It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. We have them every once in awhile. An old farmhouse, an old farmer, his permission to dig up Uncle Clary and burn the bones to stop the monthly flash fires so he could sell his land to a new housing development.
The old family cemetery was at the edge of a woods. The last burial was before the Titanic sank and Uncle Clary's was thirty years before that. Sam and I took turns digging and Farmer Clary the third kept us company with cider, fastnachts, and lovely conversation. He even paid for our gas. Life was good.
Today was Friday. Day three post-weird-Tuesday. Ground Hog Day Tuesday. Sam had recovered, or so he said. He didn't sleep as much as I wanted him to though, or eat enough, and I thought he was looking at me way more than even this handsome face called for. I figured he still had some "earned it" points though, though I hoped it wouldn't take him the next one hundred days to get past his last one hundred days. So I kept a closer eye on him and didn't say anything when I'd wake up in the middle of the night and find him staring at me in the semi-darkness.
So, Sam was in the grave and I was standing next to the farmer when a sound in the woods got my attention.
"Is that gunfire?" I asked him.
"Prob'ly. Local boys out hunting. Or target practice. They don't come this way."
So we kept at it. Finally Uncle Clary was unearthed and we doused him with salt and accelerant. As I pulled out the matches, Farmer Clary pulled off his cap, bowed his head and started praying. Sam bowed his head too and glared at me when I didn't, giving me his best 'would you just do it?' stare.
Whatever.
Pretty soon Uncle Clary was ash and memory and we filled in the grave again. Farmer Clary went back to his house to have the missus pack us a lunch to go. I was just finishing the last few shovelfuls and Sam was drinking some cider when I heard a ping, a crack, a thud and a smack.
"Hunh." Sam said, looking down at himself. He sounded confused and resigned.
"What?"
"Well -." A crimson rose bloomed on his sweaty t-shirt. "I think I've been shot."
"What?" I dropped my shovel and rushed over to him. I pulled his t-shirt up out of the way.
"Well - oww." He complained.
Yep, there was a hole and there was blood.
"Are you okay? Is it a through and through?" I checked his back but there was no exit wound.
"No, it's not even very deep. I think it was a ricochet. It's just - bleeding."
"Yeah it's bleeding. C'mon, let's get you to the hospital."
"No Dean. C'mon." He said it like I was suggesting he go to the hospital for a sliver. "It's hardly anything. I can take care of it back at the motel."
"You can? Dude, when was the last time you took a bullet out of yourself?"
First he gave me a 'pfft' that sounded a lot like derision, then he gave me that look that I'd kept seeing all day Wednesday and half of Thursday. Like he was going to be sick, or cry, or both.
"Can we just go?" He asked then, in that small voice he gets.
"Yeah, sure. Let's go." I carried the shovels and waved him to the car. "Let me tie things up here. Here." I pulled the bandana out of my pocket and handed it to him. "Try not to bleed to death in my car."
"Yeah."
I watched him start towards the car then I hefted the shovels and took the path that led to the house. I could still see Sammy and the car and I wanted to let the folks know that we were leaving and they had idiots in their woods.
Mother Clary pushed two heavy paper bags into my hands before I could even say a word. She was old, gray, and hunched over, just like her husband. But her mood seemed a lot lighter now than it had when we met her early this morning and I couldn't add to her troubles or ours by mentioning that Sam got shot. She needed her life to be set now, we needed ours to stay under the radar.
"You boys take care now." Farmer Clary said, coming out of the house to stand next to his wife. They looked like matching salt and pepper shakers. "We'll have you over to the new place when we're all set up."
"That'll be great, thanks. Take care now and be sure to let us know if this doesn't stop things."
I left as quick as I could without being rude - well, too rude anyway - and went to the car, carrying the shovels and bags and wondering what was up with Sammy.
"How're you doing?" I asked when I got into the car. Sam had both hand pressed over the bandana over the bullet. I pulled one hand away to check the bleeding. A little had come through the fabric but not enough to panic.
"Fine."
Right, he was pale and sweating and pushing back so hard he was practically in the back seat.
"I'll get us back to the motel as quick as I can."
"Yeah, okay. Thanks."
The way Sam answered me, I had the idea I could say I was going to wipe out the hard drive of his computer and he'd have given me the exact same answer.
We got to the motel. I got out fast and unlocked the door so Sammy could go in but instead he followed me around to the trunk where I was getting our stuff.
"Sam - go inside and lay down. I hate to remind you, but you were shot."
"I'll go in with you."
"Sammy -." I was going to force him to go inside but he gave me that look, that 'I'm hurt and tired and you'll cave if I give you this look' look. I swear if I ever find out he's doing that look on purpose - who am I kidding? Even if it is on purpose, I'll still cave. I grabbed what I needed and shut the trunk. "Okay, c'mon, let's get inside."
