Gen, Dean-centric, ~500 words. (I don't know, okay?) Title from e.e. cummings.
It's not hard to see, once Dean takes a close look.
Ben's got blue eyes.
Not the same blue as their - Sam and Dean's - mom. They're darker on the outside, brown so deep it's almost black, and lighter within. In the right light, they look a little like Sam's.
Dean looks at him a lot.
Lisa's bed is too soft, and Dean's forgotten how to sleep more than a few hours at a time anyway. He spends his nights on the sofa, surrounded by newspapers and empty beer cans. He promised he wouldn't go looking for Sam, but if Sam comes back on his own then he's not- he's not going to miss that.
He always cleans up before Ben comes down for breakfast, coffee brewing while Lisa showers. In the morning light, Ben's hair shines like a halo, and Lisa's dimples fold deep into her cheeks.
Ben really does play baseball, though it makes Dean's stomach clench every time he steps onto the field. Because the only little league games he's ever cared about were Sammy's, and Sam's not here- he's ten thousand feet under the Earth in a place where there's nothing but heat and pain and fear, and he's all alone.
Dean's voice breaks every time Ben catches a fly ball, and he can't get his hands to stop shaking.
Lisa's far enough from the city for the stars to come out at night, and Dean wishes he didn't know Lucifer was called the Morning Star, because all he can think of when he looks up is Sam, burning, burning, burning for all eternity.
Ben doesn't call him dad and Dean doesn't really want him to, not anymore.
The Impala's under a tarp in the garage, windshield still busted, and Dean thinks he ought to fill her with gas and set her on fire or else one of these days he's going to climb in and not stop driving 'til he hits something hard enough to reduce them both to rubble.
There's a hollow around Dean's throat where his amulet is supposed to be, and more often than not he feels like he's choking on the loss of it.
He can hardly stand to look at himself in the mirror anymore.
Dean does the dishes because he never learned to cook and he's not going to start now, but he hates feeling useless. Ben watches TV and Lisa does laundry and sometimes, when Dean looks up from the plate he's drying, he thinks he sees Sam standing under the streetlight, watching him.
But then the light flickers and Sam's gone, just gone- like he was never even there.
Like he'll never be there again.