Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing this for me and Gredelina1 for all your support.
I'm putting out an early update as I've amended my prompt request from the last update. The next chapter will be up over the weekend.
Chapter Eight
Sam shoved open the front door hard so that it flew back and hit the wall, leaving a sizeable dent in the wall. He stamped through the hall and into the living room.
A cold breeze came through the broken window, creating a chill in the air and making the curtain sway. He looked around at the peeling paint and smashed window and cursed. It seemed a perfect summing up of his situation. This was it for him. He was stuck here in this pit of a house for good, or at least until he caught up with his own time again, and that was going to take forever.
Where else could he go though? What could he do? He had no money to start a new life, even if he could find the will. He had no identity in this time. He was truly trapped. It was going to take longer than he had even been alive to get home, and he couldn't handle it.
He strode into the kitchen room where the tattered walls and cupboards contrasted sharply with the neatly arranged cans of food and crockery on the counter top. They were there supposedly waiting for the house's next occupant. When Sam had organized them, he'd had no idea he was the one that was going to be living here. He had thought he would be home long before he had need of them. That was how it was supposed to have been. He should not be here. He didn't belong.
He picked up a bowl from the stack and threw it at the wall, bellowing his anger into the still air. "This is wrong!"
The bowl smashed and the pieces rained down onto the floor. Sam felt a sense of satisfaction from the destruction. He didn't want these things. He didn't need them. They were needed for a life, and he wasn't going to live here. He wasn't going to settle. He was going to fight against it every step of the way. He couldn't die, so he couldn't starve to death. He couldn't freeze. He didn't need anything to keep going but the curse of life Michael had left him with. He would exist these coming years because he had no choice, but he wouldn't live. He refused to.
He picked up another bowl and threw that, too. The savage action brought a grim smile to his lips. This felt good, venting his feelings. He was making what he felt inside a physical thing on the outside. He was showing the world how it felt.
He picked up another and another until there was not a single piece of china or glass left on the counter and a pile of shards on the floor. With nothing left to smash, he stood a moment, breathing hard through his nose. It wasn't enough. He still needed more.
He walked out of the room and through to the study. The books he had been using to research were still in piles on the desk and in boxes on the floor. "Useless," he spat.
They were no good to him now. There was no answer in them that was going to save him. The only possible answer had just been murdered by Anna.
He picked up the open book on the desk and threw it into the grate, on the ashes of his last fire. They billowed up and coated the floor. Sam grabbed at the others, flinging them into the fireplace. They piled up and began to spill out when there was no more room.
Sam stopped and gripped the edge of the desk, his head bowed and his breaths coming fast. The old Sam, the Sam that belonged in 2010, would have been appalled at the idea of burning a book, let alone dozens of them. The fact that these books held information that could save a life would have made the crime even more unimaginable. He didn't care though. He wasn't that man anymore. He was the one cursed to a life in the past.
He grabbed up the box of matches from the mantlepiece and lit one. He held it between his fingers, staring down at the flame, willing himself to throw it onto the books, to shed that piece of who he had been so he could create a new layer of hardness to get him through what he was going to have to live with for the next thirty-two years.
The flame reached his fingertips and he dropped it to the floor automatically. It landed a few inches from the pages of a book. He watched the match burn to nothing and then the flame die as its fuel disappeared. He couldn't do it. As much as he wanted to shed that layer of himself, he couldn't. Sam Winchester, Dean's brother, would never be able to do it. He needed to cling to that for Dean. He was going to be changed enough by the time he was with him again already. He had to hang onto what was left of him so Dean could look at him and recognize him when he saw him. It was going to be hard enough for him already.
He threw the box of matches onto the floor and strode from the room. He couldn't burn the books, he couldn't get home, he couldn't live with it and yet he couldn't die. He had nothing.
He wanted oblivion. He would sleep.
It could have been hours or days or weeks that passed. Sam had no concept of time. He lay in the darkness, his eyes closed whether he was sleeping or awake. He slept when he could and emulated it when he couldn't.
He didn't feel hungry; he didn't feel thirsty. He felt empty, as if everything in him had been scooped out and replaced with darkness. There wasn't pain anymore. There was nothing. Pain would have been easier to handle. He could have pretended he was still human with pain. He could have been the same man that had come to 1978 with his brother to save the parents he loved, so twisted by the guilt of what he had done. None of that seemed to matter anymore. He just existed. He would exist until his time caught up and he was with Dean and the others again.
The thought of what would happen then came to him sometimes, and he tried to push the ideas away as quickly as they came—he didn't want to think of what he would be then. The thoughts didn't always go though. Sometimes he was forced to think of what Dean was going to be met with when he returned to his own time. An old man pretending to be his brother.
Sam would be almost sixty, changed irrevocably. He wouldn't be the young and vital man he had been when they'd parted. He wouldn't be able to rely on himself to back Dean up on a hunt the same way. He'd be close in age to Bobby, and he doubted he could hold onto the same verve that Bobby had at that age.
