A/N: A teaser poster for the story can be viewed at my livejournal page. (The site is listed in my profile.) And of course, many thanks to my superb betas, savvyangel and the infamousfaete !
"Salt the Doorways"
He's three years old, and it's the first time he understands why, as he watches Daddy lay down the line.
Don't touch it. Not just because Daddy will yell, anymore. But because other things happen when you mess up the line. Loud things, scary things. Bad things.
Don't ever touch it! He won't, Sammy promises he won't. He just didn't know, before.He wasn't supposed to touch, but Daddy never said why not to touch. So Sam touched, and then it came inside and now Dean's hurt and Daddy's crying. And Sam's sorry.
So sorry. He holds Dean's hand as they huddle together, howling great tears of fear and pain.
But before anything else, Dad fixes the broken line. He's yelling as he does it, but he doesn't have to anymore. Because Sam knows now, why. He knows and he promises he won't touch it. Not now, and never, ever again.
Sam had heard that promises are made to be broken, but he had never really thought about it until now.
The line across the door is scattered, and Dean and his father don't see it. Something is right there in the woods. He can see it rushing towards them. Sam's sure if it tries to, it will get inside. His eyes fall desperately on the can of salt, just a few feet outside of the small circle he's standing in. Halfway between him and the door.
He could fix it, he thinks. He's older now. He can help, just like Dean. He's not a baby anymore.
Sam knows he's not supposed to leave the circle, not 'till someone gives the codeword. But the wind is so loud, tearing through the cabin and ripping things off the walls. Dad and Dean can't hear him shouting. He can barely hear himself. He's not supposed to touch the salt lines, promised he wouldn't, but they can't see it, and they can't hear him. He's five and a half and there's just no more time.
The thing crashes through the fence out front and Sam moves, diving for the can. The second he's outside the circle, something hits him. Hard. Sends him crashing to his knees. But he keeps on moving, because he gets it now. Knows what it means when the line is like this. He promised not to touch it, but it's already broken. They're all in danger, and he can fix it.
His vision swims as his small hands fumble with the lid. He nearly drops it, but somehow it gets open anyway. Taking quick, shallow breaths he pours the line again. Solid and tall, just like how his Dad taught Dean to.
He finishes just in time to throw himself backwards, scrabbling away as claws and teeth tear at the air he'd been standing in. He ends up seated on the ground, knees bent-up and hands braced behind him. He's staring wide-eyed at a massive beast, stuck just beyond the line. It's scaring him and his vision blurs with tears. Then, suddenly, he's pulled away and pushed into familiar arms. Dean's got him and Dad's pushing both of them back with one big hand, his eyes locked on the newest threat. Sam's own eyes scrunch shut and he buries himself in Dean's chest, grasping the flannel of his brother's shirt tightly in his hands. The bark of an angry gunshot makes him jump, and he shudders as the keening echo of an almost-human scream lingers in the cold and windless room.
He checks and fixes them, at each window and every door. Just like he has every night for the past three years. Just like Dean did in the years before that. But this time, once he's finished, Sam brings the salt upstairs. He makes one last line, with a practiced hand that's both steady and sure. Placing the bag on floor, he backs up to the lamp. Kills the lights before climbing into the bed, reaching for security he'd placed there earlier. Facing the open door, he draws his knees to his chest and prepares to wait it out. He's scared, sure. No one's taking him seriously. No one really believes him. Sam's all by himself on this one.
But he's not a kid anymore. He's nine years old, and he has a gun. He's got a gun, and he's got a monster in his closet that isn't gonna make it through the night.
What the hell. Really, all he wants is to do his homework, but his father has ordered him to do drill sets and clean the weapons before he gets back. And seriously? What the hell. Sam's just a freshman this year, but he's still got two exams, a paper, and an oral presentation due tomorrow. And Dad's still making him train and do weapons first. He's only fourteen, but even he knows those priorities are fucked up. So he had tried to get some studying in first, anyway. Now he's not done, with anything, and his father's due home soon.
