Disclaimer: I don't own anything regarding Supernatural or the poem "Time Does Not Bring Relief" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.
Everlong
Chapter IV
Four years later, Stanford University...
The party was loud and the heat oppressive, with too many sweaty bodies crammed into one place. Sam Winchester was perched on the edge of a table, watching the ensuing carnage. This party was a nasty one, and by the looks of things it was going to get progressively worse. He'd already split up two fights, and he could see two other students squaring up to each other. He debated stepping in and preventing it, but he couldn't be bothered. Someone had handed him a joint a few minutes ago, and it was good stuff. He could feel himself getting slightly lightheaded as his muscles relaxed, and he watched the imminent fight with indifference. He took another drag, taking the acrid smoke into his lungs, before exhaling and watching the slightly lilac-tinged smoke dance away, mingling with the rest of the dirty air.
Sam felt someone prod him gently in the ribs, and turned to see the smiling face of a beautiful blonde. It was his girlfriend Jessica, and he returned the smile, wrapping an arm around her slender waist.
"Hey baby," she said. She eyed the joint and gave him another prod. "Smoking weed? Naughty boy."
Sam laughed and pulled her closer, kissing her softly on the mouth. She tasted of rum and coke; very sweet, just like her.
They'd been dating for just over two years, and for the first time in his life Sam felt a genuine feeling of normalcy enter his life. Jessica was intelligent, kind, beautiful and fun to be around, and sometimes left Sam completely baffled to why she had picked him over the myriad jocks and other various studs that inhabited Stanford, prowling the corridors for pretty girls like predators. Maybe that was why she liked Sam so much; because there was such gentleness to him, an innocence, in a way. He was a boy who wanted to be loved, not mindlessly fucked every once in a while.
Jessica was also stable and normal, and that was partly why Sam had been so drawn to her in the first place. She had a loving family whom she was very close to. Their photos had been a main fixture of her dorm room before they'd got a place together, each one as perfect as an advert from a magazine; endless scenes of family picnics, Christmas's, the tree rising sumptuous in the background while her two loving parents stood with arms around one another, smiling at their children. Pictures from the prom, her father standing proudly at her side before she left the house, and lots of photos of Jessica's many friends. Sam would stare at them sometimes when Jessica wasn't looking, desperately wishing that he could have such happy memories of his childhood and teen years.
The only photo he had was kept in a dictionary, under F for family. It wasn't the most flattering photo, but as angry as he'd been (and still was) he could never quite bring himself to destroy it. It had been hastily taken by their father's friend Missouri when he had been eight and Dean had been twelve. Their father didn't look nearly as haggard as he did now in it, but there were dark circles under his eyes regardless, and a nasty looking cut on his right cheek. Sam couldn't recall how it had happened. John Winchester's various injuries had all blended into one after a certain period of time.
The three of them were clustered together in the photo, John with his arm around Dean, while Dean had his arm around Sammy, ever the protector. Sam was smiling, teeth bared and eyes wide. He looked so dreadfully young and naive, so unaware of everything that was to happen to him in later years. Dean looked pensive and awkward, a half-smile twitching on one side of his face, as if the camera had the potential to deliver a nasty bite. Despite the hardened expression on his twelve-year-old face, Dean was still very much a child here, with a soft, pale face and a sprinkling of freckles on his nose, and wide, deep green eyes.
Sam always found that he couldn't look at that photo very long. It tugged at his heart in a uncomfortable, painful way. It was a pain he associated with things he'd tried desperately to forget. Even though Dean's face was that of a child in the photo, it was still representative of the man Dean would eventually become, and those green eyes bore a hole into Sam's soul that he didn't think that any amount of parties, friends and beautiful girls could fix.
Sam broke the kiss with Jessica and stared transfixed at her lovely, delicate face. She could've been a model, easily, and he couldn't believe his luck to have gotten such a beautiful, kind girlfriend. She took the joint deftly from Sam's fingers and inhaled.
"No more for you," she grinned. "Don't wanna tire yourself out for the Halloween party tomorrow, do you?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, you're right." He looked away from her and round at the party, which was rapidly descending into riot territory. "You wanna get out of here?" he asked. "This place is getting outta control." Jessica nodded assent, and they linked hands and swiftly left.
It wasn't as cold as he'd expected outside. After all, this was California, and it still wasn't quite November just yet. Jessica shivered slightly in the small top she was wearing, so Sam wrapped an arm around her to keep her warm and she leaned into his strong, warm form. The walk back to the apartment they shared was a happy one, the pair of them joking and laughing and discussing earnestly Sam's upcoming interview with a top law school. Jessica's wholehearted support for his venture warmed Sam's heart, and he hugged her a little closer.
