The Road Ahead.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, nor do I know what I'm doing. No copyright infringement is intended. I have nothing in mind but getting rid of all Supernatural-related things that are currently residing in my head and maybe, in the process, offer someone out there a semi-pleasant read. Please don't sue...it'd make me sad. Please do review...it'd make my day...
Author's Note: I was watching the Pilot again ( gotta find a way to fill the evergrowing gap till September, n'est pas? ) and suddenly had to wonder what would've happened if Dean had chosen not to pay his brother a visit. Jess would still have died because she was in the way of Eerie-Eyes' plans for Sam (seeing as how she bound him to his applepie-life and such). I like to think Sam would've gone looking for Dean...
He'd thought about calling his brother.
Right after Jessica's funeral, he had sat with Simons cellphone in his hand, trying to remember Dean's number.
His own cellphone had burned up in the fire, along with anything that might've held his brothers cellphone number.
Along with everything he owned.
Along with everything that meant something.
Along with Jessica.
From the moment he'd arrived home from the library, where he'd been pulling an allnighter with a few classmates, and saw his girl pinned to the ceiling the way he knew has mother had been, the first and only thought in his head had been the single syllable of his brothers name.
The way that name had always been and probably always would be the first thing in his mind, whenever he found himself needing...anything. Someone. Dean.
He hadn't called him though.
Not because he was scared to call him or because he was afraid of rejection. He knew Dean would come running. Dean would always come running.
Nor was it because he wanted to be alone, because he really didn't want to be alone, although he didn't want to be around anyone either. Not anyone but Dean, at least and he wasn't sure whether that was because he knew his brother would understand him better, would get it, or because, no matter what happened, his brother would always be the first thing on his mind when he found himself in peril.
But he hadn't called.
In the first place, because he simply couldn't remember Dean's number and, most of all, because he hadn't been capable of calling. Hadn't been capable of anything but existing. And the fact that he was existing, was right now breathing in the semi-clean Californian air at all, was purely because of Simon.
The fire had long since started to spread out when he has still been standing there, rooted to the spot, staring up the ceiling when said Simon, who was one of those classmates he'd been studying with, had suddenly appeared beside him, yelling and pulling and tugging at his arm. Sam couldn't remember being dragged out of the apartment, he could only remember staring at that ceiling and then suddenly not staring at that ceiling. Being out of the room, out of the building, out on the grass, staring at the burning building which was lighting up the nightblue sky, that suddenly seemed to hold no stars. And he remembered breaking from his friends grasp to make a dash for the door again but the fire-department had already arrived and, of course, they wouldn't let him back in.
He remembered nothing else. Nothing past that moment. Nothing past the moment of standing outside, looking up at that seemingly starless sky and knowing, actually knowing that his girlfriend had just burned to death.
He knew he had called Jess' parents, knew they had arrived at the appartment, where he had still been standing, (Simon behind him, talking to the police, the firemen and the paramedics), in the early hours of the morning. Knew they had hugged him, taken him with them to their hotel and booked him a room. A room he'd sat in, staring at the wall, staring at the room's phone, trying to remember Dean's number, while people knocked on his door and called that phone, trying to get him to talk to them.
Until, finally, Mrs. Moore had asked him to please open up, and this was Jessica's mother and he didn't want to be rude, so he had opened the door and accepted the coffee and had gone with them to pick a coffin, a coffin, and flowers and music.
And he had gone back to the room and stared at the phone and thought of Dean, and tried to remember his number.
And then Mrs. Moore had knocked on the door again and given him another coffee and helped him pick a tie. And he went to the funeral.
He went to Jessica's funeral.
And he didn't cry.
He'd thought about calling his brother.
When he'd first realised his father wasn't sticking to their status quo of checking in right before, during and after every hunt, and therefore may be in trouble and therefore may need help, he had sat in the drivers seat of the Impala and stared at his phone.
He had stared at the name of his little brother as it lit up the screen in eye-searing blue and considered pressing the 'call' button.
He had stared at it, decided Sam probably wouldn't pick up anyway, put his phone back in his pocket, went out to find the nearest diner, sat down at a rundown table, ordered a burger (double cheese, extra onions), and whipped out his phone again, planning on doing another thorough round of staring at his phone and thinking about calling his brother.
Then came the coordinates.
When he first saw them, the first thing he'd felt was relief. He knew they had to come from his father. Couldn't be anyone else. Practically nobody had this number and even if they did, how many would text him coordinates?
No, it was his father. No wasting time on words, just a simple instruction. 'the place to be'. It's the way John Winchester did business.
The second thing he'd felt was apprehension, even more so than before, because why didn't he call? He must know Dean was worried. He'd just up and left, for cryin' out loud and hadn't checked in in days. Why didn't he just call?
The third thing he'd experienced was doubt. He knew (well, okay, he didn't actually, factually know, but he was definitely betting on it) his brother wouldn't answer his phone. In the past four years, he had exactly responded to Dean once. And that had been when Dean had just shown up on his doorstep, demanding his help. Not willing to take 'no' for an answer. Chances were pretty big he wouldn't even check the voicemail.
That left doing the same thing he did two years ago: just showing up.
He wanted to. God, he wanted to. He wanted to go to Sam and ask for his help. He wanted to go to Sam and have him help find their father. Mostly, he just really wanted to see his brother.
Without a word.
Suddenly, the funeral was over and people were drinking coffee and having cake and tuna sandwiches and talking about the economy and the weather and 'how 'bout those Mets?' and he had sat on the sidewalk staring at a phone.
Trying to remember a number.
