When Sammy was 20, he fell in love for the first time.
Sure, there had been girls before. Prom dates and study dates and blundering first dates to that shitty go-kart place in Salt Lake City. But none of it had been, you know, love.
I'm pretty sure with how gangly and bookish and awkward as all hell he was, he probably still had his v-card when he got on that bus to California.
Thing was, he'd had his chances on that end, sure. I'd seen plenty of girls, the ones he'd meet at coffee shops or in their living rooms—never brought a girl home to meet me, not once—giving him eyelashes all serious. One word, the right one, and he woulda been in.
But I'm pretty damn sure he didn't. I'd have known. I'd have seen something different. Hell, the kid would have told me, right?
Whatever.
All I know is, when Sam was 20, when he was away, he fell in love for the first time and I wasn't there for him to tell.
He fell in love with a girl—all right, a young woman—who Mom would've liked and I think, if he'd had his shit together, Dad would've been ok with her, too.
And, damn, she was a looker. Didn't think Sam had it in him.
He never told me about how they met.
And I never asked. Guess I should've, but I couldn't.
It was easier to ignore it. Ignore those four years gone and look past the way Sam's face got all swimmy when he talked about Jess, like she filled him with this crazy, unexpected happy that he'd never had before in his life.
A happiness I sure as hell had never been able to give him, I know. But, hey. Not for my lack of trying.
Something about that smile, his, when he talked about her made me feel like someone had dropped a frozen rock in my stomach, knowing that being so normal, so freaking pink houses, could make him so fuckin' ecstatic.
I saw him once, while he was with her.
I mean, once before I pulled him away from school and his one good shot at normal and back into the big black hole of hunting.
Dad and I were in California to salt and burn some undead motherfucker: ghost or ghoul or whatever, I don't remember now. And me, I just wanted to stick my head in. Make sure the kid was doing okay.
Good thing was, Dad was depressed.
Oh, he sure as fuck knew how close we were to Sam. That his son was only a two hour haul away from our shit-tastic motel set-up.
But did he say a word about it? Nah. Not so much as "boo."
He did, however, buy a second six-pack and nail his ass to the couch.
I don't think he even noticed me leave.
I drove upstate in the dark and kind hovered around the campus until it got light, waiting. Sucking down terrible coffee and pretending I wasn't nervous as hell.
Yeah, yeah. I was a freaking wreck.
It was after nine in the AM before I finally spotted him. He was studying—which, of course he was— with a group of other kids outside some pretty brick building. They were sitting in the grass under a damn gorgeous tree, books spread all around 'em like some freaking photoshoot of genius and even in all that, he stood out.
Sure, his hair was stupider than I remembered and he had a freaking tan but he had this grin on his face that I sure as hell hadn't forgotten.
SamSamSam, my heart said, all helpful like.
Yeah, no shit, I shot back.
His laugh kicked me out of my head, and I watched him yuck it up with all those other geekboys and, fuck. That was enough.
Enough creeping for one day. Enough hanging in the shadows watching my brother look like a stranger, some version of somebody I knew once, maybe, but it was clear that this was his world. Not mine.
I felt like a trespasser right then, when all I'd ever been was protector.
So I exited stage right.
I went to grab a bite at some local joint just off campus. I slammed my salt and grease and considered the blondes in the next booth. Started thinking maybe I'd try my hand at picking up a Stanford girl, a smart chick. How I'd do it. What I'd say. How hot it'd make me when she said something really fucking bon mot, but bam!
One big paw landed smack dab on my shoulder and that voice—that snot-nosed, little brother voice that was neither snot-nosed nor real fucking little anymore—shot into my ear.
"Dean?" Sam said, both surprised and not at all.
I didn't mean for him to know I was, ok, spying on his giant ass, but, fuck, he was raised to be a hunter and apparently two years of college did nothing to tone down the Spidey sense the life stuck us both with. I guess I wasn't as stealthy as I thought. Or he was just a little bit better.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little pride, at that.
I tipped my head back until I could see him glower.
"Heya, Sammy," I tried with this bigass fake smile.
"It's Sam," he spat and damn if he didn't manhandle me, drag me off into the corner and get me up close and personal with the pay phone.
"What are you doing?" he barked, letting go so quick I fell back on my feet. Hit my head on the fucking receiver.
"Uh. Hunting," I said. Which was the truth. Even if the hunt was technically over.
Even if I was unofficially hunting him.
I figured he was probably not gonna punch me in a place where people seemed to know him and shit, but I could see the temptation kicking around in his eyes.
"Hunting? Here?" Sam said, incredulous, like nothing evil ever set up camp in the Great State of California.
I squared my shoulders and shoved him a little. Just to regain some ground. "Yeah, dude, here. Bad shit don't stop, you know, just because you ain't playing along."
That one stung, and I hadn't meant to say it, fuck, but. There it was.
His eyes narrowed. "Why are you spying on me?"
"I'm not!" I barked, or tried to, but it might've been more like a squawk.
Of course, Sasquatch was a step ahead of me already. "Dude," he hissed, going right for the bitch. "I can hear the Impala four blocks off."
Which, point.
I held up my hands. "Okay, fine. You got me, Mr. Bond. Guilty. I was just—I wanted to see how you were."
Didn't really mean to admit that, either, but something about having the kid right there in my fucking face threw me off my game a little. Apparently.
His face got shifty. "Wait. Is Dad here?" he asked, voice this sudden mixture of fury and fear.
