Ever Since We Met

One

It all started after the Elysian Fields Hotel ⁠— after watching Gabriel's stupid, stupid porno. That stupid video that made Sam feel just a little more empty inside. The one where all of Gabriel's jokes seemed to fall flat even to himself.

That was the first time.

After Dean had fallen asleep, Sam had gotten up ⁠— long since resigned to the fact that he wouldn't be sleeping for the night ⁠— and took a walk to try to quiet his mind a bit. Maybe work through some things. He'd gone out for a directionless wander, but within a few short minutes he found that his feet had taken him to the neon glow of a gas station.

He stared through the window, wondering why. Why he'd come here, why he couldn't sleep, why he could never clear his mind, why he could never let go, why he should even care so much, why he had to take everything so seriously, why he had to be so emotional, why he had to keep fighting. Why he even had to exist.

He stepped inside. The door chimed. The cashier didn't look up.

Sam stared at the display in front of the counter for an endless minute, before picking up a chocolate bar and placing it on the counter.

"That's all, thanks."

He stuffed the wrapper in his back pocket before he opened the door of the motel room.

⁠—

It became pretty commonplace. Sam would sit up late at night researching on his laptop and sucking on a red lollipop. Eventually it got to the point where he'd keep a small stash of them in the bottom of his duffle bag, hoarding them like shiny coins. He always offered to go get food nowadays so he could stop by a corner store and pick up a few chocolate bars while Dean wasn't around.

He'd dedicated an entire zippered pocket in his bag to candy wrappers and lollipop sticks ⁠— hidden until he could dispose of them where Dean wouldn't see.

And it worked. Dean never noticed a thing.

And he didn't notice.

And he didn't notice.

⁠—

It had been years, and nobody had noticed a thing. Castiel had never so much as given him an odd glance. And Sam still sat up late into the night, sometimes just staring at the ceiling, letting the candy slowly dissolve in his mouth.

It felt good. It tasted like a grin and a wink. It felt like warmth, like relaxing his shoulders held tense, like champagne bubbles in his throat. Red laughter danced over his teeth in the dark, and sometimes, sometimes it almost tasted like honeyed eyes crinkled with mirth.

On the best days the chocolate on his tongue rewound years and gently placed the feel of too-warm skin back under his palms. Sometimes the rich caramel would brush soft hair against his neck and conjure up a reassuring weight on his chest as his heavy eyes fell closed. But on the worst days, it felt like empty, cloying syrup. Flat and all consuming. Clogging his throat so he couldn't breathe, burrowing into his blood so that no matter how hard he scrubbed, his mouth felt tainted and wrong.

And every night he had told himself he would stop. That he shouldn't be doing this. That it was pointless and unhealthy in really every way. And every night he felt stupid as he let the dye stain his tongue. It was the only thing that gave him a chance at feeling like he used to.

⁠—

Sometimes he had dreams too. Dreams where he could still taste the sticky sweet sugar on his tongue back when he hadn't had to buy the candy. Dreams from when he didn't know about the bunker, and when whatever shitty motel bed he'd been in had been turned luxurious with smooth, silken sheets. When he could feel another heart beating against his chest. When his secret wasn't just a sweet tooth.

And, more recently, sometimes he'd wake up tasting peppermint when he hadn't had any in weeks. Or raspberry cream. Or strawberry syrup. By the second week, Sam began to think his mind was finally cracking, crumbling under the weight of so much. It had only been a matter of time.

Everything he'd gone through in his life. Everything. It was beyond all hopes that he could have made it through sane. Hell, he was surprised that he'd gotten this far. But of course, of course this would be how he cracked. Not Lucifer, not flashbacks to the tortures he's endured, but fucking candy. He'd always had to be special, didn't he? Gabriel could never just sit back and let anybody else beat him out, even if he wasn't fucking there.

⁠—

The next time it happened, Sam cried.

He was never much of a crier, emotionally constipated Winchester that he was, but he was afraid. Afraid that he wouldn't be able to hunt anymore. Afraid that he'd do something even more monumentally stupid than before. Afraid of everything that could happen if he truly fell apart at the seams like this ⁠— if his mind unraveled completely.

It was starting to show, and he knew it. So far he'd been able to keep up with the program and pretend as if nothing had changed, and only mope alone in the dark on his own time. For years he hadn't let on, but now he saw how Dean shifted nervously around him, sometimes opening his mouth as if to ask a question and then shutting it. It was only a matter of time until he said something.