Chapter Text
Sam didn’t talk anymore. Hadn’t in months. His voice dried up the day they took Dean. As much as he wanted to scream and yell and curse all those sons of bitches, he couldn’t. Everytime he opened his mouth, squeaks came out and the unused muscles strained.
Dean had always been his voice. Always finished his sentences and placed the words into his mouth. Without him, his chest was stripped bare of all words. Without Dean, he was six year old Sammy Winchester who stood behind his father’s legs and cried about the dark.
For the first three months, Sam did search for Dean. Slept an hour a day and ran off gas station coffee. His legs were always cramped from sitting behind the Impala’s wheel, but he never adjusted the seat because Dean would be mad if he got back. When he got back. He only played Dean’s tapes because he didn’t want Dean to see his ipod hooked up to the speakers again.
He went across the country. Twice. Spent over $2,000 in gas and $1,500 in other things like motels and food. He slept in the car on nights when his cards got rejected. But he always signed up for more. He could almost hear Dean praise him, saying ‘that’s my boy’.
He covered all towns were anything abnormal happened and had gotten himself almost killed more than a handful of times. He always would sit on the hood of the car, bandaging himself up, afterwards and think how it may good be an idea that he lost one time.
For 90 days, Sam searched. And all he came up with was scars and unwelcome towns.
On the 91st day, he didn’t wake up at 4a.m. to get into the Impala. He stayed in bed and watched infomercials all day.
He was just so tired. His throat hurt and he just wanted to talk to Dean. But he could do neither of those things. He started learning sign language that day.
-
It was May and six months after Dean hadn’t showed up after going out for coffee.
Sam had mastered sign language and could talk in long, run on sentences to people who understood. He lived in a motel. Had made it his home and only paid $300 a month. The owner was a nice elderly woman who pinched Sam’s cheeks and gave him tea every morning. He sat with her and listened to her stories. She lowered the rent every month, not that he was complaining.
His room was more cozy than when he first moved in. His new clothes he bought from Goodwill hung in his closet and his own plates filled the cabinets. He even saved up one month and got himself a small flatscreen.
It was the home he never had.
But it really wasn’t home without Dean.
Some nights, Sam woke up yelling silently and the hot tears would pour down his face as the image of Dean cut up and dead glued themselves to his eyes. He never could sleep right for days after a nightmare. Always stayed up hoping Dean would just come through the front door with coffee and a smirk. He really hoped that would happen.
Life went on, but not quite. Sam started studying his old law school books online and even got a job at the library, stocking shelves. He was content, but in the back of his head, thoughts of Dean always nagged him.
He tried to hook up with this one guy, but as soon as the guy started kissing him, it was Dean. Sam left the club as soon as he saw green eyes.
So Sam lived a hermit's life and tried to move on.
-
Eight months later, and Sam was so close to being happy again.
He got a dog, Missy, a big golden retriever. The owner of the motel let him keep it because she loved Missy just as much as him.
He got promoted to head librarian and read all the books he could. All the visitors were kind to him, and surprisingly most knew how to sign.
He even started going out for coffee every weekend with a man he met at the library, Castiel. Castiel was smart and hidden away and told Sam he was beautiful a lot. Sam felt his heart race every time. When they kissed, sam only saw blue eyes, not green.
Sam was so happy, that he only thought of Dean every two weeks. Something would trigger his brain; a song that had always played in the Impala, the smell of cheap cologne that always brought chicks back to their hotel late at night, or sometimes even coffee; and suddenly all he could think of was deandeandean. He never cried, only kept trying to memorized every feature of Dean. Tried to remember the freckles and his hands and his eyelashes in the morning sun.
He was forgetting what Dean looked like.
He still could replay his deep voice in his brain, but the image of the man he had loved since sixth grade was slowly becoming a blur and Sam wished they have taken more pictures together.
Eight months and Sam was slowly covering up the memory of Dean with a band aid.
-
A year.
365 days since he last said words and saw Dean.
Sam was dating Castiel, and they were planning on moving in together.
He packed up his room, which had been his home for nine months, and stared at the empty room.
He closed his eyes and searched his brain, hoping he would come up with something.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t remember what Dean looked like.
The track in the back of his mind that played Dean’s voice everyday got quieter and quieter and there was nothing he could do.
-
Sam sat in the living, nose deep in his book. In the kitchen, Castiel was cooking dinner and whistling merrily. Sam smiled softly listening to his husband.
It had been four years since the day at the motel, and Sam never thought of Dean anymore.
All that filled his mind was Castiel, and his job and his dogs. His perfect, apple pie life, he always thought. He remembered someone saying that a long time ago, but he couldn’t remember who.
Everything was perfect for Sam.
There was a knock at the door.
Sam closed his book and stood up, slamming it on the table to alert Castiel that he’d get it. He strode over to the door, and unlocked it, prepared to see Baltazar with a bottle of wine he promised for dinner. He smiled and opened the door, and a flash of green eyes and freckles stared back at him. The man smiled and he looked so tired, so much older and Sam was sure he was asleep. But of course he wasn’t.
“Heya, Sammy.” he spoke, voice worming it’s way back into Sam’s head. Suddenly Sam remembered and remembered how everything was before and he remembered what his voice sounded like at three in the morning and how his hands would grip his hips on their beds and how wonderful and beautiful he was.
Four years later, and Sam finally spoke.
“Dean.”