How would Dean even look at him knowing how different he was? He would lose as much as Sam. He would be expecting the brother he had known before, his hunting partner and backup, but Sam would be different. There was no way he could stay the same after everything he was going to experience in the next three decades. Sam's life was going to change and he would never be that man again. He was losing it all.
More burning than the thought of his future was the pain of his present. He missed them all: Dean, Bobby and Castiel. He wouldn't be able to speak to any of them again for a long time. He couldn't explain to them what was happening or ask for comfort. They couldn't know him until it was the right time again.
That wasn't such a problem with Dean as he wasn't born yet—and wasn't that a head trip in itself—but Bobby at least was out there now, living his life. Sam could get in the car now, drive to Sioux Falls and find him. Except he couldn't. Bobby didn't know him in this time. There was no way he could have kept it a secret all that time if he had. Missouri had only seen him for the few days it took to clear up the hunt in their old house. She could have kept the knowledge a secret easily. Bobby never would have been able to keep it up for years. That meant Sam had to stay away. He couldn't take his comfort.
Castiel was more complicated. He was out there now, in heaven at least, but he wasn't the man Sam knew. He wouldn't become that man until a matter of months before Sam's time would catch up to theirs. There was no point contacting him at the time he came into their lives as there would be nothing for Sam there. Castiel would be a soldier still, an automaton. And Dean… He didn't know. He wouldn't be able to keep Sam's presence secret from the Sam of his time as they lived in each other's pockets. And it wasn't fair to expect him to. Sam had to face facts. He couldn't have the people he loved. Without them, there was nothing for him. Things were never going to be the way they were when they were together again either. Sam was going to be a different man and they would all have to find their feet together again.
Sam was lying in bed one day when he heard the door open and Missouri calling to him. He didn't stir; he remained perfectly still with his eyes closed, feigning sleep until it was time for it to return to banish awareness.
He hoped she would just come and go when she saw he wasn't in any of the living areas of the house, but that was too much to ask for. What was worse was that she had brought company. He could hear her talking to someone through the closed door.
"That's the one. You might need to do the whole frame as it's pretty old."
There was a man's rumbling voice in return. "They could all do with replacing. It must get pretty drafty in here."
"Maybe next time," she said. "Just the broken one for now."
"What happened to it?"
"Would you believe the wind broke it?" Missouri asked.
There was a long silence and then the man said, "No, I wouldn't."
"Never mind. That's what happened. Can you fix it?"
"Of course. I just need to get the measurements for the glass and I'll get you a new one in there by the end of the day."
Sam surmised she had someone in fixing the window. He supposed he should have expected it as he house was technically hers now. She would want to fix it up. As long as she didn't think she was going to involve him, he didn't care. Let her have the window replaced and then leave. It didn't matter to Sam.
He kept his breaths even and didn't open his eyes as Missouri and the man spoke, only relaxing slightly when he heard the front door open and close and then a car coming to life. He was lulled into a false sense of security until he heard footfalls in the hall and the door opened.
There was a sigh and then Missouri spoke brightly. "Good morning, Sam. I've got you some lunch and a coffee here. Up you get."
Without opening his eyes Sam said, "I'm not hungry."
"I think you are. From the looks of the kitchen, you've not made yourself anything to eat at all. Come on and eat this then you can clean up."
"No."
"Come on, Sam, you can't stay like this."
She didn't understand. This was all he could do. This existence in the dark was all he could handle. To do anything else was to open himself up to the overwhelming truth of his life.
Sam rolled over, away from her and put his arm over his head.
Perhaps the action was enough to tell her he needed her to leave, or perhaps she was reading his mind again; whatever the reason, she set something down on the bedside table and said, "I'll come back later. Eat it all up," and then left the room.
Sam buried his face deeper into the pillow and waited for sleep.
Sam didn't know how long had passed since Missouri's last visit, but the food and cold coffee was still on the bedside table when there was a click and his closed eyelids glowed red. He opened his eyes and saw the room was flooded with light from the overheard bulb. He blinked up at it for a moment and then swung his legs around to the edge of the bed and stood. His head swam and he took a moment to get his feet under him before he crossed the room and flicked the switch. The room was cast into darkness again and Sam went back to the bed. He collapsed into it and covered his head with the ratty blankets. If Missouri had the power on again, she had other plans, too, he was sure. His search for peace was surely going to be shattered again soon.
His certainty was proven when he next woke. He could hear music playing and Missouri's voice singing along to Bob Dylan's Changing of the Guard. He rolled over and closed his eyes again, trying to block out the noise, but he failed. Missouri became louder, seeming to know she'd succeeded in waking him.
It seemed to him that the more he tried to ignore her, the louder she got, banging around doing Sam didn't know what. He covered his head and squeezed his eyes shut but each sound was driving through his skull like a nail until he couldn't take it.
He lurched out of bed and stumbled to the door. He got his feet under him and marched into the living room where the noise was coming from, determined to give her an ultimatum. She would leave or he would.
She was on her knees in the middle of the living room, scrubbing at the floor with a brush. The music was coming from a radio she'd set on the chair. As Sam watched, she dipped the brush into a bucket of soapy water. As she raised it, she looked up at Sam and said. "Ah, you're up. Come and help me out. This is a big room and it's going to take a while to get it all clean."
