Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me.
Warnings: Language, violence, angst, all that stuff.
A/N: Going back through "The Next Ride Out of Town" and doing various edits I noticed that this particular chapter had some major formatting issues. Considering it was one of my favorites to write, it was quite a shame that it's issues went undiagnosed for such a long period of time. After very few days (reference, Kings of Summer. Watch it or spend the rest of your existence half-lived!Oh, Biaggio...), here it is in it's proper and now readable format! Also, Sam's aliases in this chapter (as with most chapters) have some sort of external reference. "McCool" refers to Fionn McCool, a hunter-warrior of Irish legend-it also sounds rather like the kind of alias Dean might choose, although without the historical context. Just thought I'd throw it in there.
Enjoy!

Chapter 10
The Battle of Evermore
November, 2000

Sam had long since replaced the backpack he had dropped in Alexandria, but it had made his life more difficult for a while. Some of the supplies were not easily replaced, but he was still able to survive, and to hunt.

After Alexandria the demons followed him everywhere. They turned up at obscure locations throughout the country. He was attacked in Pawley's Island, South Carolina, in Savannah, Georgia, in Waycross, Georgia, in Newport News, Virginia, and in Baltimore, Maryland; over a four month period. He did not know how they found him. They ambushed him outside of diners, cornered him while he was on a hunt; jumped him as he walked down the street… and always with the pronouncement: "Azazel wants to talk."

"Why doesn't he come talk to me then?!" Sam yelled at a demon that had trapped him in a janitor's closet on a hot October day in a Newport News hospital. The demon had not answered him, instead snarling and banging at the door. Sam had escaped down the laundry chute, and after running for at least twenty minutes, managed to thumb his way fifty miles outside the city.

He hunted, and found a kind of…joy was not the right word, but a kind of satisfaction from it. He finally understood the glint in Dean's eyes whenever John had announced a new hunt, the excited chatter as he drove the Impala to their new, dangerous destination. It was exhilarating somehow, watching a body burn, knowing that he had helped—contributed at least something to this society.

And yet, somehow, they always seemed to find him.

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Sam sat hunched on the floor of an ancient telephone booth, his knees drawn up to his chin and backpack wedged between his back and the plexi-glass wall. It was snowing outside, a blizzard; and a dusting of snow had drifted in through the ill-fitting door. Sam shivered, even in his thick down jack and wool sweater it was cold. Too damn cold. He had not intended to come to Vermont.

The mistakes had begun the day before in New York. There had been a bar fight, and he had come out the worse, with a broken wrist and only fifty bucks to show for it. Then, a group of druggies had jumped him in an alley, and it was all he could do to get away with his backpack, let alone fending off physical injury. They had given him a black eye, a couple of bruised ribs, and a concussion. Trying to get a ride with a massive shiner, well, that would be damn near impossible. So, he had made his way to a free clinic somewhere in the Bronx and passed out in the waiting area.

When he had regained consciousness three hours later the nurse had immediately started in on the questions: "Want's your name? How old are you? Who did this to you? Where's your family?" Questions that Sam could not answer, at least not satisfactorily. He did not know the names of the people that had beat him up, for all intents and purposes he had no family; and his name…Which one? And as for his age, well, it had gained a certain degree of irrelevance. Seventeen, eighteen, what was the difference?

So he had told the nurse that his name was Will Marybury (thank you history class), he was nineteen (might as well add the extra year, just for variety), he did not have any family (true), and that he did not remember who had hurt him (also true in a round-about sort of way). The nurse had looked at him in that way that said: I'm 90% sure you're lying to me, so I'll call the cops and let them deal with it—and then had left him alone in the curtained-off section of clinic.

They had taken care of his wrist and obviously given him some heavy-duty pain killers because he could sit up without passing out again. His backpack was on the floor beside the gurney and it looked relatively untouched. Sam stood, grabbed the backpack and some governmentally subsidized bandages, then casually walked out the front door of the clinic and off down the street. They should have handcuffed him to the gurney.

He walked a few blocks until he found a public library and collapsed into a chair tucked against a corner wall and a bookshelf apparently devoted to European mythology. Well, shit, he thought as he slumped there. It was only as Sam was beginning to think it might be time to come up with a plan that he noticed the man perusing the bookshelf directly in front of him. He was tall with a shaved head, and wore an ancient denim jacket that hung stiffly from his shoulders.

It was Caleb.

