Ghosts Before Our Time
Note: Set between 7x23: "Survival of the fittest" and 8x01: "We need to talk about Kevin."
Sam searched. He searched the whole night, starting with every level of Sucrocorp. When Dean had vanished before his eyes as Dick Roman seemed to explode, Sam went through all fourteen levels of the building. Of course he could have hacked into one of the security cameras through any one of the computers and searched every floor much more quickly. But he had a feeling that the systems were messed up, that he'd miss his brother because somehow, Dick Roman had also infected the company's technology, even after he'd been sent to Purgatory.
And then he searched for two weeks, driving around the area and going to check on all the safe houses they used on a frequent basis. He'd even driven to Bobby's just to check the safe house they'd used after they abandoned the used car junk yard. He'd gone to their father's warehouses and even places where they'd worked cases.
Dean was not there.
It was only after a month of searching that Sam finally sat down and stopped searching. He'd killed a few ghosts on the way, but those had been so casually and thoughtlessly done that his lack of emotions had almost scared him.
He bought beer, and a bacon burger Dean so loved to eat, and then he drove the Impala out to the middle of nowhere and parked there, just like he and his brother used to do when they had the time.
Sam took a bite of the burger, and nearly spat it out because it'd turned cold and tasted disgusting. But he chewed and swallowed, taking a swig of beer before forcing himself to continue on with the burger. It'd never been to his taste, those bacon burgers, but his brother had loved them, and Sam wanted to understand just what was so good about this greasy food.
He finished the burger, taking large gulps of beer down between bites. He still didn't get the allure of the food.
The stars were out in full force tonight, with clouds nowhere to be seen. Sam leaned back onto the hood and windshield of the Impala, pillowing his head on his hands. He'd turned the engine and headlights of the car off, and allowed himself the small luxury of enjoying the wide expanse of night sky he could see.
He reached out with his hand to slap his brother, pointing at the Big Dipper in the sky, but his palm smacked only on the cold metal of the hood, and Sam paused, finally allowing himself the admittance that Dean was gone. For good.
Their dad was gone. Ellen and Jo were gone. Bobby was gone. Cas was gone. And Dean…his brother who was more like a father, now he was gone too. Saved from Hell and devoured by Purgatory.
Don't look for me, Sammy. Promise me that. Don't look for me.
A wordless cry choked him, and Sam wondered just how long more he was going to search for. How many times was he going to hold on so tightly to those he loved until he tore open the hole in himself wider and wider and wouldn't be able to feel it?
Don't look for me.
But how could he not? Dean, who had gone to Hell for him; Dean, who had brought him up in their father's frequent absences.
Dean wasn't even a spirit, haunting the earth or haunting him. Dean was just gone. Sam didn't even have anything to hold on to.
Don't look for me.
He slid himself off the hood, moving to the trunk and opening it. He could barely see anything in the almost pitch black darkness, and squinted through his tears. But he knew where everything was placed, and his hand grabbed the Taurus PT92 that Dean loved so much. He slid the magazine out to check that it still had rounds, then jammed it back, and pulled the slide, hearing a round click into place.
Sam held the barrel to his temple, but he couldn't make himself move his finger to the trigger. All that came into his mind was that the gun smelled faintly of the gunpowder, discharged about a week ago, but not yet cleaned. He held on tightly to the Taurus, to Dean, to the beloved gun his brother owned, and then he let it fall back into the trunk.
"Enough," he said quietly to the trunk full of weapons, all carrying the taint of blood by slain evil creatures, carrying the memories of Winchester hands strong enough to wield them. He, like Dean, had held on too tightly to everyone in their lives, sacrificing their own lives for their family's until they had nothing left.
Sam suddenly felt like one of the ghosts they usually killed, still haunting places or people because they couldn't let go and move on.
He was still alive. He couldn't dishonor Dean's memories and life by becoming something that they'd always hunted. No, this time, he'd let go and move on, and finally listen to his brother.
The slam of the trunk was loud in the quiet night, and even Sam jumped a little. But he patted the Impala in apology, and then got in behind the wheel and started the engine.
"Thanks for always being around, Dean," Sam whispered and drove off.