His job ends up saving him.

Sam doesn't know this at first, but it does. Just having a place to go almost every day is huge, a welcome distraction in that it pushes thoughts of Dean into the background, at least some of the time.

But it's more than just that.

The work is physically hard at times, transporting patients from one part of the hospital to the other, but mentally, Sam finds the job - relaxing. No one knows him - as far as everyone is concerned, Sam's just some guy from Kansas, working his job so he can go back to school at some point.

He works first shift, as a "medical assistant," but really, all Sam is is a hospital go-fer for the most part, someone to do the grunt work like transport people around from one part of the hospital to the other, washing and sterilizing and setting up equipment, cleaning shit up that the housekeeping staff isn't allowed to handle, doing non-invasive patient care.

Sam likes it.

Sure, it's fairly monotonous in some ways - or it would be if Sam was used to having a job like this. What he's used to is slinking into hospitals with fake credentials, lying his way around to get information and trying to get his hands on bodies that had gone through a suspicious death and then taking the bodies apart to try and figure out what evil thing killed that person.

This? What he does now? Is a breath of fresh air compared to what he once did. He's okay with the people he works with - at least the little bit he's allowed himself to get to know them - he doesn't mind the work he does and he really likes the patients, the people that come in and need help.

He likes being able to talk to them without worrying if some demonic force is about to kill them. He likes talking to them about everyday things, regular routine subjects that have nothing to do with the supernatural. Families, jobs, hobbies. He likes that while some of their medical problems are serious enough, this is a place they can go to for help and in his very small way, Sam can help give it to them.

Once again, Sam gives serious thought about going to med school. He knows he could do it. He'd be a little older - okay, maybe a lot older - than most doctors are when they get their degree, but then again, what's the hurry?

Sam has all the time in the world.

Those are his good days - when he's busy at work and things go well and he engages with his co-workers or the patients in a pleasant way, makes someone feel better - and it's always that way, Sam making someone else feel better because it's still pretty much impossible for anyone to make him feel better about anything - and then goes home to his dumpy little place and is too tired to do anything but fall into bed and hopefully crash into enough sleep so that he's able to get up the next day and try and do everything all over again.

But for every decent day he has there are three bad days and Sam doesn't know how to turn that around.

He's heard that it takes a full year to get over the worst of the grief of losing a "loved one" - and God, how Sam hates that term - that all the milestones of every month have to be lived through before the sadness lessens.

Sam thinks that's bullshit.

He can't see himself feeling better about Dean being gone in fucking ten years much less one.

Fall seems to be hardest - and maybe that's because it was easier to be distracted in the warmer months, more things to do outdoors or that kind of thing. Maybe it's because fall is the last time Sam remembers Dean being healthy, how they were slowly making their way toward Arizona and Dean had been so happy. Maybe he knows that the holidays are coming and they're going to suck and Dean got sick near the end of October and died right before Christmas and it weighs on Sam more than he would've thought possible.

Bobby calls regularly, wants Sam to come out to South Dakota and join him and Castiel for Christmas. Sam hems and haws, puts him off - he got rid of the puke purple-pink car - doesn't think he can afford the airfare, isn't sure he can get the time off work. None of these things are untrue but Sam thinks - if he really wanted - that he could find a way to get around any of them and get to Bobby's for Christmas.

Truth is, Sam doesn't think he can do it.

Not yet.

It'll be too much and he can't manage it right now. Dean is still too near to him, and everything will be forced and weird, and Sam knows he won't be able to go to Bobby's, thinks Bobby even knows it.

Castiel doesn't call, not exactly, but he does keep in touch through a series of erratic voice mails, alternately asking how Sam is doing and if Sam is receiving any of Cas' messages. Sam dutifully returns the calls, ends up leaving his own series of voicemails and texts, but has no idea if Castiel is even receiving them. Doing okay, Cas. Don't worry about me. I hear you might be heading to Bobby's for Christmas. Drink a glass of wine for me and let me know what Santa leaves in your stocking. Some such shit - the fake Christmas cheer, even for Castiel.