He grunts, starting on his fourth set. A punishment for trying to argue his way out of family duties. Dean watches his exertions from the doorway, having finished his own training nearly an hour ago. Sam's not sure why that irritates him so much, but it does.
"Dude. Take a picture. It'll last longer," hesnarks, counting out another repetition.
"And to think, I came in here to give you the wonderful news that dinner's ready." Dean pushes off the doorframe, spreading his arms.
Winded and annoyed, Sam grunts again for response. Then he adds, breathing heavily, "You shouldn't have bothered."
Dean looks down at him, frowning. "You're not done yet?"
Sam pauses a moment, looks up at his brother. "Not unless you feel like letting me out of this set?"
Dean chuckles, "Not a chance, Sammy. You need the workout." He smirks, "You're totally going soft."
Grimacing, Sam starts again, sensing his brother continue to hover in the doorway a moment. He's surprised when, instead of heading back to the kitchen, Dean comes into the room. Picking the green duffel off the floor and throwing it over his shoulder, he carries it back across the small area. He hoists the bag onto the bed and drops down next to it, undoing its zipper and laying out the weapons inside in some kind of order which makes sense only to him.
Confused, Sam asks, "Thought you were gonna eat?" as he counts out another repetition of push-ups.
"Yeah, well. Decided I'd like to keep my hands next time I fire one of these. Seriously dude, you gotta learn how to clean these the right way, because I like my hands. Come in handy with the ladies."
He hears the laughter in Dean's voice, and can imagine the smirk on his brother's face. Dean's words are in jest, but they cut sharp as the knives on the bed. Sam's mind's eye recalls the bandage on his brother's hand, and he's keenly aware that the flush on his face and neck isn't entirely a result of his drilling.
Dean glances up from the barrel he's checking. Too much to hope he wouldn't catch that. He feels another stab of annoyance as Dean feels the need to inform him, "Dude, it's a joke. What happened last hunt? No way was that your fault."
Oh yeah? "Well whose was it then?"
"It was nobody's fault Sam! Just one of those freaky things that happens sometimes."
There's an awkward silence and Sam shifts uncomfortably. He doesn't want to get into this right now. He's too tired and there are still things left to do. And suddenly, it feels like his stomach has decided to lodge in his throat and take up residence. He coughs lightly, trying to cover it up, and gives a halfhearted, "yeah." Translation: Dude, leave me alone.
Dean mercifully takes a hint and shuts up. Or maybe it's just because Dean is about as naturally averse to emotional conversations as Sam's feeling himself right now.
He stands, grabbing his towel from the back of the chair at his desk and wipes at his face. "Argh. Done, finally."
His brother nods and responds with, "Good." Then adds, "If you wanna go grab your knives, I'll do those for you, too." Dean finishes polishing the derringerin his hands and tosses it back on the mattress.
Sam nods, grateful for the help. Dropping to the floor, he digs another bag out from under the desk.
Straightening, he dusts off his chest. His brother is being awfully generous tonight, but Sam's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He hands the bag over, tentatively.
"Just drop it right there." Dean motions with the gun to an empty spot on the floor next to the bed.
Sam tosses it on the indicated spot. Then he stands by awkwardly for a moment, shuffling his feet. Dean ignores him, keeping his attention fixed on the gun he's started taking bullets out of.
Sam waits several beats. "Dean…thanks. Really," he finally mumbles. And he means it, because Dean's giving him a break, yet again. It's the second time this month, and Sam thinks that maybe, just maybe, Dean gets how important school is to him. Or that he could get it in time, even if Dad never does.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I rule. Got it. Now, go. Do…whatever it is you geek-boys do."
Sam smiles broadly and heads down the hall. He needs a shower. Now.
"Hey!" Dean calls after him, voice echoing down the hallway. "Salt lines?"
Sam tilts his head, considering, but it doesn't take him long to answer. Some things really are more important than schoolwork. "Nah, I got it. Won't take me long. Besides, it's nearly dark outside."
"Alright." Sam can just see his brother nodding, tossing another gun back onto the bed. He heads for the kitchen. Salt, shower, schoolwork. Sleep. Sounds like a plan.
