Freckles

He's eight and he's terrified.

Dean stares at the nurse in front of him, his eyes wide and blank. He can hear her voice, soft and gentle, echoing in the empty hall they're standing him. He can hear her telling him that Sammy's hurt, that Sammy might not wake up, but it can't be true. She's lying to him, and he hates her for it. He hears his father's voice in the room to his right, speaking to a doctor, and he inhales deeply, breathing in the smell of the hospital, synthetic and disinfected.

She's widening her eyes at him, speaking earnestly, so Dean stares back and nods like he understands but he isn't even listening. The words bounce along the hallway, unheard and empty, and float to the ground, destined to be crushed under the feet of doctors stampeding into emergency rooms. She squeezes his shoulder and Dean doesn't know what to say so he counts the pale freckles splattered across her nose.

Whisper

"Sammy. Hey, Sammy. Gotta wake up. Dad's mad at you. I'm mad, too. You weren't very smart, trying to stop that ghost by yourself. I always tell you to stay out of the way, don't I? Don't I remind you all the time? You shouldn't have been there. The ghost's not your fault, Sammy. This isn't your job. This is Dad's job, and my job, but it's not your job. You shouldn't have – you shouldn't have gotten in the way, Sammy. It should have been me. It shouldn't be you lying here in the hospital, it should be me. It's all my fault. It's always my fault. I just mess everything up for you, don't I? Always have. And now…I had one job, Sammy, and that was to protect you. And I didn't even do that. I failed you, Sammy. Please wake up.

Please wake up, Sammy."

Sammy doesn't wake up.

Punch

Dean drives his fists into the punching bag in Bobby's basement, letting out little grunts of effort as he does so. He's trying not to be sad because he knows that sad is dangerous. He wants to be angry, angry like Dad. He wants to be angry so he can't feel anything in his heart, can't feel the empty hole where Sammy was. So he hits things and stays angry because sad is dangerous but angry is safe.

Dad is hunting again, and he's left Dean with Bobby. It's only been a month since Sammy was gone – but no, Dean isn't going to think about Sammy.

Isn't going to think about how cute he was.

Isn't going to think about how smart he was.

Isn't going to think about how he used to cuddle up to Dean whenever he got cold at night.

Isn't going to think about how he had a wobbly tooth he never lost.

Isn't going to think about how Sammy was doing so well in school.

Isn't going to think about how Sammy used to look at him, with his big puppy dog eyes and push his lower lip out and –

Dean's gloved fist slides off of the side of the bag and he stares at the battered bag, stares at the duct tape sealing up cuts and scrapes.

He wishes he could duct tape his heart back together again.

He wants to hit the bag again and stay mad but his anger is dissolving into grief to quickly for him to stop it and before he knows what he's doing, his arms are clutching the bag and he's sobbing.

It feels like he's dying, just a little bit. He doesn't think one body can hold so much pain and he wants to die. His heart is stuck in his throat as he chokes out sob after sob and it feels like his soul is being shredded into pieces with a razor, the kind Dad uses to shave. There isn't enough happiness in this world to balance his grief.

His lungs constrict, his throat is raw and his eyes feel like they've been replaced by grit and sand. He can't handle this, he can't control this pain. He can't live with himself. He can feel the grief eating away at his soul and he can feel his spirit withering away into shriveling pieces of fading light.

He holds onto the bag and cries until his vision blurs and his breathing evens in his sleep.

When he wakes, Dean quietly washes his face and creeps upstairs to bed before John comes home and finds him.

Birthday

Its Sammy's birthday, or it would be, if he was alive. So Dean occupies himself in a hunt, killing everything he can find because it doesn't make him think and whenever he thinks, he thinks of Sammy.

He thinks he understands his dad better now that he's lost Sammy but he would rather have never been born than feel this pain.

Whiskey

Dean's twenty-five, and he's drunk.

Tonight's one of those nights that has burned away at him mentally and physically and all that's left is to wallow in the deep emotional anguish that he carries in his heart. Scenes leading up to Sammy's accident are playing out in his mind and he's powerless to stop them so he does what he always does: he reaches for the whiskey.

He lets it sit on his tongue and hisses as it burns down his throat and feels it warm his chest but he knows that no amount of alcohol will ever thaw out the ice of his heart.

Dean sits and drinks until he can't feel feelings anymore and the smells of death and hospital stop plaguing him.

Wonder

Sometimes, Dean wonders.

He wonders what Sammy would look like if he were alive. He wonders if he would have a girlfriend and what she would be like.

He wonders if he would be tall or short or thin or muscular. He wonders if they would get along. He wonders if they would go hunting together.

He wonders if they would have killed the yellow-eyes demon together.

Dean wonders if Sammy would have liked him as adults if he had survived. He glances down at the bottle in his hand and decided he wouldn't have.

A/N: So this came to me in the middle of English. It was pretty depressing to write and hopefully it conveyed a fraction of the emotion I hope it did. Please review, it means a lot to me. Dedicated to Charmita, for always reviewing and the never ending support.