The first box looked like someone had dumped out a kitchen junk drawer and then tossed in the bathroom medicine cabinet for good measure - an assortment of flashlight batteries, loose change, ink pens, and medications. It was the bag at the bottom of the box that caused Dean to swipe at his eyes, though - the old duffle Sam had carried the last time Dean saw him. He felt a pang of recognition as he pulled it out from beneath the layers of junk and dusted it gently off. This was the duffle that Sam had haphazardly packed up that final time in Pennsylvania – the one he was wearing over one dejected shoulder when Dean had pulled away that last hellish night. For a long time, Dean had had little visual recall of those final moments, but as time wore on, more and more was coming back. He could see that Sam clearly now – could feel his fear and could almost taste his panic.
Dean placed the bag carefully on the floor next to him, running one hand gently over the straps. He remembered buying the duffle too – picking it out special at a superstore in Birmingham because it had all those bizarre pockets and zippers and flaps that Sam was so crazy about. If he hadn't been born into a family of hunters, Dean reasoned, Sam would have made one hell of a good spy. Or maybe a girl.
"I guess I can stop calling him now," he said, holding up the flip phone he'd gotten Sam for his 16th birthday. It was in three pieces with a smashed screen and the battery popped out the back.
"How the hell did he manage that?" Bobby wondered. "Looks like he ran over it with his car."
"I would have."
After a moment, he dropped the broken phone into Sam's duffle, along with its charger. Returning to the box, he drew out a nearly full bottle of prescription medication that had been prescribed for Sam Jovani.
"What's Imitrex?" Dean asked, not recognizing the name.
"No idea." Bobby shrugged.
Dean made a mental note of the doctor's name and dropped the bottle into the duffle alongside the phone. He shoved the box away and reached for the next one.
"Sam smoking these days?" Bobby asked.
"I'll kick his ass if he is." Dean promised, looking over to see Bobby holding three matchbooks that he'd just fished out of the pocket of one of Sam's favorite old hoodies.
"Lonesome Roadhouse," Bobby read the name on the covers. "Ever heard of it?"
Dean stared, then shook his head, "It's a place to start though. Hey Bobby, toss that shirt in here, would you?" Dean scooted the duffle toward his friend.
The second box was full of drinking glasses, plates, and mugs that looked like they'd come from a yard sale table. Dean quickly pushed it aside and reached for the next one.
"Sam only had two pair of boxers?" Bobby asked, peering inside his second box.
"Well, let's hope at least three. Commando ain't exactly what the doctor ordered in this heat."
"And one pair of socks." Bobby rooted through the remnants.
Dean's third box was full of photographs, and he recognized them instantly; they were ones he'd left behind when he'd made his break in Pennsylvania. There was the old, faded photo of Sam and Dean when they were just babies really, cuddled in their mother's arms, and the one of Sam, Dean, and their dad when they were much older. Another photo portrayed the two boys with Bobby at his salvage yard – frozen images of happier times. Dean had coveted these photos for years – always possessive about them and not even letting Sam near them most of the time, except that now they looked back at him from framed glass. Sam had gotten them professionally matted and mounted. Dean held up the one of him and Sam and Bobby.
"Bobby."
When the older hunter looked up and saw what Dean was holding, a melancholy look swept over him. "I remember that day." He said softly, reaching over to take the picture. "Balls. That was a lifetime ago."
"That was right before Dad got back from hunting that werewolf in Louisiana, and all hell broke loose." Dean remembered, nursing a smile.
"Those two could sure knock heads – right from the get-go."
"I think Sam could argue with Dad almost before he could walk and talk," Dean agreed. He placed the framed photos gently in the duffle and pulled out another box filled with sheets and worn-out bedding – another offering that looked like it had come from the world's worst rummage sale.
Dean sat back and looked around him at the disarray. "Where're the books?"
"Hunh?" Bobby looked up from his box that held a toaster, a waffle iron and cleaning supplies.
"There're no books. That's weird."
Bobby stood up. "He's not much on material possessions, is he?"
"No." Dean said distantly, "I guess not.
Later, as they stowed Sam's meager belongings in the trunk of the Impala, Dean couldn't help but feel a pang of regret at the pathetic accumulation of worn and nearly worthless … things … that represented almost a year in his brother's life. Most of them hadn't even been worth dragging down the steps. A 17-year-old boy needed track trophies and a laptop filled with selfies of him and his friends doing stupid things. He needed a tee shirt collection featuring his favorite rock bands and a cell phone with his girl's number on speed dial.
Sam had used bedsheets and three towels he'd stolen from the Red Deer Lodge. And damn – the living conditions here. Even worse was the idea that he hadn't even felt safe enough to come back for this crap – sad as it was.
Dean had to pause in the middle of packing and take a moment to walk away and get his face and hands under control. And Bobby seemed to understand because he suddenly clapped the younger man once on the shoulder and strode off down the street, mumbling something about finding food that wouldn't make them both hurl in this hellish heat. The older man was almost to the corner before fireworks began lighting up the night sky above them both.
Dean leaned back against the hood of the car and stared up at the colorful rockets that felt like they were landing, dull and heavy, right on his heart. "When I find out what really went on here, Sammy," he muttered, "I'm going to end some people. I promise you, little brother; debts are gonna be paid in full."