But Sam can't help it. Fake is all he can manage at the moment.

/

It's been a long and shitty day at work for a number of reasons, a day where Sam almost thinks about quitting his job and finding a new one. People in bad moods, the weather a pile of crap. Some kind of situation where a pregnant woman bleeds out in the ER and dies before they could get her upstairs and then finding out the baby doesn't made it either. It casts a pall over everything - unnecessary and unforeseen death always does - especially in the department where Sam works, since they are the first people the lady is in contact with. Just a fucked up day overall, and Sam is more than happy to see it come to an end.

He's not in the least prepared mentally for walking home and hearing someone call his name.

Someone who sounds exactly like Dean.

He manages to ignore it because he's already so fucked up from the crappy day at work he thinks it has to be his mind playing tricks on him, that he's just having weird, half-baked thoughts about Dean.

"Hey, Sammy!"

Motherfucking Christ, but it sounds exactly like Dean calling him.

Of course, he knows it's not Dean before he turns to look, but there's no stopping the adrenalin surge that arrows through him at the sound of someone calling his name in that voice. Like, God - what if? He sees two men - older men, heavy-set men, waving to one another across the street and heading toward each other, their voices still drifting over his way - which one is "Sammy" and which one called out the name, Sam doesn't know but then again, what does it fucking matter?

Not Dean, not Dean, not Dean. . .

And Sam's ramped up heart rate sickishly slows a little as he turns away, the back of his neck and his sides clammy, the rush of blood to his face making him dizzy. His head aches a little and he feels almost nauseous from the whole thing, from thinking Dean was calling his name when he knew full well he wasn't, the disappointment of it not miraculously being Dean quickly slapping him with yet some other reminder that Dean is gone and not ever going to call his name again.

His throat is tight, dry and he hurries along the street, fists clenching and unclenching in his jacket pockets, the urge to do something threatening to overwhelm him, the need to punch or kick or better yet, shove a knife into some demon or drain the life out of some monster with his hands or whatever weapon he can get a hold of - and never once, in all the years he hunted did Sam take that sort of pleasure, in hunting - at least not of his own volition, not without the influence of the damn demon blood - but right now he thinks it would be awesome to feel that release, to get that anger and sadness and whatever else the fuck he's feeling out there.

Yet, just as quickly as it's come, the feeling curls out of him and tears prick the back of his eyes because, yet again, he's back to thoughts of hunting, and invariably, thoughts of hunting always - always - bring him back to Dean, and the ultimate truth he can't escape.

Sam gets to his building, keys himself in, all without making a sound. He feels as if he's barely breathing, that whatever thread has been holding him together is but one snap away.

He lets himself into his room, doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't bother with taking his jacket off, just sits on his unmade bed and looks out at the darkening Boston skyline.

No matter where you go, how far you run, you'll never stop missing Dean.

He hides his face in his hands, hoping that covering his eyes will slow everything down but still the tears rain down his cheeks, spill through his fingers.

You could be sitting alone in a tiny room, no furniture, no mementos, no pictures - nothing - and you would still be reminded of Dean. You'd still miss him. You'd still ache for him, his presence, his words, his thoughts, his life.

"I can't do this," he whispers, though he's not addressing anyone other than maybe himself. "I know I can't."

Those four words - I can't do this - open something up within him and he begins to weep uncontrollably, actually rocks back and forth as he cries. I can't do this, Cas was wrong, this is way harder for me than it would've been for Dean. Dean was so much stronger. I need him here. There's no reason for me to be here if he's not around. There just isn't.

He cries for an eternity, doesn't care, doesn't think of trying to stop. He's alone, without any sort of anchor or plan or - desire - other than for the one thing that he's never going to have again.

