Nine years. It has been nine years since I last saw my older brother. Since Dean has last comforted me after a nightmare or rubbed my stomach when I wasn't feeling well.
And now I was being sent back, to live in a life I no longer belong in.
"Why are you sending me to live with Dean again?" I ask my dad nervously, knowing what the consequences of asking a question could be.
Ever since dad had sent Dean away to live with Uncle Bobby when I was only seven, I had been completely isolated by fear and pain. I barely spoke, or ate, for that matter. I exercised excessively, though it really did no use.
My father's beatings grew more and more frequent. Selling me off to sick men for a few hours to earn a few extra bucks grew more and more common. And I definitely knew my place.
"How many times do I have to fucking tell you, Sam! I have a lead on the thing that killed my Mary, and I'm not going to have you mess it up!" John yells, snapping me back to reality.
I flinch away and grab a bottle of whiskey before going outside for a smoke. The broken ribs I had acquired two days ago, after screwing up a hunt, in which I was 'the bait,' had begun to ache deeply again and the line of cocaine I had done a few hours ago was no longer numbing the pain.
I stay outside for over an hour, even after the whiskey is gone and the cigarette has gone out.
I decided to climb up onto the roof. It had been something Dean and I had always done when we used to squat in an old house. Lay up there and watch the stars.
Now, it just seemed pointless, since all it did was jostle my broken ribs and the second I actually did get up there, John was yelling for me to get my ass inside, and I knew not to make him yell twice.
I dropped down to the porch and ran inside, preparing myself to face my father. I was met with a right hook to the jaw, knocking me to the ground. It didn't stop there.
Kicks were rained down on my abdomen for a solid ten minutes before John finally let up. I lay on the ground, moaning in pain, hugging my knees to my chest in an attempt to protect myself from any further blows. They didn't come.
"Just one last reminder that if you tell Dean anything at all, that you'll definitely be sorry," John said, walking away.
"And pack your shit! We're leaving in an hour!" He yelled over his shoulder.
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The car ride was silent as usual. The only words exchanged had been Dean's current address, which was odd, because it seemed like a permanent address.
Apparently, he was holed up in Boulder, Colorado. He bought a house right at the base of the Rockies, as a sort of 'home base' for hunts he decided to pursue.
John had left me in a run-down house in the mountains somewhere in Park City, Utah for about two months while he chased down a werewolf pack in Salt Lake City, so it only took about 7 hours to drive there.
When we did get there, I was a little confused. I thought we were lost. All the memories I have of Dean he had never wanted to settle down, live a normal, apple pie life. But now, looking at his house, I did a double-take.
There was a bike lying on the lawn, and there were toys scattered everywhere. There was a big porch surrounding the house and a nice swing next to the front door. I grabbed my bags and followed John to the door.
The house was also huge, surprisingly. Dean always told me to get out of this life, saying, 'hunting ain't a pro ball career, Sammy,' and shit. Clearly, he took his own advice. It was a dark blue house, white trim running around everywhere, and a white roof.
A typical, normal, house. Nothing like Dean. But then he opened the door. Dean Winchester.
I froze for a few seconds, taking him in. He was smiling, and there were no wrinkles lining his face from stress or too much responsibility like Sam had always remembered him having, even at only 11 years old. His eyes were shining in a way that they never had before, like he was truly happy for once. His voice jerked me back to the present.
"Dad! Sammy! Hi, come on in!" He said happily, grabbing my bags. He smiles at me but I simply follow John inside.
Walking inside, there were toys strewn about just like outside, and the house looked homey, like a happy family lived there.
I guess, supposedly, a happy family did live there. I nervously sat down next to John at the kitchen table, hoping he wouldn't yell at me for sitting. It had happened before.
Dean shot me a weird look, and I simply turned away, shrugging him off. I suddenly longed for the razor that sat in my wallet, to guide it down my skin and watch the blood flow from the wound to comfort me.
It was the only thing that did comfort me anymore. I stopped bothering to make friends right around the time Dean left. It didn't do any good, I moved away too quickly anyway.
"Sam? You alright?" I hear Dean ask, and I jerk my head around to look at John, who is glaring at me with a warning.
I just nod in response. Dean shoots me that weird look again. He goes back to talking with John, and I ignore them once again. Then I notice them standing up, so John must be leaving.
I wait for John to leave, and I stand up, seeing Dean approaching.
"Hey, Sammy. Long time no see, huh," Dean jokes, but I don't smile or laugh like I would've nine years ago. Dean just keeps making conversation.
"So, how you been? I bet you're acing all your classes," he says and all I do is shrug.
I can tell Dean is a bit put-off at the new me, but he doesn't seem to comment, which is fine with me.
Suddenly, a woman walks into the room and Dean rushes over to introduce us.
