Second long one shot in three days. Except this one is super long. I make myself proud.
"If you leave, Sam," John growls – his voice sounds on the verge of breaking – "if you walk out that door, don't you ever come back."
"Fine!" Sam yells, hot tears blinding him. "You're not my dad! I don't care!"
He throws the acceptance letter to the ground (he doesn't know why he ever entertained the hope that John would feel proud of him) and snatches his duffel from his creaky, stained motel bed.
"Thanks for the support, Dean," he snaps, barely glancing at his brother, who is standing shocked and motionless behind his father.
But he does look back, wishing secretly that John might still relent, and he catches the pained look that is sent his way. John seems almost to lift his hand and he watches eagerly. But the hand falls and so does Sam's heart, crashing to the ground. He blinks rapidly and strides out the door, slamming it behind him.
The trek to the bus stop is long and lonely, and Sam hates it, and the gentle drizzle that sprinkles across his still tear-wet face, and John, and even Dean.
"Dammit!"
He doesn't bother to whisper because it isn't as though anyone can hear him, or would care if they did. He rubs his eyes angrily and plops down on the empty bench, throwing his duffel next to him without regard for its contents.
He doesn't care. Honestly. Except he does, unfortunately.
He pretends he can't feel the gnawing pain inside him and thinks about the letter instead. The letter from Stanford telling him that he can leave the life, that he can go to college, become a lawyer. His lips tremble a little, the corners almost managing to turn up.
If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back. Don't you ever come back.
The brave little smile is terminated before it is even fully formed. Drearily, he stares at the droplets that splash from his sleeve into the ever-growing puddle at his feet. A stray cat darts into the bus stop for shelter, shaking itself and flinging more water in his face.
It sort of reminds him of himself. Wet. Bedraggled. Miserably alone. He lets it rub against his legs and strokes its head absently until it hisses and scratches him. He glares at it, cradling his hurt hand. Aggressive and miserably alone. It's practically his mirror image.
The bus comes about an hour later. He spends practically the whole time being wishy-washy and trying to decide whether he should go back and apologize or go on and live his childhood dream. In the end he chooses the latter, mostly because he is just as stubborn if not more so than John, and he clambers onto the bus.
He squashes himself in a little ball in the back, with the annoying stray beside him (why the hell is it following him anyway?). It's still raining, but night is coming on, so the grayness is fading to blackness. He sighs deeply.
Stanford, here I come.
He realizes quickly enough that coming to Stanford is probably the best decision he's ever made. The classes are amazing and he eagerly soaks up every bit of information like a human sponge. The people are friendly and he can be relaxed around them... a feeling he's rarely had. But the most important reason (leaving the best for last) is Jess.
Jess is not only beautiful, intelligent, and funny, but his best friend as well. She celebrates his achievements, sympathizes with his failures, and cheers him on in every way anyone could, only better. He pulls her sleeping body closer and inhales the fresh, faintly strawberry-scented smell of her hair.
And then he hears a light squeak downstairs and his body tenses in high alert. He gently releases his girlfriend and swings his feet over the side of the bed, reaching silently to grasp the silver knife that he keeps near him at all times.
The house is very quiet. He holds the knife in front of him, prepared to take down whatever evil bastard broke into his home. A fuzzily outlined black figure flits past the open window, continuing towards the kitchen, and he follows, willing the floorboards beneath him not to squeak. The person (thing?) is bending down in a dark mass near to the floor, and he attacks.
They scuffle, Sam trying his best to muffle the thumps, and he ends up pinning the intruder under him. The arms he's pressing into the ground are hard and muscled, and somehow the stertorous breathing sounds familiar. He frowns in the dark.
"Whoa... easy, tiger."
Sam freezes, knife poised against... Dean's throat?
"Dean?"
He can hear the grin in his brother's voice as he answers.
"The one and only."
Sam scrambles to his feet, reaching out automatically to help him up.
"What the hell are you doing here, Dean?" he hisses, half worried (because why is he here?) and half bursting with suppressed joy.
Dean straightens his tousled clothes and grins up at him.
"What?" he asks, faking offense. "Can I not visit my little brother?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "Come on, we both know there's a reason."
Dean's face suddenly turns grim.
"Dad's on a hunting trip," he says slowly.
Grin slipping from his face, Sam can feel his carefully balanced life beginning to fracture, its seams tearing apart heart-wrenchingly, and he wills Dean not to say the next words. But he knows that he will.
"He hasn't been home in a few days."
Sam exhales. "I'm not a hunter anymore, Dean," he reminds him. "I haven't been for a while now, and I'm good this way. I know you want me to go off on this wild goose chase..."
Dean's eyebrows rise almost to his hairline.
"I want you to come help me look. For. Dad," he says, enunciating each word as if he's speaking to a child. Then he scowls deeply. "You know what?" he mutters. "Forget it. Forget I even came. I knew you'd..."
