A/N: And here's chapter 2! Hope you guys enjoy. :) Some Sam/Sarah here and for a couple of chapters hereon. Nothing explicit though. :D
Review Response
scootersmom: I think AUs ahould keep in mind the basic character, yes, and we wrote this with that objective. :) So glad you like the characterisation. :D
Four Days to Christmas
Sam feels calmer in the morning even as he stands at his window, watching Nick's house. Last night, it had looked different somehow, and Sam couldn't put a finger on it but his heart had raced like it was familiar with some sort of horror associated with the house. Of course, there is the fact that a cold-blooded murderer lived there but Sam also knows that whatever happened there ten years ago is connected with him, including Andy's death, now that he knows Dean was hiding it from him until last night.
He didn't tell Dean about what he'd overheard from Cas. They're here to have a good time; not be paranoid again.
Sam can't actually remember anything bad associated with 1626, though, thanks to his amnesia. Dean's said not to scratch, and tempting as it is, Sam won't. He hates Dean for bossing him about but then he also kinda knows that Dean's usually right about this shit.
Sam remembers a very different side of Nick. He'd been middle-aged; almost as old as their dad, and he was always calling Sam home to teach him and Nick's own son, Max, painting. Max was Sam's age and in his class and one of his closest friends apart from Andy. Nick would sit them both in his backyard and bring out the easels and they'd paint for hours, each engrossed in his own work. Nick would order them pizza when they were done for the day and take a look at their work, telling Sam what was a better technique and what was easier. He'd always have a smile on his face and an appreciation in his talk. He'd be ready to teach, anytime, anywhere. He had been a Fine Arts professor before he retired to run a bookstore in Lawrence.
He had a unique style of painting too. Something he'd use to texture his art. A secret Sam never found about until the very end. Feathers.
Sam's favourite memory of painting with Max and Nick is the day he'd painted his mom as a Christmas present for John. It had been painful but exhilarating, capturing her beautiful face on canvas, mixing tones and shades and trying to appropriate them to who she really used to be. Sam had always thought of her as someone who was larger than life and ethereal, and he tried to make her glow as much as she glowed in his mind. In the end, however, she didn't look half as beautiful as she actually was.
Sam had gifted it to John on Christmas anyway, a smile on his face, and his father had hugged him tight for it whilst blinking back tears. The memory is etched into Sam's brain to last there forever: the sparkle in John's eyes, and the colour of happiness on Dean's cheeks, and then his brother had hugged him too, albeit awkwardly.
"Getting taller than me, dumbass," Dean had muttered, ruffling Sam's hair when they pulled apart.
The painting is still there, framed and displayed in their living room at Omaha. Sam's made another for Dean this year, of John this time (apart from the other thing he plans on giving Dean), but this was before they decided to come back to Lawrence for the holidays.
Ten years ago they'd hauled ass from Lawrence by New Year's, and had counted down to midnight buried in blankets in separate rooms in a small apartment lent to them by one of Bobby's friends. Sam remembers waking up from nightmares, breathing heavily into damp pillows while his face was contorted with tears. He remembers Dean at his doorway, a dark shadow, dejected and sad. And it brings up such helplessness in him, he hates it.
Now he doesn't know what kind of mood Dean will even be in on Christmas day, so he's left John's painting behind because they don't need more pain.
Swallowing down the memories, Sam exits his room and briefly stops by outside Dean's, peeking through the crack in his doorway to see that his brother is fast asleep. He takes the stairs, scratching his hair when he sees the door to the guest bedroom shut, remembering that Cas is here too. He wonders when Dean and Cas will reconcile, and then decides to take it out of his mind because now that they're here, he knows they will. That kind of friendship doesn't just disappear forever. So he digs in the shelves for some of the supplies Ellen's kept in here, and notices the pancake mix.
He's flipping the second one, preparing the batter for another, when he hears Dean walk into the room, the sound of his staggering, slipper-clad feet unmistakeable.
"'Morning, sunshine," Dean grumbles, voice deep in his throat.
Sam nods at the coffee maker. "Drink your poison."
"Gimme a minute," Dean says, and Sam turns briefly, to watch him lean back on his chair. "You know," he says again, "Ellen and Bobby have done a pretty good job with this place, don't you think?"
Sam nods. "Yeah. And—" he swallows, thinking of what he's about to say, "I don't know, man… I think we should sell it, or at least rent it to someone. We could use the money."
Dean doesn't take it as badly as Sam thinks he would. "I guess. We'll put it on the listings once we're back in Omaha."
