pete, these feel like intentional mistakes.” 

There’s another pause. “What do you mean?”

“She-” Ice says. “She said something really concerning the other night. When Thatcher picked her up. I told her that I wasn't going to let her throw away her career and life and she responded with something along the lines of ‘I don’t care too much about that’.”

“Well, the career portion-” 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought so too. But she clarified for me that’s not what she was referring to.” 

There’s a longer silence this time and when you hear your Dad’s voice again, a piece of your heart breaks hearing his tone. “Fucking hell, Ice.” 

“Pete, she needs you.” 

He sighs. “Ice, I’d love nothing more than to be home with my kid but I’m gone for another two months.” 

“Pete, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it wasn’t important.” 

“I can’t Ice. You know how this works.” 

You turn away from the door at that, knowing that’s how it always would be. For your family, the Navy would always come before you. 

-

No one wants you.

Another shot. 

No one even likes you. 

Another shot.

You don’t even have any real friends.

Another shot.

Your Dad doesn’t care about you.

Another shot.

Everyone who loves you will leave.

Another shot. 

You’re not good enough.

Another shot.

-

“Dad?” It feels like you’ve stopped breathing, looking at his head stuck into the liquor cabinet. Shit shit shit shit shit-

“You really did a number on this kid.” 

“You weren’t supposed to be back for another two weeks.” 

“And you were planning on replacing all of the alcohol how exactly?”

“Well, I didn’t take all the alcohol. I left that bottle of rum.” He finally pulls his head out of the cabinet, fixing you with a look that makes your stomach slosh. Or maybe it’s all the shots you downed earlier...

“Are you sober?”

“What do you think?”

“I’m thinking no.” He shuts the cabinet door. “Ice told me he was replacing the lock.” 

“He did. But locks are so easily broken.” He huffs, crossing his arms. 

“Kiddo, what are you doing?”

“What ever do you mean?” 

“this is not how I raised you.” You gave half a shrug, feeling yourself wobble on unsteady feet. If you’d been sober, you might’ve caught the preemptive step your Dad took forward to catch you if he needed to. 

“Raised me? You weren’t around.” 

“What’re you talking about?”

“I mean, in the dictionary, instead of a picture of absent father, there’d just be a definition of you- wait, no that wasn’t right-”

“Okay, sweetie, bedtime, we can talk about this in the morning.” He moved towards you, trying to herd you to your room. You move back from him. 

“Oh so what? You going Dad of the year now?” 

He sighs. “Cut it out and go to bed.” 

“No, you don’t get to tell me what to do!” You took another few steps back from him. “God, no wonder Bradley left.” He freezes. 

“What the hell does that mean?” His voice is deadly quiet and if you were sober, you might’ve regretted saying the words. 

“What do you think?” He huffs, his eyes closing briefly. 

“Kid, this isn’t like you. What’s going on? Talk to me.” 

“Why should I? Your fucking fault my best friend left.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about it.”

“I’m not stupid Dad. You did something.” 

“You’re drunk.” 

“And you’re a shit parent.” He takes a few steps back from you. 

“I’m going to forgive you for saying that because you’re drunk and angry at the world right now. But we’re talking about this in the morning. No excuses.” 

-

The low murmur of Ice and Dad talking greet your ears as you get closer to the kitchen. You pause and its Ice who notices you first, turning and gesturing to the table. You sit, bracing yourself for the shitstorm you’re about to face. You don’t remember much of the night before, just the all-consuming anxiety that caused you down to down that many shots in the first place. You know that whatever you did can’t be good though based off the looks on their faces. Your Dad clears his throat, looking to Ice, and Ice gestures from him to talk. He doesn’t say anything though, just observing you. Finally he sighs and crosses his arms. 

“So just to make sure I understand this, in the 3 and a half months I’ve been gone, you got picked up at a Navy brat’s house party, cleaned out my liquor cabinet, broke the new lock Ice put on it, and got absolutely wasted on god knows how much alcohol for most of the last four months?”

You shrug. “To be fair, that’s just what you know about.” Mav’s eyes widen and he turns to Ice. 

“Grounded. You are grounded. I want your car keys, for real this time, and your phone.” You roll your eyes, tilting your head. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“(Y/N), underage drinking, going to parties, smoking, this has never been you.”

“Well, maybe this is the new me.” 

“Well, I don’t like her. Give me my kid back.” 

