#angry!sam

Sam sat back in his chair, his hands clenched.  His knee bounced up and down under the table.  He thought about what had just happened and his eyes narrowed.  Blood rushed through his ears so loudly he almost couldn’t think.

He didn’t hear Dean the first three times he called him.  He only reacted when Dean finally grabbed his shoulder.

“Sam!  What’s wrong with you? I called your name like three fucking times.”

Sam grimaced at his brother’s touch and shoved Dean’s hand off of his shoulder.  He curled his teeth and snarled.

“Don’t touch me, Dean.”  His voice was low and gravelly.

Dean was taken aback, raising both his hands above his head, responding, “Sam, what the hell?”  He was thoroughly confused.  And worried.  This was not like Sam.

“Back off, Dean.”  Sam stood up, making sure to not look at his brother.  If he did, he knew Dean would talk him out of what he was about to do.  He brushed past him and into the kitchen, where his mom had just entered.  Dean followed closely behind.

“Mary,” Sam began.

Mary turned to face her youngest son.  Her face was emotionless.  She was showing no signs of love toward Sam, nor remorse for her actions of deciding to work with the fucking British Men of Letters.  Sam walked all the way up to where Mary stood, standing just a few inches away from her.  She looked up at him and said nothing.

“How could you choose them over me?  I’m your son.  They fucking tortured me.  They burned my feet with a blowtorch, Mary.  A blowtorch.”  Sam’s voice was not shaky.  Sam’s voice was steady.  He took deep, even breaths and stared directly into Mary’s eyes.

Mary sighed and rolled her shoulders back, “yes Sam, I know.  But they mean well, they really – “

“They mean well?  Do you think they meant well when they drenched me in ice cold water?  When they cut my face?  My torso? When they drugged me and mind raped me?”  Sam’s voice was rising slowly.  Dean could feel the anger radiating from Sam’s body.  But Sam’s words shocked Dean completely, and he had to catch his breath.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he grabbed Sam’s arm gently, “wait, whoa, they what?”

Sam turned on Dean, grabbing his arm and pulling it off of him. “Dean, I said get your hands off of me!” Dean reluctantly backed off and Sam turned back to his mother.

“How dare you,” Sam began, “how dare you come back into my life and do this to me.  You are not the mother I thought you were.  You are not the person I thought you were.”

“Sam, we’re family, we can work this out.” Mary reached her hand out toward her younger son, but he raised his hand and took a step back.

“Don’t you touch me,” Sam said, pointing his finger at her,  “And family?  Ha! You’re not my family.  Family doesn’t mean blood, I’ve learned that. So don’t touch me.  Don’t you even come near me. I just need to know - do you have any regrets at all?  Do you even care about my feelings? How can any of this be ok? How can you justify this?” Sam’s eyes were wide, and all of his muscles were tense.

Dean wasn’t sure what to do or say at this point.  He’d never seen Sam quite this pissed before.

Sam was breathing heavily but did not turn his eyes away from his mother.  She blinked and looked down at the floor.

“Oh, what, nothing to say? Right. I figured.”  Sam crinkled his nose and exhaled sharply through it.  

He turned to face his brother.

“Dean.”  Sam’s voice was pleading.

“Sammy, what can I- “

“Shut up and listen to me. I don’t know why Amara chose you. I don’t know why you got your deepest desire, and I don’t know why that desire was mom.  But here we are, and here she is.  And our mom thinks torturing me is ok.  She might as well have been in that room with Toni, holding that blowtorch, and injecting me over and over with that needle.  What now, Dean?  I can’t live in the same home as this…person.” Dean shuddered, thinking about how Sam was tortured, and how he had to live with that forever.  And how his mother didn’t care.

Mary crossed her arms and just stared at Sam. Dean noticed she wasn’t upset at all.   Sam’s words about her joining the torture didn’t get a response at all.  She just seemed irritated.  Dean was becoming upset too, but he knew that Sam needed to get this out, so he stayed strong for his brother. He turned his attention back to Sam.

“Sammy.  Listen, I didn’t know, you never told me about that.” Dean’s eyes were sad.  He tried to keep his voice calm, his words gentle. Mary looked on from the other side of the room, still saying nothing.

“Of course I didn’t fucking tell you!  You think I wanted to share that?  You think I wanted to relive what that bitch did to me?” 

“Sam,  calm down, let’s –“

“Calm down?  Calm down? Christ, Dean, when is it my turn?” Sam started yelling, startling Dean.  “When do I get comforted, when do I get to heal!”  Sam was pointing to himself, his eyes filled with rage.

“I hear you, Sam, I do. We’ll figure this out, we’ll take care of all of this.”  Dean tried to stay calm for his brother.  He wanted to deal with his mother in the worst way, especially the way she was handling this situation. But Sam was suffering and Dean needed to help.

Sam continued, his yelling turning to screaming at the top of his lungs.  “NO!  I’ve had enough of this!  I just can’t anymore!”  Sam picked up a mug that was sitting on the counter and flung it across the room.  It hit the wall, shattering into pieces. Mary jumped, and Dean tried frantically to think of what to do next.  Sam was always the calm one, Sam was the one that grounded him.

Sam walked closer to his mother, his anger seething.  His body was shaking with rage, and he could barely control his impulse to reach out and grab his mother’s neck.  Dean cautiously took another step, ready to jump into – whatever might happen.

“How dare you.”  Sam’s voice was more steady now.  But years of anger and emotion that had been welling up were finally taking its toll on Sam.

He leaned in close to Mary and said through clenched teeth, “You don’t even know me.  You might have given birth to me, but you were never my Mom. And now you never will be.”  

Sam turned and pushed Dean out of his way, hard enough to send him tumbling to the floor.  He swept his arm across the table as he walked by, sending dishes crashing to the floor.