Chapter Four

August, 1997

You don't smile at strangers or pretty girls anymore, don't try to bury your pain in cocky smiles and charming grins that seem only just a little strained. It feels like too much effort for the heavy skin and tired muscles on your face anyway, and it feels so fake and wrong that it throbs your jaws and cheeks when you try.

Instead, you go on hunts and fix cars at a nearby garage, almost ten minutes away from the church. Some days you try to lose yourself in the clinks of metal and the loaded, rusty weight of twisting wrenches and the fresh shine of brand new parts, in the soreness of bones in your fingers and your wrists and the muscles of your arms. You do it until you forget that there is anything outside of the bottom of a car, until you forget that there's a world outside that exists where there's a Sam who you once called Sammy, and that he is the same boy who shot your dad in the head.

In the weekends, you hide behind the blood splattering all over you and the cuts and bruises on your flesh, and you do it until you forget that you can feel more than the smooth slice of bone and flesh and the jerk of a gun that stays steady in your hands (forget that you can feel knives and bullets in your own heart and lungs). At night, you focus on it all, the wounds from the hunts and the aches in your metallic-scented hands, to help you not think and sleep.

Some nights, the worst ones, you hide at the bottom of a whiskey bottle that you still feel too young for, and you think, with a bitter, sad smile, like father, like son. And you think, I miss him. And you pretend that your hazy, confused, cluttered mind is not half-imagining your father and half-imagining a brown-haired boy with big hazel eyes and a dimpled smile and a gun in his hands and firing it at –

You miss Bobby too. You miss Bobby so much. He was the father you didn't have to fight to gain the approval and love and pride of, because he already gave it to you freely. He was the father who filled the void that was there even when your real father was around, and he still filled some of it when he wasn't, and you feel like you are betraying your real father's memory by thinking these things, but you are drunk and sad and, even after two years since then, don't know what you are thinking or feeling or doing.

But Bobby had made you stay with him, had trusted him more than he cared about you, and then you feel angry at him, and then you feel alone. You throw the whiskey bottle against the ground, watch the shards scatter around, glinting in the dim bulb lights, and remember you are in a bar that you got through with a fake ID that proves you are older than you really are, full of fifty other people that are now staring at you, and you don't feel capable of stringing two words together without becoming as broken as the whiskey bottle on the ground, so you leave your money on the counter and stumble out.

Time is just blurring by in a daze, and you can't even remember yesterday, or the last hour. The colors feel dull around you, somehow detached and illusory, and it feels like nothing was ever real. Everything that happened wasn't real.

But it was, and it's why you're standing here with alcohol in your system and stones in your chest.

You stop and lean against the car (your father's car, the shadows of him still in the driver's seat, and you let these memories fill you up with his rough whiskey and gunpowder scent and a gruff voice with firm hands on the wheel and his music blasting into your ears, but you liked to hum along to them and you liked to sit beside him and observe him so that you could be just like him when you'd be older). You stare out at the open road ahead, and you want to drive until you get lost somewhere in the world and you want to run away from all of it, and for a few seconds, in your drunken, alcohol-fuzzed mind, you think that if you run far enough and long enough, you could outrun it all; the memories that don't feel like yours and the truth that surrounds your world with a gray-hued desolation. But then you realize that you can't, because it's all inside of you, and you'll only carry it with you forever, wherever you go, and you feel trapped in your own skin, with your distant mind and your hollow, aching heart.

You think about those two years in that house, and they feel short, rushing by you like cars on the street. But that doesn't seem right, because you know that you were there, and you felt like all the moments were just dragging on and on and on, not really going anywhere (maybe time passes oddly when you're living purposelessly, not sure where you're going, not sure where you want to go. Not sure if you want to go anywhere at all). You couldn't even breathe in some of them.

You spent two years in that house, with him between the same walls as you, and you saw his face every day at the table until he started to eat in the room, saw him only at night when you had to share a room with him for a bed. After a while, he became nothing more than a silent presence, without any sound, without any proof that he was even there. He had treaded around like a ghost, like he was trying to make you forget that he existed, and that was good, because maybe you wanted that too.

And now that it's been months since you've been here, with miles and miles between you and him, you think that you could almost pretend like he doesn't, because then you could pretend that none of what had happened two years ago was real.

But your father is still dead, and the memories of him still nag at you, and it becomes one more thing to try and forget.

…

December 2001

You're on a hunt in Sioux Falls (you don't know why you chose this one out of all the other ones) when a werewolf jumps on you and slashes your stomach, deep and wide.

And you shove the barrel of your gun right into its chest and pull the trigger, silver bullet piercing through its body and snapping into the tree behind it.

There's blood spattered all over your face and teeth and clothes, one dead werewolf beside you, and you're thinking about just staying there, just closing your eyes and letting things be the way they are right now. You, on the ground, bleeding out. Not moving. Dying.

For some reason, you haul yourself off the ground and get in the car and drive to Bobby's house instead.

