The Pay-Off For Having Faith

1

Sam Winchester was stretched out on an old couch in his uncle's study, reading a book. It was a book of old myths, written in Latin. Sam had taken Latin in middle school, and was taking it now in high school, and loved the language. He raised his eyes toward the study's doorway as he heard the front door of the old house open and shut, voices drifting through the space.

They were spending a week here at his uncle Bobby's before heading back to "civilization", as his dad termed it. Bobby Singer's Salvage Yard was one of Sam's favorite places in the world. Sure, the house was old, the furniture was old, the yard was really a junk yard, old cars scattered all over the place. Bobby was there, though, with his gruff voice, and his amused smile when Sam did something to annoy his father, and his collections - rooms full! - of books.

Too soon they would have to leave Sioux Falls, South Dakota, to head back to Lincoln, Nebraska. John Winchester was a professor at the University of Nebraska, where he taught a course on mythology and folklore.

He brushed a lock of his chestnut hair away from his forehead before flipping to the next page in his book. He was distracted, however, by the voices carrying from one of the other rooms when he heard his name.

'- Sam go?' He caught part of the question his father asked, and raised his eyes upon hearing his name.
"In there reading, I think," his uncle's voice answered. Sam was about to focus on the passage he was reading again when he heard his uncle say,

"Like I said, I still write him every couple'a weeks. Ramble on about the boring things I do around here. He writes me back sometimes."

"Yeah," he could visualize his father nodding in agreement with whatever Bobby was talking about, "Same here. Letters are always the same. Different versions, same content. Doc said he hasn't seen any real change, except he's a little quieter now."

"You planning on visiting him soon? Wouldn't mind seeing him again, myself. Been too long."
Bobby's voice now, and Sam's curiosity was rearing its head. He stood and moved from the couch to cross the study, skirting around the floorboard that squeaked when you stepped on it. He leaned against the door frame, just inside the door: he could hear his father and uncle more clearly but couldn't be seen.

"Yeah, soon," his father replied, "I just.. damn, Bobby. It kills me that he's there. It hurts. I talk to him sometimes and it's like he doesn't even know who I am, like he's looking right through me. He asks about Sam, though. Every time, he asks about Sam."

There was a moment of silence - Sam frowned, wondering who they were discussing that asked about him.

After a moment, his father spoke again, "I just don't know what to do for him. I don't know if there's anything that can be done for him at this point."

"Well, don't give up on him," Bobby's voice was gruff in that way it got when the man was emotional about something, "Something will change, eventually. Just don't give up on him."

"Trying, Bobby," emotion touched his father's voice now, "It's hard but I'm trying. If I thought it would do any good, I would pull him out of there. I hate that he's there. He is still my son."

Sam froze, clutching at the door frame with his fingers. His heart seemed to skip a beat as his mind tried to process the words. He opened his mouth and then shut it, words flooding his throat but unable to escape. Finally he swallowed hard, past the lump in his throat and the unfamiliar, cold ache in his chest.

Two pairs of eyes turned in his direction, shock written in both, as he stepped into view of his father and uncle and asked, "I - I have a brother?"

In spite of the questions he asked the rest of the week, the constant harassment for information on his part, he received very few details about the person John and Bobby had been discussing. His father revealed minimal information - he had an older brother, whom had been sent elsewhere (for reasons John refused to reveal) when Sam was three years old.