Sam averted his eyes and bent over, pretending to be fishing for something in the front pocket of his backpack. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Caleb pull The Galdrabók: an Icelandic Grimoire, from the shelf with a crease between his eyes. Caleb turned, and Sam continued his shuffling. Two minutes later Sam straightened and glancing around, saw that Caleb had settled at a table nearby, and was rubbing his head in that way he had, indicating frustration. Sam stood and turned his back to Caleb before hoisting the backpack up on his shoulders and swiftly leaving the library.

Outside Sam walked quickly. If Caleb recognized me…And what was with the Grimoire? What was he hunting? Sam breathed deeply, watching the swirl of his breath on the air. If Caleb was here then it was likely that Bobby might be as well, maybe even John and Dean. If they saw him he would be powerless. He had to get out of New York.

Hours later he found himself standing in front of a Greyhound ticket counter. The painkillers the clinic had given him were wearing off and he was finding it difficult not to throw up all over the sour-faced ticket clerk.

A completely unmemorable conversation occurred during which Sam found himself handing over a twenty dollar bill and receiving a slip of paper reading: Steven McCool. One Way. NYC MLT. 6:45pm—9:30pm.

Sam gazed down at the paper and could not remember what "MLT" stood for. He collapsed in a chair beside a vending machine. After some debate he bought a bag of chips and painfully went to fill his water bottle from the drinking fountain. He ate the chips quickly though they tasted like ash and swallowed a few Ibuprofen. That took the edge off at least, and he sat there for another hour, thinking of Caleb and the Grimoire.

Sam was walking away from a hunt, and Caleb was not the greatest researcher, he might have help, but still… Someone might die before Caleb figured out what he was hunting. Maybe Sam could help somehow, without Caleb realizing it. No, he shook his head and took another sip of water. What was he thinking? Lack of sleep and food were getting to him.

At 6:50 the bus arrived and Sam boarded it with little trouble, which was surprising considering his black eye. Greyhound was strict about who it let on their buses, in an attempt, he supposed, to keep a good reputation. There were probably plenty of bruised people that used the bus system though, and it did not pay to be too discriminatory.

He settled in the back seat, dozing off against his backpack.

Several hours later Sam awoke to a particularly painful twinge in his wrist and the crackle of the bus's microphone. "Milton, Vermont, next stop."

Sam sat up and, looked out the window. Snow was whipped past the window and the howling of wind made him shiver. Vermont? Shit, he needed to go south! How had he ended up buying a bus ticket for Vermont?!

Outside on the pavement the wind went right through his jacket, icy fingers on his skin. Beside him the bus driver was proclaiming to the small group of passengers that the bus station was closed, and that they would have to go somewhere else. Sam closed his eyes for a moment against the stinging cold and turned away from the wind.

He had walked into the telephone booth, too busy trying not to lose his footing on the ice encrusted pavement.

And so now here he was. Jammed into a telephone booth and watching the snow swirl past. It had been a struggle to get his down sleeping bag out of the backpack and drape it over himself, but he managed it. The cold still seeped in through the icy concrete floor, but by this point he did not care. When he closed his eyes the sensation of falling took over, a dizziness that undulated with the rattling of the booth door. He did not have the strength to open his eyes or fight the psychological gravity.

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There was a banging, a loud clatter. Sam tried to curl deeper into the sleeping bag, but something was tugging at him.

"Hello?"

"Dean, shut up," he mumbled into depths of his sleeping bag, but now hands were pulling it off him, exposing him to the cold.

"Sir!"

Suddenly, Sam came fully awake and jerked upright, numb fingers groping for the hilt of the knife hidden up his sleeve.

"Are you alright?" A voice asked, and as Sam's eyes adjusted to the brightness of a flashlight aimed at his face, he saw that a woman was standing in the partially opened door of the telephone booth, a concerned look on her face.

"What?" he asked blearily.

"Are you alright? Look, what's your name?"

Sam stood, slowly and painfully, the sleeping bag pooling about his feet. It was still dark outside the telephone booth, and the woman was standing in at least a foot of snow.

"What do you want?" Sam asked, suspicious. What the hell was this woman doing, waking him up, yelling at him…

"You can't sleep here," the woman said, "you'll freeze to death. Come with me."

Sam did not move. "Why?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Look, kid, I'm trying to help you. I'm not leaving you here to die practically on my front porch."

Sam's fingers found the hilt of the knife but they were so cold he could not grip it.

"Listen, all I'm offering is a meal and warmth. The only thing that's going to happen to you is a full stomach."

"Christo," Sam whispered, watching her intently. The woman did not react, and after a moment Sam nodded, and stiffly stepped out of the sleeping bag. He gathered it in his arms, and then swung the backpack over his shoulder, wincing as it jostled his bruised ribs and wrist. The woman turned and gestured for him to follow.

