Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or the characters – I’m just playing with them a little.
Rating: T - Sam has a potty mouth. May go up later.

Cracked Perfecting Images
By Jame K.

“A closure? What closure? People don’t just disappear, Dean. Other people just stop looking for them.”
Sam Winchester (Dead in the Water)

“His stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness.”
Marlowe (Heart of Darkness)

Prologue

Sam Winchester believed in things that very few others did. He believed in ghosts, demons, hell and true love. He believed in evil, life after death and fate. He believed in his dreams. But most of all, Sam believed in his brother.

And because of this steadfast belief, it was no surprise that Sam was never the same after Dean Winchester vanished from their motel room in Northridge, California.

On a summer morning when the sun was bright through the heavy motel curtains and Sam’s hair was dark with sweat, he kicked off the stiff sheet and rolled so he was facing Dean’s bed.

The mussed empty sheets didn’t really faze him and he dozed in the morning warmth for a few more minutes before the combination of heat and pressure in his bladder forced him from the bed and to the bathroom.

He read a book after he had taken a shower, checked his email and did some research on the Internet. At 10 am, he called Dean’s cell phone – and jumped when it rang from the bedside table.

The fear started in little tendrils and grew when he found Dean’s wallet on top of his duffle bag and saw the Impala parked just outside the door. But it was only when he found Dean’s beloved necklace lying beneath one of the pillows with the cord broken that Sam walked the four blocks to the police station and reported a missing persons and yelled at the desk sergeant because goddamn it we can’t wait 24 hours because my brother wouldn’t go anywhere without this necklace – don’t you see?

Twenty-four hours after Dean vanished, the police began their investigation and Sam put the leather necklace around his throat and swore to only take it off when he found Dean and he could put it back around his brother’s neck.

Sam did things in his own way even as the police took evidence and followed leads. He cruised the streets in the Impala, scanning every face for Dean’s, and searched for any sign of paranormal activity even though his gut and Shining were telling him that no this is dreadfully human and humans can be so much more cruel than anything the supernatural could cook up.

He called his father’s cellphone (even though they hadn’t seen him or talked to him since the demon that killed Mom had been sent back to hell) and told him that Dean is gone and the police don’t know… but he hadn’t expected a response and he didn’t get one.

From the hotel security cameras, the police got footage of two masked men entering their hotel room at 3 am in the morning (banishing any last of hope of Sam’s that this was a ghost he could put rock salt through or a spirit he could banish back to hell) and then dragging a limp Dean to a car out of the camera’s frame. The rumble of that engine starting in the silent early morning dark had haunted Sam’s dreams for months.

Two months, one week, four days and five hours later, Sam used the last of his savings account to make a down payment on a local apartment near the university where the rent was cheap and the crime rate wasn’t too bad. He had to stay close to this area because now and then he felt a glimmer and sputtering bit of Dean’s spirit and if Sam left, he was afraid that part of Dean would be gone to.

Money didn’t magically grow on trees though and Sam didn’t want to run the credit card scams (and he wasn’t good enough to hustle pool). So he started working 30 hours a week at the local library. He spent another 35 hours a week sleeping. The remaining 103 hours, Sam spent looking for Dean.

He called every contact in his Dad’s book at least once a week, checking for leads, and created a website dedicated to finding Dean. He got tired of hearing we’ll call you if we hear anything and we’re so sorry for you loss. The last one was especially aggravating because dammit Dean is not lost forever.

He faithfully hung up missing posters and passed fliers that had a picture of Dean smirking just a little and cocking his head at the camera around Northridge, Woodland Hills, Agoura Hills, Calabasas and as many of the other little smaller cities in Los Angeles county that he could think of.

He joined online support groups dedicated to the families of mission persons. He hunted down every ghost, demon or other supernatural creature in the near vicinity until he was convinced that none of them had stolen his brother away.

