This story features my only OC, Stella. To meet her, read Normal. If you don't want to read that, just know hat she's kind of the crabby auntie-figure for the boys, who Dean got to know while Sam was at Stanford. Please review, and as always, all reviews are answered on my blog.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn;
At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them.
Sam sighed as he turned off the main road and rumbled down the gravel trail into the woods. The phone bleated on the seat next to him and he glanced down at the display. Bobby. Again. Sam picked up the phone and pitched it into the backseat. It seemed like the damn thing had been ringing non-stop. Bobby, Ellen, Jo, even Missouri. He hadn't picked up any of the calls, and the voicemail icon had been blinking at him accusingly for days.
Sam pulled to a stop beside the big red barn. The sky was darkening to a dark green with the threat of an afternoon storm, and a gust of hot wind set the leaves in the trees to chittering. One of the horses poked its head over its stall door, assessing the chance that carrots might be forthcoming. Sam unfolded himself from the car and walked over to gently stroke the mare's velvety nose. She pricked her ears forward and whuffled appreciatively, then ducked her head to bump at Sam's pockets with her nose, sniffing for treats. All he had was a half-eaten granola bar, stippled here and there with pocket fuzz, but she took it gratefully. The soft bristles on her lips tickled his palm.
Sam turned as he heard the squeak and slam of the hinges on the screen door, and his heart tightened as Stella bumped out onto the porch in her wheelchair. She squinted out into the yard, and a broad grin crossed her face as she spotted the Impala. She shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled wider when she caught sight of Sam. But then Sam saw the smile on her face fade as she realized that he was alone, and he could read her lips as she formed the words.
Oh, no.
Sam's heart clenched, and he ducked his head and trudged over to the porch. He slowly walked up the wheelchair ramp, hands jammed into his pockets and clenched into fists. By the time he reached Stella she was dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her fists were clenched tightly, and when she reached out for Sam he could see the skin stretched taut between the valleys of her tendons, and there were livid half-moons where her fingernails had bitten the flesh of her palms.
Sam took one of her hands and squeezed it, felt it tremble in his grip. Stella took a deep and shaking breath. "Are you okay?" Her voice was rough with emotion. Two sad furrows were carved in her brow, and the scar slashing across her face seemed deeper than Sam had remembered it. She looked old, old and weary, as she wiped the salt from beneath her eyes.
Sam collapsed in a gangly heap in one of the weathered Adirondack deck chairs, feeling numb. Stella regarded him silently, her hooded eyes sad and gleaming with hard-fought tears. "How you holdin' up, bub?" she asked quietly.
Sam shook his head slowly. "I don't even know." He didn't know how to explain it, even if he wanted to. Something inside him was gone, leaving him a walking, talking, bleeding, hating, vengeful husk. "I just feel empty." He shook his head again. "I don't really even want to talk about it. I just needed to get away and this seemed like a good place."
Stella pinned him with a knowing glance and tucked a strand of errant hair behind her ear. "Bobby called. Said you were dodging his calls and he thought you might turn up here." Her jaw tightened. "Can't say as he told me why you were runnin', though. Stupid bastard trying to protect me, as usual."
"I'm tired of people treating me like fine china." Sam looked down at his battered hands, examining the busted-open knuckles, the torn fingernails. "Everybody is looking at me like I'm about to break down. I can't take it."
"Well, thanks for thinking I wouldn't do the same." The older lady quirked a sad half-smile and reached over to squeeze his forearm. "Come on inside, kid. Let's get some food into ya. You look half-starved."
The kitchen was as Sam remembered, pin-neat and quiet. The big calico cat, looking for all the world like a furry meatloaf, stared down at him from the top of the refrigerator. Pip the corgi dog was wagging lazily at his feet, his muzzle whiter than when Sam had last seen him. Somewhere in the house, a smoke detector chirped, crying for a new battery.
"Think maybe you could put a new battery in that thing while you're here?" Stella pulled open the fridge and produced two bottles of imported beer. She handed one to Sam.
He looked down at the fancy label. "What, no PBR?" It was a joke with no mirth, more to break the silence than to elicit laughter.
Stella smiled drily. "Hey, just because I live in the middle of nowhere doesn't mean I got no class." She cracked hers open, then handed the bottle-opener to Sam. "You feel like maybe a shower and a nap before we eat?"
Sam nodded gratefully, feeling the itch of dirt and dried sweat on his skin.
"Upstairs on the right. Towels in the cabinet. And you can lie down in the guest room if you want. Might be a while before the grub is on." Stella attempted a smile, but it was unconvincing. Sam nodded and headed toward the stairs. As he began to climb, he heard the sound of a muffled sob. It brought a new sting of tears to his own eyes.
The bathroom was sparkling and homey, with soft fluffy towels so unlike the threadbare types Sam usually found in motel rooms. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the haunted eyes and their empty gaze. He barely recognized himself. He only saw a shell. He stripped and turned on the shower, stepping beneath the stinging spray of steaming water.
As the water washed over his skin, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His muscles, aching and tired, relaxed in the warmth, and suddenly he felt so tired that he could barely stand. He slowly sank into a seated position, wrapping his arms around his knees. The water poured down over him like a hot rain, soaking his hair.
He didn't know how long he sat there, crying, only that the water eventually ran cold. He stepped out, shivering, and wrapped himself in one of the soft, fragrant towels from the cabinet. A series of thumps in the hall caught his attention and he poked his head out. Stella was about halfway up the steps, hauling herself up each riser with her arms. Sam flushed, fighting the urge to go grab her and carry her up. Somehow he knew that she wouldn't thank him, and frankly might resort to violence. She struck him as being a biter. And the fact that he was clad in nothing but a towel was another minus. He settled for calling out, "Can I get you somethin', Stell?"
Stella stopped, puffing with exertion. She looked for a moment like she was going to decline, but then shrugged. "Can you go into the closet at the end of the hall and grab me a sack of salt?"
As Sam opened the closet door, his eyebrows rose. The shelves were stocked full of old soda bottles, stripped of their labels. They were marked with black marker, each bearing a different potion. "Dead sea salt. Nightshade. Taraxacm. Goofer dust." He read under his breath. "Nice bottling system there, Stell. Very classy."
"What did you expect me to put them in, the Holy Grail?"
Sam smiled, and grabbed a small sack of kosher salt from one of the shelves. He tossed it down to Stella, who caught it one-handed. "About an hour 'til dinner. Think you can wait?" she asked. He nodded, and she started to slide back down the stairs, her strong arms flexing and relaxing.
Sam walked into the guest room and found the cat lying curled on the bed. Sam stepped into his boxers and then, succumbing to the aching weariness in his body, sank down onto the soft yellow and green quilt. The cat, chirping a gentle meow, stood and circled once, then curled up against his side, rumbling a quiet purr. Sam closed his eyes, trying to ignore the throbbing in his muscles. Sleep came quickly, and he didn't hear the first low roll of thunder.