It doesn't take him long to check and fix the lines. Experience has made the process a quick one, and the house isn't very big. As he passes the bedroom door on his way to replace the salt, he hears Dean calling from inside. "Hey, grab some dinner! I didn't play house-bitch for nothing. You can eat while you study."
Reaching the bathroom, Sam calls out, "Yeah, sure…but don't lie! You totally do it for the paisley apron!"
There's an outraged reply he doesn't quite catch. Then, a loud and unmistakable, "Bitch!"
"Jerk!" he counters, effectively cutting off the conversation by slamming shut the bathroom door.
"Dad!" he calls, scooping the papers from the table and stalking down the hall, making a beeline for his father's room. "Dad!" he prompts again, reaching the doorway. Immediately, he can tell that John is preoccupied. The furious flipping and scanning of journal pages makes that fact impossible to miss.
Still, he feels a stab of irritation that his father hasn't given some sort of response. Sounding a bit like a broken record, he gives another insistent, "Dad!" and waves the papers in his father's direction for emphasis.
"Ah. You found 'em," John says, still focused on the task at hand.
"Yeah. I found them," Sam pans. Then, in a voice expressive of his annoyance he adds, "But what are they for? Why would I need transfer papers?"
"Because we're moving," his father answers, not missing a beat. Never pausing in his search.
Sam blinks. Surely he's heard wrong. Isn't understanding, somehow. He stares, waiting for John to elaborate. Waiting for some kind excuse or explanation. Receiving neither, his voice can't help but rise as he asks, "What?"
"I got a call from Jacob about a week ago. Something they need us to take care of over in Louisiana, and it's gonna take a while." Suddenly, John finds whatever it is he's been looking for. Snatching up his notebook, he brushes past Sam into the hall.
Sam's mind suddenly feels like it's racing into overtime. He has so many questions, so many protests he wants to voice, but, "Louisiana?" is all he's able to choke out as he follows his father into the kitchen.
"That's right," John responds, still looking at his journal. "We're aimin' to be out of here end of the week."
End of the week? Sam's brain and his mouth reconnect and he blurts out, "Dad, no! We can't move. I'm halfway through senior year!"
"You're a smart kid Sam, you'll catch up," his father says, maneuvering himself into a seat at the kitchen table. Pulling out a pen, he begins to scrawl into the journal, less than concerned with Sam's anxiety.
Maybe if he explains it better, then? "Look, it's not about catching up. It's about staying ahead. Schools are going to be putting a lot of weight on grades from this semester. We'll be moving right around midterms!" A frustrated sigh escapes him, and he throws his arms into the air. He knows it's pointless to ask if they can wait out the year. Knows where that line of inquiry ends. It's too bad, really, because he's taken a liking to this school.
So instead he asks, "Can't we at least wait out the month?" The request seems reasonable, so he is unprepared for the thick anger present in John's response.
"Sam, don't be irrational. Whatever's out in Louisiana isn't going to wait four more weeks so that you can take a couple of tests."
"Dad…" He trails off as his father's head shoots up, finally giving him his undivided attention.
"Sam!" John growls at him. "This isn't a debate, alright? You don't like it? Fine. But that's just the way it goes sometimes." Sam's father takes a breath, putting the pen down. He looks down at the table, considering something for a moment. Heaving a sigh he adds, "Besides, you should probably try to get used to the idea of putting school on hold, for a little while."
John's tone isn't harsh, but the words make Sam feel as though he's been hit. His mouth tastes of cotton and his mind is reeling. He stiffens, body going stock-still as another outraged, "What!?" forces itself out. His brain still feels two steps behind as he stammers, "I...you don't…you can't! You can't tell me I can't go, Dad!"
His father, finally seeing the distress on his face, softens his voice as he says, "Sam, I hear you. I do. You've worked hard for this. Lord knows you've worked hard."
Despite the concession in his father's voice, Sam's pissed. He wonders just how long his father has been stringing him along. Tears of frustration and defiance start to burn somewhere behind his eyes as he glares at his father. His voice lowers threateningly as he asks, "Then how the hell can you sit there and tell me I can't go?"
