Warnings: mild implications of past abuse

Chapter Ten

Your body grieves before the rest of you does.

You drive all day on highways with no destination in mind, wandering aimlessly from state to state. You stop at gas stations for fuel and you stop at nights when you get too tired, sleep in the car or in a bed (you still ask for two queens and you don't know why), check in for one night and leave the next morning. Never stay in a place longer than that. You stop at bars sometimes and get drunk until everything's even more dimmer and hazier than it already is. People look at you like you're something to keep away from or something lost (it is now that you're starting to realize that you've never really found a place that stuck with you other than the one with Sammy, and you think you've never really been home since Sam's twelfth birthday).

Maybe it's more like floating around though. Not feeling anything. Not aware of anything you're thinking. Roaming from one place to another mindlessly like a ghost that doesn't know it's dead. You float around and you bounce off places like a balloon in the wind with its string cut off, going nowhere and everywhere.

And then.

And then you can't breathe, and you're choking on nothing. You're stopping the car over to the side of the road, fumbling for the door and pushing it open and falling out on your knees, heaving with sobs and lack of air and crying so hard that your muscles are seized up and shaking and you can't understand it when you're not feeling a fucking thing.

But then your heart and mind catch up and you're feeling. You're feeling too much, all at once, and it's the most horrible thing you've ever felt (and you had once thought that losing that—that fucking man was the worst thing you've felt but it's this. It's this). You're feeling it all, your insides convulsing from the agony and sickness, and your heart is pounding because you're suddenly being assaulted by thoughts and images of Sam—god, Sammy, fucking Sammy, only twelve and too scrawny to look like it (just a kid, just a fucking kid). Eyes still too big and crescent moons in his cheeks and bruises too dark on his face, and the way he said (so convincingly that he almost seemed to believe those lies himself when he was telling him) when you asked where he got them from, Shapeshifter, Dean. A few days back. And you touched his face and angled it for a better look and said, fucking bastard. And he laughed and said, Dean, I'm okay. I killed it.

And you said, guess Dad's training you well, huh?

And you didn't know. You didn't know. It makes you so fucking angry and so sick that you're gagging again between sobs, your stomach spasming, your throat closed up and tight. Your hand comes up to grasp at your shirt and skin, where your heart lurches excruciatingly behind it, and you think it might start bleeding if it scrunches up any more than this.

You're curling away on your side against the car, one arm braced against it, and the other goes down tremulously to clutch at the place where it's all twisting up painfully into explosions inside of you with every thought and image of Sammy (innocent and wide-eyed and so fucking sad and broken on the inside but you never knew. You never knew), leaving you gasping and choking again on the weight in your throat like there's a tight noose around your neck.

And you're thinking about the way he whimpered and begged in his sleep, pushed against the monsters over him in his dreams to make them stop. You're thinking about the way the little light and aliveness left inside of him faded out of his eyes whenever someone mentioned John. You're thinking about the way he pleaded, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry on that third May (when you had fucking hurt him, bruised and bloodied him the same way that man had once did) and never seemed to stop shaking after (too little and controlled to be easily noticed but you always noticed him) whenever you were in the same room as him.

(God, it was all right in front of you and you never asked. Maybe if you had just asked).

Sammy. Fucking Sammy who's dead and gone and you can't tell him how sorry you are and how much you still still still fucking love him so damn much that it slams the air out of your lungs, devours you from the inside out and throbs in your veins all over.

And this car that you're leaning against, this car that you've been travelling all over in, this car you've made your home, this car you were so fond of because it was that bastard's.

It disgusts you now, and it makes you so fucking enraged that you're grinding your jaw until it hurts, wheezing heavily through the snarl bent around your clenched teeth, your insides and nerves chafed and burning white-hot. Your fist collides vehemently against the car, tears running down your cheeks. And then it collides against the car again, over and over and over, strangled cries of fury ripping out of your body. This car. This fucking car, the last thing that he left behind that you foolishly cherished. This car that fucking belonged to that son of a bitch, who is dead too and who you can't hurt for Sammy anymore for all the shit he's done to him, who made you hurt the wrong boy for the wrong man (but that was all you too). This car that held fucking shadows of him.

And this car that held memories of Sam.

This car, these empty leather seats (always, always so empty and big without him). This irreplaceable place that was touched by memories of Sammy, the ghosts of the moments he lived with you, that you can take with you wherever you go.

