A/N: I don't own the characters in any way. I just borrowed them from Supernatural to get over my writer's block. (Apparently that worked, so thanks to writers, cast and crew of Supernatural for an amazing, inspiring show!)
Nothing but blank pages
It all began with a knock at the door. Well, if we're supposed to tell this story right, then at that time it felt like it ended with a knock at the door – but that's how most stories start anyway.
With something ending, I mean.
So for the purpose of story telling, or whatever you crazy kids call it nowadays, let's pretend that it began with a knock at the door.
There was a knock at the door. When Dean opened it, he felt his stomach do an instant drop.
"Eileen? What's going on?", he asked, thinking that maybe something bad had happened to Sam that Eileen wanted to tell him in person. Then he saw that she had a huge bag in one hand and carried a suitcase in the other.
She stood insecurely in the hallway, her eyes filling with tears that she must've held back for quite a while as she raised her hands to sign: "Can I please stay here for a few days? Until I've found a new place?"
Dean blinked in irritation, then decided that an explanation had time until later. He pulled Eileen into a hug, grumbling angrily: "Dammit, Sam, what have you done this time?"
Four months later...
It happened on a Tuesday night, mere minutes before midnight. Sam had just finished the most recent chapter and started on the next one. He wrote a paragraph and began the next one, then his hands faltered on the keys. Sam re-read the first paragraph, then he deleted it and rewrote it. Deleted it. Rewrote it. He wrote a sentence, realised he didn't like it, deleted it, rewrote. He started with a word he wanted in the paragraph and tried to arrange words around it, but that wouldn't work either. He started outlining the ideas for the next chapters, but his brain kept coming up with nothing.
Everything about this chapter suddenly felt wrong.
He deleted the entire thing.
The cursor blinked into existence and out again, and the still blank page grinned back at him mockingly.
Sam stood up and opened the window, made himself some tea, walked around a bit and set back down. Drank his tea. Got up again and pulled on his pyjamas. Sat back down and took a deep breath.
He wrote a few sentences and wound up deleting them again. The words just didn't sit right. They didn't sound right, either.
After a really frustrating hour of trying to come up with something sensible, Sam went to bed, knowing full well that he wasn't going to write anything sensible that night.
He was truly, irrevocably stuck.
In the morning he felt like he had a hangover, but he sat down at his desk in front of his computer any way. When he didn't come up with anything at all, he got dressed, did some long overdue grocery shopping, restocked the fridge and, when the presence of his computer in the room next to the kitchen felt like too much, he also went for a walk, anything to justify why he had no time to write something.
A heavy downpour forced him to go home sooner than planned, since he didn't have a jacket on or an umbrella with him. While he took out his keys he thought that this would never have happened if Eileen hadn't...
If she were still there. Sam could vividly imagine the scene if things had been just a bit different: They'd squabble about him not pulling on a jacket a bit, and she'd force him to take it with him in the end.
Eileen always had more sense when it came to life outside of novels and his own four walls than he did, but of course he never told her so – and now he would give a lot to just have the chance to admit to her that he had been wrong.
Vigorously trying to shake the vivid images, he let himself back into his flat and determinedly sat down at his desk, hands poised over the keyboard, waiting for the words.
Naturally they didn't come.
He went to bed early, not having written a single line all day, but he couldn't sleep because the words that wouldn't make it to the page were whirling around his head, making his heart sit heavy in his chest.
His mind was filled to the brim with so many things he left unsaid.
Sam's second book hadn't sold as well as his first one did. To be fair, it really hadn't been as good as his first, so he was determined to make his third one better. Since that noble cause didn't change the fact that Sam needed to pay rent, he decided to have someone move in to split costs.
That's where Eileen came into play. She was fairly pretty, had a well paid job and was set in her ways and, above all else, she was quiet. Part of that was owed to the fact that she was deaf and didn't like speaking much but with the use of sign language, but Sam accepted her as room-mate nonetheless. In-between chapters, Eileen taught him sign language, and he was a quick learner.