Once back in the dingy apartment, Sam and Jessica moved onto less innocent pleasures. It was dark inside, but Sam could make out the whites of her eyes as he thrust inside her, and see her bite her lip with pleasure. Once they were both spent, Jessica soon fell asleep in Sam's arms, and he marvelled at the perfect, tiny body that he held. Her skin was warm, and she smelt of him. He buried his face in her hair. It smelt like flowers. A golden feeling seeped into his chest, and for a brief moment he felt truly happy.
However, as he often reminded himself, good things rarely lasted, and his mind was suddenly full of thoughts of ghosts and demons. He swivelled his gaze slowly around the room, making sure that there weren't any odd shadows, and listened intently just in case he heard something suspicious. Jessica wasn't aware that he kept a little jar of rock salt in the drawer of his bedside table. Sam had never had to use it in this place, and he hoped he'd never have to. He'd been having disturbing dreams lately, however, and he felt nervous about going to sleep.
They were always terrible dreams too, involving Jessica dying, Jessica screaming for help while Sam tried to run towards her. It always felt like he was running through treacle, and he never managed to get there in time, always waking with a jolt and feeling a wave of relief wash over him at the sight of his girlfriend's sleeping form.
He loved her. He knew that. Even though she didn't know anything about his past (and he intended to keep it that way) he still loved her.
It wasn't the soul-shaking love he had felt for Dean though, and he knew that. But it was love nonetheless. He'd realised that you never loved one person the same way as you loved another. It was all as individual as the person themselves, and never the same thing twice.
It had been four long years since that terrible day that he'd left home, and his heart still gave a hurtful thump whenever he thought about it, like someone had given him a quick, nasty stab with a needle. He'd learned not to think about it, and it was rare that it came to him. When he'd first come to Stanford, it had been a constant torment to him. He'd always think he had just seen Dean run into a taxi cab, or into a bar, or walking past him in a corridor.
Of course, it never was Dean. It was just men who'd looked like his brother, but it was disconcerting and upsetting to say the least. It had torn at him, made him feel desperately lonely and for a short period, physically sick. Obviously he had never been able to confide in anyone what had happened, lest he feel like even more of a freak than he knew he was already.
In his first term, Sam remembered vividly, as he lay there in the darkness, he had had to study poetry briefly. Although he had found it interesting, it never really captured his imagination in the way politics, psychology and law had. He remembered that particular morning well.
It had been raining, odd for California, and Sam had been in the library early, making an essay plan for a piece of work about 20th century American poetry. Sam had been flicking idly through a book of poetry, when one piece had stopped him dead, as if someone had hit him in the face with a brick, knocking the breath clean out of him.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, ... so with his memory they brim!
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face.
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
Sam had felt sick, then angry, then despairingly sad. He'd read it several times over, savouring each word like a man eating his last meal on death row. He had felt his eyes start to sting, and had roughly brushed away the tears that were imminent. Images of Dean swam through his head. He'd ripped that poem out of the book, indifferent to how much trouble he would be in if someone found out that he'd defaced it, and it remained in his drawer in his room ever since. Nothing could ever sum up his feelings for Dean better than that poem, he'd decided. It had been nice to know that someone else knew what it felt like, even if it wasn't about the same circumstances.
Sam felt half-tempted to open the drawer and read over the words again, letting each syllable dance over his neurones, allowing himself one greedy memory of his brother. The brother he'd never forgotten. The brother he still loved, somewhere deep inside himself.
He looked down at the beautiful girl next to him, feeling relieved that his sick love for his brother hadn't managed to taint his love for her. It simply wasn't the same thing. He kissed her, softly, once, on her forehead and pulled her closer, her breathing like music to him. She wasn't Dean, but that was the beauty of it. She wasn't his older brother who he'd lost his virginity to, who was his first love, who he'd fought for months and months to function without. It was just the simple, straightforward love of a young man for a young woman. Nothing more, nothing less.
This was as close to happiness as Sam felt he was ever going to get. He took one last cautionary look around his bedroom, then closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.
2 weeks later...
Life is cruel, was the only thought that echoed through Dean Winchester's head as he stared at the tense, straight back of his brother, who was crouched down on the ground next to a fresh grave. It had only been two weeks since Jessica's death, since Dean had come to fetch Sam to help him find their father, and he couldn't help but feel a terrible weighted guilt on his shoulders.
His brother was wearing a smart black suit, with a white shirt and a black tie. His hair was a mess, and he'd lost several pounds over the last few days which wouldn't usually show on a shorter person, but on Sam's large frame it made him look gaunt and sick, despite his California tan. His cheekbones were starting to jut out of his handsome face, and there were heavy black circles under his eyes. Dean considered walking over, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, saying something supportive but sympathetic, but the words wouldn't come, and his legs wouldn't move.
