WEDNESDAY
6 years on

Sam lives with a carer now. She's the nurse that first took care of him when he woke up. Her name is Rachel Simons and she's nice. She's pretty too, with strawberry-blonde hair and big blue-grey eyes. But their relationship is strictly carer-patient.
Not that it matters to Sam anymore.

He was deemed too lucid for a mental facility, but not lucid enough to return to society. Sam can't remember the last time he's spoken, or made any noise at all. Rachel only asks 'yes or no' questions, and he can answer them without speaking. She's trying to teach him sign language, but all the complex gestures are beyond him.

Sometimes, he thinks he sees Dean, reflected in a mirror or a window, and that's when he retreats to the room he shares with Rachel and cries. Rachel's really only there to make sure he's okay. Sam takes care of himself, largely, although it takes Rachel to persuade him to do things beyond read, and write, and listen to music, and cry.

When Sam sees Dean four times in one day, he writes a note to Rachel. They can communicate in writing, but it's hard to make himself do it. It gets easier as he writes, though, so they use the notebook to carry on conversations beyond 'yes or no'.
I think I'm going crazy. I saw him.
You saw who?
Dean. But he's dead.
Maybe he's a ghost.
He always said he'd never leave me behind
Sometimes people we love come back to us. It sounds like you and Dean were very close.
He saved my life more times than I can count and I never once said thanks
But he knew you were grateful, didn't he?
I left for Stanford and I never even said goodbye
Sometimes when we're angry, we do stupid things. But if you feel guilty afterwards, it's as good as saying sorry.
He called me heaps and tried to see if I was okay, and all that time I tried to forget him and Dad and hunting
Tell me about hunting.
Sam finds it hard to write, but he has to. It's so hard...easier to say it...say it.
Sam looks around, quickly. Dean?
I'm here.
Go away! I'm not crazy, I'm not, I'm not!
You're not crazy Sam. It's me. I got out. But now I can't find my body. What happened to it?
The morgue.
Great. I hate morgues. They freeze you. I don't wanna wake up frozen.
Shut up! I'm not crazy!
Sam looks at the window and sees the reflection of Dean roll its eyes, and put its head back in the way Dean used to do when he was frustrated by Sam. He hears Dean's exasperate sigh, and he can see the reflection's lips moving in time to the words he hears in his mind. Sam. You're not crazy. I just told you, I got out of Hell. Miss me?
I did. But how?
Red-eyes never said I had to stay there, did she?
You're unbelievable.
Yeah, that's about right.
But I thought you couldn't escape from Hell.
Apparently my soul's too good for Hell, but not good enough for Heaven. So I get to come back here and try and do one more good deed so I can get through the Pearly Gates...it's just that I kinda need my body back. So...the morgue huh? Which one?
I don't know.

"Sam?"
Sam snaps out of his trance. Rachel's seen him do it a lot now; he'll sit and stare at a window, or a mirror, or any shiny surface, for hours and hours on end, as if fascinated. She's not sure whether it's part of his condition, or just something new. Maybe it has to do with seeing his dead brother everywhere.
She feels a little happier when Sam picks up his pen and writes again. His handwriting is beautiful, and he handles a fountain pen easily. She never got why he loved fountain pens, but calligraphy gave him a distraction. He draws with graphic pens, and his artwork is incredible. He draws a lot of pictures of the same thing - all a variant on himself and Dean, or himself, one or two other people, and Dean. Sometimes, he draws strange creatures, and other times he draws the interior of buildings - 'The Roadhouse', 'Bobby's Yard', 'Bobby's House', 'Our Old House' - but mostly, it's himself and Dean.

It's hard to say it in words.
You could say it another way.

A mute shake of the head, then a slight pause. He opens his mouth as if about to speak, and Rachel tenses. This is it. Glory, glory, Hallelujah, he's finally going to speak! Praise be to all higher beings! He's going to talk!
But he's done this a thousand times over the six years since the hospital, and each time he disappoints her by shaking his head more vigorously. Hunting is a subject they always come back to, but he won't talk about it. She writes, feeling a little stupid for writing in her plain print next to Sam's beautiful cursive. Too many memories, huh?

Sam swallows hard when he hears Dean's voice again.
Aw, come on Sam, I hate chick flick moments!
I thought you were looking for you body.
Dude, I'm stuck in a ten-mile radius. I can't even get out of the city.
What?
You. Every spirit has to have a point that they return to, and they're bound to it. It's usually where they died, or a personal possession, or a place they visited a lot...sometimes, it's also a family member or a close friend. In my case, it's you. I can only go about ten miles away, then I have to come back.
Why do you have to?
I dunno. I just can't go any further away.

Rachel then smiles and draws half of a triangle. Sam adds a curve. She adds a line. Sam adds a dot. In the end, it becomes a dog.
This is another of their strange little games. It's like playing Pictionary, but you have to guess what the person's going to draw rather than what they have drawn. It's one of the times that she tries to forget that Sam is catatonic and still distraught over his dead brother, and that this job is so fucked up in that she can't do anything beyond try to make sure he's okay. She keeps their little games and their conversations a secret from Sam's doctor - all he knows is that Sam writes in a little blue book that the hospital gave him to keep track of his state of mind.

Tomorrow is the seven-year anniversary of when Sam stopped talking. Maybe it'll be tomorrow.
Or Friday. Or Saturday. Or the next day, or the next.