Every night – every time he closed his eyes – he dreamed of Dean. He dreamed of Dean dying in a hundred different agonizing ways. Dreamed of Dean in cold dark ditches, bleeding out quarts of dark blood into light dust until all the remained of him was a white husk that dream Sam would cry over until wakefulness came. He dreamed of Dean trapped in a dark room, starving to death slowly. Sam would see the white skin and sharp, jutting edges of bone and see Dean too weak to move or speak until he finally just slipped away because it didn’t take too long for someone to die of dehydration or starvation.

Sam always woke up screaming and begging whoever was out there that these dreams were not premonitions o god let them be anything but that.

Six months, three weeks and two days after Dean’s disappearance, the police sent a young officer to Sam’s door to regretfully inform him that we’re terribly sorry but there’s no leads and we have other cases – we have to close your brother’s case, Mr. Winchester.

Sam slammed the door in his face and then slid down the hard wood to cry on his hands. He screamed fuck you at God and called the cops bastards and even cursed Dean for leaving – for being nowhere. Then he stood up, wiped his eyes and sent out another group of emails with Dean’s picture and his story, begging for someone to recognize him – for someone to help. He picked up his cell phone and called his dad, telling him that the police were giving up and he didn’t know what to do – but John never called back and Sam felt like he was the last person alive who remembered Dean.

As the months stretched on, he didn’t have time to go to a barber so his hair grew and eventually he bought a package of hair ties from the store on his bi-monthly grocery run and started wearing his hair in a ponytail down his back. When his drastic weight loss became too noticeable, he bought bulky sweatshirts to hide his bones and thin skin.

Not once, however, did he forget to take care of the Impala. A couple of his precious hours each week were dedicated to the upkeep of the beloved car. And, though Sam would never admit, many nights found him sleeping in the passenger seat of the car instead of his own bed.

On the one-year anniversary of Dean’s disappearance, Sam got really drunk and broke his bedroom window with a shotgun full of rock salt when John Winchester tried to climb through it.

John stayed for three and a half days, helped Sam replace the window and then left, saying there was a werewolf out at Joshua Tree. He told Sam to call him if he found Dean.

One year, four months and six days after Dean was gone, Sam found himself on a park bench in the center of Woodland Hills, watching the joggers and ducks and screaming children. He had his legs pulled up to his chest and he was looking at the green water (that reminded him of Dean’s eyes) of the artificial pond and trying to let go? forget? move on? accept? find the strength?

He put his head down and shuddered a bit when the subtle nuances of Dean’s voice didn’t sound quite right in his head and the mental image was a bit fuzzy and dark. “I’m sorry,” he said out loud to the holes in his jeans. “I’m sorry but I’m so tired.”

On the way to his apartment, he hung up one last missing poster outside a supermarket and stared at Dean’s face. He even touched one papery cheek, drawing a shaky breath. Then, his feet dragged all the way to the Impala and when he settled into the leather seats, he touched the leather necklace around his neck and said I miss you to the steering wheel. I really really fucking miss you. I just don’t know where to look anymore.

He lit ten vanilla scented candles in his apartment that night and drew several summoning symbols in a circle. He sat in the center and closed his eyes, stretching himself and those psychic (the shining, Sam) powers to maybe find Dean’s spirit somewhere because dead ghost Dean was better than no Dean at all.

Two hours later, he went to bed unsure whether to smile or cry because he had felt no fragment of Dean’s spirit in the world of the dead.

The next day, he enrolled in classes at CSU Northridge to get his Masters in English (because if he ever wanted to go back to law school sometime, those admission boards loved those masters in English).

He now worked 20 hours a week at the library and 25 hours at a local restaurant where the pay was mediocre but the tips were excellent. Fourteen hours were now spent in the wide familiar lecture halls. Thirty-five hours were still spent sleeping and he began spending a few hours hanging out with new friends. About 50 hours in totally, he still dedicated to Dean – but even that number began to slowly wane.

One year, five months, two weeks and three days after Dean vanished, the Impala blew a tire in between two gray, graffiti covered buildings, two blocks from a bar named The Drunken Hoe and one block from a community of street bums – all cardboard boxes and the scent of cheap liquor.

That’s where Sam saw Dean for the first time in one year, five months, two weeks, three days and eight hours.

end prologue

Author’s note: first Supernatural fic – let me know what you think!