"Sammy, hey. This is my wife, Lisa. Lisa, this is my brother, Sam," Dean says and I shake her hand to be polite.
"Nice to meet you, Sam," Lisa says and I nod my head to her in response.
"I've actually got to go and pick up Ben and Mary from my parents' house, they have their doctor's appointments today. But I'll bring home dinner!" She says, kissing Dean on her way out.
Dean obviously notices the shocked look on my face cause he starts laughing.
"Yeah. Hard to believe, huh," he says, and I just nod.
"Yeah, Lisa and I met in high school. She went to school up in Sioux Falls with me. I was still living with Bobby. We started dating as sophomores, and she ended up getting pregnant in our junior year. We were barely seventeen, but we both managed to stay in school and graduate. Her parents and Bobby helped out a lot with Ben, our son," Dean explains to me. I still don't say a word. He waits a minute, then keeps talking.
"I managed to get into the University of Colorado Denver right out of high school with a full ride and believe it or not, committed to school for a good year and a half," Dean says, but still doesn't comment on my silence.
"Paid off, too. I ended up majoring in the medical field, and after I got my associate's degree, I started working as a respiratory therapist. Pays well enough, and lets me spend time with my kids. Lisa followed the same path and became a physical therapist. We decided to move out here to Boulder, it's so nice and peaceful. We had Mary just four months ago, right after we got married," Dean says, and when he finishes, he just stares at me.
"What?" I try not to snap, but it still comes out a little rude.
"Nothing. Just trying to get you to say something," he says, picking up my bags. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."
I trudge after him up the stairs, and the hallway reveals several rooms along the way. He finally stops at one and shows me inside.
"So, we got everything set up for you. There's a bathroom in here, it's all yours, and there's a porch connected. The porch runs all the way around, but each room has its own private one," Dean says, going to leave.
"Thanks," I mutter, my voice low. Honestly, I rarely ever talk, so when I do, it's hoarse and raspy from the disuse and smoking.
I thought he had left, so when he landed his hand on my shoulder, I visibly flinched, expecting him to hit me like John would. Then I remembered that it was Dean and not John, and slightly relaxed.
"Sorry, Sammy. Didn't mean to scare ya," he said, laughing nervously.
"Sam," I whisper.
"What?" He asked.
"Just Sam," I repeat hoarsely.
"Oh, okay. Sam. Well, um, can I ask you something?" He asks.
I hesitate, but nod my head.
"Well, uh, I mean, you just seem different, man," he says and I sigh, moving to the sliding glass doors that led to the porch.
"Yeah, well, it has been nine years, Dean," I rasp out, and Dean winces.
"Sammy-sorry, Sam, did you hurt your throat or something? I mean, your barely talking, and your voice is all hoarse," Dean asks, moving closer to look at my throat.
I duck my head away from him and move to sit on the bed.
"No," I respond shortly.
"Alright, sorry for asking," Dean says, holding his hands up.
"Well, I'll let you get settled in, then. I'll call you when dinner's ready," he says.
"It's alright, I'm not hungry," I manage before he leaves.
"Come on Sam, you're too skinny. You should eat something," Dean says. I finally look him in the eye, for the first time since I got here. He takes a step back at the cold look in them.
He gives it up. "Okay, that's fine, I guess. Just come down if you do get hungry."
He shuts the door behind him and I rush to the bathroom, pulling out my wallet on the way, and grabbing the medkit from my bag.
I shut the door and lock it. I sit down on the counter and hold my arm over the sink. I figure it'll make it easier to clean up the blood. I slowly slide the razor down my arm, deep enough to really cause pain. I sigh in relief at the familiar feeling.
I'm about to make another cut when I hear knocking on the door.
"Sam? You in there?" Dean's voice calls out.
I curse and quickly wrap my wrist in a towel, hiding the razor in my wallet and rinsing the sink out until there is no blood left.
I grab a gauze pad out of the bag I brought in with me and taped it over the cut, and pulled my sweatshirt over to cover it.
Once everything looked normal, I opened the door, pushing past Dean to step out onto the patio. He follows.
"Sorry man. I just forgot to tell you, we had an old Jeep sitting in our driveway, and I was able to fix it up a bit for you. I didn't really pay much attention to Bobby when he tried to teach me, but I remembered some stuff from Dad, so," he says, and he notices me flinch at him calling John 'dad.'
"Thanks. He also taught me some stuff so I should be able to keep it in somewhat good condition," I whisper, my throat starting to ache.
"Good," Dean says, smiling. "So, dad taught you to fix cars, huh? When you were little you never seemed to care about that stuff."
"Yeah, well, John kind of forced a lot of things on me after you left," I say, not realizing I called him 'John' in front of Dean.
