Ficlet: Soulcatcher (a 5.22 drabble)
Author: sandymg
Summary: Dean doesn't have a photograph of Sam.
Spoilers: Through S05x22 Swan Song
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke – who'd best treat them well
A/N: Written for the Canon Quotes Comment!fic Meme at LiveJournal's spnquotefic community. Prompt (quote from S01x06 Skin): SAM: You know, a lot of cultures believe that a photograph can catch a glimpse of the soul.

Soulcatcher

Dean doesn't have a photograph of Sam.

Lisa asks about this one time. Not really asks if he has a photo. Just asks if Dean would like to put one up. On a table or whatever. If it might make him feel better.

Dean looks at her and wonders if there's something to this. His dad carried that ratty old photo of the three of them in his journal. He wonders if Dad looked at it one last time before agreeing to Hell.

Except Dean doesn't have a photo.

Bobby did. Took it before they went on their fool's errand to take out Lucifer. Like you could shoot the devil. How dumb were they? Monumentally idiotic, he hears Bobby say. Got that right.

Of course now that photo is burned. Hunter's funeral for Ellen and Jo. More blood on his hands. Didn't have a funeral for Sam. Bobby had wanted to … but Dean had said no. Just kept Sam's things in the Impala's trunk. Never looked at them.

He wonders.

The fire took out everything. He never remembered seeing his brother ever look at a photo of Jess. Didn't mean he didn't have one.

It takes another week for Dean to open the trunk. He's been trying to drink less but this has taken a decent serving of liquid courage. Lisa isn't home. She's teaching class. He couldn't handle an audience.

He pulls out the dirty blue duffel.

It takes a while and another drink before he has it sitting beside him on the guest room bed. The zipper is old and tugs but it's open and damn … the scent hits immediately and its like all the air in the room is sucked down into the old duffel and swapped out with familiar sweat and aftershave and Sam.

She's wrong, he tells himself. Putting up a photo could not possibly help. But he's here. It's open. And he can't deny the urge to see.

He removes an item at a time. Stops when he reaches an old black hoodie. He doesn't remember the last time Sam wore it. His hands skim over Sam's journal but there's no way. Too soon. The duffel is empty, plaid shirts with tears and stains Dean can't think about strewn willy-nilly around him. Worn tee-shirts and blue jeans with legs that go on for miles. He holds one up and thinks Sasquatch before grabbing at the liquor he'd brought up with him and taking a quick swill.

There are no photos.

It's not surprising but he'd let himself want and for a second the hurt spears like he remembers from the rack except that's where Sam is and he can't think about that, can't feel that or everything would be even less for nothing than it already is.

Nothing to do but pack it back. He could toss the stuff of course. Not like it's worth even giving away. But he's putting it all back as he knew he would when he first opened the zipper. Gray tee-shirts that might have once been white and torn jeans and a random tie that always was a little too short and socks with holes because Dean'd always been the one to darn them and Sammy never learned how. Except Sam learned to sew on his body.

"Just wanted to see ya," he says into the air.

The black hoodie is last. Dean is slipping it over his head before he can stop himself, before it can hurt more than it already does, before he starts taking everything out again just to touch it.

Dean doesn't have a photo of Sam. But the hoodie is warm and soft. The smell as familiar as breathing.

Dean closes his eyes and makes his own photo.

fin