The deep thump of bass from Dean's music blared from the makeshift speakers in his room, down the halls, and into Sam's room. Dean was busy tacking up posters and ordering other decor he had always wanted online only pausing, and quite frequently, to strum out power chords on his invisible guitar. Sam sat in his room on the bed dressed in the sheets and blanket that the MoL had originally given it and listened to his brother move around in his room. He had been sitting for an hour now just staring at the room. Four white walls, one brown writing desk, one matching chair, one matching dresser, and one shaving sink that dated the room. The only personal items in the room were the clothes in the dresser and his laptop on the desk. He shook his clasped hands in a helpless little gesture before resting them against the bed between his thighs.

This was the second week they spent in the bunker. The first few days they were so enthralled with the idea of a permanent residence that they spent that time exploring and lounging. On the third day, Dean came back, after checking out the nearby town, with a plastic Batman figurine.

"Hey, Sam, check it out!" Dean held the toy up eyes shining with childish excitement. He shook it a little with a content chuckle. "Huh? Huh? It's great isn't it? It's Batman!"

Seeing his brother lighthearted was rare and Sam couldn't stop a bemused smile.

"Yeah, it's great. What's it for?"

"My room! I figure why not start decorating!"

He gestured with the big paper bag in his arms. Sam could see a couple magazines, CDs, and rolled posters shift in the bag. His vague interest rolled into dread settling into the pit of his gut as Dean continued.

"This is home now, so you should decorate your room too." He tapped Sam's shoulder with the back of his hand that held Batman. "I'm going to go put this in my room!" His voice rose with sheer giddiness.

Shortly after Dean had set up a PO box and was getting things delivered in town. A week later he asked Sam why he hadn't done anything with his room yet, but Sam avoided the question. He was avoiding the question with himself, but now in the solitude of his blank room with the ambient noise of his brother doing what he could not, he felt the impending self reflection overcede his denial.

It was simple enough to say he never had a place to decorate and, so was unable to, but it was more than that.

It was Jessica. The last time the "interior decorating" was a question, was when he moved in with Jessica. He got away with explaining that he didn't care about how their apartment looked "as long as it's an apartment with you". The cheesy sentiment had earned him feigned exasperation, an expression that was secretly his favorite of hers and still brought a sharp pain to his chest when it flitted across his thoughts, and a faux angry kiss. Since he was replacing her flaky ex-roommate they didn't change much about the existing apartment. The few things he considered personal belongings burned in the same fire that stole her from him- his clothes, books, birthday and Christmas gifts from friends, and the crappy charcoal drawings of Jessica from the art class she insisted they take together as a "stress relief class". Of all the material things he owned he regretted losing those the most. After each class he had crumpled up the portraits throwing them away. And for the whole semester Jessica snuck them out of the trash bin and kept them, then surprised him by framing them in the small hallway.

"Why did you keep these? They aren't exactly flattering." He asked her completely bewildered.

She smiled that pretty half smile she had when she was lost in thought and shrugged her shoulder never looking away from the monstrosity. "Because this is how you see me and that makes it beautiful."

"You're crazy." He has laughed reaching out for her.

She leaned into his embrace with a thoughtful smirk. "You make me crazy."

He could still remember the warmth of her lips against his and the way her wild blonde hair tickled his nose as she rested her head against his chest as they hugged. These memories struck him with affection and hard bitterness, but it wasn't just Jessica's memory.

It was college. It was showing up day one in campus smelling like a Greyhound bus with nothing but a backpack he had owned for 12 years full of clothes and his important information. When he showed up to his dorm he slept on a naked mattress the first night. He managed to get a full ride to Stanford, which paid enough for him to get the basic dorm necessities, but he was completely clueless about what to get until he saw what his roommates had brought. When one if his roommates asked where his stuff was Sam stiffly explained that he didn't have any because he was disowned and went to college against his parent's wishes. His roommate was cool about it and actually went with him to go figure out what he needed, but even then they had just picked out the first option of whatever item his roommate suggested. But it wasn't just Jessica and it wasn't just not knowing what to get.

It was solitude. He remembered those years when Dean and his dad would go on a hunt banishing him to days and weeks of loneliness. He came back to the motel from school where he, as usual, was an outcast - a special brand of alone that came with subtle public shame. He came to the motels already decorated with outdated or generic pictures. He never thought to change anything. He didn't know what he would do instead. Sam could recall a few cool decorations from all the different motels where he would waste hours of his life- the print of scenic beach painting, a lamp that changed levels of brightness when you touched the metal, or the curtains that Dean once muttered look like the curtains that use to hang in the kitchen of their old house. All these items that came to mind left a cold anxious tendril of discomfort wiggling in his stomach and chest. The feeling he associated with waiting, with abandonment, with him without Dean.

It was his childhood. Occasionally in elementary school, the teacher would instruct them to draw- their family, what they wanted to be in the future, all the things that eager children always draw. Sam remembered his teacher saying, "When you get home, be sure to hang up your pictures on your fridge!" This comment shocked Sam. He looked around to his classmates who chatted happily about how their parents always put their artwork on the fridge or even on the walls of their houses. This was the first time Sam heard of such a thing. Until then, Sam imagined all houses had clean colorful painted walls (none of that plain white plastered look he knew every hotel sported) and a big shiny silver refrigerator like the ads on TV showed.

That day, in first grade, Sam spent the whole hour painstakingly drawing Dean and his Dad barely having enough time to stick part of himself in the picture. He ran back to the motel that day waiting eagerly for Dean to come back from Middle school. When Dean opened the door Sam flew from his seat where he had been fidgeting for an hour and holding his pee in case Dean got back early.

"Dean! Dean! Dean!"

The rough material of his backpack scraped his hands opening a wound on the back of his right hand, but he didn't notice with the level of his excitement and grabbed the notebook with the drawing. He slowly opened the notebook careful not to bend his creation.

"Look what I drew today!"

Sam thrust it into Dean's hands. Dean smiled tiredly.

"Wow, Sammy. This is real good."

Sam went to his side standing on the tippiest of his toes to look at the picture too. He pointed to one of the artfully created stick figures.

"That's you! See, that's your freckles." He pointed to the brown dots that surrounded the stick figure's head like a cloud of bees. "And that's Dad!"

"Good job, Sammy." Dean began to lay down the paper on the table pausing as Sam bit his lip and followed the action with his eyes.

After a moment Sam said in a small voice. "Mrs. Juliano said... that sometimes… if the drawing's good e'nuff… it gets… put on the fridge."

Dean smiled through his falling expression. "Well of course it does, Sammy. I was just going to do that. I gotta find a magnet first though."

This went on for a few weeks. Sam tried with everything he had to draw a decent picture of their family, of Dean as Batman, of himself as smaller Batman (which he and Dean argued over as real or made up only for Dean to relent after too harsh of a word), and many other innocuous things that he could no longer remember. That was until their Dad came back. Sam was woken up to Dean's urgent shake.

"Sammy wake up. We gotta go." Dean's face was hard, his jaw clenched, with red rimming his eyes.

"Huh? Is it time for school?" Sam rubbed his eyes.

"No, stupid. Dad's back. We gotta go." Dean snapped.

"Go?"

"Yes! Now get up already. Dad's in the car." Dean barked impatiently.

Sam was already use to Dean's meaner mood swings. It still hurt, but he bit back the sadness knowing it would only make Dean angrier with him and jump out of bed to do the three minute pack up routine. It was when he stepped out of the bedroom that he remembered. Weeks of his effort stripped from the walls and fridge where Dean had hung them up. In the small plastic bin by the front door was a large ball of colorful paper. Sam stumbled to a stop eyes glued to the mass.

Dean shifted uncomfortably behind him. "Sorry, Sammy. Dad said it was too much to take with us. Don't cry okay?"

A sharp chunk wedged itself hard into his throat and wouldn't move no matter how many times he swallowed. His eyes immediately went moist and burned as he refused to shed the tears that threatened to brim at any moment, but when he ducked his head a few droplets hit the linoleum tile. He adjusted his backpack on his shoulder.

"S'okay." His voice cracked. "They weren't any good anyways."

Dean wavered, but remained silent as Sammy walked through the door not even sparing a look at the trash can as he went.

But it wasn't just that, Sam stared into his clenched hands.

It was his nursery. He tried to think of how his Mother decorated his nursery. He tried to imagine growing up in a room that was specifically set aside for him. How would it have changed as he got older. Would he shop with his parents to get posters and toys for that mysterious four walled entity? When he went through that stage where he wanted to know absolutely everything about dinosaurs, would his parents buy him one of those 3 foot tall stuffed Stegosaurus that Dean said was too big to have in a hotel? That potential room had always been a source of never ending what ifs. So much so, that thinking about it always sent Sam into depressing thoughts of what his life might have been and who his family would've been.

Sam fell back onto his bed. The mattress resisted fiercely giving the same sensation as rocking back on the floor. He raked both hands through his hair stopping to press the heels into his closed eyes until the pressure sent white stars into his vision and dulled his racing thoughts. He sighed raggedly. There was just no way he could bring himself to decorate this room.

Meanwhile, Dean spun around in his room bopping his head in tune to Rock You Like A Hurricane. He pointed both fingers at the gaping duffle bag. It was full of stuff he was moving out of the Impala. He reached in pulling out several papers and danced over to the closet. On the inside of the door he taped up two old, crappily drawn pictures entitled "My Family" and "Batman and Smaller Batman".