"John? And what do you mean by that?" He asks in confusion as I pull out a cigarette. I freeze.
"And since when do you smoke?" He asks. I shrug.
"Don't know. I've been smoking since I was, eight, nine maybe?" I say, avoiding his first questions.
Dean gives me an incredulous look.
"Look, Dean, me and John were never close, okay. Especially after you left, we barely spoke a word to each other. It didn't seem right calling him dad, so I started calling him John in my head," I say, and I decide to stop talking then, because my throat was really sore now.
The cigarette was only helping a little.
"Huh, okay then. Well, like I said, I'll be downstairs if you need me," Dean says, hesitantly leaving the room.
I continue smoking until I hear Dean's wife return home. I snuff out the cigarette on the back of my hand and throw it in the trash. I go and lay down, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to me.
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Leaving Sam's room, I had a bad feeling in my gut. The kind of bad feeling that I used to get from hunting with Dad all those years ago right before something bad happens.
When Dad called me to ask me if Sammy could stay with me for a while, I found it extremely odd. I mean, he sends me away to Bobby's so he could 'train' Sam when I was eleven, then I never actually see Sam again, and now he wants me to watch over him again?
I knew something was up, but Sammy obviously wasn't going to talk about it. He didn't talk about much of anything anymore. It was weird.
The seven-year-old Sammy I remember used to smile at everything, and he always had something to say, commenting on everything. He had the brightest smile, and was sassy, and hyper, and couldn't stop moving.
I knew Sammy wouldn't be the same but I didn't expect him to be so different. I mean, he almost never speaks, he fucking smokes, which is the most shocking to me, and he doesn't want to eat, even though he looks horribly underweight, which is also extremely unlike him.
When I get downstairs I decide to just let it go and write it off as a long day of sitting in a car, but it still didn't sit right.
I ended up watching TV until Lisa got home with the kids, and I joined her outside, getting Ben and Mary out of their car seats. I pick Mary up and grab Ben's hand to lead them inside as Lisa grabs the food and trails behind, stopping to take a picture of us.
When we get inside, I get the kids situated as Lisa dishes out the food and my mind returns to Sam.
He just seems so… sad. Depressed even. He hadn't laughed, let alone smiled, once since he got here.
Ben's meaningless babbling brought me back to reality and I was able to enjoy dinner with my family, trying not to think about Sam.
"Dean?" I hear Lisa say, and I focus my attention back on her. She smiles. "Babe, I'm sure he's fine, don't worry."
I smile and nod my head, helping Lisa with the dishes, but I wasn't convinced. Once the dishes were ready and Lisa brought the kids upstairs to get ready for bed, I went to Sam's room, wanting to talk to him some more.
I slowly open the door, not wanting to invade his space. I don't see him in his room, so I check the bathroom, seeing the door open, and I freeze.
That can't be Sam. That couldn't be his baby brother covered in scars and bruises. Of course, I saw his black eye and the nasty bruise covering his jaw, but I shrugged it off, telling myself it could've been anything. I suddenly felt a surge of anger rise within myself as I remembered the promise I had made to myself.
I had only been four, but it was right after Mom had died, and I swore that I would never let him get hurt. I swallow down my anger and calm down.
"Sam?" I manage to say. He turns and freezes also. He quickly pulls his sweatshirt back down from where he had been examining the bruises covering his chest, stomach, and back.
I step forward as he walks out fo the bathroom. I try to lift his shirt back up, but he flinches away at my touch, and goes to the bed, laying down.
"Sam, what the hell happened?" I repeat, still shocked.
"It's nothing Dean, leave it alone," he mutters from his pillow.
"No, Sam, let me see," I demand, stepping towards his bed.
He moves over. "Dean, stop. I don't want to talk about it, okay. Just let me sleep."
I hear the desperate tone to his voice and back off. Stepping out of his room, I run into Lisa, literally, and she leads me to our bedroom, falling onto the bed, pulling me with her. My lips connect with hers and for the next hour, I managed to forget all my worries about Sam.
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I woke with a jerk as I realized I had fallen asleep. I hadn't meant to, at least not without something to help keep the nightmares away. But of course, Dean walked in on me trying my best to wrap my broken ribs and I forgot to take something to numb the pain.
And, as a result, the nightmares had come violently, and luckily, I hadn't screamed or cried out, at least I hope, and it was reduced to thrashing.
Which made my ribs ache like hell. I staggered to the bathroom and grabbed some tape and bandages from the medkit I carry around everywhere we move. I carefully wrap and tape my ribs, trying hard not to jostle them too hard.
Then I grab a syringe out of the kit and fill it up as much as I can with fentanyl. I know it's dangerous, getting high on a prescription pain med like that, but sometimes the pain was so bad I really needed the extra something to numb everything else as well.
