This story has sensitive content written within. Please read with discretion. Enjoy.
Somewhere, in the backs of people's minds, where no one wanted to reach, there were memories. Memories which could tell the forbidden, un-wanted and the forgotten. Sam knew this. He had studied too many psychology courses to realize that the brain sometimes buried memories, people, places, because they were painful or just too much. He didn't understand why these memories were coming now.
John Winchester. The great father who trained a son like a solider and, well, the other? The youngest tried not to think about it. Lies traced his skin and the air that he breathed whenever Dean questioned the weird marks or sudden appearances of flinches, and gasps, and tears. But it didn't matter. The man was zeroed. Completely underground and gone. And to feel Dean's hands gripping his skin and bones tight was coming home, and well, here he was. Jess was dead. Dean was here. Dad was missing. The living deserved the attention, at least he thought so dully.
"You got anything over there, nerd-man?"
The question itself was innocent and Sam ignored the jab to his ego. "Not much," his massive shoulders shrugged up and down fluidly. They've done it millions of times. "There's nothing here that even says Dad was here, let alone near this town."
"Then why'd we come here," Dean snorted, taking a bite of his oniony burger. "Only a waste of time and gas, bro."
Sam just shrugged again, the back of his throat tickling in that sort of way emotions can only get to you. Dean was just being Dean, his usual bricked-up, walled-up self and that was that. Jibes only went so far as to show how desperate his brother really was to get to his Dad. He wondered if he was this desperate to have him back when he went to Stanford. "Look, all I know is that the lead is dry. I've got nothing, Dean."
The burger dropped to the plate unflatteringly, not like it was flattering in the first place, and Dean smacked his chomps together like a lion after a heavy meal. "Fine, then we stay and research before we move on. Any hunts?"
Sam was slightly bothered by Dean's nonchalance. Dean was the one who wanted to find Dad, wanted to find him so badly that he drew Sam away from school and normal and Jess and…. and Sam couldn't find it within himself to really care. He was only doing this for Dean and his big brother acted like he could care less about dead ends. It almost wasn't fair. But then Sam thought about how Dean lost Mom and he shook the thoughts away. Big brother D was allowed to do what he wanted. It was only Sam who couldn't. "Fine," he conceded after taking a sip of his water and pushed his almost full salad bowl away from him. "I'll just head to the library?"
Dean nodded, satisfied with his brother and that he would once again find something, find anything, because his Sammy was a freaking genius. He was awesome. Dean would never admit it, but his younger brother was about the best damn human on this planet. "You'll know where I'll be."
"At the bar, stalking prey," Sam cracked a small smile, a rarity, and felt satisfied as Dean smiled back his 100-watt, electrifying dimples.
"Exactly, Sammy," he winked, laid a few dollars out on the table, and the brothers headed opposite directions. Dean was content, the burger settling just fine in his stomach and he was sure that even a town of this caliber could wrangle up some Southern Sweethearts. Plus, he got his sibling to smile and that was enough to get a skip in his step.
Dean and Sam did their research, respectively, before Sam gave up late in the night and headed to the decent motel to get some rest. His head hurt and his eyes burned, his fingers were about numb from the speed of typing and researching. He had a list of about four hunts that were close enough to this small village. The thought of hopping back into the Impala and driving hours to a different town wasn't interesting nor comfortable sounding and he wanted a few hours of sleep before the wheels would skid. Yet, when he got back to the motel, a note was slipped out on the door and warned that his toes would be missing if he interrupted Dean's happy ending. With a sigh, Sam let his head drop and he rubbed the back of his neck as memories flooded in.
Dean was gone with his girlfriend Stacy when Dad decided to send Sam out in the storm to get a few supplies. He was 11.
"I need you to go pick up a few things," the voice was rough and stubborn, nothing like when he talked to his oldest son. "Now."
