Characters:-Sam Winchester, mentions of Dean.
Words:- 500 circa
Sam absent-mindedly stroked the horned charm, its angles worn smooth by the passage of time.
Bobby had told him it was old, bordering on antique when he'd given it to Sam back then, a penniless child desperate to give his father a gift at Christmas.
He'd been nine, still unsure of what was playing out around him, but aware that something was
Well, he hadn't needed to wait much longer to find out. That particular Christmas had been sculpted in his memory for more reasons than one!
What he remembered most though were the tears, crying himself to sleep while a young Dean looked on distraught, unable to deny the truth, that the monsters in Dad's journal were real and John hunted them
That Christmas, Sam lost his innocence, taking the first step on the road to what he was now—----and what was that, Sam asked himself tiredly, fingering the leather thread as if it were a rosary without beads-----a hunter; a killer, a liar; a thief, a spell-caster; an occultist; Lucifer's perfect vessel?
Nothing of which he could be proud.
As fate would have it, John didn't show up that Xmas and the amulet ended up around his big brother's neck, never to leave it until the day it was dropped into the trash by Dean himself, only to be fished out a second later by the younger Winchester, to be hidden away out of sight.
His big brother had been so angry after their trip to heaven, too hurt to consider that they might have been set up by the winged ass-holes, that their memories could conceivably have been tampered with, especially Sam's, chosen on purpose to provoke his big brother and separate the two Winchesters.
Divide and conquer, so they say.
Sam hadn't blamed Dean, still didn't.
Everything had been complicated back then, Hell, Ruby, the demon blood, Lucifer, Michael, all contributing to freak out both Winchesters, preventing them from seeing the big picture.
With a sigh, Sam reached for the worn handkerchief in which he kept the amulet.
He'd been tempted more than once to offer it to his brother, but each time some crisis had cropped up and it had never happened.
Now the younger Winchester had given up.
Too much time had passed, they were no longer the boys they'd been.
Dean was nearly thirty-five, and Sam couldn't imagine his elder brother putting the kitschy amulet back around his neck now.
No, it was part of their history, like the few remaining sepia-coloured photos, testimony of what they once were, of the family they'd been, of the few years of normality Dean had lived, and which Sam had never known.
Maybe if, by some weird twist of fate, they both survived to grow old and the memories had lost their edge, he'd pull out the ugly charm and give it back to Dean; and over a cool beer they'd reminisce about how naïve they'd once been.
He opened the little drawer set into the bedside table, stashed the bundle right at the back behind a variety of pens and note-pads, grabbed his book and began to read.