Walking back into the bedroom, I notice that the sun is just coming out, so I walk onto the porch and light a cigarette, soothing my throat the best I can. I realized how bad I was beginning to get at the whole 'not talking' thing.
Just exchanging a few words with Dean yesterday had my throat on the verge of burning, to the point where only smoking weed could soothe it, which was not good.
He heard the bedroom door opening and he looked over to see it was a little boy, no more than 4. He walked out onto the patio.
"Hi," he said.
"Hey," I respond, looking down at the boy. He actually looked a lot like Dean, with the exception of a few features that oddly reminded me of John almost.
"Who you?" The little boy, probably Ben, asked.
"Oh, right. Um, I'm Sam, your dad's brother," I say, quickly putting out the cigarette on the back of my hand again, remembering that Ben was way too young to be around that, even if he and Dean were when they were his age.
"Ben? Hey, buddy, what are you doing in here?" Dean's voice comes from the bedroom.
Ben laughed and ran into Dean's arms, and Dean swung him around playfully before handing him off to Lisa, who carried him downstairs.
"Hey, Sam. How'd you sleep?" Dean asks casually.
I shrug and relight my cigarette.
"So back to not talking, huh?" He asks.
"It hurts my throat," I respond, taking a drag of the cigarette before putting it out, once again, on the back of my hand, much to Dean's horror.
"Why? And why the hell would you do that?" He asked, staring at me. I don't respond, just heading back inside to grab my phone.
"Sam? Hey, what the hell is going on?" Dean demanded, grabbing my shoulder.
I shrug him off, sitting down on the bed. I raise a hand to my ribs as subtly as I can, as they suddenly started hurting, but Dean still notices.
"Let me see," he says, getting me to my feet.
"No, Dean, stop. You don't need to see it, I already wrapped them," I say, slurring my words slightly. That's when he looks me in the eye.
"God, Sammy. Are you seriously fucking high right now?" Dean says.
"Dean, come on, it was just enough to get through the pain," I lie through my teeth.
"Yeah, right. Well, when you're done throwing your life away, come and get me, cause we need to get you enrolled in school today," he says, turning away.
"You have no idea what I've been through Dean!" I yell as he walks away. "Don't pretend like you know the shit I've had to deal with!"
At that, Dean turns around. "I don't know? Sam, I lost mom too, and I'm not smoking and getting high in my free time."
"You seriously think that's what this is about?" I yell. "You haven't been in my life since I was seven years old, Dean! I'm not that little kid you used to raise anymore. You don't know even half the shit that's happened to me after you left."
Dean's face falls. He looks down, then back up at me. "You're right. I mean, you're completely right. I have no idea, Sammy. I wasn't there, even though I made myself swear I would be. So help me understand. Show me the bruises. Tell me what happened."
I resign and hesitantly lift up my shirt. He slowly unwraps my ribs and looks, gasping.
"They're not just bruised, Dean. They're broken. Most of them. And yes, I used the fentanyl in the medkit to get high. Because I can't take this pain anymore," I tell him. His eyes water.
"I'm so sorry, Sammy, I had no idea. But what happened? Did Dad hurt you?" Dean asks.
"No, John didn't do anything to me," I lie.
"It was a hunt, it went all to hell. John didn't want me to tell you, he thought you'd get mad-" I lie again, not telling Dean that John had actually been the one to cover me in bruises and scars. I remember John's threats. I wasn't going to risk it.
"Damn it, Sammy, I didn't know you guys were still hunting," Dean says.
"Yeah, well, he started bringing me along, as 'training,'" I say.
"I'm sorry. Let's just go downstairs and get some breakfast, then we can go get you enrolled in the local high school. Of course, it's about an hour away, so you'll need to drive there, which is why I fixed up the Jeep," Dean says, trying to change the subject.
"Okay, um, yeah, but I'm not really hungry," I say.
"Sam! Seriously, you gotta eat something eventually," Dean says.
"No, Dean, it's alright. I mean, you remember all those nights going hungry. They just happened a lot more when you left," I say, trying not to reveal too much. Dean looks guilty at that, but lets it go, thankfully.
"Okay. Come down at nine, that's when we'll leave," Dean says, leaving the room.
I nod, waiting for him to leave. I readjust the bandages and sneak down the outside staircase I had found leading down from the porch the night before.
Once I was on the ground, I started running, doing my usual training. I found it comforting, as a way to let out everything I was going through.
I kept running as my lungs burned and my legs felt ready to give out.
Bad memories kept flashing through my head, I couldn't stop them.
John beating the shit out of me.
John's sick friends raping me.
Being the bait for a wendigo.
And lastly, her. The seemingly love of my life at the time. Dying, right in front of me.