Sam had kept his eyes to the floor, as he was instructed, and only nodded as his hand gripped a note. The storm was bad and he was afraid of all the lightning that kept lighting the black sky up. The thunder that grumbled with it was just a bonus. "Yes, sir," he whispered low, expecting the pain as a hand landed on his cheek.
"I didn't say you could speak," John murmured, not disturbed in the slightest that his youngest son's cheek was blooming with blood and his own fingertips. "Go get the stuff. I expect you to be back in two hours, Sam."
The kid nodded, tears glimmering in his eyes, as he began his trek. It had only been a few years ago that John Winchester decided who was worth his time, but Sam never got over the suffering or sadness he held in his heart. Wasn't he enough for his Dad? He did everything he asked (most of the time) and he was quiet, silent, like he was beaten into submission to be. He didn't ask silly questions anymore, not like he used to. He just stayed in the back, quiet. Wounded.
The trek was miserable. The heavens decided to pour on him on the way home and he had to sacrifice his jacket to keep his supplies dry. His father would be angry if they got wet. And the lightning and thunder rolled on and on, shook Sam to his bones, and all he wanted was his hot shower at the end of the night and the bed he was permitted to share with Dean (if Dean felt like sharing).
He strolled into the house and immediately found John in the kitchen with an almost empty bottle of Jack. His stomach rolled, but he placed his package onto the kitchen table and unwrapped the other bottles of Jack and Crown and other food. His father sent him on impossible tasks, yet he always succeeded in getting the alcohol. John never asked how and Sam always ignored the taste in his mouth, the throbbing in his body.
Unexpectedly, or not so, Sam's head snapped to the left as John reached out a violent hand. "That's for getting the table wet, Sam," he murmured, before moving his hands to the new bottles. "You did good tonight, otherwise." Sam nodded, no words escaping his lips. John eyed the boy, debating if he wanted more from him or not, before shaking his head. "Go to bed."
He sighed in relief and slunk away from the table and into the shower. He knew Dean was home and showered and in bed when the water ran cold five minutes into his shower. His brother did love the steam. Sam hustled underneath the stream of water and finally exited, dressed in his still damp clothes because his pajamas were in Dean's room, excited to crawl into a warm bed and sleep peacefully, his brother next to him. Yet, when he drew to the door, there was a note slipped between the cracks.
The note was simple and straightforward, describing how Dean needed a good sleep for the hunt tomorrow after visiting with Stacy and he didn't need Sam's octopus limbs waking him up every hour. Sam let his head rest on the door for a minute before he made his way to the living room couch, the thin blanket and pillow being his only friend for the evening.
Sam curled into a small ball, shivers still racking his body, as he laid on the uncomfortable couch. "Goodnight Dean," the eleven year old whispered, eyes already fluttering closed. He could hear his Dad in the kitchen and he chocked on the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. "Goodnight, Dad."
Tears sprung to as he crawled into the cold and tight compartment of the Impala. The tears were eventually blinked away as he carded the only blanket the Impala offered over him and he stared at the ceiling. This was who he was. A brother who was discarded, used, and offered and that's all he could ever be. He had gotten used to it when he was fourteen and his father had decided that the lesson needed to be taught.
"It's a lesson, Sammy," John shot him a wide grin as he tightened his hands around his throat. The ghoul earlier had held the same position that night and Dean wouldn't know better, as darkness floated around the edges. Dean was asleep, in his room, as his father quietly took care of him. "I've been teaching you since day one," he whispered. "Since you were born, Sammy. And what is that lesson?" Sam couldn't answer. The breathe from his lungs was stolen and tears framed his cheekbones. "What is the lesson, Sam," John shook the boys neck and he was satisfied when Sam wheezed out a broken, "I'm only alive because I'm a lead for Mary's killer."
"Good boy," he cooed like a dad praising a child, eyes softening and hands tightening. "You listen so well sometimes, Sam," the edges were going darker as more tears fluttered out of his eyes. "But you still need to be better," the edges finally grasped Sam and reeled him in, but not before he heard his father whisper. "If only you could be."