"So our last Christmas here?" Sam asks his brother lightly.
"Last Christmas here," Dean agrees.
Sam watches the pancake turn golden. "So… don't you think we should celebrate this year, Dean?"
"Celebrate what?" Dean scoffs. "Dad's death?"
"Dean—"
Dean buries his face in his hands as Sam turns. "No," he says, "no Christmas tree, Sam. Please, dude. Don't have this argument with me every year. This one's been hard enough."
Sam thinks of waking up early morning and opening presents with John and Dean. They'd have breakfast and then do their annual marathoning of a game and a couple of movies. Afternoon and evening was dedicated to greeting the neighbourhood and friends, and maybe some snowball fights. Dinner was family time again with turkey, the delicious stuffing an old family recipe from their dad's side, passed on through generations, and some cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes and pudding. Dad would have a glass of whiskey by him and chuckle through games of Bluff. They'd laugh into the night, remember Mom with love and happiness and Sam would go to sleep content.
When they were really young, until about Sam was seven, this was the only night in the year he and Dean were allowed to curl up on John's either side on his bed, strong arms holding them against a broad chest as whiskery kisses were pressed onto their heads. Then Dean got too old for it and Sam decided that so was he. He still didn't cease to be warm, though. Not when he had Dad and Dean around.
Except, that era ended long ago, and all Sam ever feels these days, is the unforgiving cold.
His heart sinks. "It's just a tree."
"No." Dean's eyes flash dangerously when he looks at Sam this time. "You don't remember it, Sam, doesn't mean I don't either. It was Christmas Eve, okay, and it was the worst fucking night of my life, and no."
"You never told me the whole story of what happened. How am I supposed to know?"
"Dad got hit by a car. He went out, got hit by a fucking car, and he never came back. I've told you a million times. Shut up and make your pancakes."
"Dean…"
"Dammit, Sam! No Christmas trees, and that's final," Dean hollers, raising his voice, and Sam flinches as he takes a step back. There's a fire in Dean's eyes which he notices at that moment, a fire which he hasn't seen in ten years.
I'm taking him away, Ellen. I'm taking him far away from this shit, Dean had said, gaze blazing the same way but this time at their life and their destiny. He had bundled a shaking, incoherent Sam in blankets, swaddled him like a baby, and, true to his word, taken Sam away. Dean had been full of righteous anger as he drove, yet managing to be nothing but gentle whenever Sam had needed him; through the ride, and then their initial years at Omaha. And Sam never remembered why he felt that way. Why he was so hopeless for such a long time. Dean was patient through it all.
"Now make that damned breakfast," Dean spits, pulling Sam out of his thoughts, "and stop asking me shit questions, Sammy, or so help me—"
Dean's attitude spurs something bitter inside Sam. He certainly doesn't have to behave like that, Sam thinks, but then he swallows down any upsurge of emotions that might ruin Christmas for both him and Dean. Or, what's left of it for them anyway.
He grits his teeth as he turns back to his cooking. "Sometimes," he mumbles, loud enough for Dean to hear, "sometimes, we should learn to move on, because that's what our loved ones would want of us, you know."
Dean is up and out of his seat the next moment. "Fine, then," he says. "You can move on by yourself. I'm going out for breakfast."
Sam listens to his brother's receding footsteps, taking deep breaths to control his anger while wondering if it's his fault that John died, and if that is why Dean won't talk about it whilst always seeming so angry about what happened. He's asked Dean about this before, and Dean's always denied it but Sam isn't so sure that Dean isn't angry at him.
It's saying something that Dean, who is the champion of letting things go without affecting him, hasn't recovered from their father's death even after it's been a decade. And of course, you don't forget people you lose and you don't completely heal in their absence, but Sam is pretty sure that the wound isn't supposed to be as raw as it seems to be for Dean.
~o~
Sarah's waiting for Sam at The Fitzgerald when he enters, waving at him from a table in the corner. He pushes to get his glasses off and smiles at her as Garth calls out to him from behind the counter. "Sam Winchester!"
Garth used to be classmates with Dean and Cas and Sam feels his grin widen as Garth walks towards him, apron-clad and holding his arms out. They hug, Garth squeezing Sam tight before they part.
"How are you, man?" Garth asks him, and Sam doesn't know if that's sympathy in his eyes, but he chooses to ignore it.
"I'm good," he says. "You?"
"Rocking the family business!" Garth replies brightly, spreading his arms and gesturing around at the whole shop. "You here with someone?"
