Sam reaches into shadow for the sawed-off, comes away with a stack of spiral notebooks, reveals loose baseball cards, a ratty mitt.
It registers quickly. Turning, slack jaw brushing gravel. "This…these are the things…"
"Yeah."
Flipping pages aged yellow with a steady gaze. "Did you ever…"
"Nah," Dean lies easily, from years of practice.
"You should've. I started a dozen letters to you. Dad, too. Trying to explain." Holds out the blue notebook like an offering, misses the mark.
"S'no need, Sammy. It's done."
"Why're you hiding this stuff?"
"I'm not."
When he means to hide something, it's not found.
Author Note: It was a long time before I understood the challenge of drabbles. And now to my muse, who spends a lot of time taunting me, cackling in the corner of the room, I stare back and say "challenge accepted."