“What does it matter to you? You’re never home.” Your Dad’s jaw locks. “See, here’s what I think. I’m 19, legally an adult. I’m in college. You,” You said, pointing to your Dad, “spend most of the year in some faraway place. You,” You said, pointing to Ice now, “are not my Dad, no matter how much you try to pretend to be. Therefore, why should either of you get to tell me what to do?” Your Dad sighs. 

“Fine.” Wait what? “You’re right.”

“Maverick!” Ice exclaims, looking as bewildered as you felt.

“No, you’re right kiddo. Ice isn’t your dad and I’m never home and you’re an adult so you’re right. You are an adult who is free to make her own choices and if that means having a rebellious streak, so be it. Neither Ice or I are in position to be telling you what to do. We can’t ground or take your phone or car, so you know what, there’s no punishment.”

Huh?

“Mitchell, what the hell are you doing?” 

“You’re free to go.” You slowly stand up on what feel like jelly legs as Ice starts angrily whispering at your Dad. You make it to the doorway, your back turned to the men, when your Dad speaks again. “Unless, of course, this new rebellion has something to do with Bradley leaving.” 

You freeze. 

“It would be okay, if it did. I know him leaving hurt you. I know he was your best friend. I know things haven’t been easy since Carole died and if that was the straw that broke the camels back, it’s okay.” Tears prick at your eyes but you don’t turn around. “What’s not okay is if you’re drinking to cope with the loss and your anger.”

Your ears are ringing as you hear the kitchen door slam shut behind you.

-

The house reverberates with the sound of the loud music as you squeeze through the crowd, searching for April. Someone from your high school was having a house party and April had invited you, saying that it would be no match for the parties you went to at UCSD. Someone grabs your arm and you turn, locking on to the blond. She squeals, pulling you into a hug, the surrounding people turning to look at you. She pulls away and gives you a once over and then grabs your wrist, pulling you to the kitchen, where it’s marginally quieter. She begins to pour the two of you drinks as she eagerly chats about what she’s been up to since graduating. Something about being an apprentice at a tattoo shop.

“Anyways, I heard you and your Dad moved into my parents old neighborhood.” You nod, taking the drink from her. About six months ago, you and Dad had moved off base, much to Ice’s resistance. The move had been tense and you didn’t speak to him much.

“Yeah, I’m not really there much.”

“Thought you were living at home? To save money on rent?” 

You nod. “I am.”

“So where do you go then?”

“I dunno, I do a lot of couch surfing. I only go home once or twice a week to do laundry and get clean clothes. Maybe to shower depending on who I’ve been staying with.” She nods, frowning. 

“Hey, I saw Bradley the other day. Was back in town on a school break.” You roll your eyes. 

“April, I don’t wanna talk about him.”

“He’s worried about you. Word of your bad influences of friends have gotten around to our old group from school and evidently, Bradley.”

“Bradley can fuck right off. And they’re not bad influences.” 

“You never used to do stuff like this. Even coming here tonight, that’s unusual for you.”

“Well maybe I’m tired of being miss goody two shoes.” She sighs, her frown deepening. 

“Just be careful okay? Don’t do anything permanent.”

“I won’t add to or subtract from the population and I’ll do my best to avoid ending up in a jail cell.” She smiles. 

“Atta girl.”

-

The buzzing of his phone wakes him up. He pauses when it stops, but then it rings again. He grumbles, blindly reaching for it. He blinks but his brain doesn’t register the caller as he put it up to his ear. “Mitchell.”

The voice of a woman he doesn’t know comes through. “Hey, uh, you’re Pete Mitchell right?” He blinks, pulling the phone away to take in the Caller ID. 

“Why do you have my daughter’s phone?”

“I’m April, I’m a friend of hers of from high school. We’re at a party and uh, something happened.” He shoots up, halfway out of bed when he hears his daughter, probably a few feet away from the phone. 

“April, you called my Dad?” 

“What’s going on?” He says and he runs around his room, trying to find clothes to put on one handed. 

“She’s fine, there was just this guy who wouldn’t leave her alone. I found them before he could do anything and she’s really drunk and upset.” Maverick’s blood does this weird thing he didn’t know it could do, blood boiling at the thought of someone putting their hands on his kid while simultaneously going ice cold at the thought. 

“April, I can’t believe you called my Dad. He’s gonna kill me!” She’s crying now and it feels like a piece of his heart chips off. 

“Okay, I’ll be there in 15. Send me the address?” 

“Texting it to you now.”

-

Your Dad’s jeep rounds the corner as you kick a rock on the ground, April standing a few feet away from you. The sounds of tires on the gravel driveway catches your attention and you look up, seeing your Dad climb out of the drivers side. “Hey, thank you for coming to get her.” 