There's an unnatural, cold stillness to the room as John answers, "Because I know what's best for this family."
Sam looks away and mumbles, "What's best for you, you mean." The words seem to tumble out before they've even formed in his brain. They register in his mind about the same time they do in his father's. John's chair skids across the floor, and the sharp sound it creates makes Sam jump a little.
When he finally looks back up at his father, he finds John standing, scrubbing a hand across his jaw in a way which means he is trying to keep his composure.
Sam blinks, furiously pushing back tears. He sags back against the wall and drops his head in an effort to collect his thoughts. He's not ready to give up the fight just yet. He just isn't sure where to go from here.
His father breaks the silence. "Look. I'm not saying you can't go Sam, someday. It's just that we just can't afford for you to go right now."
Sam's head shoots back up in surprise. That's it? Well, that reasoning at least he can do something about. His pushes off the wall, hands talking as he explains, "Yes we can, Dad! It's not as expensive as you'd think!" Sam's done the research and had a plan for years now. "My guidance counselor says if I keep my grades up…I mean, I could get some decent-sized scholarships. And I'm sure to get loads of financial aid." He looks at his father, waiting for a sign that the information has sunk in. But his father remains curiously unaffected by his words, so Sam plows ahead adding, "Look, if that doesn't cover it, I can get a job! Two if I have to…" His voice finally trails off as he notices that John's face is still set in stone. Confused, he frowns and tries again, "Dad, it's –"
"We can't afford for you to leave right now, Sam. It's just not a good time. Dean and I, we need you here. Doing this job." Sam's struck speechless, so he simply stares at his father through the too-long bangs obstructing his vision. The silence seems crushing, and it weighs down heavily on the both of them. John finally breaks it, scrubbing at his beard again as a weary explanation struggles to emerge. "Sam, I'm not trying to..." He stops, frustrated, then growls, "I don't want to be the bad guy here."
As though sensing the excuse isn't enough his father reaches for him, offering a halfhearted, "Maybe…in a couple of years, we'll see about school." John takes a step toward his son, attempting to bridge a gaping chasm ripping its way ever wider between them. He halts abruptly as Sam himself takes a jolting step back.
The moment is increasingly awkward and tense, because while his father is stuck halfway between pity and frustration, Sam's rage is suddenly close to spilling over. A line has just been drawn, as obvious and impassable as the salt by the doors. For the first time in his life, Sam finds himself unwilling to meet his father on the other side.
John's next words never even make it past the ringing in Sam's ears. He shakes his head angrily, because although John may not have finished speaking, Sam's done listening. He's already heard enough.
Throwing the papers violently at the table, he turns himself around and tears through the house, not stopping until he's reached his room.
Once he's through the door he slams it shut, cutting himself off from the rest of the house. Feeling another stab of anger, he pounds on the door with his palm, once, and then twice more for good measure.
He wheels himself around and scans the room in an attempt to distract himself. The desk to his left has books and papers scattered across it, and a recently completed project is propped against the corner wall. His journal lies closed on the bedside table, while his backpack is lying open on the bed. Looking to his right, he can just see the weapons duffel peeking out of his closet. Aggravated, he drops his head, his eyes coming to rest on a large bag of salt. It's sitting rather innocuously on the floor by his foot, but suddenly, it seems anything but innocent. In fact, at the moment its mere presence is offensive. He gives it a swift, angry kick and it skids across the room, spewing most of its contents across the floor in an uneven, broken pattern as it goes. The bag is saved from further abuse only by the sound of the Impala rumbling its way up the street.
Suddenly, he is struck by the urgent need to get out. To get away from all of the reminders of the school he loves and this life he hates. Grabbing his jacket, he makes a split decision. Leaving the mess on the floor, he rushes out to the front door.
As he makes his way outside, he feels the urge to slam the door behind him, just to irritate his father. But doing that would wreck the line he had drawn earlier, and as much as he'd love to piss John off, he really doesn't want to have to fix the damn thing again. He settles instead on giving the door a good tug for the last couple of inches, which makes a satisfying sound without blowing the salt every which way.