I can leave here. I can go anywhere. I don't have to stay in Boston, I don't have to take the job or got to school. If it's too much for me to be here, I can leave.

But really, they're just words - his usual fall-back, the running away when things get too painful.

No matter where you go, how far you run, you'll never stop missing Dean.

Eventually, he finds himself lying on his side, the tears still oozing from his eyes, his entire body shuddering. The pain in his head is a full blown ache, and his eyes, for all practical purposes, are swollen shut. The room is dark; Sam hears the hiss and the clunk of the radiator as the heat kicks on and despite his headache and general misery the sound is soothing in a fucked up kind of way. He should get up, take some aspirin or at least drink some water but he can't move, can't even bother to pull his boots off, and his eyes are still leaking, his breath is still hitching in his chest as he feels himself drifting off to sleep, like he's going to keep crying even when he's unconscious, but there's nothing Sam can do to stop it, nor is he even sure, at least right now, that he wants to try.

He sleeps through the night and when the alarm goes off the next morning he feels a little better. Not great - his head still throbs a little and his entire face feels tight from crying but he feels calmer at least.

It would be easy for him to feel the other way, out-of-control and desperate and ready to give up.

It's happened to him before.

"You do anything stupid - and I think you know what I mean when I say, 'stupid' - you'll dishonor everything Dean has ever done here. You hurt yourself - your hurt the memory of him and everything he stands for."

Sam gets up, takes his meds, gets ready for work. Puts one foot in front of the other.

It's all he can do.

/

"Hey, Sam, mind if I sit here?"

Sam looks up from the book he's looking over, but he already knows who the voice belongs to. "Uh, sure," he says uncertainly, closing the book but not before turning the page corner down to mark his place.

He's not really up for this, polite chit-chat in the cafeteria, not while he's trying to look at some stuff on his break and try to regain his equilibrium from all the crying the night before, but it's Randi, and she's kind of his superior and Sam's still new enough at the job where he doesn't feel he can be impolite just yet.

It's the first time someone he works with has actually tried to engage him outside of the requisite co-worker exchanges. He shoves the MCAT study guide and other assorted papers out of the way, picks up his Styrofoam coffee cup and takes a sip. Cold already but whatever.

She sits down, gets situated, gives him a tentative smile. "Sorry for just getting all up in your space like this," she tells him. "But I wanted to catch you before we got busy and I lost the chance." She glances over at his study guide. "It looks like you're busy studying."

"No, it's fine," Sam says. "Nothing that can't wait." Really, nothing he's looked at is sticking - his mind is still wound too tight for him to be able to concentrate.

He's been working here for awhile now, and they know next-to-nothing about him. The only information that he's given out is he's from Kansas and he went to Stanford. Of course, a few weeks isn't that long of a time, and he is a guy, but Sam thinks that some of them are probably curious about him, how he's just shown up out of nowhere and seems to have a knack for this job, knows a lot about anatomy and medicine in general, isn't rattled by the blood and is particularly easy with the patients he interacts with.

If he sticks around, he imagines that at some point he'll spill some stuff, but for right now, Sam's guard is still up. It can't be anything but, everything is still so close to the surface.

"I wouldn't call it studying," he says. He pulls his own plate toward him and pushes some of the food around on it. "Just kind of looking things up."

She raises her eyebrows a little as she glances at the MCAT study guide. "You thought you'd just look up how to study for the MCAT's?"

Because she's the one person Sam's had the most interaction with so far, he smiles at her. "Yeah, kind of. See if I really want to take the plunge into all of that again."

"Were you pre-med at some point?"

"Pre-law." The words are slipping out much easier than Sam would like, would've ever thought possible. And inexplicably, he lets them. "It would be quite a change."

"You don't strike me as the pre-law type."

"I'm not," Sam agrees. "Not anymore."

