Author's Note: This drabble assumes that Sam didn't pull the amulet out of the trash at the end of the episode. One day I hope to find out for certain what happened there... This week I became the owner of my own Samulet. I bought it so I could cosplay as Deanna Winchester for my first Comic Con. It was epic—and so many Castiels!
Imagine the Stories
She notices the amulet in the trash—picks it up and inspects it before she slips it into her pocket and cleans the room—thinking, with a quirk of a smile, about who she'll give it to.
She presents him with the amulet at the height of their romance—a silly little trinket, really, but he wears it because she thinks he likes it. He doesn't—the face is cool but weird at the same time; unnerving, somehow. As soon as they're over, he sells it at a bring-and-buy for two dollars and forgets all about it.
His friend could very well be dying. It's what the doctors keep saying—they've given up, it's been too long. All he's doing when he visits her every day is waiting for the inevitable. He still comes to the bring-and-buy every week—he remembers many occasions when she was at his side, pointing out things she liked. There's something about all of these random items, the stories they could tell—it draws people like him and her.
Now he's alone—has been for a while—but still he keeps his eyes open for anything she might like. If—when—she wakes up, he'd like her to have something. He just hasn't seen the something yet.
Her voice in his head has been almost as quiet as she is as of late, but today he notices something. It's a little metal amulet hanging off an old chair. There's nothing all that special about it at first glance—but she thinks there is.
Imagine the stories it could tell us, she says.
He considers it, buys the amulet for five dollars. It's small, probably inadequate for what he hopes it will do.
He wants her to remember that there is a world beyond this hospital room, one that needs to be explored, if only she'd open her eyes.
Something—he doesn't know what—compels him to place the reassuringly cool amulet in her palm and close her unresisting fingers around it. He leaves it there while he tells her about his day—his days that are becoming increasingly empty. He needs something to fill this silence. He holds onto the hope that if she hears his voice enough she'll come back.
His eyes grow heavy. He says a quiet prayer—as he always does—and he falls asleep once his words run out.
The hospital room is lit by the half-moon peeking through the clouds.
The machinery keeping her alive beeps out a regular rhythm.
A nurse's sneakers squeak on the floor of the corridor beyond the door as she runs by.
His snoring softens.
Still resting in her hand, the amulet starts to glow.
THE END