Cutting across the lawn, he manages to reach the car before Dean can turn it off. Wrenching the passenger-side open, he throws himself into the seat and jerks the door shut behind him. He fastens his seatbelt, hoping his brother isn't in the mood for twenty questions today.
Shifting in the seat to face him, Dean asks, "Again?" referring to Sam's now frequent fights with their father.
Not trusting himself to voice a proper response, Sam simply nods, and turns to stare out the window. Placing his forehead against the cool glass, he closes his eyes and sends a silent but desperate plea to just drive in his brother's direction.
A surge of relief passes through him as Dean leans back into the seat, clears his throat and asks, "Where to?"
Right now, he just needs to be away from here, so he says, "Anywhere. Just…just go."
Dean hits the stereo knob and Metallica pumps its way through the speakers, giving them both an excuse to avoid any further conversation.
When the car starts moving, he leans back into the seat and closes his eyes. Tries to clear his head.
Logically, he realizes that as unfair as this move is, it is also probably his last. But that doesn't make it any easier. He forces himself to focus instead on how different things will be next fall. Because Sam will be going to school, no matter what John says. He loses himself in how it might feel to stay in one place for four whole years, marvels that he won't have to move if he doesn't want to. He reminds himself that in less than a year, he'll be an adult, living on his own. For the first time in his life, he'll be following nobody's orders but his own.
Looking over at his brother, he wishes he could take Dean with him, wherever he goes. But unlike him, Dean lives and breathes this lifestyle. He loves the hunt as much as their father. As for him, he's seventeen years old and ready to live his own life. His escape is planned and fool-proof. The years of hard work will pay off. He's sure of it. The applications have been sent. He'll find the money. Now, all that's left to do is wait.
It's this line of thought which finally brings the ghost of a smile to his lips, that takes the edge off the pain of frustration.
Soon, he tells himself again. Soon, life will be better.
Sam lines the salt above the door now. The frame has a small sill, about an inch wide, which extends a bit beyond the doorway on either side. Handy really, as he has no idea how he would explain salting the carpet to his new roommate. And yeah, so not a conversation that needs to be had again. So at about the same time every night, Sam gets up on a box and pours the salt down in a thick, unbroken line where no one else can see it.
As he looks at the sill he realizes this is what he wanted, coming to Stanford. The keeping of appearances. Enjoying lengthened moments of normal. It was one of the things Dean and his father never really understood about him. How Sam didn't want to step, several times a day, over blatant signs of all that's awful and evil in the world. Simply having the salt there, just out of sight, is good enough for him. The same sense of security without the obvious and painful reminders. All he'd ever really wanted was for the dark and horrible parts of his life to take a backseat and just stay out of sight sometimes. It could never be completely out of mind.
He'd surprised himself, constantly dwelling on the parts of his life he wanted so badly to leave behind. Even now, his room is littered with all sorts of hidden charms, amulets, and sigils. A prayer, written in Latin, tucked behind the message board. Pentacles etched into the corners of windows. His best knives, from Dean and his father, all polished and sharpened and gleaming like silver within the duffel at the back of his closet. A bottle of holy water, tucked in one shoe.
But even after all that, school had been a rough transition. For the first time in his life, he'd been completely on his own. While the thought had thrilled him, and still did most of the time, it had also frightened him beyond words. He'd felt like a kite in a storm, whose string had been severed. No grounding and no direction. Sam's entire life had been about taking orders, about preserving their tiny family of three, protecting themselves and others. Fractured as his family life had been, he hadn't been sure how to function without it.
As he fixes the line, he thinks about how his first weeks at Stanford had been terrifying in ways he hadn't expected. He'd been on high alert at every moment, had felt the need to analyze every move he made. Still, no matter how carefully he treaded, no matter how hard he worked to seem like everyone else, he had always felt like an open textbook. Like his other life had somehow been written into his every action and feature. He'd been so sure he would be discovered for the fraud he actually was. Afraid he'd be shut out from his one chance to see something beyond the darkness.