"No, he, uh"—is probably still in a booze-induced coma—"went on this morning," I lied. "Something Bobby's got a scent on in Kentucky. You know how it is."
He nodded, but it didn't go away, all that anger, automatic, at Dad. Just sat right up there on the surface of Sam's face.
Stayed there.
Somehow I managed to talk him into letting me finish my fucking breakfast, into ordering one of his own, and by then it was after noon and that made it totally ok for us to head to the bar, to some townie joint next door with Coors on special and a pretty girl behind the tap, and it didn't take too much to get him to sit down across from me and order a drink. Or two. Or three.
The bar got louder and my head got blurry and I was finally able to ask him, "So, how's life been treatin' you?"
That's when it came—this beautiful, happy, like, smile that I wasn't actually sure I'd ever seen before. "It's—I'm good, man. I mean, I know you'd hate it here, but it's going well."
Something low inside of me tightened, made it hard to breathe, but I squelched it. Swallowed hard and kept it all down.
Sam had left, over out and done, and I had no right to make him feel shitty about it anymore. Period. Especially now, when I could see how happy it made him, being here. He was almost stupid with it, and fuck, did that piss me off. I hated that he could just sit pretty out here in the fucking sunshine and be happy when he knew that evil shit was out there going bump in other people's nights and that he wasn't doing a damn thing to stop it.
When he knew that I was still out there, fighting the good fight or whatever, without him.
But I squelched that. Swallowed hard and kept it all down.
And instead, I asked him: "You got a girl?"
I tried to make it casual. Leaned back, stretched my leg out under the table. Pretended I didn't give a shit about the answer. Mostly because I wasn't sure why I cared, exactly.
He went all Bambi-bashful on me. Stared down at his hands, at where he was picking at the label of his beer. "Yeah," he said finally, and I swear the top of his head was blushing.
I—
I wanted to hear more and I didn't, all at once. My tongue got tangled in my teeth and I just sat there. Hid the confusion behind my glass.
But Sam knew or understood or something, some crazy unspoken thing that we'd always had, that made him quick on the curve intuitive. He pressed forward, gave me what I wasn't brave enough to ask.
"I love her," he breathed. "Dean, I love her."
He always understood me, the little shit. Especially when I didn't know what to say.
"You, uh," I started, but he cut me off with another one of those fucking smiles.
"Yeah," he said. "Her name's Jess. And she's—man, I don't know, she's like—" He did this flippy thing with his hand that I was sure was gonna leave rainbows in its wake. "Smart, she's so incredibly smart. And funny." He laughed. "Got a way better sense of humor than you, jerk."
It shook me, hearing her and me all tangled up in his voice. It sounded weird and wrong and underscored to me, like, hello, creeper. This ain't your territory anymore.
I just rolled my eyes, though, and gave him the finger. "Whatever. I'm hilarious, bitch."
He snorted. "That's it exactly. She has no idea how funny she is, dude. Whereas you, you overcompensate."
That earned him a smack on the head, just on principle. He came right back at me, reflex faster than aim, and knocked the hell out of his beer.
He was on the floor in a flash, dabbing at that shit with his napkin, and it was just like old fucking times: him being an ass, me laughing mine off at his expense, and for a second, it was like no time had passed.
Which was, of course, the moment he looked at the clock.
"Oh shit!" he hissed. "Dean. I've got a lab in 20 minutes. I'm sorry. I have to go."
He hopped up, flailing, and there was the geeky kid I knew. Practically running his legs out from under him in his effort to go and get smart.
Made me feel good, seeing that. Like, all he had to worry about was learning. Nobody was gonna gank him in one of those pretty brick buildings. No ghost was gonna jump him from a test tube.
He was good, Sammy. He was safe.
"You're an idiot," I told him, throwing bills at our empties. "What kind of irresponsible jackass goes to class drunk?"
He banged ahead of me out the door and spun around on the sidewalk.
"'M not drunk!" he said, indignant. "And you're the one who's corrupting me, genius. Who the fuck drinks in the middle of the day?"
"I do," I said with a smile. "And so do you, when I'm buying."
He gave me this goofy grin and patted my shoulder. I got him by the elbow.
"C'mon. Let me give you a ride."
I give the kid credit: he knew me well enough not to say: "Stay."
'Cause I would have.
Even though that woulda thrown off the balance he'd found, the way he was tripping between the scales of our family's fucked-up crazy and the golf course lawns of Palo Alto.
Yeah, I'd have stayed. I've always been a selfish bastard.
I dropped him off on a side street and he reached for me. Gave me a hug.
"Be careful," he said in my ear. "Ok? You be careful."
I squeezed back and just nodded my head. Drove away without saying a word.
And then, fuck.
When Sam was 22, he lost her. Jess. His first love.
No. He didn't lose her. He had to watch her die.
Hell, I think he'd have gone out with her if I'd let him. If I'd just been a few minutes later.
That's the real reason, why I never asked about Jess, never wanted to know that much about her.
Because, to Sam, she was something worth dying over. And I couldn't wrap my mind around that, at the time. Couldn't imagine there was anything other than me or Dad that Sam would stick his neck so far out on the line for. Because, yeah, I'd loved Cassie and way way back, I'd loved Shannon, but, when push came to shove, I don't know if I'd have died for either one.
Like I would've for Sam. There's no question.
But see, he was better than me that way.
We just had different definitions of love.
And I sort of forgot that. For a long, long time.