He halts abruptly and turns, striding away.
"Dean. Dean, wait!" Sam protests, following him into the garage and barely noticing that the Impala is taking the spot of his old '89 Toyota. "Dean, I can't."
Dean pulls open the trunk with a clang.
"Why not?" he demands, his fingers curled tight and white-knuckled around the lip. "What's got you so tied down here that you won't even leave to find Dad? He's Dad, Sam!"
Sam bristles at that.
"As if that would make me feel more inclined," he snaps, crossing his arms stubbornly. "He kicked me out, Dean. He's the one who told me not to come back. I'm just being the obedient son like you always were, like he always wanted me to be, and I'm staying away. As for my ties here… well... there's Jess."
Dean scoffs. "You mean you're staying for some chick?"
"She's my girlfriend, not 'some chick,' thank you," Sam replies testily. "And then..." he clears his throat uncomfortably, "I have an interview for law school on Monday."
"I'll be damned," says Dean in amazement. "All work and no play really makes Jack a dull boy. This is family, Sam. What's gotten into you? One little interview and you throw every bit of common decency out the window?"
"It's my future, Dean! It's important!"
They glare at each other for several long moments. Soft footsteps thud above them.
"Sam?" Sam stiffens. "Sam, what's the matter? Who're you talking to?"
"Nobody," Sam calls back, even as Dean replies, "Me."
There's a weird silence and Sam awkwardly avoids Dean's eyes.
"All right," Jess' voice replies doubtfully. "Come back to bed soon, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll be there in a sec."
The footsteps recede.
"So are you coming or not?" Dean asks finally, busying himself with his racks of guns. "Cause I'm getting mixed signals here."
Sam closes his eyes and wishes the whole situation would disappear. He opens them again. It hasn't. He sighs deeply.
"Fine. But," he adds quickly, before Dean can say anything, "we have to be back by Monday."
Dean cracks half a grin. "For your hoity-toity law inter..."
Sam holds up a finger.
"Not another word," he warns.
Dean makes a "sealed lips" gesture and slams the trunk closed. Sam rubs the bridge of his nose wearily. Definitely going to regret this.
Sam taps the driving wheel nervously and opens his mouth to speak before thinking the better of it. Dean sighs and shifts in the seat next to him.
"Out with it, Twitchy," he murmurs drowsily.
Sam fakes ignorance, although he knows that Dean will be able to see right through it. He stares the open road ahead of them.
"Out with what?" he asks casually.
Dean shoots him a glare and he surrenders with a wave of his hands, upon which Dean jerks up, his glare even more intense.
"Dude, none of that screwy hands-off business!"
"That!" Sam announces in triumph. "That's the problem, there! Why are you letting me drive? This is..." he struggles for words to describe the unhealthy relationship Dean has with his car, "this is the famous no-Sam-don't-touch-you'll-get-a-speck-of-dirt-on-the-door-handle Baby. This is your Baby."
"So were you," Dean jokes, but his hands stiffen.
Sam rolls his eyes (he realizes he does that a lot when he's near Dean).
"Be serious, man."
"Why not let you drive?" Dean shrugs. "You're the one who actually slept in a bed last night. I figured I might as well get a snooze while I can."
Sam shoots him a skeptical look but lets it go.
"So where are we looking?" he asks, simply to change the subject.
"I dunno really," says Dean, frowning. "I know where Dad's last hunt was, but I assume he's left now because he hasn't contacted me in more than a week."
"That's not unusual for Dad," Sam replies, bitterly.
"A week, maybe. But more than that? It's never happened before."
Sam is only incensed by his indifference towards what's staring him right in the face.
"I don't get it, Dean," he bursts out. "Your blind loyalty. Why? Why do you assume right away that Dad's gone missing because a couple of weeks have passed without a text or call from him? Have you ever considered that maybe Dad just doesn't care about contacting us?"
"Of course he does," Dean retorts, but Sam hears a hint of self-doubt in his tone. "Besides, all the nasties out there... they can detain people pretty damn easily. Maybe someone else might make that sort of mistake, but we know better. It's better to be safe than sorry."
Sam presses his lips together thinly.
"Whatever."
Dean grunts but doesn't answer. He grabs the old box of rock tapes and picks one out. Sam catches his hand before he can do anything else. Dean scowls at him and Sam smugly waves a CD of alternative in front of his face. The horror on his face is almost worth the whole trip.
"Driver picks the music," Sam chants, grinning and shoving it into the CD player, "shotgun shuts his..."
"Shut up."
"... cakehole," Sam finishes gleefully. "You gotta live what you preach, Dean!"
The so-called preacher groans loudly and burrows in his jacket, covering his ears as infinitely more relaxing music floats through the car. Sam smirks. Maybe not going to regret this.