It's a fear that never really went away, but thankfully faded with time.
He pauses a moment, considering the line, and then fills in the final gap. Satisfied, he hops off the box and places it back under his bed. He notes that it's not quite dark yet; springtime means it's lighter later now, and he allows himself to feel some relief at that.
Nighttime has always left him with a sense of uneasiness. Has always made him dwell on uncomfortable thoughts. He still worries about what might be waiting in the darkness for his father, for Dean, or for himself. Sometimes, he feels as though the darkness itself is a danger, as though there are eyes watching him from beyond its impenetrable curtain. More and more such moments are fleeting. He's finally resigned himself to the fact that he can never really be sure that his father and Dean are safe; he just has to trust them to take care of each other.
But last year, the worry and fear had consumed him, had left him paranoid and lying awake for hours on end. What little sleep he suffered brought back past memories, nightmares which left him gasping and trembling. Insomnia took its toll, and a particularly bad night had left him reaching, frustrated, for the salt. The next morning had found him on the receiving end of an awkward confrontation that had left him feeling humiliated and embarrassed as he'd hunted down the hallway's only shared vacuum.
The idea to use the sill hadn't come until two nights later, formed from pure desperation and a mind trained to think outside the box. As he lie awake, heart racing and mind reeling, watching dangerous and threatening shadows play across the doorframe, he made one last, furious but necessary compromise with the ingrained orders of his father.
He blinks, mind snapping back to the present. As he wanders about the room he wonders, not for the first time, if the line even works at all.
He wishes he could call Dean, or his father, to ask. He feels that they would know for sure. Dean would probably have some crazy tale to go along with his answer, a story that would start like a joke. He can almost hear it now, "So these three hags showed up at the bar…" A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but it disappears as quickly as it surfaces. He feels a short pang of homesickness, which is ridiculous really, as he's never actually had a home to speak of. But as much as he wants to call Dean, he knows he won't. Knows he can't, because calling Dean also means calling Dad. Dean doesn't have a cell phone, not that he knows of anyway, and John had made his feelings crystal clear the night Sam left.
Besides, he argues with himself, it's not something they could understand anyway. Not really. Because, why take chances by salting above a door when salting the ground has worked perfectly well for centuries? Don't mess with what works, Sammy, they'd say, and he'd be not at all hesitant to point out the hypocritical bullets of rock-salt lying scattered across the shady motel bed. Bullets John had developed, by fiddling with what works.
He sighs, throwing one last glance at the door. Research and logic tell him the salt line will work, even hidden, so long as it's an unbroken line stretching the entire doorway. Experience tells him the salt will do its thing, but it's also shown him the most powerful solutions are usually glaringly conspicuous as well. But he has to trust himself. He's got no one else now. He has to support every decision he's made. Any doubts would just eat him away.
He's nineteen years old, a sophomore in college, and slowly he's building a life that feels safe.
Six hours legal and he's taken hostage.
He's studying in his room when they show up, a raucous group of four who practically break down his door. He's yanked from the desk as they attack, and his books crash to the floor. Piles of handouts and notes get strewn every which way in the shuffle, becoming crumpled pieces of paper that will take him hours to straighten out afterward.
He resists the onslaught, but any and all protesting is done in vain, drowned out by the volume of noisemakers and cheerful shouts.
He feels his coat being shoved into his hands and then they're pushing him out the door.
Sam finds himself hauled down to the local hangout, the theme of which seems to be country tonight. He shakes his head, laughing, and drops into a nearby seat. Jess sidles up to him and hands him a drink, placing a garish hat on his head. With a wink she says, "Cheers, cowboy."
Twenty-one for twenty-one later, and he's drunk off his ass, stumbling on the sidewalk. He's practically being dragged down the street by his friends, mostly Zach and Pete, because the girls would be hard-pressed to drag him anywhere.
It takes them four tries to make it up the staircase. They allow themselves a small moment of celebration as they realize they can take the short route to his room this time around, right past the R.A.'s open door. They even stop by long enough for Sam to shout inside, "Joe Donnelly! I freakin' love you, man!"
