Loss
By Alone Dreaming
Rating and Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Warnings: General angst and sadness and small character death.
Dedication: To Steph for reminding me that I write what I want because I want to not because other people like it.
Author's Note: This is the second in the challenges. Enjoy.
When he was just barely twelve years old and Sammy was close to turning eight, they found a kitten outside the hotel room.
He never, ever liked cats. Something about their eyes and unpredictable nature had always made him nervous. It sent shivers down his spine when they moved sleekly, silently, from place to place, and when they sat quietly and stared at nothing for long periods of time. In his mind, it was wrong for an animal to do that. They weren't supposed to think like cats seemed to. On the contrary, any pet was supposed to be like a dog. Smart enough to know what to protect, dumb enough to not try to comprehend, and loyal to a fault; that's what made dogs the perfect pet.
He was going to leave the thing outside but Sam, with eyes that rivaled a puppy's, had insisted that it needed a warm place to stay. Sam always knew how to win him over, and he found himself sitting with less than a pound of fluff in his lap while Sam scampered to get towels from the bathroom. In the long run, he couldn't figure who was more miserable: the wet, little kitten, who was peering up at him with large, green eyes, or he, the kid who hated cats, who was getting a damp spot in his jeans. He wrinkled his nose at the furry face and tried to focus on something else.
But an hour later found him still with full attention on the animal he despised; or highly disliked in any case. Sam had an infatuation with the critter and was attempting to get it to drink milk. He watched as his little brother attempted to coax the kitten to lap a bit from a bowl and noted that the kitten was showing no interest. For the first time, he noticed that it had a glaze about its eyes and its fur was patchy at best. Fine tremors coursed its tiny form and its nose was dripping.
"Dean, it's not going to die, is it?" Sam asked, his tone pleading. "Help me not let it die!"
Sammy always had the ability to make him do things he didn't want to do.
Two hours after that, when he had finally convinced Sam to go to bed, he found himself sitting up with a kitten in his arms. He and his brother had managed to get some milk into the ailing creature, and Sam had only gone to sleep when he'd promised to keep looking after it until it drank the whole bowl of milk. Deep down, he knew that it wasn't possible and that the kitten would die before it finished even a third. But he kept trying, letting it lick the milk off his fingers and tenderly stroking the soft fur until finally, close to one, it stopped moving all together.
Sam was devastated.
"You promised," he cried, eyes wide and betrayed. "You said you'd look after it!"
He sighed and turned his face away. "I did, Sammy, but it was very sick."
They buried it out behind the place and Sam was inconsolable for the rest of the day. "I can't trust you," he whimpered, not quite meaning what he was saying. At seven years old, trust didn't mean what it did to an adult. "I can't ever trust you again."
And while Sam mourned the loss of the kitten, he mourned his loss of being perfect in his little brother's eyes.