He followed close behind me, into the room, even when we were in the room, like he didn't know or remember he was supposed to lay down and not collapse on the floor.
"Sam - bed - now."
"What? Yeah." He set himself onto the bed nearest the door and still watched me, sitting up, not lying down and when I walked toward him -
"OK Sammy, let's have a look."
- he backed away from me, using one hand to hold the bandana in place and the other hand to back himself all the way to the headboard.
"C'mon Sam. We both know this is going to hurt, but the sooner we get it taken care of, the sooner it stops hurting."
"You died."
Great - he was having Tuesday flashbacks and PTSD.
"And I came back Sammy. Now we need to take care of you."
"No." He shook his head and pushed with his feet like he was trying to get through the headboard and into the wall. He was agitated and that was making the blood run out the bandana and through his fingers.
"Sam, c'mon. You're getting blood on the sheets, the maid'll think we were doing something funny in here." Like we ever let the maid in. I was getting desperate though.
"You died." He said again. "You died and I was alone."
"But I came back Sam. I came back and you've been shot and we need to take care of it." I waited but he only looked down at his hand, his shaking, bloody hand. When he did look up at me, it was only to say it again.
"You died." Now he was crying. "You died."
"I know. I died a hundred times -."
"A hundred and one." Sam corrected me. To quote a certain Christmas wreath salesman, 'aren't you the fussy one?'
"OK, I died a hundred and one times, but I came back a hundred and two times. Sam, I came back."
"I was alone."
I swore to myself that if I came across that trickster again, I was gonna put two stakes in his heart. What the hell did he do to my brother?
I sat on the bed, close to Sam. I put my hand on his and tried to move it out of the way of the wound.
"All right Sammy, let me see it. C'mon and let me see it. I can have this done before you know it Sammy, let me take care of you."
He cried harder then and even though he was pressing both hands to his bloody side, I knew there was more than physical wounds to be taken care of.
"All right, all right Sammy. One thing at a time, hunh?"
It's hard to bundle a Sasquatch into a little-brother-sized package, but I managed. I pulled Sam close until his forehead was against my shoulder and I put my arms around him and held him. I could tell from years of experience that he was crying from exhaustion and frustration. He needed to calm down and he needed to sleep.
"What happened Sammy? Hunh? Tell me what happened."
"You - you - died. I was alone."
"I died a lot Sam." Maybe it was - what do they call that? Cumulative trauma? "Every time I died, you woke up. When were you alone?"
He didn't answer me and I didn't push him. I held him and his head on my shoulder was heavy and all I could think at that moment was the last time I'd held Sammy like this, in Cold Oak, with his head on my shoulder and he died in my arms. Only he wasn't the one crying that time.
"Shh...shhh... C'mon Sammy, you need to calm down. Shh...shh."
We hung out there for a while, ten minutes maybe. Sammy stopped crying and just rested against me, breathing hard and working his fingers against his wound. He was calming down, that was good. Maybe he'd let me stitch him up before he bled to death.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I'm getting blood on you."
"Let's see..." I leaned back a little to look between us. "Not much. We're good." Then I pulled him close again.
"Dean?"
"Yeah?"
"If you died one hundred and one times, you can only come back one hundred and one times. Not one hundred and two."
That's my brother, he's bleeding to death and still picky about details.
"Let me take care of you and you can do math any way you want."
"Okay."
He said it, but it didn't register with me that he was agreeing.
"Dean? I said 'okay'."
"What? Really? Okay. Great. Okay."
My mind was saying 'lay him down, cut open his shirt, sterilize the forceps, flush the wound, pull out the bullet, flush the wound again, stitch him up, buy him an ice cream', but my arms were saying, 'we're still okay right here'.
"Dean?"
"I came back Sam. I came back, I'm here now, and you're not alone."
"But -." He started to say it, he wanted to say it, he could say it as much as he wanted.
"Yeah, I died, but I'm here now. And let me tell you Sammy -." I pulled back so I could see his face. "If anybody is going to come back one more time than they died, it's gonna be me. All right?"
"All right."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay?"
"Dean."
So I finally let go, "All right, lay back, let's get this taken care of."
Once I had him wrestled into submission, taking care of Sam was a breeze. Fifteen minutes tops and he was stitched up and walking a shaky path to the bathroom and a shower while I bagged up the trash so no unsuspecting cleaning lady would discover a spent bullet and a bloody t-shirt after we were gone.
When that was done, I switched on the TV for a little noise and sorted through Mother Clary's bags of take-out. It was pretty obvious pretty fast that she had no clue about packing food for the road: the loaf of bread, box of crackers, jar of peanut butter and bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies were about the only things that didn't need to be refrigerated. The rest included a block of cheese, a couple packages of deli meat, a Tupperware thing of hard boiled eggs, a pound of butter, a glass pint or quart or whatever of milk, a jar of mayonnaise, a jar of pickles, a jar of olives, a head of lettuce, four tomatoes, and a tub of tiny frozen eclairs. All fresh, all tasty, but portable? Not really.