"Uh, yeah, actually." Sam nods towards Sarah, feeling his cheeks grow warm. Garth turns to look at her and when he's facing Sam again, he winks.
"Date with the new doc in the block. Not bad, dude."
"N-Not a date," Sam tells him, "we're just meeting."
"No issues," Garth tells him, smacking Sam on the arm. "I'll get you our best coffee and pie, yeah? Take some for Dean too. Speaking of—" he pauses as Sam nods, "Where's that brother of yours? Haven't seen him in a while."
"Dean's at home," Sam tells him, remembering his pissed-off brother sulking about his chores. "I'll tell him to call you."
"Sure thing, man, have a good time." Garth winks and gives Sam a last squeeze before Sam heads towards Sarah, appropriately embarrassed.
She's laughing when he takes a seat next to her, hand covering her mouth. Sam notices a wedding band and his heart sinks. He leans back on his chair, thinking if this was a bad idea, when Sarah lifts an eyebrow. "You look like someone kicked your pup."
Sam smiles. "Your husband not here with you?"
Her attention diverts to her hand and she blinks. "Oh. That."
"Yeah." Sam lets out a breath. "Listen, Sarah, I…"
"It's in the past," she whispers, putting her hand on her lap. She bites her lip. "He died seven months ago. I just…"
"Oh God. Shit, I'm so—"
"No, it's okay," she tells him. "How would you know, right?"
There's silence as Garth comes over to their table with the coffees and pies. He smiles again at Sam, brightly, before leaving and Sam draws his mug closer, playing with the handle and not knowing what to say.
After a moment of awkwardly trying to sip at his drinks, Sam clears his throat, letting out a small chuckle. "I should just remove myself from here…"
"No," Sarah tells him quietly. "I—I guess," she rubs her forehead, "I'm kinda ready for this, you know. The whole moving on thing. But it's just hard sometimes. And I keep the wedding band because I can't just throw away his memories like that. So… if that's putting you off…"
"Yeah, I understand. And it's okay."
"I mean, first that, and then my brother…"
Sam feels his eyes widen. "Your brother too?"
"N-No, Carl's alive," she tells him, "or, at least I hope so." She sighs. "I think I should reintroduce myself." Holding out her hand, Sarah smiles. "Dr Sarah Blake. I'm a resident at CU. I'm in Lawrence because my brother lives here and he's been missing for two weeks now." She swallows. "That's how I know Captain Harvelle. She's put Sergeant Singer in charge of Carl's case and I… I'm here to help look for him."
"I'm so sorry," Sam whispers, taking her hand. He shakes it, feeling the soft skin on her palms and just realises how sad her eyes are. It makes him feel worse about himself, redness creeping up his face again.
"So they can't find Nick's family?"
Sam draws his hand away, feeling a chill run down his spine as he blinks at Sarah. "What?"
She shakes her head, equally nonplussed. "What?"
"They've been missing only a couple of days, right? What if it's just that Nick can't find them?"
Sam feels his heart race. The room does a slow spin. "I—washroom." He doesn't provide her with any more explanations as he stands up abruptly and walks towards the toilet in the back, steeling himself not to look at the sheer confusion that is sure to be on Sarah's face.
What the hell is going on?
"Hey, Sam."
Sam is sitting at The Fitzgerald along with Dad and Dean as they wait for their coffees and donuts, and he had been too engrossed in his copy of Harry Potter to even notice Rachel approaching him. When she greets him, though, he puts the book down and takes her hand, shaking it as he smiles back at her. "Hey, Rachel."
"You coming to Alisha's place next week?"
"Alisha's?"
"New Year's party."
Sam steals a look at John, who doesn't look like he cares. He shrugs. "Sure?"
"Great!" says Rachel brightly. "Brandon's getting his mom's car. You can ride with him and Cindy and me."
"Okay," says Sam, wondering when she'd started to get so interested in him, and he watches as she walks away. Across him, Dean buries his mouth into his hand, bursting into barely controlled sniggers. Sam kicks his brother from under the table as he picks his novel back up.
"Fuck!" Dean hisses. He moves forward to backhand Sam, but Sam ducks in his seat, and Dean gets Dad instead.
"Dean," John warns him as Sam comes up again, grinning at Dean this time.
"Sam's being an asshole," Dean grumbles.
"Dean fucking started it," Sam retorts, glaring at his brother.
John gets back to his reading. "You two are too old for this crap," he says, "and God knows, so am I." He pulls the newspaper down a bit, just to squint at both of them for a moment. "Although, if you swear again, boys, you're both stuck on kitchen and laundry duty for a whole month, and I mean it."