"I live right here," she said, crossing the snow-covered sidewalk and, to Sam's surprise, walking up to the front door of the house that stood on the street corner. She had not been exaggerating when she said he was practically on her front step.

A gust of warm air washed over Sam as the woman opened her front door and stepped inside, ushering him in after her. "Come on; don't let all the warm air out." I

nside the entryway Sam stood awkwardly. "Here, set that down here," she indicated a bench beside the door and Sam carefully placed his sleeping bag on it, a mass of damp green fabric. "

My name is Meredith Douglas," the woman said, extending a hand towards him.

Sam shook it, and smiled cautiously, "I'm Steven."

Meredith scrutinized him for a moment. The man, boy really, could not have been older than eighteen, with shaggy brown hair and a prominent black eye. He stood huddled in his thick coat, shivering slightly and pale. There was the faint shadow of stubble on his cheeks and neck, and snowflakes dusted his shoulders. His hazel eyes looked at Meredith, calculatingly, but not without warmth.

"You're younger than I originally thought," Meredith said.

Sam just looked at her. His teeth were chattering and now that she could see him in full light he looked feverish.

"Come on, I'll get you some breakfast." Sam followed Meredith through a small living room and into a large, warm kitchen. The oven radiated heat and the coffee maker gurgled invitingly.

"Sit down," Meredith said, and indicated a three-legged stool beside the kitchen island. Sam sat cautiously, sliding the backpack from his shoulders, careful not to jostle his wrist.

Meredith extracted a tray of steaming scones from the oven and was busy transferring them to a cooling rack. A dollop of cheese dripped down from a particularly large pastry and Meredith caught it with her finger, swiftly licking it off before it could burn her hand. "I like rosemary and cheese scones in the morning. Way better than blueberry, they fill you up for longer, don't you think?"

"I've-I've never had a scone before," Sam said. And, surprisingly it was true. It was not really the Winchester style, pastries—except for pie. In his mind's eye Sam saw Dean, holding a plate of apple pie and giving it the sort of reverent look he generally reserved for classic muscle cars and sharp knives. Sam swallowed past a lump in his throat.

Meredith had started on some scrambled eggs and Sam watched as she slid them around the pan. Whenever Sam had tried making scrambled eggs they had ended up burnt. Dean had been the good cook.

Meredith talked and hummed to herself, enjoying cooking. "I used to eat bacon every morning and but my ex-husband was vegetarian, and he sort of converted me. I haven't eaten the stuff since."

"I never liked it much," Sam said. It was 6:00am, and sunlight was beginning to shine in through the window above the sink. The warmth of the kitchen was soothing, and Meredith did not seem dangerous; he had already dripped some holy water on her hand as she opened the front door and it had had as little effect on her as his whispered 'Christo.'

"Here you go," Meredith said, setting a platter of scrambled eggs, a scone, and few slices of orange in front of him, coupled with a massive mug of steaming honey-sweetened chamomile tea. "Don't eat too fast, or you'll get sick."

Sam could not remember ever having eaten a meal as good as this one. The tea warmed him and soothed his throat that had been suffering from the intense cold. Meredith ate with him, sitting at the opposite side of the island and drinking coffee instead of tea. When he had finished Sam made to stand but Meredith stopped him.

"Steven, wait a moment. It's still snowing, and I'm not going to throw you back out into that."

"Thank you for the meal and shelter, Meredith, but I don't want to intrude—"

Meredith rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Steven, if I thought you were intruding you'd know about it. Listen," she considered him for a moment, "I'm no fool. You wouldn't be sleeping in a phone booth unless you had something you were running away from." Sam opened his mouth to interject but Meredith held up her hand. "But that's none of my business. Just tell me…if I help you I won't find myself harboring a fugitive of the law or anything like that."

Sam looked Meredith in the eye. "I'm no fugitive, I give you my word."

Meredith studied his face and then nodded. "Milton is a good town, and it just so happens that I am in need of a new employee at my bakery. If you want, you can have the job, on trial, mind you. If you fuck up, and by that I mean blow off work, show up high, steal, or anything of that kind than you'll find your ass back in that frosty old phone booth. But, you don't seem like that kind. I'll pay you ten-fifty an hour and for three hundred a month you can rent the room above the bakery. What do you think?"

Sam ran his good hand through his hair and looked at her. "Why don't you just find someone in town?"

Meredith nodded, a slight smile curving her lips. "I was on the road back when I was your age. I needed help even if I didn't know it, even though I was surviving on my own. I don't pretend to know anything about your situation, but I do know the road. People treat you different when you're young, and especially when you're surviving off your wits and the contents of a backpack. You deserve a chance at living, not just surviving—the same as all of us."