The job is finished quickly enough (of course, the police all think the victims died in car crashes, but that's nothing new), but their main purpose isn't fulfilled as easily. The motel lady tells them that some drunk spent a few nights holed up in one of the rooms, but all that remains of John Winchester is a rotting, half-eaten burger and two empty six-packs of beer.
Dean is still holding one of the bottles, staring at it dubiously, as they walk out of the motel.
"I don't know, man," he says finally, when they reach the Impala. "This is weird. Why would he leave like that? I mean, he practically led us here and then he ditches us. I don't get it."
Sam sighs and pulls the driver door open.
"Me neither," he lies, because Dean is still in denial.
"I think I have an idea where he might be going," Dean begins as Sam starts the car. "I figure we can head towards Nevada for starters, and then..."
"No," Sam cuts in, not looking him in the eye. He's not sure why he feels so guilty. "Remember?"
Dean's face darkens and he tosses the beer bottle out the window. There is a faint crash as the glass shatters in their wake.
"Right," he mutters darkly. "The interview."
Sam clears his throat uncomfortably and turns the car towards Palo Alto. Dean is uncomfortably silent most of the way, speaking up only to tell him gruffly, "You're taking the wrong turn," or "Gas stop, Sam" (there's no Sammy to speak of for all of five hours). When they finally park outside the apartment, Sam pulls the key out of the ignition and doesn't move for several minutes.
"I'm sorry, Dean..." he starts, but Dean interrupts him, a little too cheerfully.
"Forget it, Sammy," he says flippantly (and since when is he using Sammy again?). "Run along. You got an interview in a few hours, right? Just... don't forget to shoot me a text now and then so I know you're not rotting six feet under somewhere. Good luck, kid."
His voice is suddenly almost wistful. Sam throws him a sharp look but his face is completely impassive.
"Yeah. Yeah, I will."
Dean flashes him a grin and drags out the box of tapes, waving "Back in Black" in front of his nose mockingly.
"Alternative sucks."
Sam feels his lips twitch.
"Jerk."
Dean grins wider.
"Adios, bitch!"
Except it's not adios. Because in less than two minutes, Sam opens the door to his bedroom and is met with a blast of hot, smoking air. Jess' face is perpetually seared into his mind, her mouth open in a silent scream. Blood stains what used to be a pure white undershirt. Flames roar and engulf his home, and they might have swallowed him as well if a yell of "Sammy!" hadn't rung out at that moment, and if he hadn't stumbled towards the voice, white-faced and trembling in shock.
Then he's sitting on the Impala's hood, somehow, Dean's hand clenching his shoulder ever more tightly, and he sees red. He makes a vow that night as he watches the fire smolder and peter out with the firemen's efforts, taking his home and his beautiful, sweet, innocent Jess away with it.
They will pay.
"You okay, Sammy?"
Sam's grip on the steering wheel tightens impossibly for a split-second, but he feels almost calm when he replies.
"Of course."
"Are you sure?" Dean asks doubtfully, running his fingers up and down the blunt side of his hunting knife.
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Because, you know, if you want to... talk... I'm here. I guess."
Sam's fingers spasm again, just barely.
"Thank you."
"Yeah."
Dean falls silent, uncertainty rolling off him in waves, but Sam doesn't... can't make any move to make him feel more at ease. He feels too numb to take anything in at all.
Jess' funeral was somber and small, with only her family and Sam present. The image of the closed white coffin being lowered slowly into the ground shoves its way into his mind unbidden. Crimson red (no, fiery red, blood red) roses fall as if in slow motion, bouncing lightly on its surface. Jess gone. Forever.
A choked sob rises in his throat before he can stop it, and then they've stopped practically in the middle of the road, Dean patting his shoulder awkwardly as he sobs into his hands. Jess is really gone. It suddenly hits him in all its entirety and the grief pours onto him like a giant weight, pressing him down, crushing him, stifling him, and he can't breathe because she's gone and it's all his fault.
"Hey... hey, it's okay, man. Just... you know... it's okay."
He gives a wet laugh at Dean's clumsy assurances and wipes his face on his sleeve, almost missing the disgusted look Dean sends him at that.
"I'm fine," he sniffs.
Dean shoots him his signature you're-clearly-not-fine-idiot look.
"Seriously," Sam tells him weakly. And then he adds, just to be honest, "I will be fine. Once we hunt down that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch and send him back to hell."
"Sounds like a plan," Dean agrees. "You ready for that?"
"I was born ready," says Sam grimly.
He glances at Dean when he doesn't get an answer. Raising an eyebrow, Dean grimaces.
"Dude, cheesy line much?"
Sam gives a sniffly chuckle (it's better than no chuckle, he supposes).
"Very funny."
Dean grins.
"You kidding? I'm hilarious."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"... You... keep telling... yourself that."