"Well, for what it's worth," Randi says, after she's taken a drink from her soda. "I think you'd make a great doctor. Not that I know you all that well, but just from the things I've seen from you so far. You seem to have a knack for picking up on the medical stuff even though that doesn't seem to be what you studied. Not to mention how the patients seem to like you." She pushes the pieces of paper she's been holding over toward him.

"From Personnel," she says. "Something about going in and getting a physical so they can update your anti-rejection meds. For the insurance purposes, make sure the pre-existence clause is met."

Oh, shit. But it's nothing - he doesn't need the insurance company or its approval, not really, all of his transplant-related stuff is automatically covered. "I must've forgotten to answer some of the questions when I got here."

"They need you to have another physical," she goes on, almost apologetically, as if she can sense his mood. "Get a separate exam from someone the insurance company chooses. Do you have a primary physician yet?"

He sighs, still feeling the effects of all the crying from the night before. It downright sucks. "God, Randi, this is such a bad time for this."

"I'm sorry," she says, and to her credit she does sound sorry. "I mean, I'm sure it can go a couple more days but they probably want you to get this dealt with." She waits, and when Sam doesn't say anything, she says quietly, "I didn't know you had a kidney transplant."

"When I was fourteen," Sam says. He can't believe he's saying it, but then again, what the hell difference does it make? It's not exactly a secret. "PKD. My brother gave me one of his kidneys."

He knows she must be wondering, have more questions. "I'm not surprised," she says. "Siblings are usually the best match."

She's not going to ask anymore, Sam can tell that she isn't despite her curiosity. Somehow, she understands about waiting and privacy and not pushing.

"He died a year ago come December." Sam hears himself say the words and they don't sound normal - but then again, it's the first time he's said them out loud to anyone, their first trial run. "My brother, I mean. Massive renal failure."

"Oh, Sam." Whatever she was expecting him to say, Sam can tell by her face this wasn't it. "How awful."

He knows he won't cry, not here, not at work and not in front of this nice person who he barely knows who's just trying to do her job, get him to fill out the right forms or whatever.

But it's a close thing.

And it doesn't mean he might not later, when he's back home, by himself.

"It's - okay," he says, and it is, but he keeps his eyes averted. "I just felt that you should maybe know - I mean, seeing as you've already seen my medical history and all."

"I'm glad you told me," she says. Her face still looks stricken for him but there's something else there as well, something that Sam can't name. "I mean, I won't say anything to anyone or anything. I'm just glad you told me for - yourself. That's a big thing to carry around alone."

"I'm all right," he says. He manages to look at her then, even though it's still shaky. "Sorry. It's been over six months. I should be all right."

"Six months is nothing," Randi says, and her voice is quiet but knowing. "It's still very new and raw. And this was your brother. So don't apologize." She gathers up the papers, pats him on the shoulder. "Let me know if you need any help filling these out or if you run into any problems."

"Thanks," Sam says. And he means it - though not just for offering to help him out with the forms and whatever.

More for somehow making it okay to finally mention Dean out loud.

/

December second.

It's hard. No question. All day, Sam feels as if he's on the verge of tears, like if he thinks about December second last year even just a little bit he'll lose it.

Yet it's the only thing he can think about.

It's Friday and he has the day off since he's scheduled to work the weekend, and while Sam's grateful that he doesn't have to try and hold his shit together while he's at work, it makes for an exceptionally long day.

By nighttime, Sam's exhausted from holding himself together all day. He hasn't done all that much - slept in, went out and got breakfast, read the paper, done a little bit of studying, checked things online about Boston med schools. All done half-heartedly and in the hopes that he'd be distracted enough so he wouldn't really think about this day and how much he'd give to go back one fucking year and have it back, see if things could somehow - turn out differently.

It would just be so easy to climb into bed around five in the evening - the skies already darkening - and call it a night - he's tired, he's fucking depressed and he has to work the weekend, and he needs to do a little more studying for the MCAT at some point and he really, really needs to call Bobby and make sure he's okay.