A slow smile lit Sam's face.

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Working for Meredith was the best thing that had happened to Sam in years. He lived in a room above the bakery, just enough space for a bed, a tiny wood stove and a dresser.

His job was satisfying, and it meant that his loneliness was held at bay—at least partially. He liked working behind the counter and dealing directly with the customers. It had been so long since he had been able to comfortably talk to people, be treated like a normal person, just one of the masses. Somehow a rumor began that he was Meredith's nephew visiting from New York City, and neither Meredith nor Sam put any particular effort into quelling this belief. Let them think what they wanted.

And Meredith had not been lying when she said that Milton was a nice town. Since Sam had landed there he had not seen or heard of anything that suggested a ghost might be tormenting the populace, that a vampire nest was in the area, that coven of witches might be planting razor blades in pastries…nothing. Not a single demon, anywhere within five hundred miles. So, Sam let himself forget, just a little.

With Christmas only a week away and month already spent in Milton, Sam met Danielle. She came to the bakery at least four times a week, and sat at the table nearest the counter with a cup of coffee and a textbook. She was a senior at the local high school and smart. Sam had helped her study for exams a few times, and it was not long before he found himself liking her more than as just a friend. Danielle was beautiful, with thick, curly black hair, high cheek bones, and dark brown eyes. She wore reading glasses and wanted to get a degree in environmental economics (she had had to explain to Sam exactly what that was) from Cornell.

For the first time since Sam had left his family behind, the holiday season was not agony. He and Meredith had become quite close, although Sam talked very little of his past. She was in her late forties, but had the energy and wit of a much younger person. Sam also came to be friends with his coworker, a boy named Dru, and enjoyed spending time with Danielle's group of friends.

With the high schoolers on break and a sense of celebration in the air Sam went to more than a few parties. It was a new experience for him. There was something so utterly youthful about it—careless, live-in-the-moment. To a boy who had never truly had a childhood it was intoxicating. It was free in a way he had never been before, free in a way he hadn't even realized existed.

Christmas dinner at Danielle's house had been comfortable, not at all the hellish experience he had been expecting. Danielle's family was friendly, entertaining and normal. Danielle was normal. They sat on the front porch after dinner, wrapped in a blanket, just holding hands. And that was perfect in that moment, the simple companionship; their quiet, conversation…Sam never wanted to leave that porch.

"Sam, the other day, Meredith mentioned finding you half-frozen in a telephone booth. What was she talking about?" there was a note of merriment in Danielle's voice.

Sam stiffened slightly. Somehow in all the time he had spent with Danielle they had not really managed to get around to the subject of how he had come to be in Milton. Sam had told her that his father was in the military and that was why they had traveled so often in his childhood. He had told her that he had traveled around on his own for a while. Sam had neglected to mention that he had never graduate from high school. He did not tell her about the bar fights, the hitchhiking, the ghosts, the demons, Azazel...

"The bus station was closed," Sam cleared his throat and looked out to the yellow glow of the street light, "and I was exhausted and hurt, I had nowhere else to go."

Danielle had straightened and was looking at him intently. Sam avoided her gaze and looked down at his hand, still encased in a splint for his wrist. "Sam, when you said you were traveling, you mean you were homeless? Just living on the streets?"

"That's over now," Sam said firmly, meeting Danielle's gaze.

"So," there was a crease between Danielle's eyes, "you ran away?"

Sam looked away from her and rubbed his forehead. "I couldn't stay." Danielle was gripping his hand tightly.

"Sam, those scars…was that because of—"

"Those are not from my family!" Sam said firmly. "I ran away because of-of something else."

Danielle was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, there was a determination in her voice that Sam had never heard before.

"Sam, you know you can talk to me about it, if you need to. I…it's not going to change the way I feel about you."

Sam's throat felt tight. "Thank you."

With the creaking of slightly rusty hinges Danielle's father opened the front door and smiled over at them. "Ready for dessert?"

Christmas, and then New Year's came and went in a flurry of snow. Meredith had given him a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, with the note "It'll take you so long to finish that a couple months will go by without you realizing it." Sitting on the bed in his room Sam looked at their gifts and realized with a sinking feeling that he could not stay. He was putting everyone in danger by remaining in Milton. Danielle, he felt his stomach tighten. How could he leave her behind? Looking out at the snow-stacked windowsill Sam thought that he might be in love with her. How had that happened?