"I didn't say it in the first place."
"Shut up, dickbag."
Dean's stare is like a laser ray at two hundred percent intensity.
"We're in pest control," he says in a hushed, secretive tone, as if he's imparting the knowledge that his name is Bond, James Bond.
Sam chuckles nervously and pushes Dean behind him.
"Ignore him," he tells the man at the desk, who is watching them in confusion. "We're part of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, investigating the bear attacks that have been happening recently. Do you know anything about them?"
Dean holds his tongue until they're out.
"You," he declares scathingly, pointing an accusing finger at Sam, "are a killjoy."
"And you're a five-year-old," Sam retorts without missing a beat. "Pest control? Are you kidding me?"
Dean ignores that. "So what do you think it is?"
Sam wrinkles his nose.
"It's in a forest," he observes thoughtfully. "They said bear attacks, and there were quite a few slash marks. I'd say it's a wendigo."
Dean rifles through their dad's journal and slaps it open triumphantly on one of the earliest pages.
"And we have a winner! I'm pretty damn sure it is one of those, which means we need..."
They groan, simultaneously.
"Fire."
Sam suppresses the shiver that runs through him at the thought.
Dean is still chomping furiously on his last few M&Ms as he jogs forward. His clunky boots are hardly the best footwear for running on uneven terrain.
"Run!" he yells, waving them onwards as another screech echoes through the deceivingly empty forest. "I'll get it!"
Ignoring the girl, who is trying to yank him onward, Sam tries to follow him.
"You can't kill it with bullets!" he shouts desperately to the guide, who is still trying to pump it full of lead. "You need fire! You'll die!"
"Come on!" shrieks the girl.
Sam pulls away and takes out his makeshift flamethrower. He flicks it on. It flares mere feet from him, the fiery warmth licking his face.
Flames. Heat. Burning.
He feels the blood drain from his cheeks and his fingers start to shake uncontrollably.
Jess... fire... so much fire... she's gone, gone, gone, gone...
The mocking chant echoes eerily in his head, and he doesn't even realize when the flame winks out.
Yellow-Eyes made her gone, gone, gone, gone...
Releasing the flamethrower, he falls to his knees, whimpering in pain and confusion and renewed grief. He forgets the wendigo, the man trying to kill it with useless bullets, everything, everybody, except for one person.
"Dean!" he cries out, clenching his fists against his ears to block out the noise. "Dean!"
Gone, gone, gone, gone...
"No! Dean!" he screams again. "Dean!"
Somebody grabs his shoulder and drags him up.
"I got it," Dean gasps in his ear. "Come on, kid."
Sam nods and blindly follows him. Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean...
"Bobby says there's demonic omens up in Oregon," Dean tells him, flipping his phone closed as Sam enters their motel room. "He thinks we should check it out. We might get more info on Yellow-Eyes. If we're lucky then maybe on Dad, too."
Sam snorts.
"And since when are we ever lucky?" he drawls moodily.
"Um..." Dean frowns. He brightens. "There was that time with the blonde broad down in New Orleans. Frisky as hell, and I swear she had this thing..."
Sam groans and covers his head with a pillow.
"I don't need to hear all the gory details of your escapades, Dean."
Dean laughs and yanks the pillow off his head.
"Then don't go all emo on me, you overgrown girl. It's an even trade."
The demonic omens are definitely legitimate. They run into droves of demons in a small town called Boring (it is anything but boring) and exorcise as many as they can, taking only one in for questioning. Sam isn't sure, but he thinks they probably picked the most stubborn demon on the planet. Lucky his ass.
"What's the deal with Yellow-Eyes?" asks Dean, his eyebrows pulled down menacingly low.
The possessed woman's throat bobs up and down, and her eyes dart between the two of them rapidly.
"Please don't kill me!" she chokes tearfully. "I have two little girls! Please!"
Sam jams his machete into the ground (it isn't useful in demon attacks but it looks impressive and scary) and she flinches.
"Evil bitches like you don't have kids," Sam informs her coldly. "Answer the question."
"I don't know," she gasps, struggling in vain against her bonds. "Please, let me go! I don't understand what you're talking about! God, you need help!"
"Fancy that." Sam opens the journal. "What do you know? Guess what I've found?"
"I don't know!"
Her eyes are red and watery and terrified. He has to admit that, even for a demon, that is some damn good acting. He throws another spray of holy water at her just to make sure. It sizzles as it comes in contact with her flesh. He sighs and almost wishes it hadn't.
"Exorcizamus te," he begins. "Omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas... exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas... exorcizamus te..."
The woman gasps and coughs up a cloud of black smoke. It is immediately reabsorbed.
"Wh... what are you doing?"
Sam pauses and smiles at her pleasantly.