The rest of his hallway goes by in a blur, and he suddenly finds himself being deposited rather unceremoniously on his bed. He hears a couple of his hall-mates poke their head through the doorway to wish him a happy birthday. Hears someone else yelling, "Christ, man! It's Monday, go to bed!"
There's another round of laugher, more pounding on his shoulder, and then everyone but Jessica and his roommate have vanished. Someone hits the lights and Jess kisses him goodnight. As she moves to leave, he rolls himself over, stretching out onto his stomach and burying his face into the pillow. No sooner is he comfortable when the world fades peacefully to black.
He's twenty-one years old tonight, and it's the first time he ever forgets to check the line at the door.
He puts his arms around Jess as she leans back into him, resting her head against his chest. They stay that way for a while, standing at the threshold to their new apartment, staring at the piles and towers of boxes littered within.
Suddenly, Jessica grabs his hand and moves to pull him into the room. He stops her gently. Pulls her back in close to him. She looks back up, smiling, and then gives a small shriek as he scoops her off her feet, bridal style.
She laughs as he maneuvers her through the doorway. The sound is contagious and suddenly he's laughing too. Jess is beaming like the sun when he looks down at her, and judging by the smile that's splitting his face, he probably is too.
Standing in their new place and watching her smile, he feels a sense of warmth unlike anything he's felt before. It blossoms from deep within his chest and spreads to his toes as they stand there, grinning like fools amongst the bare walls and stacks of boxes.
Here in this moment, standing with her in his arms and her arms thrown around his neck, everything seems perfect. He feels loved. Safe. For the first time in his life, he feels like he's finally home.
He wishes things could stay like this forever.
Thinks that someday, he'd like to carry her over the threshold for real.
She drops her head back to his chest, and he kisses her hair lightly. As he moves to place her feet back on the ground, she gives a soft, "Hey!" and he hangs onto her. As he stands back up with her still in his arms, she says, "And what do you think you're doing?"
He cocks an eyebrow, "Is that a trick question?"
She pulls away from him a bit, so he can see her face. Teasing she asks, "Don't tell me you're tired of carrying me already?" and gives a little pout for good measure.
He shifts her a bit in his arms, trying to get a better grip. "After dragging boxes and furniture around all day?" He rolls his eyes, "No, not a chance."
"Good," she declares, deliberately ignoring his sarcasm. Giving a little wave she orders, "To the bedroom, then!" before lacing her arms back around his neck. He grins and immediately complies, kicking their front door closed with one foot on the way. He doesn't bother to lock it. Won't be laying any salt tonight, either.
The door to his new apartment, to his new life, doesn't have a sill. There are things about him and his past Jess doesn't need to know. Things she's never going to know.
He's twenty-two years old, in love, and hoping this could be forever. And for the first time in his life, he thinks it safer not to salt the doorways.
Twenty-two and a half, and Sam's gone back to salting the floor. He doesn't take chances, anymore. He doesn't tempt fate. Checks three times a day, at morning, afternoon, and night. He understands, once again, why he does it. Knows now that feeling and being safe are two entirely separate states of existence.
A lesson, forged in fire and loss, has driven the point home.
He's also discovered, for the first time, that this line he's drawing has limitations. It can't chase away the nightmares which plague him. Not this time around. If anything, they've gotten worse. Dreams fraught with fire leave him sweating and cold. Questions without answers weigh heavy on his mind. What is It? Why'd It come back?
Could Dad still be alive?
Is this all my fault?
He finishes salting with a hand less-than-steady and a migraine forming at the base of his skull.
Dean hits the lights, poking fun at him as Sam crashes his way back to the far bed. Sam's not as amused, a sharp ache in his shins now matching the one in his head. His brother is going on and on about something, and he really can't deal with Dean's convoluted logic right now. But as he rolls over to tell him to shut it already, Sam catches a glimpse of the ceiling and a new thought strikes him cold.
Could Dean be next?
And suddenly, that little white line he's put so much of his faith in seems an awfully poor protection against the darkness.