Just Live

I own nothing – but I've written to Santa!!

"Just live," it is my brother's voice, insistent, determined and forceful. I moan a little and try to open my eyes, but they feel sticky, heavy and I cannot lift the lids, "just live," the voice says again and I sigh, warmth flooding through me as I fall back into sleep.

There is a heavy weight on my feet and I shift, trying to flick it off. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the sound of someone singing, soft and gentle, the words making little sense to my addled brain. Finally, my eyes open and my head explodes in pain, light, bright and unbearable, floods my vision and I put my hands to my head, groaning.

"Sam?" Another voice, rough and croaky, "son, open your eyes"

I obey, wincing against the pain. Bobby stands over me, a strange expression on his face. He smiles and hands me a glass of water and two white pills. There is no explanation but I trust him and I smile, weakly, swallowing down the tablets and water like an obedient child.

"Ok Sam?" Bobby sits on the side of the bed and wipes a, surprisingly, gentle hand across my brow.

"Yeah," the light isn't hurting anymore and I try to sit, my back aching and my muscles pulling "Bobby?"

He hears the unspoken question in my voice and shakes his head, his eyes are kind and his expression is bleak. I swallow hard, the water and tablets in my system threatening to come back almost instantly. Bobby reaches out and puts a hand on my cheek. I lean into it and take comfort from that warm, callused hand., feeling affection, consolation and, most importantly, love in that tender touch.

Bobby sits for a long time, his hand on my face. Neither of us speak, words are not needed. I glance across at the glass by my bed, whiskey still coating the bottom. He drugged me, my brother drugged me and he has gone.

I have to get up, even though my legs feel like jelly and my stomach roils against any sudden movements. The weight on my legs turned out to be Rumsfield and the large, black dog pants at me, his tongue lolling. I reach out and touch his soft fur and tears, long threatening, begin to fall.

The dog looks at me, his brown eyes warm and, somehow, knowing. I wrap my arms around his thick neck and begin to sob in earnest. It is a long time since I let grief take me like this, not for Jess, not even for my dad.

These tears are for the one thing in my life that was good and solid and real and now it is gone.

I don't know how long I sit there, crying wetly into the dog's fur, but by the time I lift my swollen eyes, it is getting darker.

I wander into Bobby's kitchen and see Ellen at the stove, she turns as I enter and her eyes go soft with sympathy. She hands me a cup of coffee and a plateful of bacon and eggs. The scent of food makes me want to vomit and I shake my head.

"You should eat, Sam," she murmurs, "you need to eat."

I look at her, eyes sore and throat, hot with tears. She smiles gently and sits me down, "for Dean," she says.

I eat, forcing the food past my thick throat. It is tasteless in my mouth and may as well be cardboard. I don't speak, because putting what I feel into words will make it real.

Bobby comes in, shuffling and awkward, but he looks happy to see me eating. I wonder why he looks so uneasy and it comes to me in a flash. Bobby was there, Bobby was there in Cold Oak, he saw how Dean dealt (or didn't deal) with my death and now he is trying to protect me, trying to stop me from going down the same route. I make eye contact with him, trying to force something like a smile on my frozen lips, and he stares at me with that paitented Bobby expression. He is the nearest thing to family I have left and I don't want to hurt him anymore.

"He's in the back, Sam" Bobby's voice is soft, reluctant and I swallow, the food I've just consumed threatening to make a reappearance. I stand up, legs shaking so much that I almost fall again. Ellen steadies me, her small, but strong, frame, propping me up against her body, giving me the support I so badly need.

He is wrapped in soft, white sheets and only his pale, white face is visible. He looks peaceful, as if he is sleeping and there is a half smile on his face, as if he went down to hell with a snarky remark on his lips and a 'who gives a shit' expression on his face.

I kneel, unable to say his name, because saying it would make it real. If I keep silent long enough then maybe, just maybe, it will just be a dream and I can wake up, slumped in the Impala, Dean at my side, singing loudly to ACDC and demanding extra onions.

"He didn't want you to have to see it," Ellen appears by my side, ever present, hands hovering as if she wants to touch but dare not, "he just wanted you to live Sam – he just wanted you to live."

I want to cry again and bury my head in my hands. How can I carry on without Dean? How did he expect me to live without him? Ellen must be reading my mind because, finally, her hands settle on my shoulder and she shakes her head, "don't let him down," she murmurs, "don't do anything foolish, Sam," her hands shake me slightly and I stare at her, mouth open.

Bobby hasn't said it and Ellen won't, but I know what must be done. It is bitter out, too cold for May and I shudder under the stars, my arms wrapped around my chest, my breath coming in short, sharp pants. The wound in my back itches and aches, a reminder of that night, a year ago now. I rub it and stare at the pyre, swallowing back bile once more.

The flames lick high and I close my eyes. Dean isn't coming back, there is nothing I could do, nothing I can do. I am an orphan, an only child. I am so longer bitch, no longer Sammy, all I am now is Sam Winchester, last man standing.

The whiskey burns my stomach but Bobby keeps pouring. Ellen sits beside me, her long fingers fastened tight around my thigh. After a while she reaches under the table and pulls out a brown envelope. I stare at her and she shrugs, "Dean wanted you to have it," she said, softly.

It is an acceptance from Stanford, a reply from my 'letter' posted earlier that month. I look at Ellen and my throat closes again, tears beginning to flow easy and slow.

I didn't write to Stanford, but I knew who did. I shake my head and Bobby puts up his hand, "the demons are back in hell and there are plenty of hunters in the world, Sam," he forces a smile and I see that his own eyes are wet, "don't let me lose another of you, Sam" he whispers "don't put me through all that again."

I hold the envelope in my hand and something flutters from it, landing on my knee. It is a simple note, written in my brother's hurried scrawl.

'Just Live'

It reads and I, finally, understand.

The Impala is packed, the weapons and books gone from the trunk, packed and stored in Bobby's basement. There is only stuff for college, plenty of clothes and a year's supply of salt. I have the amulet round my neck and the leather jacket hangs a little large around my back. I smile at Ellen, my eyes bright and she smiles back.

As I drive away, I swear I see Bobby put an arm around her and I snicker, wishing that Dean was there to see it.

My brother had one last wish for me.

He wanted me to live and now, I intended to.

END