What was it to be a zombie? They'd never really had to ask. Still flesh reanimated, dead brain recharged. They pinned them down to burial ground and let the memory fade with the smell. But he wondered now: what was it to be a zombie? What did they think, what did they feel? Were they who they'd been, or something new masquerading behind old faces? Did they remember enough to know the difference? To decide it for themselves?
What was it to be a zombie?
No one could tell, so he kept the question for himself.
This was his existence:
Before Dean.
And After.
Before Dean, he worked with Samuel. In some ways this was better. There were no expectations. There was hope he was a hunter and he'd decided he was. He had the skills, the knowledge, and it was largely solitary. Over time there was more to do: familiarity with old jokes, touches and hugs. These were manageable and slight.
After Dean was After Dean.
He had words to describe it, somewhere in his memory, but couldn't seem to decide on them.
He had no name, though most called him Sam for ease. In the mornings (around midnight) he exercised. Three mile run. Pull ups, 100. Crunches, 100. Push ups, 100. If he there was a job, he researched. If there wasn't, he masturbated. Keeping busy was the key thing. It kept him on a path forward. He had no past; forward was the only direction to go.
This was his existence, before Dean and after.
Moving forward to keep from staying still.
What was it to be a zombie?
"What do you remember?"
This was what Dean asked. The essence of it, anyway. He was never sure how much Dean believed but the questions never stopped. About music, about demon blood, about Broward County and Ruby. Sam would probably take issue with it, all his darkest secrets mixing with the smoke of condensation from his lips in the cold winter air, but it didn't make sense not to tell. Honesty kept Dean here. Sam cared for Dean.
They hadn't happened to him, these things, but he knew them anyway. He might as well share the wealth.
"What do you remember about hell?"
He was never sure what to say to that one, so he kept it light.
"Pain."
Both Sam's, and his.
What was it to be a zombie?
This was his existence:
Existing.
Surviving.
But never living. He felt certain of that. There was a difference between what he did and Dean did and it could only be that. Dean lived. Dean wallowed and over-reacted and was easily distracted, but Dean lived.
He didn't want that necessarily. He didn't want anything. But he was aware of it and things once known were hard to forget. Especially when staring back at him with eyes that memory said were dead. A fixable dead, but not by him, not now.
Dead but living.
What was it to be a zombie?
Such a contradiction. But then, maybe not. If having a soul was suffering, maybe that was all anyone was.
What was it to be a zombie?
Maybe he wasn't alone.
Sam comes back on a Tuesday, and he feels himself go, overwritten like a file. It's a snap, rubber band pulled too far, but also an eternity for him.
He's sought this out.
What was it to be a zombie?
But still.
What was it to be a zombie?
He can't help but jump a little forward, cling a little tighter.
What was it to be a zombie?
Anything to keep from staying still.
"What do you remember?"
What was it to be a zombie?
" . . . Pain."
Both his, and Sam's.