My Burden to Bear by Luvscharlie

Warnings: Adult language, Angst

A/N: Originally written for Week 9 at the fandom_fridays community on Live Journal where the prompt was "Once upon a time, I had loved a smile like that." Outlander by Diana Gabaldon, pg. 533

It seems like it's taken me years just to get up the nerve to leave the car. And… from the growling of Dean's stomach and many sighs and not-too-gentle nudges to get me out of the car, I guess it's been a while. My brother's patience only extends so far. And let me be the first to inform you, it's a rather short tether. He finally gave up and went for a walk into town for God only knows what, food, booze, dessert… regardless, I'm sure I'll owe him pie later on.

But given that it took me well over a year just to get up the nerve to show up here, I think that counts for something. I mean forward progression, no matter how slow, is still progress, right? Of course, not to Dean's way of thinking. It's either jump in with both feet as fast as you can or it's not good enough. I'm not much of a jumper-inner myself.

And the yammering on I do in my head really has nothing to do with the matter at hand… but I'm working on mastering my skills of procrastination and getting rather good at it. And really, if I did all of this yammering aloud all the time, I'd never hear the end of it from Dean. Thus, I find comfort in the voices in my head—hmmm, that sounds better when I say it in my head, so I'm going to make a mental note to keep it there. No point in giving people the idea I'm crazier than they already assume I am.

I have to do this. I have to walk up there and tell Jessica's parents how sorry I am. How sorry I am for everything. How none of this would have ever happened, if she had only kept her distance—stayed far away from Doomed Boy Winchester—it's all my fault. And maybe if I say it, I'll be able to sleep again. I mean, I owe them that, right? I try to shove aside the creeping thought that I'm doing this just as much for me as I am for anyone else. The nightmares grow worse and I need to clear my conscience.

So I just have to swing open this car door and step out and walk up that drive… and what's the hurry really? It'll wait. Well, it'll wait until Dean's had his fill of cheeseburgers and pie and whatever porn he could put his hands on-new mental note: things really do sound better in my head than aloud—Jeez—and comes along and tells me we're late for wherever we're headed next and he's given me long enough to complete this little errand of mine. Pushy older brothers are a real pain the ass, let me tell you.

"All right, Sammy, you can do this," I say (hey, sometimes we all need a little pep talk, and who better than me to cheer up me, right? Right). "Just open the door, and walk right up there… and you're still sitting in the car. Way to go, self."

"Okay, just push the handle and step out and—"

"Whatcha doin' there, Sammy?"

"AARRRGGGHHHH!" My head hits the top of the Impala and I swear a few times under my breath. "Fuck! Dean, are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

I hear the driver door of the Impala swing open and the car shifts as Dean sits down.
"Well, I was going to give you a cheeseburger, but seeing as how you're Mr. Ungrateful, I think I'll just keep it for later. So are we ready to go?" The keys jangle and the engine turns over.

"No, I'm not ready!" I fling open the door and stand beside the safety of the Impala for a moment, swear again and start across the road and up the drive of the cute little house that had seen Jessica grow up. I wonder if her parents kept her room just as she'd left it… well, before she came to live with me… and then died… because of me. God, this is a bad idea. I just know this is a bad idea.

I don't want to, but I have to do this. The nightmares are becoming worse and I know, deep down, Jessica's parents have a right to know how—why she died. I sigh and punch the doorbell before I have a chance to change my mind.

There's no answer for three seconds and my bravery slinks away like the coward that it is, and I turn away from the door and am ready to bolt back down the drive, when it swings open. And I'm looking into the face of someone who could be Jessica in an older version, someone I feel certain is her mother. Hey, don't go judging me! We were scheduled to meet her family for a big 'woo hoo we're getting married party' soon, but then Dean showed up and death and destruction commenced and meeting the parental units just didn't seem all that important—and if I had brought it up, then she was going to want to meet my family, and well, boy, that wasn't a pond I even wanted to dip my toe into. And who can blame me for that? Huh?

"May I help you?"

"I was—Well, I was"—Stammering, wonderfully smooth, Sammy. Just wonderful. "I was a friend of Jessica's," I manage to choke out.

And her eyes well up with tears, and a look crosses her face of pure anguish. A look I imagine can only be managed by a parent who knows what it is like to bury their child, and my nightmares seem so inconsequential to the daily horror that this lady lives. I'm ashamed of my selfishness, and know then that the burden on my conscience is going to stay just that—my burden. This woman deserves a chance to find some peace without me coming around to rip open wounds that are only beginning the first stages of healing over. Even after a year, the pain on her face is indescribable. She doesn't need to know why Jessica died. Alleviating my guilt is only going to bring this poor woman more pain, and I'm so ashamed.

And then she smiles at me, and my heart breaks because I know that smile as well as I know the sound of Dean's bitching or the click of Dad loading salt into the chamber of a shotgun (and at the time, I don't even think how disturbing the things I relate to as second nature are). Once upon a time, I had loved a smile like that. Oh, how I had loved Jessica's smile, her hair, her face—how I had loved all those parts that made up the woman she was.

"Come in, please, dear. It's so nice that Jessica's friends are still coming around to—"

I interrupt her because I won't be able to stand it if she smiles again. My heart will break into a million tiny pieces and scatter about on her doorstep—just one more mess for this poor family to have to clean up—and I refuse to add to her anguish. "No, thank you. I—I just came by to say how sorry I am about your daughter. She was—well, she was an amazing person. Tru—truly amazing."

And I turn on my heel and leave as fast as my feet will carry me back down the drive, my conscience just as heavy as it was when I had arrived, my ears brimming over with unshed tears.

So when I go to bed that night, I fully expect the nightmares to come back, but I hope Jessica's mother's dreams will be filled with only happy memories of a daughter bright and filled with life. And in those dreams, I hope she finds some peace.