Footsteps paused outside the bedroom door, and a corner of Sam's mind recognized them as Amelia, not a threat, before ignoring them. He didn't register the steps moving on.
He was sitting half-inside the closet, legs folded up to fit between the bed and the wall. A partially empty, forgotten beer sat on the floor beside him, and a small cardboard box sat on the other side. He ran a finger along the side of the box, staring at the contents without really seeing them. A dirty magazine and a still-unopened can of shaving cream. A stack of old tapes. Photographs in an envelope that he couldn't bring himself to open and a beat-up leather journal. Along with the keyring clutched in his fist, it was all he had left of Dean.
His brother had been gone eight months, and it hurt just as much today as the day he'd been left alone at Sucro Corp. Maybe even more today—it was Dean's birthday, and they should have been out somewhere with steak and good pie, having a few beers and playing some pool. Instead, Dean was dead and gone without even a body to burn, and Sam was sitting on the floor in a closet trying not to cry. He huffed a humorless laugh and brought the forgotten bottle to his lips. Happy birthday, Dean.
For the millionth time, he tried to talk himself out of his decision not to look for Dean. He wanted his brother back so bad that it hurt. The ache was always there, raw and screaming when he was alone at night, quieter when he played with Riot or held Amelia in his arms, but never actually gone. Sam knew he could find him, knew he could bring him back. There were spells that could be cast, people that could be summoned and bargains that could be arranged. There were even deals that could be made, though he cringed to think what Dean would do if Sam went that far. Hell, he'd already done some of the spellwork and summoning. Enough to confirm that Dean wasn't in Hell, and that…that was what made him pause.
Because if Dean wasn't in Hell, he would be in Heaven. And if Dean was in Heaven…well, what right did Sam have to pull him out? It would be hard, but Sam was confident that he would be able to bring Dean back. But should he? Dean was finally safe, finally at peace, back with their mom and dad and Bobby and who knows who else? Everyone he'd lost, Dean had them back now. He was somewhere he could be happy. Could Sam really be so selfish as to pull him out of that and back into this…this crap? Heaven versus crappy motel rooms and life on the road, monsters and demons and blood and death?
Sam sighed and thunked his head back against the wall. His grip on the keyring was starting to hurt, and he loosened his fingers. Looking down at the small metal ring, he was suddenly assaulted by a wave of memories of riding in the passenger seat of the Impala, Dean beside him singing along to the radio, throwing food at him, teasing him, arguing with him, cheering him up, talking out the next hunt, contemplating the merits of pudding vs. jello, and on and on and on and Sam choked back a sob and curled down into his knees, clutching the keyring even harder.
He wanted his brother. He needed his brother. But for once in his life, he was determined to do what was better for Dean. Dean deserved a chance to be happy. Sam could…Sam could wait. He could stay here and try to do the normal life thing with the girl and the house and the dog, if only because he knew how Dean would react if he followed what his gut so often screamed at him to do and drove the Impala off a cliff so he could join him. It would suck. But he could wait.
He sat up and tugged the box closer, smiling briefly as his fingers ghosted over the shaving cream from so many Christmases ago. He ran his hands reverently over the cover of the journal before they rested on the envelope of photographs. His fingers toyed with the flap before pulling back. Not tonight. Almost of their own accord, his fingers delved deeper into the box, coming back up clutching a wad of what used to be black material. It was faded now to somewhere between gray and purple, the cuffs were worn and the edges were frayed, and it was so threadbare it was almost see-through, but Sam pulled the hoodie out and hugged it tightly to his chest. Dean hadn't worn it in over twelve years, but as he buried his face in it, Sam imagined he could smell a lingering trace of gun oil and aftershave.
He sat on the floor for a long time, crying softly into the faded folds of the sweater. Dean would have called him a big girl, but Dean wasn't here. Dean would never be here again, and Sam missed his brother, and he allowed the quiet tears to fall.
At some point, he managed to drag himself up onto his side of the bed where he drifted into an uneasy sleep. And when Amelia came to bed later, that was how she found him, curled up on top of the covers and clutching a ragged old hoodie to his chest like a teddy bear. Dried tear tracks stained his cheeks, and even in sleep he looked miserable…this time there was no big brother here to make it better.