The thumping of the rear tire, jarred Sam's senses, and as he peeled off to the side of the barren highway, the Impala hummed softly as it idled. Sam pushed the door open, but didn't step out. He rested his hand on the sleek interior of the door and shook his head. It was no longer Dean's door, no longer his seat, no longer his car. It was now, more than ever, an antique, a family heirloom, and Sam was the proprietor. He felt nothing as he hefted his haggard, lean, body out of the car; popped open the trunk, released the hidden compartment, and rummaged through the various ammunition and artillery for the spare tire. Leave it to Dean, to hide the spare tire, alongside the shotguns and Sam's knife collection. How subtle, Sam sneered. He rolled the spare, it spun unevenly as it landed with a rubbery thump on the tarred shoulder, and echoed down the black hole that was the highway. He gripped the tire iron in his left hand, ready to align it with the first nut and bolt, when his memories took him back to four months prior, when Dean handed him over the tools, and taught him how to fix the Metallicar.
"Righty-tighty," Sam mumbled Dean's instructions as he sparred with the tire, "lefty-loosey."
Sam struggled with the first bolt, but relished when it released and spun easily into his hand. Sam couldn't help but chuckle, but quickly halted, upon hearing such a foreign sound. He rarely laughed. Hell, he never smiled; never since the day that he buried his brother. Sam went on a suicidal rampage, pillaging every town, vanquishing every demon, battling vampires, suturing up his battle wounds, drinking more, and sleeping less. He cut all ties to his former life, including Bobby. His cell phone rang constantly, his server was full of emails, neither of which he responded to. He was alone; Dean had prepared him for everything that he would encounter, but he hadn't prepared him fully for pulling on his shoestrings, and bucking up. Sam cowboyed up, as Dean would have said, but if Dean could only see him now; well, Sam knew, he wouldn't recognize him if they passed on the streets.
"Jerk," Sam mumbled, anticipating a snarky 'Bitch', from the shadows, but only the cicadas, mocked him from the trees above.
Tossing the flat tire to the side of the road, Sam started up the Impala and drove onward. The sparse lights on the highway shone on a rusted sign, Ellis Grove Springs, and he took a hard right off the exit. He hadn't been there in years, four as a matter of fact, and he had to face it sooner or later; no matter how hard he tried, he hated being alone. His last onslaught rendered him bloody and beaten, and despite his hardest endeavors to stitch himself up, his lanky arms, couldn't reach certain spots. A bullet had nicked him in the left shoulder blade after it sliced through a vampire and bounced off the building's steel enforced doors. He had been driving for hours, and now, after fixing that tire, he was starting to lose feeling in his left arm. Sam drove for awhile, heading past the cemetery, and into the small, abandoned town, looking for the familiar street signs. Making a few quick turns, he found the house. No lights were on. He scanned the clock in the Impala and realized it was three in the morning. Still, he picked up his cell, tapped in the numbers, and waited for the voice on the other end.
"Someone better be dying," the groggy female's voice sounded through the phone. Sam caught his breath. He released it, but found no words. She sat up in bed, her body still rigger from sleep, but found the late night pranks, amusing.
"Listen, Vader," she switched the phone to her other ear, "while I find the deep breathing a bit titillating, it's creepy nonetheless, so either speak, or hang up."
Sam inhaled and exhaled, which only caused the woman on the other end to slam her receiver back into the cradle. "Stupid," he chastised himself and redialed. She picked up on the first ring and berated him,
"Keep this up and I'm calling the cops."
"Kenzie," Sam uttered her name, "cops are the last thing I need right now."
"Sam?" Kenzie slid her eye guard to her forehead, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light from the moon.
"You don't call for months and now you wake me up in the middle of the God damn night," she sputtered, "you've got some nerve."
"I got something else too," Sam didn't want to fight, "so are you going to let me in or what?"
"Let you in?" she jumped out of bed and headed to the front door. Sure enough, he was standing on her stoop, his cell phone resting on his good shoulder, while he leant up against the side of the door.
"You look like hell," she spoke into the phone and realized how stupid it was that they were still conversing from either side of the doorway. She hung up the cordless, unhitched the lock, and opened the door.
"You hung up on me," Sam held his cell closed; a look of mischief in his eyes, glimmered and faded.
"Twice," she noticed him flinch as he reached for his duffel and immediately recognized the gaping hole in the back of his tattered shirt.
"Jesus, Sam," she flipped the hallway light on, "let's get you into the bathroom."
"I've got a needle and some peroxide that have your name on 'em."
"I'd do it myself," Sam offered, "but even I can't reach this."
"I'm surprised you didn't try," Kenzie pointed to the toilet seat, that she had just slammed down, and ordered him to sit. She peeled off his shirt and examined the wound.
"I take that back," she swallowed some bile, "you were stupid enough to try."
Sam didn't say a word. He knew he had a lot to say to her, but everything he could muster up, wound up sounding moot. She'd find a way to twist his words so far around, that he'd never win. A simple apology wouldn't do either. So he sat there as she gathered her first aid supplies and straddled the sink to get a good leg up on Sam. She first cleansed the area with the alcohol swabs then prepared him for the peroxide rinse. His wound festered and bubbled, indicative of an infection, and until it ran clean, she patted at it with gauze. After awhile, she used a pair of sterilized tweezers to remove the bits of gravel that were stuck inside. Lucky for him, the bullet only grazed his shoulder; luckier for her, that she didn't have to play Operation and remove one. She sucked at Operation. She stitched him up, gently covering her work with a patch of gauze.
"Good as new," she let her fingers drape across his bare back for a few seconds too long, and she retracted them just as quickly.
"Thanks," Sam mumbled. Kenzie watched as Sam stood up and turned to face her, his abdomen, full of healed wounds and self stitched masterpieces. He noticed the color drain from her face and he reached for her cheek.
"It's not as bad as it looks," his eyes pleaded, "really."
"So where you running off to now?" She pulled her face out of his grasp. She didn't expect the answer she received.
"That's just it," Sam shrugged, "I know I should continue on doing what I'm suppose to do, but…I…just can't do it…not alone, not anymore."
Kenzie let out a puff of breath and turned to wash her hands of Sam's blood. She must've been scrubbing for awhile, because Sam reached over and turned the faucet off. He handed her a towel and watched her. She hadn't seen him since they buried Dean; she had known his whereabouts, but he was always one step ahead of her. She just didn't think he'd wind up on her doorstep. Not now; not like this.
"You were never alone, Sam," she finally spoke, "you just chose to be."
"I chose wrong," Sam gritted his teeth, "I know that now."
"You never were the one to choose wrong over right, Sam," Kenzie bit back tears, "I don't know what to say."
She walked out of the bathroom and headed to her bedroom; she knew he would follow. She thought back to their prior time together, how they fit perfectly together, how her body cradled neatly into his, how she longed for that again. The Sam she knew, the Winchester she loved, had died four months ago, along with Dean, and the shell of the man, standing in her bedroom doorway, was all that remained. No longer a man, but a tired, frightened boy, who was more terrified of spending the night, than he was of fighting off demons. Kenzie succumbed to the lost boy image and scooted over in her bed. Sam inched in close to her, pulling her into him. She was so warm against his chilled skin. She snuggled into the arch of his chest, her back, pressed neatly into him, his head rested upon hers. He whispered into her ear, his voice drowsy with sleepless nights, "I can't stand to be alone; it frightens me."
"I scare myself," he breathing became labored.
"Rest, Sam, rest," Kenzie ran her fingers up and down his forearm until he finally fell asleep.
She refused to fall asleep; afraid that Sam was nothing more than a ghost haunting her dreams.