Sam tried to stamp down the anger he was feeling, but it surged in him. She was acting like nothing was wrong, like Sam hadn't been dealt the crushing blow of living here. She didn't seem to care that life as Sam knew it was over for him.
"Leave me alone," he said growled.
Missouri looked unbothered by his tone or the meaning of the words. She just scrubbed at a particularly stubborn spot and hummed along to the music.
"I mean it, Missouri, leave."
"No," she said without looking at him. "I've got too much to do still. I'll go when I'm done. It'd be much faster if you helped me though."
Sam marched forward and snatched the brush from her hand. He threw it across the room and shouted. "Leave!"
She got to her feet and stared at him, unintimidated by him towering over her. "Mind how you speak to me, Sam Winchester."
"Go! Leave me alone!" Sam snapped.
He didn't want this. He couldn't bear it. He needed to be alone. He wanted to go back to bed and ignore everything else. He wanted to get through this time until he could be with Dean again. That was all he could do to protect himself.
"No," she said calmly. "This place needs cleaning if you're going to be staying here."
She walked away and picked up the brush from where it had fallen.
Sam kicked the bucket hard, sending it toppling over to spill water onto the floor, and making pain jar up his bare foot. "I don't want this!" he shouted.
"I know. But it's what you've got, so you may as well make the best of it."
"I don't want it!" Sam said between his teeth. "I don't want it! I don't…"
He broke off as a sob bubbled up his throat. He didn't want it. He wanted to be home with his family, but he was trapped here with a lifetime stretched between then and now. He couldn't even see them. He closed his eyes and his shoulders slumped. He wanted to go home. He just wanted to be with Dean again. He couldn't face a lifetime of this.
"I don't want this," he whispered.
A hand settled on his arm and he opened his eyes to see Missouri standing close to him, her face sad. "I know you don't, honey, and I wish I could make it all better for you, but I can't. You're here now."
Sam's legs buckled and he fell to his knees, the spilled water soaking into his pants. He bowed his head and began to cry. He couldn't handle the feelings inside him without letting them free. He felt like he was mourning a death.
Missouri knelt beside him and cupped his face in her hands. "It's okay, Sam," she said gently. "It's all going to be okay."
"I can't do this, Missouri," he said through his sobs.
"You can," she said. "You're strong."
"I need Dean."
"I know, honey, but you have to wait."
Sam shook his head, desolate. "I can't."
She thumbed away the tears that were falling down his cheeks and soothed him gently. "Think about Dean. What would he say if he was here?"
Dean would say do whatever it took to get home again. Sam had done that though. There were no other options available to him. He was trapped.
"I don't know," he said.
"Okay, then what would he do if it was him? If he was trapped here like you, would he give up?"
"No," Sam said. "He would fight."
Dean was struggling in the present, faced with the apocalypse and what Sam had done, but he hadn't given up. He was still fighting.
"Then you have to fight, too," she said. "Fight for him so that, when you do see him again, he can be proud of you."
Sam sniffed. "He won't be proud of me. Not after what I did."
"He would," she said. "Anyone would. You made mistakes, and they were big, I'm sure, but you're facing something new now and how you react to it is what matters. You can't lie in bed from now until 2010. You need to do something, so start now. Make the life that Dean would want you to have."
Sam shook his head. "I don't know how to do that."
"I do. Take it in stages. I am here to help you, Sam, and I will be until you get back to your own time. It may take longer than we want, but one day time will match up again and you can be with him."
"How am I supposed to do that?" Sam asked plaintively. "How do I live all this alone?"
"You won't be alone," she said. "I'll be here, James, too, we'll help you."
Sam looked into her eyes and saw the sincerity there. After the way he'd spoken to her, how he'd treated her in his anger, she was going to be there for him. He could see it all stretched out ahead of him, the coming years, and they were frightening, but not so much as the thought of doing it alone.
"You'll help?" he asked.
"I promise. I'm a part of this now, Sam, and I won't leave you alone. We're going to find a way for you to do this. You just have to be strong. You can do that."
Sam nodded. "I can do it." He was assuring himself as much as her.
He had lived without Dean before, and that had felt impossible. The choices he had made then had led to the apocalypse. He would not do that again. This time he would be stronger. He would take the comfort of Missouri the way he hadn't Bobby then and he would carve out a life for himself.
He would make Dean proud this time.
So… Sam is facing the truth. It's a pretty brutal truth, and I think he's entitled to his time of weakness before trying to move on.
Prompts: I asked if you had any prompts in my last update and since talking with Kas3y I've realized that was a pretty broad brief and big ask for you all. If you've read many of my stories, you'll know that a lot of them come from a 'What If' moment. So, I am asking something different this time. If you have any moments in canon in which a choice is made or a direction taken that made you wonder what would have happened if they'd made a different choice, then I'd love to hear them. It doesn't have to be a detailed prompt, just a place to start and an idea of what could happened next would be awesome.
Thanks to those of you that have already reached out with a prompt. I'm very grateful and plan to look at them all properly with a view to writing when I have had finished my current WIP.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx
