A/N: It would appear, through the span of frantic search to liberate Dean from the devious contract in season 3, Sam could get a bit obsessive-compulsive in terms of keeping track of all things dear about his soon-to-be-dead brother.
Set through season 3, though no specific references to the episodes. Sam's POV.
Disclaimer: None of the characters, plot-points, inherent to the show, belong to me.
Convenient to the longing*
Sam doesn't remember Mom, obviously. The closest he's ever come to jealousy with regard to Dean is the fact that his brother has those four years of authentic memories in stow. There are pictures of course, and well-worn family stories, that through the time tend to come across more resembling tales of saints and angels, Pastor Jim would read to them, when they were little, than accounts of a real person's lifetime.
Dad Sam recollects, sure enough. He may have come to believe he understands their father more than he ever could claim, but Sam can't bet he ever truly knew the man. Ever truly saw him. Not like Dean had, anyway. When all's said and done Dean might be able to supply a far more accurate inventory of all the minute trivia that Dad was. The small things and the larger than life ones, just as well. Sam's own reminiscence is a blur, by now. Years of simmering resentment and denial, more years still of separation, both before and after Dad's departure, incessantly wither away the image in Sam's mind, clinging hard as he might to it.
Something Sam knows full well he can't afford to happen to that of Dean. Won't allow it happen to the memory of his brother, if it, in fact, does come down to the only thing he'd have left of Dean, which Sam has every intention of not permitting to happen either. Dean has been there as far back as Sam can remember. Dean has always been there, period. The Winchester lore has it baby Sammy's very first word was 'Dean' instead of 'Dad'. And Sam's certain he knows his brother, inside out. Just like one is certain of inhaling air, certain of it being oxygen flooding one's system with each lungful. Indispensable. Vital. Invisible. Taken for granted. Can you, hands down, describe the air you breathe?
So Sam catches himself taking stock, these days. Not the obvious stuff, like Dean's favorite albums (he has but three), Dean's preferred brand of beer or skin magazines, the color of choice for underwear and socks. Sam's learned that all by heart. That, and a lot more. But Sam is tangled in the myriad of details, as of recently, it might have never occurred to him to observe, otherwise. Insignificant. Infinitely precious. What side Dean would usually slumber onto. (Right - a couple of hapless connections with an array of hard surfaces took care of that much). What size knots and bows Dean ties his shoe laces in. How many French-fries, average, Dean shoves into his mouth at a time. What he goes at first – a bite of donut or a sip of coffee – in the morning. Whenever Sam's positive Dean is not looking, he would actually take to counting freckles, peppering his brother's features. As in – one by one. Carefully memorizing the elaborate pattern. Same goes for Dean's scars, whence the latter is changing or has tossed the cover aside, while asleep. Sam is all but sure he could soon recreate and flesh up his brother out of the top of his head, even blindfolded. More sure still, Sam is aware, if or when it comes down to just that, there'd be nothing to stop him short.
*Through those old Grounds of memory,
The sauntering alone
Is a divine intemperance
A prudent man would shun.
Of liquors that are vended
'Tis easy to beware
But statutes do not meddle
With the internal bar.
Pernicious as the sunset
Permitting to pursue
But impotent to gather,
The tranquil perfidy
Alloys our firmer moments
With that severest gold
Convenient to the longing
But otherwise withheld.
(by Emily Dickinson)