"Sorry, Dad," Sam mumbles, returning to his novel.
"Sorry, Dad," Dean echoes him and returns to staring about aimlessly around the coffee shop.
"Dad," Dean begins, just as Sam's reading about the Heir of Slytherin. "So they can't find Nick's family?"
Sam hears his father put down the newspaper. "Seems like it, son."
"They've been missing only a couple of days, right? What if it's just that Nick can't find them? I mean, it's not even like those other kids who they're trying to track. Mrs Miller doesn't fit that bill."
"I think he'd have heard something from them if they were nearby," replies John. "They seem to be legitimately missing. And it doesn't have to be same as the other disappearances." He pauses. "You taking care of Sam?"
Sam starts to protest as he shuts the novel. "Dad, I don't need Dean to—"
"Yes, sir," Dean interrupts him, and Sam glares his brother. Why the fuck do they always have to baby him?
"Good," says John. He turns to Sam. "Sammy, it's for your own good. Just listen to us."
"Okaaaaay."
"Nothing that Ellen can't look into and solve anyway," Dean perks up. "I'm sure they'll all be back. The kids and Mrs Miller. And then we should call Ellen and Jo over to party and—"
"Dean, you stop fooling around with Jo. I won't have you chasing about girls and treating them like crap, you hear me?"
"Who says I treat them like crap?" Dean sounds indignant, but John picks his paper back up.
"If you don't; good. I'm just saying, I'll not have any of that."
Sam is standing at the sink, listening to the running water as he splashes his face. He remembers coming here a lot with Dean and Dad but when was… that…? When did Rachel ask him to the party? When did Dean and John even have that conversation?
"Have you told Sam the secret?"
Michael, Nick's brother, walks up to them from the house. He's here for the holidays, and to help Nick while they find Max and Mrs Miller. Sometimes Sam thinks of how they look nothing alike; like him and Dean.
"Tell him," Michael prods Nick, smiling mildly.
Nick glances at his brother and nods. "You – you know those textures I make, right, in my portraits?"
"Yeah?"
He smiles nervously. "I'm going tell you how to paint with feathers today, Sam."
Nick's looking haggard, eyes sunken, hair askew, and he's been like this ever since Max and Mrs Miller disappeared. He still teaches Sam how to paint, welcomes Sam's company in his lawn every evening as they paint people and sunsets without talking much. And he'll only speak about technique and brush strokes, and Sam wonders if Nick doesn't miss his wife and son.
"I626, Eldridge Street," Nick had muttered into the phone when he'd ordered him and Sam their routine pepperoni pizza, and Sam thinks of how odd it is here without Max.
Sam gasps in a breath, trying to control the rapid, uncontrollable tremors wracking through his body as he washes his face again.
The dark room. A portrait of Mrs Miller, masterfully painted. But there is something wrong. She looks haunted. Like she's in pain. Like she's afraid. Like she's dying. The strokes in it are so clean, so evidently recognisable…
Feathers...
Sam pushes away from the sink and leans against the wall, drawing in slow breaths. He palms the cool tile and thinks of Sarah, waiting there for him, and of his Christmas present to Dean, and of how Dean's going to be so happy when he sees it.
His breaths slow a little, allowing him to catch up with them. Sam blinks to clear his vision and inhales deeply a couple more times. His heart finally starts behaving.
He feels ridiculous once he stops shaking, and reaches for the paper towels to wipe his face. Tom Riddle had been the Heir of Slytherin, he thinks. That's what he had read that day. Riddle's name was an anagram for I am Lord Voldemort. A few weeks after they'd moved to Omaha, Sam had picked up his copy of Chamber of Secrets again, telling Dean that he'd never finished it, and he remembers the haunted look on Dean's face.
And for real. When did Rachel ask him to any parties? He'd barely even talked to her throughout his school years, and then he'd taken another girl, Cara, to the prom back at Omaha. Sam can't ever remember being pally with Rachel. But then again that's probably because all this happened right before the shitstorm that put Sam out of commission that year.
Right. Dissociative amnesia. Kinda sucks.
When Sam gets back to Sarah, her brows are furrowed in concern. "Are you okay?" she asks him when he sits down.
"Yeah," he tells her. "J-Just… bathroom took a while…" and there he is, blushing again, because the implication of what he just said is so… well, not something he'd have wanted to talk about in a first date anyway.
"No issues, Sam," she says, "though, now that you're here I was thinking; let's not talk about the disappearances, shall we? It just gets me sad for Carl."