It had been four years. Four long years since he had laid eyes on his brother until two weeks ago, and it still felt like some twisted dream. His love for Sam, which had once given him a wild end-of-the-world elation, now seemed tainted and sad. Neither of them had mentioned the past, and Dean didn't feel that broaching the subject two weeks after the death of Sam's girlfriend was the best way to win points.
Sam was not the Sam he remembered. The exuberant, naive boy that he had been was long-dead, replaced by a self-sufficient, independent man; a man who was currently overcome with despair at the loss of Jessica. Dean had met her briefly, once, and had been taken aback by how beautiful she was. He knew how it felt to lose someone you loved, and let Sam take all the time he needed. He'd been quiet, uncooperative, but mostly unhappy. They hadn't talked a great deal in the various car rides they'd taken over the past two weeks. Sam was generally content to stare bleakly out of the Impala's windows, propping his head up on a large, slender-figured hand.
With some reluctance, Dean walked towards Sam, who he could see was talking to the grave softly. He paused and let Sam talk, then carried on walking when he could see that Sam had stopped. Awkwardly he placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, surprised at how bony it felt underneath the black mourning jacket.
"Hey, little brother," he said.
Sam turned his head slowly and looked at Dean with a gaze that was so desperately sad that Dean felt Sam's pain as if it was his own. The young man's eyes were red from crying, and there were tear tracks down his hollow cheeks.
"Hey," was all Sam could manage. He turned back to Jessica's marker, fiddling idly with the flowers he'd left there. Lilies and baby's breath, tied with a lilac ribbon. "Lilac was her favourite colour," said Sam, his voice monotone.
Dean nodded, not sure what to say. He hadn't known the girl. All he'd known was that Sam loved her and that for a brief time in his hard, hard life she had made him happy. He didn't need to ask if she was a good person; he knew already. Sammy would never have loved someone who was undeserving of his affections. He was just so full of love, so willing to love and be loved. It made Dean's heart ache to see him so unhappy, so heartbroken, and not for the first time there's was nothing he could do to make it better.
"I'm sorry, man," said Dean gruffly. "Really, truly sorry."
"Thanks," said Sam, eyes still transfixed on the grave, eyes tearing up again.
Deal exhaled heavily, and he tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder. "Come on, Sammy," he said softly. "You've been here an hour, and you look like you're about to drop." Sam gave no indication that he was even listening, so lost as he was in his own grief. "Let's go get you some food, huh?"
Sam nodded mutely, and shakily stood to his feet. He looked exhausted. Like a child, he allowed himself to be led out of the graveyard, looking at his feet, his face slack with misery. Once inside the Impala, he sat slumped in the front seat, his long legs spread at an odd angle, staring bleakly at nothing. Dean drove them to a greasy-looking cafe, where a middle-aged waitress with tired bleached hair smiled invitingly at the two brothers and felt compelled to refill their coffee cups every ten minutes, grinning maniacally. Dean grinned back, enjoying the attention even though he was meant to be behaving in a sombre fashion. Sam didn't even notice. Dean ordered himself a cheeseburger, and ordered Sam a plate of pancakes, which he remembered Sam loved. Sam ate a few bites, and poked at the rest of the stack with his fork morosely.
Dean eyed him with concern, before saying, "Sam, come on, man, you barely touched them."
Sam shrugged. "I'm just not hungry, I guess."
"You're looking awful skinny, Sam," said Dean. "Come on, just another bite." He tried his best charming smile, but Sam's face was completely un-amused.
"My girlfriend just died, Dean," he said, in a tone colder than liquid nitrogen. Dean's smile died.
"I know, and I'm sorry, and I can't imagine how shitty you must be feeling right now, but you can't just waste away like this." He thought for a moment. "Do you think Jessica would wanna see you like this?"
Sam's nostrils flared and he jumped up from the table with a face like fury.
"You didn't even fucking know her," he snarled. "So don't fucking tell me what you think she'd want." Without another word he stormed out of the cafe, leaving Dean sitting there, utterly startled, eyes wide with shock. He hadn't expected that. Logically he should've seen it coming, but Dean's sense of logic often went straight out the window when it came to his brother. With a sigh, he left the money for their food, took one last immense bite of his burger and followed Sam outside, anticipating an argument.
Sam was leaned against the passenger door of the Impala, his face in his hands and his shoulders heaving rhythmically. He was crying. There was nothing, Dean realised, that he could do or say to make this alright. He wrapped his arms around his tall brother, feeling the bones jutting beneath his clothes and just let him weep. Sam's fingers clutched Dean's back, and Dean could feel him shaking.
"My girlfriend... my fucking girlfriend... I couldn't save her, Dean... I tried and... and..." A desperate sob escaped Sam's lips. "She died just like Mom, and I'm so fucking pathetic that I couldn't even help her."
