Due to overwhelming demand, I've decided to write another chapter. That was sarcasm. I'm only writing it because I have nothing better to do and my twin brother is dead. Edit: Changed Illinois to Chicago and plane to car because I forgot about Dean's thing with planes. My twin brother is still dead.
All his life, Sam felt like something was missing.
Sure, he was charming. He had a girlfriend and a job and an okay salary. Really, he couldn't complain. He was better off than the average Joe, and he was grateful for that. For the most part.
But there was always something. He'd finish a project and he'd have a nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something – something very important. He'd feel anxious for days until he forgot about it, or he'd have a beer to force himself to get there sooner. Everything had to be perfect – everything had to be right. It felt like he was trying to fill a hole that he didn't know was there. The feeling of being lost and alone got so strong that sometimes he lashed out.
His therapist told him that what was missing were his real parents. Sam always scoffed a little at that, because he knew who his real parents were. His real parents were the Flints, the couple who had adopted him when he was six. As for his biological parents, all he had from that life was a bump on the head and a name stuck in his head on repeat – Sam.
But he knew that his therapist probably had a point. When he was a kid in the foster home, he'd make up stories about kings and wizards and aliens from outer space. Everyone knew they weren't true because they were so fantastic, and little Sam knew it too, somewhere in the back of his mind, but that didn't stop him from believing. He stopped talking about what he believed at nine, when he got his first taste of what the bigger kids did to freaks in Chicago public schools, and even after he started to realise that his parents probably had been human, he never quite gave up on the idea that his backstory was something amazing. Something that he could be proud of, even if he'd never had it.
And then he got a lead.
It was small – just the clothes he had been found in, tiny checkered pyjamas with worn and unreadable initials stitched onto the back. For kicks, he had sent them to a police officer friend he had to see if he could trace anything from them. He hadn't really been expecting anything. But then the phone call came and Sam learned that all those years ago, he had escaped from a fire.
It didn't lend any new information about his biological parents or about why he felt so alone, but it was something new and something exciting. Sam called up his mom to tell her about it, and then for the first time in 30 years, he started asking questions. Where did they find me? Did I have an accent? Do you think I could go back there, to Kansas? See if there are any records of fires on that date?
It all seemed so easy. He could just take his vacation days, hop in a car, and play Sherlock for a bit. Maybe he'd even find what he had been looking for – the part of himself that had been missing all these years. Maybe for once, he wouldn't be so alone.