Sign Language wasn't the only thing they taught each other, though. They got along well, so well in fact that they started sleeping with each other halfway through Sam's new novel, and for the first time since he could remember, everything felt right.
Things proceeded well. Sam finished his book and it was a huge success again. He went on a book-signing tour, selling twice as many copies of his third novel than he had of his first one. He was nominated for prizes, he was critically appraised, he was proud, he had come so far, he could still do so much more – while his career as a writer was finally really taking off, his private life, slim to begin with, became increasingly unimportant to him. He was either writing or touring, and he was cranky when he didn't seem to find the right words or got a little stuck.
He became obsessed with outdoing himself. Sam began neglecting his friends, and even talking to his room-mate became to much, translating his thoughts into signs was too much work aside from writing. He was only interested in his fourth novel.
Eileen said he had changed, that she couldn't recognise him any more. He would have to decide what was more important: His career, or being with her. They had a huge fight. The worst one he'd ever had with anyone, even worse than the one with Dad.
Sam told her that she wasn't his girlfriend, just someone he lived with to split costs and occasionally screwed.
The second he said it, he would have given a limb to take the words back because of the way her face fell, because of how she looked at him before turning on her heel, storming off to her room, slamming the door.
She hadn't slept in her own room for months, and it felt weird that she wasn't there while he sat at his computer writing, but he was steaming because she wanted him to choose between his passion and – well, what?
Sam sat biting his lip, staring at the cursor blinking in and out of existence, and for the first time since Eileen and her quietness moved in, he felt that the silence was oppressing. In the end, he went to bed, knowing full well that he wasn't going to write anything sensible that night.
When he went to Eileen's room in the morning to apologise, she was gone, her personal belongings emptied out, the wardrobe doors open with no clothes hanging in it.
She had well and truly left him.
Sam slowly realised how blind he had been, how unfair to let her hang in suspense about what they meant to each other, what he felt for her. She had let him get away with so many things, and he hadn't thought how unhappy she must have been.
He tried texting her. He tried video calling her. He tried to visit her when he found out she was at Dean's – but Lisa sent him packing before he had so much as made two steps into the house.
That was when writing became really hard, when he had to force himself to sit and work. He didn't see the fun in it anymore.
And then, as anticipated, on that Tuesday night he finally ran out of words.
Despite walking for extended periods of time, despite all the grocery shopping he did, despite trying and working and writing and deleting and rearranging and writing and deleting again, Sam didn't get any work done that day. Nor on the next.
Nor on the next.
Nor on the day after that.
By the end of the week, Sam accepted that he had writer's block. By the end of the month, he realised that this might be worse than anything he had experienced before.
What made it worse was that he was working to a deadline, and that he had been so close to finishing. Sam wasn't sure what'd gone wrong, he couldn't find the mistake. Maybe his brain was telling him there was some part missing in his story, some vital flaw that he needed to fix before writing an ending – but since his brain wasn't working so well these days, he didn't find it, even though he read his own story so many times that his eyes started watering.
Sometimes he looked up, scanning the room for Eileen, wanting to ask her opinion – but then he remembered she wasn't there any more, and it always felt like someone punched him in the stomach. Whenever that happened, he wondered if maybe his loss of words was the result of how he treated Eileen, his punishment for choosing his career, and a very, very small voice in the back of his head one day whispered: "Maybe you made the wrong decision? Maybe you should try and get her back?" - to which he answered that she was a lot better off without him. It was too late to try anyway, he blew his chance. He had said things to her that were unforgivable. She'd never come back.
After much debating with himself and after some 'gentle' encouragements made by his publisher, Sam grudgingly decided to try and start from scraps again. He forced himself to sit and write, even though he didn't like any of the ideas he came up with. His fingers stumbled over the keys in an unsteady rhythm. His sentences didn't fit together properly. His imagery was badly worded.
Sam knew full well that he was doing badly, but he couldn't accept that fact, and neither could his publisher, who had been adamant on the date he needed to be done. Apparently there's no pushing due dates, even if it's your brother who publishes your books.
Sam made it to the chapter where his block had hit him full force, and that was it.
No more words.
Nothing but blank pages.