"Exorcism," he explains. "Except I'm going to keep saying the first few words so that your ugly ass doesn't even get any relief in Hell. Maybe we can't kill you, but it'll hurt like a bitch."
The demon looks even more petrified now.
"You can't..." she falters.
"Oh, believe me," Sam interrupts her softly. "We can."
They don't end up extracting any information, so they exorcise the demon and hit the road again after leaving a 911 call about the bound woman. Sam is restless. It's starting to feel as if they'll never find Yellow-Eyes. Deep inside, he's already given up the search for John, although Dean continues with dogged persistence. Starry-eyed blockhead. He should know better.
Sam hunts relentlessly for the yellow-eyed demon. He's vaguely aware that he is becoming like his own father, and it frightens him until he remembers Jess. The silent scream. Fire. Gone. He shudders and continues. Dean is obviously beginning to get worried.
"Sam."
Sam hums a response but doesn't look up from his demon lore book. Dean pokes him in the shoulder, hard, and Sam scowls and swats his hand away.
"What?" he asks finally, just to get him out of his hair.
"I've been thinking..."
He hates it when people start with pointless phrases like that. "I've been thinking," or "I have a question." Just go on and freakin' tell me.
"We need a plan," Dean plows on resolutely. "We can't charge into this unprepared."
Sam slowly points a finger at the book he's holding.
"Uh... unprepared? Dean, what do you think I'm doing? I've been working my ass off trying to find ways to trap the damn thing, or to kill it, if possible. I haven't found much at all. It certainly is more difficult to do on my own."
He glares balefully and pointedly at Dean, whose hands and eyes are very much unoccupied.
"Maybe we should just look for Dad and forget this whole business for now."
Sam yanks his head up in alarm.
"What?"
Dean fidgets.
"Look, Sammy," he says placatingly, "I know you two aren't on the best terms, but we need his help. He's been chasing this thing since we were babies. And he's our Dad. We can't just abandon him without even knowing where he is. It's been more than two months, and we haven't made contact with him at all, let alone had an actual conversation."
"That's his choice," Sam snaps, slamming the book onto the table. Dean flinches but Sam continues, his voice rising with each word. "Listen to me, Dean. Screw Dad. Screw him, I mean it. I am finding this demon if it's the last thing I do, and if he doesn't come join us on his own, then I don't give a crap where he is!"
Dean just stares at him and Sam returns his gaze challengingly, daring him to reply.
"What's the matter with you?"
His voice isn't accusing or angry, or even disappointed. It's quiet and scared and bewildered and Sam's face crumples.
"He killed Jess, Dean." His voice trembles. "I have to. He killed Jess. He burned her alive in her own home."
Dean's green eyes soften.
"I get it, Sam," he says gently. "I know, okay? I know."
Sam chews his lip, a sick feeling twisting in his gut, and then savagely yanks open the book and continues reading. Dean doesn't says anything else, but Sam can practically feel the sympathy rolling off him in waves. He hunches over and pretends he's able to concentrate. He hates being pitied.
Someone raps on the door and he stands up, eager for a distraction. One of the cleaning ladies is standing outside, and she smiles at him when he peeks out, gun hidden behind his back.
"Towel, sir?"
Sam hurriedly stuffs the weapon in his pants, flipping his shirt over to conceal it, and nods.
"Please. One for..." he gestures at Dean, "him, too."
She looks past him into the room and her face changes minutely.
"Oh," is all she says.
"We're brothers," Sam clarifies hastily.
She raises her eyebrows but hands him two towels anyway. With a grunt of annoyance, he closes the door behind her (he doesn't slam it, of course… he would never do that).
"How come everyone always thinks we're... together?"
"Cause I'm so handsome," says Dean sweetly, kicking his booted feet onto Sam's clean bed.
Sam scowls at him.
"Hah," he intones dryly.
Dean snickers.
They find a hunt in a mental hospital later. Dean is uneasy about it, but Sam insists they go, because all the signs point to the terrorizer being a demon. So they go in undercover. It's easy enough as they just need to tell the staff their life story; after all, only a madman would think that supernatural monsters are real.
"So, Sam, why do you think you should be institutionalized?"
Sam makes as pitiful a face as he can muster, with the classic wide eyes, earnest mouth, and strategically placed eyebrows. Rarely has anyone not fallen under its spell. Of course, Dr. Foster isn't a graying, middle-aged housewife with a weakness for floppy-haired college boys, but it's still pretty effective.
"I keep having these... fears," he falters, his fingers lacing and unlacing rapidly. "I've seen vampires... werewolves, Doctor. That's not normal."
The man nods and jots down a few notes on his clipboard. Sam can't read the scrawls, so he stops trying and goes back to acting the piteous lunatic.
"Anything else?" the doctor asks, frowning at whatever it is he's written.