"Oh," he says, "I'm so sorry, I—"
"No, they'll find Carl," she tells him, and the hope in her voice is heartbreaking. "I know they will." She shrugs before changing the topic. "We stopped at my introduction. What's yours?"
"Uh," he looks down, picking at his pie, "Sam Winchester. You know that. I stay at Omaha with my brother, Dean." He coughs. "Sorry, haven't done this in a while."
"Well, me neither, but how come?"
"It's just…" The thought of her makes his heart leap. If it were her, they'd be wedged into a bathroom stall by now, fucking each other's brains out.
God, that was…
"Never mind," he says, pushing the image out of his head. "Long story for another time."
Sarah is nonchalant about that. "Mmm hmm, and what do you do? Besides gifting paintings to surrogate moms and arguing about said paintings with strange women, of course." She laughs, and Sam chuckles himself, scratching at the back of his neck.
"I work for an attorney," he tells Sarah, "and when I get time off I do some work as a TA at Creighton University."
"For law?"
"No, Fine Arts—painting," Sam replies.
Sarah's eyebrows are so high up, they risk disappearing into her hair. "So…you actually did a course…?"
"BA," Sam nods at her. "I promise I'm not that good. Ellen is just kind enough to keep the gift. It's just – it's just okay."
"It's brilliant," she replies.
"Hey, you didn't think so at first!"
"I totally did—" she giggles, "I told you. I was just talking about the background on it and the style of painting. And it's amazing, okay? I mean, Carl and I can paint, and we've seen our fair share of masterpieces, but…"
"You paint too?" Sam asks her, chest swelling a little.
"My dad owns a gallery, so we kinda got into it early," she says. "But… yeah. Carl's studying Fine Arts at KU. I decided to take another path. Like you." She frowns, lips pursing. "But how does a TA for Fine Arts have a law degree too?"
"Creighton had a programme, actually," says Sam. "It was a BA followed by a JD, and I thought, hey, best of both worlds."
"No kidding!"
"Nope."
"That is the best of both worlds, then." Sarah laughs, taking a sip of her coffee. "You probably procured those because of all that too." She nods at Sam's glasses, hanging off the neck of his shirt.
Sam stares down at them. "These are all thanks to Dean. The last time I had to change frames he got me this one because, apparently, I'm a hippie."
Sarah smiles into her coffee. "Dean's your brother."
"Yup."
"And what does Dean do?"
"He's just begun college this year. In Lincoln." Sam cuts off a piece of his pie and forks it into his mouth. "His boss and I persuaded him into it."
"Why didn't he do college before?"
"He wasn't interested. Worked at Dad's garage. But then we moved to Omaha and it was just me and Dean there, so he got a part-time job at an orthopaedic clinic while I studied. They had physical therapists there and Dean saw what they did—and liked it. I didn't think he'd ever want to do something like that, but he surprised me."
"So what's he majoring in?"
"Biology. I hear him bitching about Anatomy and Physiology at least twice a day." Sam chuckles at the thought of Dean's sulking whenever he opens his atlas and notes to study.
"I'm with him on that," Sarah replies, finishing her coffee and grimacing. "Anatomy gave me nightmares." She pushes her cup away. "Tell you what. I'll bring my notes along when I meet you for ice skating."
Sam almost chokes into his coffee. "Ice skating?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow at seven? Then we can have dinner. You're in, right?"
"Are you asking me out?"
Sarah winks. "Has a girl never asked you out, Mr Winchester?"
"N-No, they have… I mean…" Sam had thought she wasn't very interested in him, and he'd been prepared for subtle rejection. Apparently, he couldn't have been more wrong about what she wanted. Plus, plus… no. Sam refuses to think about her.
"So am I seeing you tomorrow?" Sarah asks him, interrupting his thoughts.
"S-Sure!" Not like those times… no.
"And are you going to stop being so shocked about this?"
"I don't know," he tells her, managing to calm himself, and they burst into laughter as Sam signals for more coffee.
They talk and talk on for the next few hours and it's only when Sam looks at Garth's enthusiastic face that he remembers he'd told Dean he'd be home for lunch. But he leans back in his chair for a few more minutes and speaks some more with Sarah because he really hasn't had such a good time in a long, long while.
Not since Jess.
Unlike Jess, Sarah won't have to bear Sam's baggage or see what a mess he is, though. He promises himself that.
~o~
Dean is grinning when Sam gets back home. It's the same shit-eating grin Dean blasts at him whenever he's about to annoy the fuck out of Sam, and Sam promptly flips him off before heading to his room, his brother following him upstairs.