“Of course, she’s my kid.” 

“I would’ve driven her but I’ve been drinking and I’ve lost my boyfriend in the crowd and she was kind of inconsolable so I figured to would be better to have an adult who-”

“April, thank you. you’re a good friend.” She nods as your Dad sticks his hand out to pull you up from your seat on the porch. You take it and he bids April goodbye as he directs you to the passenger seat. You’re wobbly on your feet, unsteady from the alcohol and the events of the night. The drive is quiet as you begin to think about the last year and the damage you’d been doing to your life.  You eventually reach the house and your Dad helps you through the front door and instead of turning for the hallway, you turn for the living room, collapsing on the couch. You can hear your Dad chuckle softly as he grabs one of the blankets, throwing it over you and pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Goodnight kiddo. Glad to have you home.”

-

You groan, shifting on the couch. A laugh sounds from a few feet away and you blink as your eyes open. “Dad?”

“Hey kiddo.” You sit up, wincing as your head starts to pound. He hands you the bottle of Advil and a glass of water. “Here, take these. Then go take a shower because you reek. I’m making food and then we can discuss what’s been going on. For real this time. No more running.” You nod as you down the Advil, the water bringing you immediate relief. The shower also proves to be a relief and bring some clarity. It’s only once you’re wrapped in a clean UCSD sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, sitting at the breakfast table with pancakes and fruit in front of you, do you realize how hard you’ve hit rock bottom. And how much you’re going to have to now own up for. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“All of it.”

“So walk me through what happened.”

“April invited me to a party and I went. We got separated at one point as she was trying to hunt down her boyfriend and this guy I didn’t know came up to me, was trying to hit on me. I turned him down but he wouldn’t let it go. He backed me into a corner and was going to-” Your throat become dry as you think back on how close he’d gotten to really hurting you. “Anyways, April found me before he could do anything and she told the guy to get the fuck out. Threatened to punch him in the nose and he pissed off. She dragged me outside because I was crying and I guess she decided to call you.” You refuse to meet your Dad’s eyes.

“And the last year?”

You shrugged. “You weren’t wrong. About Bradley. April mentioned him last night and it spurred me to drink so goddamn much and I just- it fucking sucks you know? For him to leave and not ever give me any explanation, to cut me out so ruthlessly? I’ve just been so angry since he left and I just- hit a point where I didn’t want to be angry anymore and the only way I knew how to ignore it was to get drunk. And then everything spiraled and I realized there was no one around to give a shit and so I just kept pushing, seeing how far I could go, and then I called you a shit parent and it all blew up in my face and I decided to just keep going.” You sigh, setting your fork down as your palms come up to press against your eyes. “I thought it would be better to just keep running rather than own up to what I was doing.” 

“Kiddo-”

“I shouldn’t have called you a shit parent and I’m sorry I did.”

“It’s okay-” 

“No it’s not. It was a fucking awful thing to say and it wasn’t even you I was angry at, you just happened to be there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t even know why I do that, throw words meant to kill when I don’t mean them.” 

“Kiddo, it’s okay. You’re gonna fuck up. You’re gonna make mistakes.” He sighed, settling back into his chair. “Tell you what. You’re right that you’re an adult. I can’t ground you the way I did when you were 15. And given everything that happened last night, I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“So... that’s it? You’re letting me walk off scot free?”

“Not exactly. You’re gonna pay me back for all the alcohol you stole out of the liquor cabinet.” You wince.

“That’s gonna be expensive.” You sigh, picking up your fork again to fiddle with it. “I owe Uncle Ice an apology.” He nods. 

“You do.” He sighs again, shifting to prop his arms up against the table. “One more thing. If I catch even a whisper of you drinking between now and your 21st birthday, you and I are gonna be having a much different conversation than the one we’re having right now. One that includes the words therapy and rehab.” 

You have to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. “Oh for fucks sake, I’m not an alcoholic-”

“And I won’t let you become one. So don’t make me have to have that conversation with you. Because trust me, I don’t want to. You might be over the age of 18 but you’re still my kid and my responsibility.” You sigh, nodding. 

“Okay. Okay. You won’t, I promise.” 

“There are healthier ways to deal with your grief and anger. Ice and I can help you find them, find the ones that work for you. What you’re feeling is valid but the response is not okay.”

“I know.” 

“I’m going to do my best to be around, even when I’m not around. And Ice is always here for you, you know that.” You nod. 

“Can I go? I want a nap in my own bed.” He nods and you stand up. 

“Hey, one last thing.” He says and you turn from the doorway. 

“Yeah?”