I put some food together for us, not too much because I wasn't sure what Sam could handle. Peanut butter sandwiches, glasses of milk, some of the eclairs. When Sam came out again, he headed for the bed but I steered him to the table.
"Lunch."
"Not hungry."
"Yes you are, you just don't know it." He didn't sit down. "Sammy, c'mon, you'll sleep better if you eat something."
He gave in with an aggravated sigh and sat where I pointed him. The place setting with the heavy duty painkillers. He took those first thing.
"You put the bandage over the stitches?"
"Yeah."
"Everything else still in working order?"
"Yeah."
He surveyed the feast I had spread before him. Sam seems to like to eat about as much as I like to let somebody else drive my car; it's just something he has to do occasionally, like laundry or stopping to get gas.
"I just want to go to sleep."
"And you can as soon as you eat."
He gave me another pretty dramatic sigh. But he ate. One peanut butter sandwich. One glass of milk. No eclairs. He got up from the table and headed for the first bed, but I told him,
"Take the other bed, it's clean."
He didn't say anything. He practically fell into the bed and rolled himself under the covers.
But he didn't fall asleep. I could tell. Something was going on, something more than one hundred - one hundred and one - days and deaths. I died. He was alone.
"Sam?" I walked to the near side of the bed, where Sam was facing away, so he didn't have to look at me. I sat on the edge. "When were you alone?"
"When you died."
"When were you alone long enough to dig a bullet out of yourself?"
That froze him. He didn't even breathe. Yahtzee.
"Sam?"
"On Wednesday."
That didn't make sense.
"I remember Wednesday Sam. I was there. When were you alone on Wednesday?"
"The first Wednesday."
The first Wednesday? Crap.
"Uh - Sam?" I tried to keep my voice casual. "What 'first' Wednesday? How many Wednesdays did you have?"
That damn Trickster was up to three stakes now. And one of 'em wasn't going in his heart.
"Twenty four."
Well, twenty four was bad, but not this bad, was it?
"Why didn't you tell me? Sam?"
"Because I couldn't stand it."
"Stand what?"
"You died. I was alone."
And we were back to it. I ran a hand down my face. Time for twenty questions.
"So - the Trickster put you through another twenty four days. After the first hundred."
Sam didn't say anything.
"He let you switch over to Wednesday but I kept dying and you kept waking up."
And Sam didn't say anything.
"Sam? Twenty four Wednesdays?"
"And Thursdays and Fridays and Saturdays and -."
"Whoa - whoa - back up Sammy. What're you talking about - he gave you twenty four weekends?"
"NO. He gave me twenty four weeks." Sam sat up, he was officially freaked. "Six months. You died Wednesday morning and you were dead for six months and I was alone."
All I could do was stare at him. First one hundred days and now - six months? Six months?
"Sammy - what are you talking about? What six months?"
He didn't answer me. Tears rolled down his face and he swiped at them. He looked away from me. Of course, I realized, the six months he hasn't been able to tell me about.
"OK Sam - let me - let me just - get this straight. First the Trickster made you live through one hundred - and one - days of me dying, and then he made you live through one death and six months?"
"Uh - yeah. Yeah. Pretty much."
"So - I was dead."
Sam nodded. He swiped at more tears.
"For six months."
"He said - the Trickster said he wanted me to see what living without you would be like."
Four stakes. That damn Trickster was up to four stakes and they were all going into his heart and not through his chest.
"Sammy - I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry."
"It's not your fault." He said it so fast and so earnestly, he really thought it wasn't my fault. But it was. I knew it was and if Sammy thought about it, he'd see it was my fault too.
"Sam -."
"No Dean. No. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't."
He was so serious, so determined that it wasn't my fault, that as much as I wanted to, I couldn't contradict him.
"All right Sam. Are you okay? What happened those six months?"
"You died. I was alone."
"What else? You got shot? You took care of it? Sam? What else happened?"
I could see it, he was starting to cave in on himself. The days - hell, months - without sleep, without eating, were finally catching up with him. I wasn't going to get much more out of him. Not right now.
"All right Sam. Here's what we're gonna do, okay? You're gonna lie down and get some sleep."
"What are you gonna do?"
"I'm gonna sit right here next to you. Okay? I'll be here when you wake up. Okay?"
All those six months, those technically nine months, they were all on his face, in his eyes, his slumped shoulders and shaking hands. He didn't have to ask and I didn't have to say. But I said it anyway.
"Sammy, I promise. I'll be here."
"All right."
He rolled back under the blankets and I sat next to him on the bed, until he fell asleep.
The End