"Come on, I didn't even say anything!" Dean whines, watching as Sam throws his scarf onto his bed.
"You intended to," Sam replies. He gathers half his hair into a ponytail so they won't fall into his eyes, fastening his hair-tie and turning around to watch Dean scrutinising him. "What?"
"Did you go to meet her dressed in your favourite style of Professor McNerdy?"
"No."
"Sammy…" Dean shakes his head, taking a step further. "You gotta cut your hair, dude."
"And you gotta fuck off." Sam starts to walk out, wondering if he even has place for lunch with all the coffees he's had with Sarah.
"Sam, you wear scarves. And sweaters. And your hair—"
"Dean."
"You're practically a hippie!"
"Says the big brother who bought those glasses for me in the first place, and doesn't let me take them off."
"Doc said you need them at all times. And hey. Those are the only things about you right now that make you remotely cool." He frowns. "And I don't see you wearing them, Sam."
Sam reaches for them and puts them on, sighing. "Happy?"
Dean gives him a thumbs-up.
Sam snorts. "They suck."
"Did Sarah notice them?"
"Uh—"
"Bingo."
"Fuck off."
"You even hungry?" Dean asks him, as Sam gets the knives and forks out. "Or are you full of coffee?"
"How do you—?"
"Garth called Cas. Cas called me."
Sam smirks at his brother. "So you and Cas talking again, then?"
"Called him after you left. Went to his place for a while. Thought I'd at least try talking to the guy," says Dean, shrugging. "And, uh… he's coming over for dinner."
Sam raises an eyebrow. "That good, huh?"
Dean colours a little. "Shut up, bitch, you're gonna be here too. He's just my fucking friend and shit happened and…" he frowns. "Don't make it weird."
Sam tilts his head. "Fine."
"Sam."
"I said, fine."
"No, don't say it like that."
"Like what?"
A hand comes to smack the back of Sam's head. "Ow, jerk!"
"I told you to cut it off, bitch!" Dean tells him indignantly.
Sam glares at him. "Fine."
"Fine."
"I hope you forget everything you studied about the femur this morning."
Dean's jaw drops. "How dare you! You bitchy son of a—I slaved over that shit and I won't forget."
"Fine then, I'm not making any more flashcards," Sam tells him. "You're exploiting me now. Don't even have any respect—"
Dean's foot comes in contact with Sam's calf, causing him to stumble forward. "There's your respect. Set the table, asshole."
By the time Sam turns around, Dean's retreated into the kitchen. Sam sniggers at his brother's back. Dean will pay for this, and Sam will make sure of that. Oh, he will have his sweet, sweet payback.
~o~
Dean cooks again for dinner, ignoring Sam's ribbing as he makes the salad.
"You gonna take Cas out for a movie next?" Sam asks him. "Hold hands and take a walk in the park?"
"'M gonna kick your ass next," Dean mutters over the sizzle of frying chicken, and Sam just laughs harder.
"Is he staying over tonight too, Dean? And is he sharing your room and your bed?"
"Sam."
"I'll crash at Ellen's if you want me to. Or even Bobby's—"
"Cas is going back home, and if you don't want me to spit in your food, you can shut up."
"Ew," Sam chuckles. "I don't want to share that privilege with Cas. Of tasting your spit."
"Sammy, that's enough."
Dean's tone is calm; not irritated like it was, and Sam stops chortling because he knows that he has reached the limit, and Dean talking like this means that it's best Sam just shuts up.
"Cas used to be my best friend," Dean tells him, turning over the chicken with his tongs. "But I stopped talking to him for a reason. And he's tried to mend it for a long time and I just thought I'd stop being a jerk. Doesn't change what happened. Don't cross the line here, okay?"
Sam nods, and clears his throat. "Sorry."
There is silence, except for more sizzle from the pan as Dean drops another piece of chicken and starts to dab sauce over it. Sam feels embarrassment creep up his neck as he opens up the lettuce he'd picked up. He's always known when to stop with Dean, and when it comes to their last few weeks at Lawrence and the reason they moved, Sam doesn't usually make jokes with his brother. Because he knows that the fact that Dean can remember while Sam can't only means Dean has to carry that burden alone. And Dean's never blamed Sam for any of this stuff, even though Sam, somewhere, wishes he'd been strong enough to remember, instead of having to go to a therapist.
Sam is fidgeting with the lettuce, considering a continuation of his apology, when Dean breaks the silence by speaking up.