"I can't watch him continue on like this", Dean said and ran a hand through his hair. "He's not eating properly and I doubt he's sleeping. I bet he's sitting in front of his computer all day long without writing a single line."
Eileen raised her eyes from Dean's lips and looked into his eyes, hesitantly holding her hands mid air. Then she slowly laid them on the table instead and shook her head.
Dean sighed: "It's really bad, and I don't know what to do. There's nobody else I could ask. I would go myself, but I can't leave Dad. He needs me. And you know Lisa and Sam don't get along well."
The video feed flickered for a second, so he caught Eileen's hands in mid sentence: "... to me."
Dean asked her to repeat and she did, more slowly this time.
"I'm not sure he would talk to me", her fingers said.
"I think he will. No, you know, I'm sure he will. Not even my little ass brother could be that stupid."
Eileen shrugged, then changed the subject by asking: "How is your Dad doing?"
Dean allowed himself a small smile: "He's much better. I think the treatments finally start showing an effect. Even the doctors seem increasingly optimistic."
Eileen's face lit up hearing this, making Dean's own careful smile widen.
"I hope you'll both be back soon", Eileen signs, and then adds after a second: "I'll go see Sam, but I can't promise that'll change anything."
Dean thanked her and they ended their video call.
Hopefully he just killed two birds with one stone.
Eileen had tried video calling Sam, but he hadn't answered. She texted him too, and still received no answer. The next day, she showed up at his doorstep. She rang and even knocked at the door, but he didn't came to open.
By now she was so worried she pulled out her key to the door which she never returned, always hoping that he might ask her to come back, which of course he never did. She had imagined the scene a thousand times: That one day someone would touch her shoulder at work and she'd turn and it'd actually be Sam there to apologise, saying that he realised he had been in love with her all along.
Sometimes there had been flowers in that scene, too, and then she'd always known for sure she was day dreaming.
Trying to swallow against the lump in her throat, Eileen turned the key and let herself into the flat.
The flat looked untidy and uncared for, and Eileen wondered how long it'd been since Sam did some cleaning. Maybe he hadn't since she moved out. Not knowing whether she should call out and warn Sam that she was there or not, she started searching the rooms for him and wasn't surprised to find him in his room.
He'd fallen asleep with his head on his arms, wearing his pyjama. His hair was unkempt and stood up in one place. Eileen saw that he was surrounded by pages torn up and paper balled up. Sam's waste bucket was overflowing, too.
The page on his computer screen was empty, the cursor blinking slowly.
Eileen stood, rooted to the spot, and watched Sam sleep, breathing slowly, while she tried to think what to do. When she finally moved it was like she was walking in slow motion. She'd wanted to wake him up and talk to him, but then she saw that he was lying next to a stack of paper that actually had writing on. Eileen stooped to have a look: Apparently it was what he'd already managed to write down. She gently pulled it out from under his right arm and took it with her.
She didn't want to stay in his room with a sleeping Sam and all her memories of them together, so she went to her own. It looked just as it had done after she'd taken all her things out, albeit with more dust on the empty shelves. Sam probably hadn't entered it after she up and left.
Sitting down on her old bed, which protested with a familiar squeaking of springs, she began reading.
Sam woke to the smell of coffee and toast and was sure that he was imagining it. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he probably should get up and make himself something to eat. But what was the point in considering that – his fridge had been empty for a while now, and he sure as hell wasn't going to leave here, he was so close to figuring out what had gone wrong with his story, he could fix it, if only... If only...
There was a knock at his door and Sam looked up, startled to see Eileen standing in his doorway.
He felt the need to pinch himself to see whether he was still asleep, but before he could she walked up to him and hugged him, feeling warm and real and solid. After a moment, he hugged her back.
"I've made breakfast", she signed, "you looked like you needed it."
Sam followed her into the kitchen, feeling dumbfounded at her unexpected visit. There were so many things he wanted to say, but what he finally managed was: "How did you get in?"
She gestured to her keys lying on the kitchen counter next to a bag of groceries and shrugged.