"There's a demon I'm hunting, too," says Sam, leaning forward confidentially. "It has yellow eyes. I think they might be a symbol of his rank or something, because the others all have black. It killed my mom and..."
He shifts, genuinely uncomfortable.
"And?" Dr. Foster prompts. He scowls again at his notes and crosses out a portion of writing.
"Ask Dean," Sam mutters, drawing in on himself. Jess' loss is still a raw wound, and it's difficult to get the words out. Dean nods in instant understanding and continues for him.
"It got his girlfriend, too," he tells the doctor in a low voice. "Both of them burned to death, pinned on the ceiling after receiving this... horrible stomach wound. It was traumatizing."
Dr. Foster blinks.
"All right," he replies, rising to his feet smoothly. "We don't need to talk about that for now. I think I've got what I need."
"Christo," Sam murmurs, just to be sure.
The doctor shoots him a sharp look but his eyes are still very clear brown.
"What was that?"
Sam shakes his head.
"Nothing, Doctor."
Foster gazes at him shrewdly before motioning for them to follow. There's a small mound of paperwork and Sam fills in his name, the date, his allergies, his relatives, his relatives' phone numbers, his signature, over and over, while Foster watches him with an eagle eye. The man nods once when he finishes.
"Okay, Sam. Looks like everything is order," he says, and adds, "Tell your..." he raises his eyebrows, "What's Dean to you?"
"My brother," Sam explains, gesturing at Dean, who's sitting in a corner reading a racy magazine while he waits. Sam clears his throat and gives a short, embarrassed laugh. "Don't pay attention to the thing he's holding. He's a good guy. Practically raised me while our dad went out on hunts."
Foster nods again.
"I can imagine," he says quietly. He shuffles the papers into a neat pile. "All right, then. You can tell him you're done here. He can go. We'll get you settled in."
Dean looks up as Sam approaches him. He eyes Foster warily.
"Why does he keep watching you like that?" he demands in an irritated tone, and not very quietly.
Sam rolls his eyes.
"He's the doctor, I'm the patient, Dean. That's what he does. I'm done with all the papers and he says you can go if you want."
"And if I don't?"
There's that stubborn inflection in his voice again and Sam sighs.
"Come on, man," he says tiredly. "We discussed this. I'm perfectly capable of taking on a demon, and I'm sure you'll be standing right outside should anything happen."
"No, I won't," Dean mutters rebelliously, his cheeks flushing a pale red.
"I know you, Dean."
Dean only grunts. He tosses the magazine away and stands up.
"All right, fine. But," he jabs a finger in Sam's face. "One hint of trouble, and I'm heading over, cover or no cover."
Sam grins.
"Sure thing."
Dean stares at him suspiciously.
"Dean, go! I'll be fine!"
Dean leaves, muttering unprintable expletives under his breath, and, with Dr. Foster as an escort, Sam heads to the ward as its newest loony occupant.
Saving people, hunting things, the family business.
Sometimes you have to get your hands a little dirty to do a job properly.
Marta McGregson is the first friend he makes in the ward. She has a multiple personalities disorder and mumbles to herself while stroking a ratty old teddy bear tenderly. When he interrogates her (after doing the "Christo" test, of course), she is very helpful.
"I smell things," she whispers, light brown bangs tumbling over her still bright, young, intelligent blue eyes. She frowns. "They don't smell good."
"Like sulfur?" he prompts, storing that information away in his mind for later use.
She nods with emphasis.
"Yes, sulfur. Sulfur. Horrible." She wrinkles her nose. "Smelly."
He smiles encouragingly.
"Have you ever seen anyone keep away from the salt shakers during meals?"
She nods again.
"Ernie," she tells him, her eyes darkening. "And Linda. And George. And Gin's eyes are weird. I don't like her."
Sam stiffens.
"Gin?"
Marta stares at him solemnly.
"Do they turn black?"
Marta shrugs, stroking the head of her teddy bear more rapidly and nervously.
"I don't know. I dunno. I just don't like them."
She's starting to sound distressed so he stops asking questions, concentrating on his cranberry walnut oatmeal instead, eating with gusto although he's never liked oatmeal. Living in a mental ward sort of puts things in perspective. Food is good. People are good. Everything is good (except demons). He's just glad he's not actually insane and stuck here indefinitely.
Gin is one of the nurses, a middle-aged Filipino lady with gray-streaked black hair and what Sam had thought was a kindly smile. He changes his opinion on that quickly.
The next time she comes into his room, he is ready. There is a Devil's Trap on the ground right inside the door, he has holy water, and he's stolen a knife from the kitchen (it was very difficult because everyone always seems to be watching him... he wonders suddenly how many demons there are).
She walks in and he slams the door behind her, lifting the knife menacingly. Not that it will kill her, but if he damages the possessed vessel, maybe it will have trouble attacking him. Gin spins around.
"Sam?"
