A/N: Time for some good old Sam angst. *hands out tissues*

You become him. Or you try, for a few weeks—they feel like a brave effort at first, but all this sound and fury passes, because pain is the only thing that lasts.

Still, you try.

You smile at the bleach-blonde waitresses, put yourself in his shoes, his smiles.

(But you don't know how to flirt, not like this, and you don't want to. The smiles sting sour on your lips).

You turn up his music in the car, as loud as you can bear, louder.

(But it hurts your ears, and if you turn it down, quiet-like, it sounds too much like his heartbeat).

You talk cars. You're awful at it. He taught you, but you didn't listen. Why didn't you listen? You compliment a guy's sweet ride, ask him, what year, and you don't flick a look over your shoulder, because there's nobody there to whistle at the gleaming chrome.

(But you don't care. You've never cared about cars—even the Impala. Turns out you only loved it with him in it).

You try to talk to kids. Crouching down to their level, wowing them with your war stories.

(But when it comes down to it, you just can't believe that you look like anybody's hero).

"Let's go," you tell Ruby, and a sharp smirk curls her lips as you leave behind the dusty little town, a town he would have loved.

(But he's not here.)

(And you're not him.)