This is where he breathed, where he smiled like kept secrets and laughed like he was breathing again after a long time, even if it was the rarest thing (there was a time, before the worst, when it wasn't. It wasn't rare and it was careless). This is where he used to sleep against the window with rock tunes strumming lowly from the radios (where he once used to sleep sidled up to your side in the backseat). This is where he looked bright and mellow when the shine of the sunset caught in his hair, framed his cheekbones and sweetened him and made the hazel of his eyes lighter into golden. This is where he smelt like coffee and aftershave and girly flowery shampoo, like gunpowder and ashes and dirt. This is where he put his fingers against your skin around the wounds, patched them all up and whispered softly to you, his voice like husky pledges and tender solace. This is where Sammy took little pieces of you with every moment, just by being there, just by being Sammy (and you never let yourself notice).

Your hands are shaking with sorrow and pain, tumid and bloodied, and your heart's still pounding against your chest. Something wrenches inside of you, remembering these things about him, feeling this mix of love (so fucking much of it) and grief (for losing him too soon, for that chance you'll never have to fix things and love him and say all the things you want to say) and greediness (for more of him, for more time, more remembrances of him) and regret (for taking it all for granted, for not doing better).

"Baby, I'm sorry," you murmur huskily, taste salt on your lips, and you sniff hard as you run your trembling, aching hand over the dented metal. You reach up with your other hand and wipe at your cheeks with your fingers, trap your quivering lips between your teeth.

This car is yours and Sammy's. Your home and Sammy's home. And maybe John bought it and owned it once but that was a long time ago, because this is now marked with whispers of Sammy's scent and yours, his fingerprints and yours, his sweat and blood-stains and yours, the sounds of his quiet laughter and pictures of sunshine falling over him, woven around his body like light curving over hills, his eyes full of luster and gold. It's marked with breaths and touches of his life and yours.

…

You dig him an empty grave next to your mom's in Lawrence, Kansas (you promised you'd never come back here, but just this once, you had to break it for him). You press your fingers tenderly against the stone, your heart swollen and raw against the inside of your sternum, and you whisper, "I hope you're at peace now, Sammy."

…

October 2005

"Here, right now, when it doesn't seem to matter... you'll never think about how much you're gonna regret it all. But the truth is, kid... the truth is that, god forbid, if it ever becomes too late for you, it's going to be all you can think about, every moment you can still remember hurting him. So I'm tellin' you now. Don't make the same mistakes I did, and especially not for something like this."

Some part of you instantly regrets telling some strange kid these things, telling him Sammy's story (minus the dirty, gritty parts). These are not really things you say to a twelve-to-thirteen year old boy, and you don't project all of your own issues on the kid either, especially when this was nothing like you and Sam, too normal to ever come close.

But you look at him and he seems to understand what you mean. And maybe that's why you told him these things, because somehow you knew that he was the kind of kid who would.

The kid inhales quietly, stares down at his deflated ball.

"I guess… well, I know I've been too hard on him. And honestly, I… maybe it's not even really anything to do with him, y'know?"

"Then what's it got to do with?"

He doesn't answer right away. He lifts his head and looks at the little boy he isn't willing to call his brother yet, before his gaze lowers down again to his hands, open beneath the flat ball held only by the side of his palms.

"It's always been me and my parents. And he just…"

He wanes off, doesn't say more but he doesn't have to say any more because you get it.

"Let me tell you somethin', kid. Your parents are going to love him and they are still going to love you, alright? Just as much as they did before. They can because their hearts are big enough for the both of you. And s'not like it's halved or whatever just because another child came in the picture. Yeah, maybe they won't be able to focus on only you anymore, but that's what happens. You win some, you lose some. You got a baby brother here who—who already adores you enough to be freaking heartbroken over you. Wants nothing but a family and you to consider him a part of it. That is a win." You lean close, hold your stare, and you point at the little boy now staring sadly down at his hands in his lap. "Now you look at him and you tell me if that kid's upset because you yelled at him over something stupid or because there's something more going on there."

He exhales and raises his head to look at his adopted brother. Something akin to guilt flashes across his face.

"And look, I'm not saying it's all gonna be easy, like—like rainbows and sunshine or whatever. He's going to break your stuff and get you in trouble and—and just generally be a pain in the ass. That's what little brothers do." You smile, and all you can think about is Sammy. "But he's also goin' to look at you like you're his hero and he's also going to do anything for you. That's what little brothers do too."

The boy is staring at you now, contemplative and quiet. You hold his gaze, waiting for him to say something.

He does. He says, "I'm Wally." Soft voice and a light flicker on his lips, and you know it got through. The kid might be a bit older than you think, even if not in age.