"Actually, no." Sam looks up just as Dean turns around, leaning against the counter. "I'm sorry, Sammy. For yelling this morning. I know you love Christmas, but dude, Dad…"
"No, I get it, Dean," Sam tells him. "You don't have to explain."
"I know." Dean smiles. "You're a smart-ass anyway."
"Says the first person ever in the family who's gonna earn a doctorate."
"If I don't flunk out."
Sam moves ahead and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Have some faith in my brother, man. I got to have gotten those genes from somewhere, right?"
Dean shakes his head and gets back to his cooking. "And I'll be damned if that's the shit you take after me for." He scoffs. "Fucking nerd."
Sam watches his brother a long, long time before he can get back to shredding more lettuce for his salad. So much has changed over the years; between the last time they'd been in this house and now, but he and Dean will always be the same to one another, mean the same to each other, day after day, no matter what.
~o~
Sam sighs at the lack of reception on his phone as he lounges in the couch. Dean's sitting on the floor before him, preparing the old TV for the movie marathon they're planning to have.
"Dean," says Sam, "I can't get through to Cas."
"He'll reach us when he has to," Dean replies, carefully arranging their Star Wars DVD collection next to the TV.
"Can't you call him?"
"What, you think my phone will magically just connect to him?"
"Yeah." Sam's barely able to keep a straight face when he says it.
"He must be at the police station," Dean says, not noticing Sam's reply, much to Sam's dismay. "I mean, it's not like he lives in my ass. Dude's busy."
The doorbell rings just then and Sam keeps the laughter inside him when Dean mutters his way to it and opens it to reveal a very tired-looking Cas at their doorstep. Dean shakes his head, standing aside. "Cas, get out of my ass."
"I was never in your ass," Cas mumbles, bored, and Sam makes space so he can slump onto their couch. Like old times, Sam remembers, when Cas would just drop in after school with Dean, or after work, and John would make them all PB&Js.
Cas's dad had abandoned him at the group home in town and some of the families in Eldridge Street had taken up the task of providing for him. No one could completely adopt him because of their limited income and those who could would not take him in because he was a blatantly honest child, often considered rude. Plus he was older, and Sam's noticed that most people who adopt prefer the younger children.
Everything Cas had as a child was borrowed, or because of the kindness of others, and he grew up equally kind. He was always so giving and full of gentleness, even with not having much himself. That is why Sam can't fathom why Dean's been so pissed at him over the last decade. He can never bring himself to think that Cas might have done something that bad. But he supposes there has to be a big reason, an explanation for whatever happened, that made Dean hate him so much.
Cas now lives in a small apartment from his modest police salary, but it's incredible how much he's achieved with what he had. He's also blindly loyal to all the families that helped him. John had joined in with them when Dean had become friends with Cas, too. This was what proved that even though their father was the tough love kind of a person most of the year, he was also incredibly gentle when it was needed of him. Much like Dean.
At present Dean adjusts himself on the floor, leaning against the sofa once Cas has washed his face, and they start with the first movie; the fourth episode, each grinning as the opening notes bring back all the nostalgia. Sam knows that Dean just decided to overlook his and Cas's fight in his decision to forgive Cas for whatever it was, but he wonders if they'll ever talk about it.
He hopes they will. Because, Dean needs someone stronger, someone who remembers and was there to share all his burdens with, and Cas is someone who can do that now.
~o~
Later that evening, near bedtime, Sam finds himself at his window again with a mug of coffee in his hand. He knows it might not be the best habit around but he likes taking a few sips of caffeine before he sleeps. It's not black, and it's just so he can taste the light burnt bitterness on his tongue. It's never too much to keep him awake, but it makes him feel good and makes Dean call him a caffeine addict too.
Tendrils of mist rise from the beverage in the mug, fogging up Sam's glasses briefly. He watches the street lights develop little halos, thinking of how long they've not been around this place. However, Eldridge Street is the same. Lawrence is the same. It's like continuing from a movie that was paused years ago.
Before he knows it he's staring at Nick's house again, wondering how come no one occupied it all these years. Is it because of the horrible things that have happened there? Are there people who really believe in ghosts and hauntings? And in violent deaths being bad omens? Or is it that the tragedies in that house just make it unsaleable?
How would the families of the victims feel if someone was to actually live there after all these years?
Pushing these morbid thoughts out of his head, Sam finishes his coffee, wondering if Dean has gone to bed yet. It is getting late, and Ellen's called them over tomorrow, so Sam reckons he should hit the hay too. With that thought, he is about to get off to brush his teeth when he realises with a twinge in his chest, that the light in one of the bedrooms in Nick's house is switched on.