So, yeah - Sam's mentally worn out. Ready to call it a day. A fucking shitty day, but a day nonetheless.

But Sam's also relieved, despite how worn he is. Relieved that he lived through this day and came out relatively - okay.

Without really any idea of what the hell he's doing, Sam goes over to the manila folder he has that he uses for his "important" papers - his MCAT information, copies of his employee benefits, his lease agreement, some stuff from his bank, a couple other things. Dean's death certificate, receipts for payment for "services rendered."

And a letter Cassie Robinson - no, it's not Robinson anymore, Sam reminds himself - gave him. It wasn't even really a letter - just a slip of paper that has her name, address, phone number and email hastily scrawled on it. She'd pressed it into his hands at the motel the day of the funeral, when she and her husband were leaving, after hugging him goodbye. "Dean has a story that deserves to be told," she told him softly. "He - you know that better than anyone. If you ever decide the time is right, I want to help you do that, Sam. I mean, he didn't even have a proper obituary and I think the world needs to know - how good of a person he was. I know you can't tell - everything about what he did, but when you're ready we can - tell people about Dean and the things he brought to this world. There's ways to do that and I can help you with that, okay?"

He'd still been delirious with his goodbye to Dean at the cemetery, and while he'd appreciated her kind words, the sentiment that eerily mimicked his own thoughts of how Dean's life should mean something, how the world needed to know what he'd done, how important it was, he couldn't even imagine being able to take that on at the time, and hadn't given it any real thought after that, just taken the paper and put it in the pants pocket of his suit.

Where he'd found it weeks later, while trying to decide if he should wear these pants to his job interviews or not. He'd held the pants up, trying to determine if they were wrinkled beyond hope and the paper had crinkled between his fingers. When he pulled it out, he immediately recalled Cassie's offer - or the gist of it, anyway - and while Sam still couldn't give it any attention at the time, he'd carefully put the paper aside, and then eventually stuck it in with his other important things.

Now, on December 2nd, one year later, he thinks he knows a way to make this day less - horrible - than it has to be.

Hey, Cassie,

It's Sam Winchester. How are you? Don't know if you remember, but you gave me your email and told me to let you know when (if) I wanted to - talk about Dean/tell Dean's story in some sort of public way, that you'd have some ideas on how to help me do that.

Well, I guess I'm ready. Or, at least as ready as I'll ever be.

I really don't know how to start. I don't think I could sit down and just start writing about Dean and his life - I know I couldn't. So, any thoughts you have, I'm all ears.

Take your time getting back to me. I am sure you are busy.

I'm in Boston right now. I'm working at and am hoping to take the MCATS and go to med school. Hope all is well with you, give my best to your husband.

Sam

He sends the email and doesn't really expect to hear from her for at least a little while, so when he checks his email before going to bed, he's more than a little surprised to see that she's answered.

Dear Sam,

I am so, so happy you emailed me. I think about you and Dean so much, and today especially. Of course I remember what I said that day, and my offer still stands. I would love to help you tell Dean's story.

As far as what you should do - I would say don't even try to write anything yourself - not right now and not until you're ready. And you'll know when that time is, Sam. What you might want to do is email or call people that you and Dean have helped in the past and that you think might be willing, and just ask them to talk about Dean, what he did, what they remember. Sometimes, that's the best way to start something so - personal - hearing what others have to say.

After you've done that, let me know what you come up with and we'll go from there.

And take your time - it sounds as if you are the busy one, with your job and applying to med school - good luck with that, Sam, I think it would be good for you, and keep in touch.

The world is a lot darker today because he isn't here, isn't it?

Take care,

Love, Cassie

For the first time since Dean's death, Sam feels the first twinges of something as he reads and then rereads Cassie's email. He thinks it might be happiness, but realizes later it's not that, not yet.

But it may just be some kind of - peace.

Or at the least, the beginnings of it.