A/N: Hello, folks! Well, this story takes place at some point after the pilot in the first few episodes. You can put it wherever you want. I just always thought that it was weird: Sam, in the beginning, being the more emotional of the two brothers, but never actually having much of a reaction on-screen to Jessica's death. I guess they didn't want to put something that emotional into the beginning of the series for fear of making Sam look like a pansy, but still, I'm pretty sure this would have happened at some point.
Anyway, might be stupid, might be depressing as hell, but whatever. I am in an angsty mood.
Sitting still was making Sam crazy. When he wasn't keeping busy, his mind was wandering, and when his mind was wandering, it always ended up in the same place, a place he didn't want to be—at least in front of Dean.
How he had ended up in a cheap motel room with his older brother—the same older brother he hadn't seen in years—was still catching up with him. Dean was reading through the local newspaper, eyebrows furrowed, hazel eyes thoughtful as they scanned each line, searching for possible cases or leads. His biker boots were propped up on the small table in front of the window as he reclined in the chair, putting such stress on the fragile wooden legs of the decrepit old chair that Sam was surprised they hadn't buckled under all that muscle weight.
The second Sam's eyes drifted away from the news on the TV, there she was, smiling and beautiful, golden hair like a halo around her angel's face. He was losing focus, and with the losing of focus often came the losing of composure, something he had been able to avoid for the past few days, weeks, almost months. He had stopped keeping track.
All he knew was that he had to get out of there, and fast. So he thought of the first half-assed excuse he could muster and it was out instantaneously.
"I'm going out. You want anything?"
"Fries," Dean said, without looking up. "With ketchup."
"Gotcha," Sam said, rushing toward the door, swiping the Impala keys from the table beside the door.
"You taking my car?" Dean asked the moment Sam thought he was home free, and Sam stopped in his tracks.
"That's the plan."
"Be good to her, or I'll skin you, you hear me?"
Sam nodded, and something in his face triggered a flash of realization in Dean's eyes, but Sam was out the door before his brother could say anything.
He was crying before the keys were in the ignition, tears beading up in his eyes and spilling over steady as candle wax. Jessica was gone, and he missed her, and it was his fault, and he should have done something, and it was his fault, and she was gone. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, tears squeezing out of his closed eyes as sobs beat against his chest, forcing their way out of him no matter how hard he tried to trap them in his throat.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been out there before he heard the tap on the passenger window. There was Dean, eyeing him, eyes soft with empathy, the rest of his expression concerned, just like when Sam was a kid and scraped his knee. Sam groaned inwardly, embarrassed, and reached across, unlocking the door.
Without a word, Dean sat down, shutting the door behind him, and stared out the windshield. They sat there in silence for a few minutes, tears still rolling down Sam's cheeks, until Dean spoke.
"You know, Sammy, I could go get the fries. You don't have to."
Dean was trying to make him feel better. Trying to make him laugh. Sam looked up at his older brother, who smiled sadly and shrugged, and, for the first time in what felt like years, Sam laughed.
Stupid, maybe? I dunno. I wrote it early in the morning, during math class (naturally the best place to write Supernatural fics…), so if it's cheesy, that's why.