Dean pressed his lips together to stop himself from weeping. "There's nothing you could've done, Sam," he said. "Whatever killed Jessica... it's just too powerful. If you'd tried to fight it, you would've died too. It's not your fault, Sammy. It could never be your fault."
Sam fixed him with a look so sad that it made him look like a child. "I don't know," he said. His face crumpled again. "I just wish..." He looked away from Dean, eyes squeezed tightly together. "I just wish I could see her one last time."
In a moment that was almost unbearably tender, Dean wiped away a stray tear from Sam's streaked face. Sam's bruised, puppyish expression hit Dean as hard and sweet as a shot of morphine, and he withdrew his hand after lingering a second too long. He felt an old, familiar, unwelcome surge of dopamine scream through his nervous system, and took a step back.
He took a deep breath. Sam's eyes were swollen and red, and all of a sudden his little brother looked rather grey.
"Come on, Sammy," he said, his voice quavering slightly. "You look like you're about to drop. Let's go book ourselves into a motel someplace. You need to get some rest."
Sam nodded, lower lip still shaking somewhat. "Ok," he said. "Sure."
To Dean's surprise, Sam was out like a light as soon as he'd laid his head down on the hard motel pillow. Dean had expected Sam to fight sleep the way he'd used to as a kid, struggling to stay awake out of sheer stubbornness despite the way his eyelids would flutter, heavy like lead over his eyes. Dean guessed that Sam was just too exhausted emotionally and physically to stay awake. He let Sam sleep, amusing himself by watching crappy Friends re-runs and trying to ignore the way that one lone lock of hair tumbled into Sam's eyes, or the way his back raised slightly when he breathed deeply in his sleep.
No, he thought. No fucking way. Not now. Jesus Christ, his girlfriend just died and you're looking at him like some dirty old perv? Get a grip, Dean.
Several painful hours passed, Dean alternately watching Sam, and then forcing himself not to watch him, before Dean finally had enough and headed out of the motel room to get a coffee. Preferably the Irish variety. He wandered back about twenty minutes later, with two takeaway cups of coffee and a newspaper stuffed under the crook of his arm, to find Sam awake and sitting up on the bed, absent-mindedly staring at the TV.
"Oh, there you are," he said. "I was wondering where you'd gone."
Dean felt a lump in his throat. "Went to get you some coffee," he said, gruffly.
Sam took his coffee from Dean, a tiny, grateful smile playing on his lips. "Thanks," he said. He didn't drink it; it was too hot just yet, but he revolved the cardboard cup in his hands, before looking at Dean with a strangely determined gaze. It was the first time in days that Sam's face had taken on an expression that wasn't heartbreak or anger. "I want to start hunting again, Dean."
Dean looked surprised, but relieved. He smiled. "I've been waiting for you to say that, Sammy."
"I tried so hard to fit in at Stanford," said Sam, looking bitter. "You have no idea how hard I tried. I did all the right things; I played sports, I met girls, I worked hard, I went to parties, I met Jessica." A shadow of pain crossed his face. "But it didn't matter. I never really fit in, no matter how many friends I had or how good I was at schoolwork." He sighed. "I'm a freak, Dean. Just like you. Just like Dad. After... after that thing killed Jessica I knew that my life wasn't destined to be normal. I wish it could be, Dean, more than anything, but now I know what I am, and what I have to do."
Dean was silent, studying his brother's earnest, angry face.
"Dad raised us like warriors for a reason, Dean," Sam continued. "And as much as I'm still angry at him for basically disowning me, I'm grateful that he trained us the way he did." Another sigh. "We're hunters. And I'm going to find that thing that killed Jessica and Mom, and I'm gonna destroy it." His face was hard, anger flicking underneath the surface of his eyes.
Dean didn't know what to say. He sat down next to Sam on the bed, an unreadable expression on his face. "Are you sure?" he said. "Cos that could just be the grief talking, Sam."
Sam shook his head, almost aggressively. "No," he said. "This is what I want. I want us to be hunters together. I want to help you find Dad."
Dean felt his stomach do a sick little jump at the word "together", but kept his face passive. Inside, he was screaming with joy. His Sammy was back, after so long, after years of waiting and hoping and suffering without him, he was finally back. The brothers locked eyes for a second; a second that was both uncomfortable and exhilarating.
"I'm glad, Sammy," said Dean.
"Sam. It's Sam now."
And then Sam smiled; the first true smile that had crossed his face in weeks, and for the first time in a long time, there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon for Dean.
That night, Sam slept. It was all open-road from here.
Sorry that chapter was so short and bereft of the usual flowery language that I use. I've only got one more chapter to go and I needed to get the reconciliation out of the way as soon as possible so I could start it. Thanks again to all my wonderful reviewers. Much love!
-Lux