You're trying not to think about seeing him (you still don't know what to call him now, something that doesn't make you feel like you're personalizing him, making him real and sentient and existent) again, and you're trying not to hate him and trying not to wonder what he looks like now, five years later, and whether he's in college or stuck to hunting, and whether he's happy or still as sad and gutted as the day you left him (you're trying to hope it's the latter). You're thinking about Bobby, and whether he regrets that fight last time like you do. You're thinking about how nice it'll be to see him again, talk to him. You're wondering if he'll think the same too.

Your head's a little light and clouded, which means you're losing blood. If that is not what will kill you, then the car swerving into a house or tree is what might. That wouldn't be so bad.

You park outside that familiar house that you haven't seen in too long. There's something warm, and something heavy inside of you, at the sight of it.

You open the door and fall out of the car onto your knees, blood soaking wet and sticky on your shirt and hand. You push yourself up with the other hand by the support of your car, stumble forward, trying not to lose balance again.

And then you find yourself at the door, beating a fist at the door with the remnants of your strength.

You pass out just as it opens.

...

You float in the space between sleep and consciousness. There are voices, then sensations (something soft under you, something warm on your hand), and then vision.

You open your eyes, and the first thing you see is him.

He's still young, still thin and innocent and baby-faced. His eyes are still the hazel you remember, his hair still the brown of chocolate and chestnut. Sloped nose and fox-slanted eyes and dimples that you only see glimpses of with every movement of his face. But he's taller, older, and you almost don't recognize him.

You're still floating in that space in-between. He smiles hesitantly at you (a little flicker, just a glimpse of dimples) and you feel a sharp twist in your heart, and you almost let yourself think that it's love (later, you will deny that you almost smiled back).

But then full awareness snaps back in. You jerk your hand away from his, glare at him, allow that hollow burn of stale rage and hatred to come forward (take you away from the shame of whatever you felt in the delirium of the limbo between dreams and reality).

"Don't fucking touch me."

So he backs away, taken aback as if he had expected everything to be forgotten. Fine and dandy.

And then he looks broken, eyes going red and teary and heavy, mouth tight so that it doesn't crumple up. He glances up from his shoes and at Bobby, who comes over and crouches beside you, and he slips away from your side (you're ignoring that pang of loss as he does). Your gaze is rooted firmly on Bobby after that, never let it stray to over his right shoulder.

"How you feeling, boy?"

Bobby sounds concerned, and you realize that you have missed that genuine worry so much, have missed him, and you're choking back tears behind a tight smile and a, "I'm good, Bobby. You?"

"I've been growing gray hairs worrying out of my mind for ya these past years, boy, and then ye show up at my door with only half ye blood in yer body. How d'ya think? You've been out for two days! What the hell were ya thinkin', boy?" Bobby scolds you, sounds so much like a father that your heart explodes in a brief bout of agony at the thought, trying to remember when your real father had ever sounded like that since the day your mom died. You can't. You still wish he was here with you.

"Yeah, I... I got a little reckless. It was stupid, and I'm sorry," you say, swallowing down a myriad of emotions trying to shove its way out of you. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Thank yer brother," Bobby said, jerking his head over to him. That's when you finally give in to the nagging urge trying to tug your eyes to him, finally look at him.

Brother.

Brother was a word you haven't thought of in a long while. Or at least, never completely. Always caught yourself before you could voice it in words inside your head, because that isn't what he is anymore to you. You don't know what to call him, but you're sure that brother would probably be the last thing on the list.

"Don't call him that."

"What'd ya say?"

"Don't call him that. Brother." You wanted to sound strong and angry, but it just comes out breathlessly tired. "He ain't that to me anymore. Not since he shot my Dad."

For some reason, he doesn't cry like you expect him to (maybe because he's not the child that you had left that day anymore). He keeps his eyes on you, and though they're still broken and heavy, they're also suddenly numb. As if the mention of your father made his soul stop working. You don't know if it's because it hurts him too much, or if it's because he just doesn't care. But you notice, and there's something about that look in his eyes that tells a foreign story, sings a tune that's not the same as the one you've known all these years.

You mentally shake that thought away and look up at Bobby. He's not angry, like he was when you were both fighting the day when you left, but sad. Tired. Maybe he had finally realized, somewhere during your absence, that there really was no reason at all.

…

The week that follows is full of awkward encounters with a brown-haired boy (with bloody hands and pathetic eyes) constantly passing you by, on the way to the bathroom, in or out the kitchen, to pick up books from the library (where you sleep now on the couch, because you can't walk upstairs to the room, where he sleeps and where Bobby would have made you sleep too if you could, so you're okay with this).

It's surreal to see him again, you think. After all that time spent pretending (trying to) to ignore his existence. He never meets your eyes, always down at his feet like he's hoping that if he wouldn't see you, then you wouldn't see him. Like a child, you scoff irately to yourself. Today, he didn't sit at the table for breakfast or lunch or dinner, didn't come down to the library to read a book. He has been locked up in his room (the one that was once for guests but has become his now) all day, becoming that same ghost five years ago. Good. Let him be invisible and undisruptive. You like it better that way.

