Sam checked the time on the dashboard clock: 12:00 AM, plenty of time to get some rest, he realized, as he began to really entertain vague hopes of going to sleep.
"Man, come on," Dean groaned from the driver's seat, "Really? Radio here sucks," directing his annoyance at the airwaves as he thumbed the dial, switching rapidly through different frequencies until something caught his ear.
'Say your prayers little one,' the radio blared. 'Don't forget, my son.'
"Ah, finally, some Metallica!" Dean exclaimed, breaking into a grin as he turned it up.
"What, I thought you didn't listen to anything made after 1980," Sam jibed.
"Really, it's Metallica, man. And it's a classic. Enter, Sandman: that's from '91. Anyway, my car, and you know what the rules are—"
"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole," Sam yawned. "Look, I don't really care. I'm gonna try to get some shut eye, if that's OK with you and Sandman there."
"Sounds good. We should be in Boise by 3:00…" Dean trailed off, humming along with the music.
Sam nodded wordlessly, letting his eyes rove over the shadow forms of trees and fields and barns that they passed, allowing the darkness to engulf his mind.
'Exit lights,' the radio blared. 'Enter night…'
He let his eyes fall shut, weariness making his hand clumsy as he reached to lean his seat back yet more, letting himself sink back into the well-worn leather.
'Sleep with one eye open…'
The noise from the radio filtered off into distant unawareness as sleep engulfed his mind.
Sam felt himself jerk awake suddenly, uncertain of what had roused him.
He was startled to see that Dean was standing over him in the half-light of a motel room.
"Wait, where are we?" He asked.
"What? We're in Manheim, dumby," Dean muttered, turning so that the light that filtered in through the blinds hit his face, his young features set in a grim frown.
"But—" Sam interrupted.
"Just shut up and go back to sleep, OK? I was just checking on you." Dean replied, his tone as grouchy as his eyes were tired.
"Fine with me," Sam mumbled back sleepily, turning over on the lumpy bed to get comfortable.
The next day, he was sitting on the bed, flipping through channels on the TV. He quickly went past an infomercial for cooking pots, the news, and some kid's program. The rest of the channels came in differing levels of awful, the picture flickering in and out of existence as static ate the sound. A baseball game appeared for a few seconds on one channel until the aging set flickered and it buzzed with an onslaught of static that swallowed the one potentially interesting show.
"Dang it," he snapped to himself. "Why won't you work?" He tried going up and down a couple more times through the channels, stopping often to check the channel with the game, but it was still so bad it was all just snow on the monitor. Sighing, he turned away from the ailing TV, absently looking around the room for something, anything to do.
Dean was gone, to get them something to eat, he'd said, and his dad hadn't been around for a couple days.
His gaze roved around the room, over the two slept-in beds, the bathroom door that was peeling paint, and their suitcases in the corner. He went over to his, rifling through it momentarily, past the dirty jeans that needed washing, the old tin of soldier figures, and the well-worn books he'd read a million times over. He didn't know what he was expecting to find. There was nothing in there he wanted. His attention turned to Dean's suitcase. Maybe there was something in there? Anything, anything at all would be better than sitting in this empty room for another afternoon. He dug through it, disappointed to find nothing but the schoolbooks he'd already resorted to reading the day before, and similarly dirty clothes.
He grunted with frustration, going to sit back on the bed, listening to the static from the TV. He waited what seemed forever, hoping for the game to appear again between the static, but it didn't. He found himself studying the cracks in the ceiling, which disappeared into the top of the wall.
He lay staring until he thought he'd lose his mind, at which point he jumped up again, looking again over the room for something to do.
His attention turned to the dresser, which he remembered absently, would in some motels contain a Bible. It was long, grim, and kind of boring most places, from what he remembered of the last time he'd been compelled to read one, but at this point he'd gladly read a dictionary if he had one, so a Bible, he decided, especially if he could find one of the exciting stories of wars, would be just fine reading.
He opened the top drawer, which was just above eye-level for him. He groped around, blindly pushing past his dad's teeshirts that were stacked there until he felt something. Standing on tiptoe, he looked into the drawer to see with anticipation what he realized was a leather-bound book.
He picked it up, pushing the drawer back in with a thump, and settled down on the bed to read it.
He examined it carefully, realizing that it wasn't a Bible after all. It didn't say Bible on the front of it; it was just a brown leather book. He cracked the cover, and to his surprise, saw handwriting in the front of it.
November 6, 1983
I buried my wife today…
A journal, he realized. And not just any journal—Dad's journal.
He started reading quickly, magnetically, transfixed by the realization and by the words on the page. He felt a strange mixture of emotion, both a guilt at reading something not meant for him, and the tug of a morbid curiosity, as he continued to read, tears forming in his eyes, which he clawed at with a knuckle.
He read through several entries. His mom, his mom was gone, he'd known, but seeing it said like this was like a punch in the gut.
Mary…on the ceiling… The line stuck in his mind after he read it. He shuddered, a deep and breathless one that shook him straight through the core of his body. He could almost feel the ferocious intensity of the fire, the rush of wind as the windows blew out, and hear his dad's shout—
He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to hold himself back in the present.
Despite himself, despite, or perhaps because of, in a strange way, the intense dread the permeated his mind now, he felt compelled to keep reading.
…I heard these noises…sounded…like whispering a name, under their breath, again and again…
Sam gasped at this, beginning to shake. Whispering….whispering. How could it be, he wondered, because sometimes he heard it too. The voices at night, that if he complained, Dean said weren't real, and told him to shut up and go back to sleep. But the voices, the whispering. They usually just whispered, but once in awhile, when he was alone, he could hear them better. He knew what they said.
They said his name.