Sam slid off the bed and after a moment's hesitation pulled his backpack out from under the bed. He had left it mostly packed, even tied his sleeping bag back on. Looking at it, the dark purple faded almost to grey in some places, the repairs he had made... Sam thought of all those months spent living out of it. He pulled the sawed off shotgun out and looked at it. It was worn—just like the backpack—and there were flecks of blood on the trigger guard. He rubbed at them with a corner of his sleeve and was unsettle by how comfortable the weapon felt in his hands. With a jolt Sam realized that he had stopped carrying a knife with him. He had no holy water, no salt. What would he do it a demon came after him?

Sam shoved the shotgun back into his backpack, like stuffing a rotten meal into the compost pile; out of sight, out of mind. He stood and kicked the backpack beneath the bed, changed his shirt and washed his hands, then trudged down the stairs to help Meredith with the dishes.

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It was a Friday afternoon in the second week of January. It was a slow day, and Danielle was leaning against the counter, talking to Sam as he arranged a basket of tea on the café counter.

"So, are you coming over tonight?" Danielle asked, leaning against the counter and holding a cup of coffee tightly between her hands.

"Definitely. Is anyone else coming by?"

"Are you kidding? Jake has been practicing. He can't understand how you managed to beat him last time."

Sam laughed and set the basket of teas down beside the register. "Just natural talent I guess."

Danielle snorted, but did not reply as two customers came in and ordered coffee and pastries.

Sam took little notice of them at first, but they did not move away from the counter after they had finished their order, and watched Sam's every move. His arms itched beneath his long sleeved shirt. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Danielle looking at them, puzzled by the apparent hostility in their gazes. Sam surreptitiously slipped a salt-shaker into his pocket. "

Anything else I can help you with? Christo," Sam said, they both flinched.

Sam did not pause as he tossed the coffee in their faces, then plunged a hand in his pocket and pulled out the salt shaker. The salt hit them both in the face and they reeled, blisters rising beneath their fingers.

"Danielle, run!"

Sam turned and found himself face-to-face with another demon. Black eyes stared from the wrinkled face of an old woman. She lunged for him. Sam ducked, and grabbed her, turning and sending her sliding over the counter with the cash register.

A fist caught him in the jaw, and he fell back against the espresso machine, black spots dancing before his eyes.

"Steven!" Danielle's voice pierced his ears.

Sam kicked out, catching an attacker in the stomach. If he could just get to the kitchen, he had a flask of holy water taped to the underside of the work table.

The tallest of the three shoved Sam up against the display case, sending glass shattering down around him. "You're coming with us, Winchester."

Sam twisted desperately, one hand groping behind him. He grasped what felt like one of Meredith's rosemary and cheese scones, and, desperately, crushed it into the demon's eyes. Surprised, the creature's grip on him loosened and Sam was able to knock it aside, and grab the marble rolling pin from the work table. A weight slammed into him from behind and Sam fell forward across the table. He twisted and rolled off onto the floor. The demon was on him again in an instant, and Sam brought the rolling pin up to slam into the demons head. The creature fell back and Sam kicked it away, blood coating the floor and dripping onto his shirt.

"Move and I kill her!" Sam froze. Turning, he saw Danielle held by the old woman, a knife was pressed against her throat.

Sam felt the blood drain from his face. "Leave her alone."

The old woman stared at him with blank, black eyes and shook her head. "Drop the weapon, Winchester."

"Steven…" Danielle whispered. Her face was drawn, pale.

Sam glanced about the blood spattered kitchen; there must be a way out of this situation. But there were three demons, and there was no way Danielle would make it out alive if he tried to resist. Maybe if he threw the rolling pin at one of them…

Sam slowly bent down and let the rolling pin fall. It left a bloody trail as it rolled across the floor. "Don't hurt her."

"Now, Sam, why would we do anything for you? I must say, you have put us up to quite a chase. After Alexandria, well, you shouldn't have gotten away then."

"What does he want with me?"

One of the male demons laughed. "You'll see, Winchester."

"Steven…Steven, what's this all about? Please," Danielle looked imploringly at the demon, "there must be some sort of mistake. His name's Steven McCool, not Winchester. "

A chorus of laughter echoed through the kitchen. The male demon shook his head. "McCool, huh? Did you pick that one? Sammy, we all thought you hated hunting. Isn't that why you left your family behind? All alone." The demon's face twisted, become vicious. "You Winchesters, never learn."

Sam's mind was still, resigned. This was it then. This was it. "If you let her live, I'll go with you." T

he demons exchanged glances, and then the old woman nodded. "Jasper, take him."

The male demon stepped forward and brought a fist up against the side of Sam's head. Sam's vision warped, like a disturbed reflection in water, and distantly he heard Danielle's scream. Then he toppled forward and into darkness.