Her voice is nervous. He smiles mirthlessly at her.
"Yeah," he says. "It's me."
She screams when she sees the knife.
"Oh, God! Sam, no!"
"You black-eyed bitch," he growls, advancing towards her.
It doesn't register that he's backing her into a corner and right out of the trap. She screams again.
"Help! Help me, someone!"
He drives the knife into her shoulder as a warning and with another scream of terror she slumps to the floor, sobbing and clutching the wound as blood spurts through her fingers.
"Christo," he hisses.
But her eyes don't turn black. Suddenly, panic sweeps over him. The knife falls to the ground from his slackening fingers.
Mistake, mistake, mistake, mistake... the little voice jeers. She'll be gone soon, too. Gone, gone, gone, gone...
"Oh, my God," he breathes in horror. "Oh, my God... Gin! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry... I thought you were... Oh, God. Oh, God."
He kneels next to her, his hands trembling... his whole body trembling.
"Help!" he bellows, trying to help her himself, pressing his hands against the hole to staunch the flow. "Help me, please! Help! Oh, God. Gin. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
A multitude of running footsteps nears them, but he can only stare at the woman in his arms, shaking, and at the blood on his hands. So much blood.
Red on his ledger.
Jack Foster has seen his fair share of tragedies. He should be used to them by now, but he's not. He sort of wishes he was. Maybe he doesn't get each painful punch at full strength, but a lot of little ones is pretty hard to take.
This is a tragedy, and probably one of the worst yet. He's never seen anyone like this utterly crushed, distraught father who's sitting hunched in the chair opposite, kneading his fingers together nervously.
Jack clears his throat and the man looks up, tears staining his cheeks.
"Tell me about yourself, Mr. Winchester," he says, firmly but without hostility.
The man bites down hard on his lip, and Jack wonders for a moment if he's going to break down right in the office. How does one comfort a drowning man? But his worries are unfounded. The man takes a deep, rattling breath and Jack finds himself admiring his sheer force of will.
"Sam..." he starts, his voice cracking.
Jack stops him there.
"No," he replies, more gently this time. "Not Sam. Tell me about yourself."
John Winchester twists his hands together, his leg bouncing anxiously.
"I... um... I was born in 1954 in Illinois. I... I fought in Nam."
Jack nods at that. He has the looks of a soldier, weathered and weary.
"My wife died of cancer when Sam was just a little kid. I never knew..." his voice cracks again and he stops to compose himself. He continues in a more level tone, "I never knew... Sam used to talk to this Dean. I didn't think much of it. You know, lots of kids have imaginary friends. But I don't know. It never changed. Maybe it was loneliness, lack of friends or stability. We moved around a lot... I don't think I ever stopped grieving Mary. It was a coping mechanism, but still... God, why was I such a horrible father?"
There is unbearable anguish in his voice. Jack tries to offer what little comfort he can... which is very little. There isn't much anyone can do in this kind of circumstance.
"I don't believe that even if you changed the past you could have prevented this," he says, wretchedly aware of how pitifully inadequate his words of consolation are. "This kind of illness can come up overnight and affect anybody. I think that his girlfriend's death must have triggered the more aggressive side... because I assume she existed?"
John sniffs but nods.
"Yeah, I checked up on him several times... he didn't know, of course. Her name was Jessica Moore. She seemed like a wonderful girl, but she died in a house fire in their apartment about a year ago. After that Sam just dropped off the map. His friends said they never saw him again."
Jack nods and closes the pen with which he's been noting down all the new bits of information of Sam's life.
"I'm just glad he wasn't so deep in his fantasy world of the supernatural that he gave me a fake phone number. Do you want to visit him now? He's under some meds because he attacked a nurse under the impression that she was a demon. I think he realized it, though, because he was very affected when we reached the scene."
John looks torn between horror and eagerness.
"Please," he murmurs.
Jack exhales, oddly relieved that the ordeal is over.
"I'll have you taken to him," he promises, and reaches for his intercom.
John enters the room, tears clouding his vision, and he sees Sam sitting limply on the bed, staring at the ceiling with apparent fascination.
"Sam?" he chokes.
Sam's eyes flick towards him, lighting up as they land on his face. He blinks.
"Dean?"
John's heart sinks, but Sam keeps rambling.
"Are you okay?" John interrupts, his voice trembling.
Sam shakes his head mournfully and stares at his fingers.
"No," he whispers. "No, I'm not okay."
He rolls his eyes slowly to stare at John.
"I'm..." he picks his words carefully, "Hhhh... awesome. It's spectacu... lacular."
He giggles as if that's the funniest thing in the world and John swallows. This isn't the Sammy he remembers… and it's all his fault.
Sam frowns at Dean. Why is he standing all the way at the door? The answer dawns on him rather suddenly. Oh. Of course. He motions for him to come closer.