Eileen sat down at the table and poured coffee into two mugs. There was a stack of paper lying in front of her he recognized to be his sad excuse for a book, but just as he wanted to ask her why she'd taken it, she pointed to the toast, butter and jam on the table.
Then she gave him that look which he had missed so much without admitting it to himself, the reproachful one she used when he wasn't looking after himself properly. He started eating.
Eileen watched Sam eat and was relieved that he had an appetite. She couldn't help but notice how tired he looked, and thin and unkempt. She had spent her night reading his new book until right up to where he stopped: To her, it looked like he had nearly been finished when he stopped, and she had some ideas why he couldn't write an ending to the story.
When Sam was finished eating, she poured both of them another cup of coffee and then gestured to the print out version of his book.
"I think I know why you're stuck."
Sam stared at her without saying anything, but when she lifted her hands again to explain her theory, he suddenly reached out and grabbed her hands, stopping her from saying anything.
Eileen felt her eyes widen involuntarily and her heart skipping a beat. She looked down at the table refusing to look at him. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what he had to say. It wasn't like she'd come back because she'd thought that he might take all the things he said back.
No, that was a lie, she admitted to herself, of course she wanted him to take all those things back.
Sam slowly let go of her hands, stood up and walked around the table, squatting to make sure she looked at his lips. Eileen turned her head to the side, but he gently reached up to touch her face.
Gently turning her head around, she finally allowed herself to look at him.
Sam looked up at her, with lines on his face she'd never noticed before, bags under his eyes and a beard he apparently had no interest in trimming. Letting go of her face, he raised his hands and signed instead of talking: "Don't go away again. Please."
Eileen blinked and her hands trembled too much to answer.
"I don't care about my book any more." He hesitated, then corrected himself: "That's not true. I do care. A lot, probably. But it doesn't make sense for me to write if you don't read it. I don't know why I didn't realise it before, I was a fool not to, but it doesn't make sense to piece together ideas of you're not there to discuss them with me. I always thought I wrote for people, random people, but I didn't. I started writing for you the moment you walked through my door. If I could take back what I said I would do so in a heartbeat. You're not just my room-mate, you're so much more, and I was too blind to see... I'm sorry I didn't realise it, but I have been in", here he made a sign that made no sense whatsoever, "I mean I..."
Eileen raised her shaking hands and asked him to repeat.
He redid the sign and frowned when he saw that she didn't understand him.
Eileen shook her head. Sam hesitated for a heartbeat, then he stood up and grabbed her hands, pulling her up with him. He signed the word again, and Eileen shook her head, frowning, shrugging helplessly.
Sam decided to kiss her instead to show her what he meant, even though he didn't know the sign for it.
Eileen was the first to pull back, breathless, her eyes shining as she asked: "Are you sure?"
"I needed you to leave me to realise it, but yes, I'm sure now. I don't care how successful my books are, they're worth nothing if you're not here with me. I want you to stay, and I want us to be together. You asked me to decide, and that's my decision. I want you to really be my girlfriend this time. If you still want me, I mean."
"That's just as well", Eileen finally signed, blinking against tears, "because I wasn't going to leave you again. You're not able to deal on your own, apparently... Your book is rubbish by the way, I don't know what you did to that poor novel but it doesn't sound like your writing at all..."
Sam pulled her into another close hug and kissed the top of her head, holding her while she sniffled against his shirt. When she finally pulled back, she asked warily: "How long have you been wearing these clothes?"
She raised her eyebrows at him and gave him that look again, and Sam, though doing his best, this time wasn't any good at feigning indignation.
He kissed her again, and now, for the first time since Eileen left, Sam felt like everything was right again. More than right.
For the moment, life was perfect.
Turns out that in the end, I did kill two birds with one stone: Sam got over his writer's block with Eileen's help, and since I was rooting for Sam and Eileen to be together from the very start...
Well, let's see. This is just one chapter, and as we turn to the next page – there's nothing but blank pages waiting to be filled with words.
Words that now come to Sam easily again.
Fin.
If you enjoyed this, please leave me a review. As I said in the A/N, I finally got over my block and I worked really hard on this story, so any comment is appreciated very much!