"Dean," you say, smile back at him. "And the little guy over there?"

Wally glances over at his brother. He looks back at you and says, "Sammy."

You stop still for a short moment at that.

Sammy.

There is a grin gracing your face, slow and soft, at the name. Sammy. Sammy like stupid, wavy brown hair and fox-slanted sunflower eyes, perfectly-lined incisors and furtive smiles.

"Sammy, huh?" you say, still smiling that soft smile. Your hands go in your pockets, and you duck your head a little to hide it. Your mouth shrugs with your shoulders. "He looks like a Sammy. So Wally, you gonna go talk to your little brother?"

Wally nods, half-smiles. "I guess so."

You stay and wait around long enough to watch as Wally goes up to his brother. He glances back at you for a second and you throw him an encouraging thumbs up. His mouth twitches, and then he turns back around hesitantly, starts talking, can't seem to look up from his sneakers. Sammy's staring up at him, some kind of hopefulness in his gaze, his eyes less droopy with sadness.

After a while, when Wally's done talking, Sammy's mouth breaks out into a small smile. Wally jerks his head over and the little kid stands up, follows him to wherever (you stop watching there because you're remembering your own Sammy again, and the way he followed you everywhere, all chubby and short up to your waist, and you're remembering the way his head had to tilt up completely to grin at you, huge eyes crinkling and small teeth he still hadn't grown into and dimples in his chipmunk cheeks and fluffy chocolate curls falling all over, chin against your stomach as he hugged you. Your stomach clenches and your heart feels too big and soft and light inside your chest, aches a little from the sorrow and love melding together until you can't tell which is which anymore, like it always does now whenever you think about him).

You get into the car, into the driver's seat, a smile tugging at your lips. You're thinking about things you stopped believing in too young, decades ago (maybe you stopped for a good reason anyway, you think, because Sammy prayed and his life was still the worst fucking tragedy. Still died feeling alone in this godforsaken planet). Things like signs and heaven, like how maybe there is something more than people just floating around in an accidental life. Something that leads you to a boy named Wally who was making the same mistakes you did (even if they'll never be as bad as yours) with a little brother who shared the same name as your own.

And it's stupid, really, if you examine it with less emotions and more rationality. It probably doesn't even mean anything because there are a lot of Sammys in this world and not every one of them will come along to you as some kind of divine assurance, but you lost your Sammy so maybe you deserve to be a little irrational.

And some part of you knows where it's all coming from. You just want to take this and believe that Sammy's okay, wherever he is. That he's happy in a way he's never been here. You just don't want to go the rest of your life being afraid that he isn't, that the only place he still exists now is in memories, and that that day in the car was the last you'll ever see of him (the thought of never getting to tell him makes your heart sick).

You've never believed in a heaven, but you would like to now, for the sake of your sanity. Because maybe there is a place out there where all the good people, people like Sammy, go. Maybe he is there in that place with the mom he never knew and he is happy and someday you will be there with him too if you're forgiven by whatever is out there that forgives people like you, that takes people like Sammy and finally, finally gives them peace. The world is cruel and cold (you've learned that through your life, and you've learned that through the life of the boy you loved more than anything), but it can't be so cruel and cold that you don't ever get to see Sammy again.

This is the hope that overwhelms your whole being, and your hand reaches up to your chest, clasping around the amulet, the solace of it heavy on your palm. You're remembering that Christmas again, and if you close your eyes, you can see it happen as if it's happening right now. See an eight-year old Sammy alive and smiling (tinged with the slightest sadness), his fingers holding the wrapped newspaper out to you (your chest aches again to the throb of your veins).

You look over at the passenger seat, and for the first time in months, your heart doesn't feel like it's drowning in water. You're breathing fine and easy, a seamless transition of inhale to exhale, inhale to exhale, inhale to exhale. The space behind your ribs expand (with the hope that someday you will see Sammy again, somewhere far from and beyond this wretched world) as you lean back and chase the stretch of the horizon. Just for this moment, the air in your lungs is not too much of a burden to carry.

Author's Note: Hello! :)

So... I know that little kid's name turning out to be Sammy was kind of cheesy, heheh. Aaaand maybe it doesn't make sense how that could be a sign, but well, I wanted Dean to have some hope, y'know? He's hurting too much, and he needs to know he's going to see his little brother again, even if he thinks it won't be in this world.

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T.L. Arens (Chapter 5, 6 and 8)

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EDIT: I would like to clarify that this is not the end and there is more to come. I understand why some are confused and I'm sorry for not mentioning this!