It looks so normal, so innocent, that Sam wonders if he missed it before and looks again—
It's still switched on.
Sam yells out, stumbling away from the window. He clamps his hand over his mouth, hoping Dean didn't hear him, and the mug slips out of his glass, rolling onto the carpet and mercifully not shattering. As Sam backs further away, holding back a scream, an intense trembling starts all over him and suddenly, his breaths are catching in his chest, and—
oh god, need air need to… to… water
He rushes to the bathroom. No. No. Nonono.
He's dreaming.
Has to be dreaming.
The white flash of the restroom tile hits Sam's eyes as he switches on the light, burning his retinas and and he looks down—
blood
Red everywhere, getting in the cracks and gaps between the tile, on the walls and trickling down the sides of the bathtub…
"Cas!" Dean is yelling. "Cas, get the fuck here!"
Everything is blurry and it hurts and it hurts so, so much. And Sam is dying, feeling the life seep out of him and he doesn't know if the pain exceeds the bliss, or vice-versa. He just knows, he can't do this.
Cantdothisanymore.
He made a big mistake. He can't stay and he can't leave. Because, what will Dean do?
Dad is dead. Dean is alive and is going to have to live through this whole nightmare.
The pain eases. Sam wants to talk to Dean, call out to him. But Dean isn't paying attention. His forehead is on Sam's, something wet falling onto Sam's cheeks in little, warm drops and Dean's crying.
This is Sam's fault.
"Hey, hey," Dean's hands are on Sam's shoulders, his cheeks. "Stay with me. You're going to be okay."
There are ambulance sirens, and Sam feels himself lifted, strong hands holding him, curled around his shoulders and under his knees while his head rests against Dean's neck.
"Cas!" Dean is calling out again. There are footsteps. Sam can smell blood and whiskey. Another pair of arms share his burden with Dean but he doesn't want Dean to let go… no…
"D-Daadd…"
"I hear ya, pal." There are tears in Dean's voice. "It's gonna be all right. You're gonna be okay. We all are…"
We're gonna be okay.
Gonna be okay, Sammy.
When he is aware of himself again, he is on the floor in his bedroom, shudders running all though and his stomach churning like he's been in a carousel too long. He slowly gets up and slumps onto his bed, drawing the bedcovers over himself and curling up into the tiniest ball possible.
It takes a long time for Sam to stop shaking as he buries himself in his blankets with bathroom light falling on his face. He has no courage to go back there and switch it off or to look out of the window to see if he was imagining the light in Nick's house. He doesn't know what he saw. He can't remember Dean carrying him, or pain that profound, but it was so real…
It is real, though, and he knows it. It was the day he'd tried to kill himself; one of the memories that Sam doesn't have.
Dean would know, right?
Except, if Sam asks Dean about it, he'll freak out, yell, and deny the whole thing. Sam's not supposed to recollect these things. Dean doesn't even know that people are disappearing again, because Sam doesn't want to be treated like he is spun of sugar, any more than he already is. And the therapist said that the amnesia protected him from something horrible. Dean had asked him not to pick and scratch. He wanted Sam safe. And Sam gets that.
But how is it Sam's fault if they assault him like this?
Praying for the images to go away and leave him alone with his peace, Sam falls into an uneasy, nervous slumber. He dreams of finding Dean dead in his bathtub, crimson swirls of blood everywhere, and Sam wakes up horrified, nauseated, and rushes to check on his brother.
Even when he finds Dean snoring contently in his bed, though, Sam can't sleep all night. He gives up trying even that at around dawn and retreats to their father's old, empty room with his art supplies. He sets up the easel and begins to paint Dean. Dean sitting at their dining table in Omaha and staring at his anatomy notes. The entire memory makes Sam smile, and he's sure Dean will too, when he shows him. And curse Sam a bit, perhaps. And they'll hang it above that very dining table and Dean will grumble every time someone is amused by it.
And just thinking of all this has brought Sam's anxiety down notches. There is nothing about Dean that doesn't instantly calm Sam, and one of the only three people he can draw out of memory, apart from their mom and dad.
He starts mixing in the shades and just hopes and prays and prays that he and Dean won't end up regretting this visit to Lawrence more than Sam imagines they will. Because, again, Dean has more than enough to deal with, even without this crap.
A/N: So what do you think is going on in that neighbouring house? What is Sam remembering? ;)
Hope you're intrigued, please review! :)