"He never lets me remove that second bed," Bobby says suddenly. You look at him, where he's leaning against the counter, takes you a second or two to understand what he means. You don't know what he wants from you when he tells you this or how he's expecting you to react, if he thinks you'll be touched or saddened or if it'll make you want to hold his hand and tell him you forgave him or god-knows-what. But whatever it is that he's hoping for, he'll be sorely disappointed.

"He's just wasting space then," you reply, make it clear that it doesn't matter to you. You look away to the beer bottle twirling between your fingers when you see Bobby's face grow ages older with weariness, and your stomach weighs down a hundred pounds with guilt, but you don't try to make up for it.

Bobby rubs a hand down his face, sighs quietly as you see him stare at you sadly in the corner of your eye, and you pretend not to notice the way you've been pretending not to notice a lot of things all these years (one of these things is a dreadful betrayal, sinful to the memories of your father, and you will not know that it's there until later, much too later).

…

Two weeks later (you've stuck around for Bobby because he asked you to and being away from him was not as easy as you wished it had been these past five years, and you think you owe him for his unapologetic forgiveness as soon as you came to his door), on a Thursday, land on the day you turn twenty-three years old. Bobby brings pie instead of cake from a bakery nearby, small candles haphazardly stuck on top of it, and gives you a small pocket-knife with your father's initials engraved in it as well as your own, just below it. You can't explain why, but it makes you happy for the first time in too long.

He never shows up today either, and save for a few accidental run-ins the past weeks, you have barely seen him (this is good. This is good, you think to yourself). Bobby gets sick and tired of this and drags him downstairs into the kitchen that evening, and you stand up and leave the room as soon as they appear. Your wound has healed half-way through, and it's not as impossible to limp upstairs anymore, and so you limp upstairs because you can't stand the thought of being in the same floor as him for too long, where you can find him too easily (not that being in the same house helps matters). You make it all the way up, and you go into the only room there is, which happens to be his room.

The room is bare, absolutely undecorated, almost like he's only been living here as a necessity, as a guest. True to Bobby's word, there are still two beds, the one closest to the wall used (small wrinkles here and there) but made tidily enough, even if a bit half-heartedly, and the one closest to the door (the one you had always slept in) completely straight and untouched. You wonder, almost without thinking, if he changes the sheets for this one too or whether it's still the same as the one you had slept on the last night you stayed here. You wonder why you're wondering these things. It doesn't really matter.

There are drawers, a chair placed in front of a desk. There was a lamplight on it, papers strewn all over, a few books piled messily on top of each other, and lastly, a small package which, you are surprised to see, has your name on it. Dean. It is imprecisely wrapped in newspaper, eroded and wrinkled from time, with the frayed tape on the fold only just holding it together, ready to wear off with the slightest disturbance. It brings memories of what once was, memories that only serve to make your heart as heavy as if it's filled with water all of a sudden. You shake those memories off your mind, and your feet moves toward it of its own accord, and somehow, you think you already know what is in there. Your fingers reach up to your chest, where it meets flesh instead of solid (suddenly too light and empty without the weight of a golden horned talisman).

You had thrown it away three weeks after that day (because that was when clarity had settled in, when the fog of confusion and denial and desperate excuses had cleared away, when you had realized, for real, that this was where you couldn't look at him and the world the same way again), right in front of him, right when he was there and he was watching it dangle from the last joints of your fingers. You had let it drop into the bin and you had never looked back.

It is not meant to be given, the way it's hidden away in the room, old and shabby and yellowed from years and years of being unopened. You don't know why you want to take it out and touch it and pocket it away.

You throw it in the bin instead.

Author's Note: I'm back with this story! It's off hiatus and being continued. Now that the other stories are finished, I can finally focus on this one completely, so I'm very glad about that.

Thank you so, so much for all your comments, for the support, for all the tags and most of all, your patience. I'm truly grateful beyond words. If you've read my author's note in the third chapter, you'll see that I was ready to discontinue this story as I didn't think it'd interest many people. But then I read your reviews for said chapter and it really encouraged me to go on with this story, and it just completely solidified my resolve to complete this, so thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your support. I'm enjoying your curiosity as I hope you're enjoying the suspense!

To:

Cheeky Shenanigans

whatnosheep

jensensgirl3

Nyx Ro

LilyBolt

L.A.H.H

babyreaper

in-silent-seas

Souldarkalone

ktdog1

AshleyMarie84

Kas3y

Ash

ForgottenDreamer98

Boy With the Demon Blood

kV8

ZeldaIsis

DeansSammy

PutMoneyInThyPurse

Thank you so, so much for the comments. They all just completely blew my mind, I swear. I couldn't believe the response I received from you all, and I'm very heartened. *hugs*