"Dean," he says hoarsely. "Dean, the doctor... he wasn't a demon."
"I know," Dean replies, his voice sounding weird and choky. "I know, Sammy."
"Sam," Sam reminds him airily.
"We'll find a cure for this," Dean promises, sitting beside him and gripping his fingers tightly.
Sam frowns. Dean is taking this a little hard. It's just a job after all. Sure, a deadly, worrisome, think-on-your-feet kind of job, but still. It's just a wraith. Disgusting son of a bitch, of course. But still.
"Hey," he says, leaning towards him comfortingly. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay. Because you're my brother... and I still love you."
He giggles again, feeling light and buoyant, and leans back against the head of the bed. Everything is a kaleidoscope of beautiful, bright colors and sounds and tastes and his senses are overwhelmed but he loves it, because it's so lovely and perfect. He smacks his lips.
"I like this," he announces happily. "I want to stay here forever. Like this."
There is a short silence. He swings his head to stare at Dean again.
"I hope not," says Dean queerly, and he turns away.
Sam could have sworn he sees something wet trickle down his cheek.
But everything is lovely and perfect. He decides it must have been his imagination.
"But of course Dean is real. Isn't he? Dean has to be real. I'm not crazy... I'm not. Dean! Dean!"
But his brother doesn't come running this time.
It's been a long time since he's seen Dean. He really misses him, although he knows he doesn't exist anywhere but in his own mind. Still, Pretend Brother is better than No Brother. And to make matters worse, the drugs make his whole perception of the world fuzzy.
So he stops taking them. He pretends to swallow them, but keeps them in his mouth and swallows only his water as the nurse looks on. He spits them out later and hides them under his mattress.
As the little white pile of pills grows, he begins to notice strange things about the hospital staff. Sometimes their eyes flash black for a split second, or they pause at the door where he drew a miniature Devil's Trap with his single blunt colored pencil (he only gets it once a week when he writes to his dad).
So the next time he writes to John Winchester, he asks for a rosary. He doesn't actually get one (there's a note that comes with the letter saying it's a "strangulation hazard"), but he thinks the tiny wrist circlet of beads will do just as well.
It's easy to make holy water, and he stows it in a small bowl under his bed (the nurse either knows or suspects, because Sam sees him throw a curious glance in that direction, but for some reason he doesn't do anything about it) for when he will need it.
Mostly he plans. He obviously can't stay in this demon-infested prison (the pile of white capsules continues to grow) so he plots a escape plan, in his head so that there won't be evidence.
"Nah, that won't work, Sammy," says Dean, as they discuss one of his ideas in the recreation room. "They'll spot it from a mile away."
Sam scowls. Marta begins to hum a tuneless song behind him as she scrawls childish drawings with stubby crayons. The last one she drew was a distinctly unflattering portrait of him. For goodness' sake, he'd had a watermelon as a head.
"Well, you think of a better one," he retorts. "I'm telling you, I've gone through every scenario."
Dean shrugs and clasps his hands behind his head.
"I'm not the one who's stuck," he says, with a charming, carefree grin. It falters when Sam doesn't return it. "All right, Sammy. Listen to me."
So of course Sam does.
The door slams behind the last of the demons (it's night shift, luckily, so there aren't many). After locking them into the heavily warded and Devil's Trap fitted room, Sam brandishes the knife he's purloined triumphantly. Dean shoots him a grin.
"Good going, Sammy. Guess my plan's working out after all, huh? Dean, you're an idiot," he mocks in a high, girlish voice, "and you don't know what you're doing."
Sam rolls his eyes.
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that."
"It is working," Dean protests. "Anyway, we have to go before Dr. Nosy finds us. No need to thank me for a clear path to the front door."
"I wasn't planning on it," Sam snarks.
Sticking out his tongue childishly, Dean punches his shoulder and heads off. They find the Impala in the parking lot outside. Dean pats his pockets and frowns.
"Dammit. I forgot the keys."
Sam shrugs. "Doesn't matter."
The locks are easy to pick – he doesn't bother to wonder why Dean isn't horrified at him picking Baby's locks – and they are on the road at last, for the first time in a long, long while. To save people. Hunt things. The family business.
Dean grins from the passenger seat (for some reason he still has that weird aversion to driving).
"Time to kill us some evil sons of bitches, Sammy!" he crows. "You ready?"
Sam smiles. Déjà vu at its finest.
"I was born ready."
Dean grimaces.
"Dude, cheesy line much?"
Sam laughs.
"Jerk."
"Bitch," comes the quick rejoinder.
Sam's heart swells with joy.
Okay, so I have no idea why I wrote something this depressing. I'm sorry. The plot bunny just stuck with me and its intrigue trumped the feels… ergo, I wrote. I hope you sort of enjoyed it anyway.
Please review. Thanks!