Aki- This is a story/drabble/thingie that I wrote many, many months ago and have been coming back to and fixing it up every now and then. So I guess I am going to submit it. I really like this because when I got to writing it at first it just completely flowed out pretty painlessly. It was inspired by a quote from an awesome Harry Potter fanfic by Metronome Maven that I highly recommend you all go read.


Their Parent's Victims

All children were their parent's victims, in a way. ~ The Metronome Maven, Inconsequential

Sammy didn't know his mother, but he loved her all the same. He loved her because she gave him life and because she had died. And because that was what was expected of him, but he did not really mind. He would have loved her anyway.

As much as he loved her, it didn't keep it from weighing in his mind as he pretended to sleep in whatever sleazy motel on whatever lumpy mattress and under whatever scratchy blankets, that he didn't know her.

He was twelve years old now, and he was curious. He had always been curious, maybe from being too perceptive, maybe from being trained to notice little things. He was the kind of little kid who would ask 'Why?' in a succession of ten, not satisfied with the answers of 'because' and flustered adults who didn't know exactly how a microwave worked.

But he grew out of it, he was twelve now, almost a teenager. Still baby-faced and quite short, his height nowhere near Dean's, who, in his sixteen years, was now challenging their father for the position of tallest in the Winchester clan. But Sammy was still older, and he knew how to satisfy his curiosity in books found at the local library of whatever town there were staying in at the time and how to direct the questions to the right teachers at school.

But there was something he couldn't find in any books. Nor did he have any grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, or old family friends that hadn't been around before the hunting began to ask. He never lived in a place with an attic, none that he could remember, just apartments and motel rooms and the odd, old hunting cabin every once in a while. Let alone did he ever live in a place that had an attic packed full of boxes which in turn were packed full of memories. No old diaries or letters from Vietnam or old books full of photographs, things he had learned should be found in attics from one too many family history projects from one too many schools. Apparently middle school was the time to start examining your past.

Sammy loved his Mom, but he didn't know her, he didn't remember her, and if it weren't for a few photographs, he wouldn't even know what she looked like, which was blonde and pretty and happy.

Sammy never voiced this, the immense not knowing, because he didn't want anyone to think he was resentful, because he wasn't.

And he didn't want Dad and Dean to stop talking about Mom. No, Sammy hung on to the glances at the three photographs of Mom Dad had tucked away in the front of his journal. He hung onto the odd stories and mentions of her. The ones that rarely occurred, but were always bubbling under the surface. Mom was the reason Sammy knew how to clean a rifle, kill a vampire, and had memorized three different Latin exorcisms and was working on his fourth.

Even though he didn't want to hunt monsters.

He did not say that out loud either. He didn't want to sound resentful.

Sammy was curious, and when he was a little kid, not the mature twelve he was now, he would sometimes ask Dean. He learned ago asking Dad only made the man sad and grumpy and rarely ever did he get any useful information out of the exchange. But Dean in a good mood would supply his younger brother with a story or two. Sammy stopped asking Dean, though, because he realized that the stories became the few same repeated over and over again, and that soon Sammy was remembering the exact details of them better than Dean was. Sammy realized Dean didn't remember Mom that well either, more just the pain of losing her, which was enough.

It was more than Sammy had.

He didn't say this out loud. He did not want Dean to think he was resentful.

Sammy had to come to the conclusion that he would never, ever know his mother. Not even in the whole, "I've heard so much about you, I feel like I know you," kind of way. Sure, he still had questions, but he stopped asking, he stopped piling them up, because he figured, they were never going to get answered. It was better to focus his curiosity into seventh grade science class and Latin participles, because at least there his questions had answers and people who would answer them.

However, the questions still popped up in his head even as he tried to repress them. Late at night, when he couldn't sleep because Dad was not home from the hunt yet like he promised, his mind would wander to the fact that he didn't know his mother. And worse, when he closed his eyes he couldn't even remember what she looked like. And he would contemplate the possibilities of sneaking out of bed at three in the morning to take a picture out of Dad's journal and stare at it for an hour until he could close his eyes and remember exactly the shade of blue her eyes where and how the lines around her smile curved, all while not waking Dean, of course.

The questions kept on coming, kept on coming long past when Sammy stopped asking them and even longer past when Dean and Dad stopped answering. They went past wondering about what her voice sounded like and what she would look like now and if she would have liked him into questions whether she would have come to his school pageant or had would have been more proud of his straight A's than his good shot. In the end it turned into the question, "Would Mom of wanted us to grow up like this?"

In his head, he always answered, "no." But the truth was he did not know his mom. And as much as he romanticized the perfect, loving mother with the scarce pieces of knowledge that he had collected about here over the years, the truth was that he did not know what she would want. How would she feel about her two sons, raised a rough life, hunting ghosts and werewolves and demons before they could even drive, knowing how to handle handguns, and never having a normal, safe home? How would she feel about them doing this all for her?

He was older now, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen… now. Older, but still fighting to be called 'Sam' instead of 'Sammy.' He was older now, taller, probably going to be the tallest Winchesters someday soon. Only now had he started to voice his feelings, the ones he had suppressed, the ones that had festered, often in anger, more often towards his father, and always carefully worded.

Because he did not resent his mother, he did not. And he did not want it to sound that way either.

But, yeah, Sam was a little resentful.