Without Kevin, Sam's progress is measured by his own ear rather than flickering lights. He finds himself glancing through the sweep of his hair for Kevin or Linda, but there's never anyone there. Long, long hours of night stretch with the instrument between his knees, the silky smooth bow clenched between trembling fingers, his Youtube instructors droning on without concept of his progress, and bottles of whiskey he drinks before Dean can findthem.
Dean leans in the doorway one morning, expression far enough away he's probably seeing someone Sam isn't. "You're doing good, little brother." An encouragement that used to make Sammy glow bright enough to light a room.
Now Sam twitches his mouth into a smile, and tersely says, "Thanks," so that Dean will leave.
"I miss him, too," Dean says, watching the steady humming lights. "Anyway. Good luck, Mozart."
Dean goes, while Sam loads another video and tries not to watch his brother's slow-step retreat. They'll need to find a hunt soon. They always need to find a hunt soon.
Sam liberates a sheaf of music from Kevin's again-dusty room; without his mother to tend the shrine it looses the lived-in glamour. The music is one of the only things Linda didn't pack away with her when she returned to Neighbor.
How she still has a life and house there, after all the time she missed, is a mystery Sam doesn't pick apart.
He tries Cello Suite No. 5 in C minor, because it's at the top of the stack Linda left the music in. The song never sounds right against the steady notes of the videos he finds, but he plays till his fingers cramp or the notes blur too badly with unshared drink. Sometimes he considers taking the cello hunting with them, because he obviously needs the practice.
But the cello isn't worth the room in the Impala. He knows that.
When Linda calls a few weeks after her son's belated trip Upstairs, she asks Sam to help her move some furniture. He takes her up on it, mostly to escape Cas's paternalistic machinations with Claire and Dean's caged-tiger sulk. By habit, Sam checks under the hood of the rental before driving it—no blinking means good to go—and he wonders how Cole is readjusting to being a family man, if someone can fit back into their old mold after the darkness comes bursting into their life.
The drive to Neighbor passes almost as slowly as time passes in Hell. Even the dawn seems crystallized, lingering in pastel-colored glory for so long he wonders if it will ever fade, the clouds stained pink and orange as far across the flat wastes as he can see. Sam glances at the unfilled seat beside him and stares till his eyes water, memory sharp and visceral.
Icy fingers rake through the inside of his skull, twisting in sharp nails, and Sam cranks the music to drown out the gleeful rifling, but he can still smell his brother's sulphur.
Neighbor is the trim town he remembers, now with a dusting of Upper Peninsula snow. Beneath it, the Trans's house's paint flakes off one brittle piece at a time, the garden he remembers barren and unkempt even beneath the press of winter. Outside, a tiny moving van sits patiently beneath the snow.
Linda opens the door for Sam, her eyes red and tired, and he wonders what her nightmares are. Maybe he could guess. "Morning," he says, as she permits him inside.
He passes over the salt line without trouble, to see stacks of boxes labeled in sharpie. Kevin's schoolwork. Kitchen. Pictures. Misc. Sam swallows thickly as Linda brings him a steaming mug of coffee.
Apart from the boxes, only a couch, an armchair, two end tables, and two beds remain. "This everything?" asks Sam, over the rim of his mug.
"Yes." She casts a half-hearted glance over her gutted living room. "Some of Kevin's old friends came by yesterday for some of the furniture. They're getting an apartment and…" she sighs, shaking her head as if it can banish the already banished specter. "They're good kids." The words all hollowed out.
Sam matches her not-smile. "So, where are you headed?"
"My husband's sister lives in Eugene, Oregon. I found a place in Leaburg."
Sam can guess why she's not living with her sister-in-law, but maybe being near some family will help her. As much as anything can. He drains his coffee. "So you want the furniture in the truck?"
"Yes. Let's get to it, then."
She helps him move the furniture, her arms shaking under the weight of the lived-in relics, but she never complains and Sam shoulders as much of it as he can.
"Thanks," she tells him after, surveying the emptied house. "Before you go, I have something for you."
"I don't—" he stops when she emerges from the hall closet with a shiny cello case. His heart beats in his throat so fast he struggles to swallow around it. Sam half-reaches for it before he stalls. "Was that Kevin's?"
"I don't want to see it anymore. Keep it, pawn it. I don't care. Just take it." She pushes it toward him, and he grabs it to keep it from falling. Linda turns and finds another box labeled Kevin's music, while Sam traces his fingers over the case.
"Thank you," he manages. "Uh. Call if you need anything. Don't—don't try and bring him back. It won't work out the way you think it will. Trust me."
"I tried. I couldn't find anything, even with all those—all those books. It was nice to see you, Sam. I appreciate your help." She looks at the door so he can't misunderstand, and he snaps his mouth shut, because whatever she chooses to do, he can't stop her. There are worse things than death, but people always have to find that out for themselves. Or, at least, Dean and Sam did.
He can't imagine Linda giving up, even as he clutches the cello and the box; he is a scavenger pecking through the carcass of the life the Tran family built. Sam feels her gaze on his back as he leaves, no goodbye or fond memories. He does her the courtesy of not flinging an apology back at her.
That night in his one-queen motel room, Sam frees the gleaming cello from its case. He can smell the recent polish, and he thumbs a string. The sound it makes is almost exactly like the bunker's cello, without any extra magic from belonging to Kevin. Sam coats the bow with resin, then settles into position with his breath caught behind his teeth.
He expects to feel Kevin in the scale he plays; he expects to find Kevin in the warmth of the cello, in the clutch of his hands; he expects to hear the curl of Kevin's laugh when he hits a bad note. Instead, the cello plays in his hands like a cello.
Sam curls around the instrument protectively, curls in on himself, and he doesn't cry—but he throws the bow onto the bed.
Despite googling the nearest pawn shop, Sam stashes the case in the trunk like a corpse.