Until he realised he'd never ever revive Dean's number from the depths of his memory, because it had probably never been there in the first place. And then he'd sat there for a few more hours, contemplating calling his father. He'd rejected the notion every time it had run across his mind. And it had run there many times.
Because everytime he realised he couldn't call Dean, he thought about calling his father. Then he would he realise he didn't know his father's number either. And even though he probably wouldn't have called him anyway (because he didn't want to talk to him but he didn't want to call just to ask for Dean's number either. Not after not talking to him for four years. And then he realised it had been four years since he had talked to his father, and two since he had talked to Dean and then he'd try, again, to remember Dean's number and he'd fail and he'd think about calling John and realised he couldn't and...) , even though he didn't want to call him, he got mad.
He got mad at the library for not allowing cellphones.
Because not allowing them had resulted in Sam not taking it with him, which resulted in Jess not being able to reach him and that may have resulted in him not being there when she needed him and that resulted in his beloved Jess dying, which resulted in him having to go to her funeral and then in him sitting here, desperately trying to remember a cellphone number he wouldn't need to remember if he had just taken his damn cellphone with him.
And if he had just taken it with him, in spite of it being prohibited, he may have had a chance to help Jess and if not, at least he'd have his phone now, and Dean's number and then he wouldn't be sitting here, desperately wishing for it all to be a nightmare.
Desperately wishing for his brother to show up.
Desperately wishing to not be sitting here.
And then he got mad at himself.
When he'd left him behind two years ago, he'd promised himself he wouldn't call on Sam again. And he hadn't. But God, it had been hard. It wasn't hard to not ask him to come help him out. It wasn't hard to work those jobs alone. Harder, yeah, 'cause he was alone and that limited the options but he was good at what he did.
No, the hardest thing wasn't doing his job without his partner.
The hardest thing was living his life without his brother.
There was no contact. At all. Dean had sometimes called and sent him birthdaycards and Christmaspresents and stupid cards from the ridiculous places he visited when working for the first two years, but he had never gotten a response and after he left two years ago, he hadn't tried to contact his brother again.
Sam wanted a normal life, one that didn't include anything hunt- and therefore family related, and he deserved it. He deserved it like no one else and he was finally on his way to what he so badly wanted. He was doing good in school, he had an apartment he could call 'home' and he had his girlfriend.
Jessica, he knew her name was. Dean had never met her but he'd seen the pictures in Sam's wallet and the smile on his little brothers face as he had mentioned her, albeit briefly. Dean wanted to respect that. He wanted to give him that.
So he'd left and he hadn't tried to contact Sam again.
He hated it and it hurt everytime he looked at the passengerseat of his car and felt the pang of Sam's absence but it was worth it. Sam was happy. He had what he wanted. What he deserved. And Dean wouldn't be the one to ruin it for him. Ever.
So, he put away his phone, ignored the instinct to drive straight to Palo Alto, finished his burger and searched for a motel. He'd go check those damn coordinates, drive to wherever they pointed him, do his job and look for his father. Alone.
He damn well hoped that applepie was freakin' worth it!
He stood on the trampled grass where, mere days before he had walked home and where, even less time before, firemen had carried Jess over to the ambulance as they tried to hose down the screaming flames, and stared at what was left of his apartment.
What was left of his life.
His applepie life...
There was nothing.
He turned and walked back to the car he had parked alongside the road.
Jessica's car. An old and battered Honda Civic. An old, battered and ugly Honda Civic. She had loved her car. Claimed she loved it all the more because, and not in spite of it being so damn ugly.Because it made it easier to drive. Less scared to damage it. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. Stupid ugly car.
He'd taken Jess' father to retrieve the car from where it had stood near the apartment, (the keys had burned up, of course but Mr. Moore had always kept an extra set, just like he did to the apartment. "Just in case". )
They had driven the car back to the hotel, where Mrs Moore was busy packing up. They'd be leaving the next day. They had asked him to come with them but he had politely, though immediately, refused. Had said he didn't want to burden them, that he needed some time. That he'd be fine.
The thought of going with them, Jess' grieving parents, made him choke on his breath.
They hadn't once asked him where his family was and he couldn't help wonder what they must have thought. The first time he'd met them, they'd asked about his parents, of course and he'd said his mother had died in a fire, that his father and brother were mechanics back in Lawrence and that he very rarely spoke to either of them.
They had never asked again.
Mr. Moore had given him the keys to the Civic, saying they wouldn't need it anyway (meaning they didn't want it) and that, this way, he'd have a means of transportation to visit them whenever he wanted, in case he changed his mind.
He had taken the keys, knowing they would never take the car with them and he didn't want it sold or melt to scratch or anything else his girl would have hated to see happening to her car. That stupid ugly car.
That was yesterday.
Now, as he stood staring at the leftovers of his life, he wondered what the hell he was gonna do. He couldn't stand here forever. Somebody was bound to call the police or, worse, some paramedic team, if he'd stay there.
He walked around the car and sunk into the front seat.
Mrs. Moore had cleaned out the car, removing most of her daughters belongings, like her sunglasses and lipstick but she had left the things that seemed less personal. The cd's, the pens, those sticky caramel-thingies she always had around. The things that were, in fact, the most personal.
The most powerful.
He stared at the cd-player and pushed 'play'.
"Stairway to Heaven".
He choked and turned it off.
He didn't cry.
Instead, he swallowed, took a deep breath and put the keys in the ignition.
He had no idea where he was gonna go but he knew exactly what he'd be looking for.
Thank you for reading! Is this something you'd like to see a second chapter of? Please let me know...A 'yes' or 'no' will suffice...