Soul Survivor
Chapter 11- You Learn To Live Again
I am a new day rising. I'm a brand new sky to hang the stars upon tonight.
Times Like These – Foo Fighters
...
She silently turned and walked away, the long braid of her hair swinging in time with her hips—an angry rhythm that left him staring after her, clueless and speechless.
"If you're not going to drink that coffee, I could use a cup."
Sam slowly tore his eyes away from the sight of Kaya retreating into the distance and stared down at his hands, one holding the forgotten cup of coffee and the other clutching the fry bread.
"Seems you rate a cup of coffee from my daughter, but she completely forgot about her old man."
Sam was mortified. He was certain the man didn't like him already. What must he think now, after witnessing this fiasco? But when he looked at Bill Richards sitting in front of his classic Mustang, he didn't see the smug disapproval he expected. Instead, the man motioned Sam to sit in the lawn chair next to him. "Come on," he said, patting the arm of the chair. "Sit down. Take a moment."
It wasn't a bad idea, in fact it was the best idea Sam had heard all afternoon. He handed the coffee to Bill, then stared at the fry bread in his other hand thinking that Rosemary had not only taken a big chunk out of his snack, but out of his plans for the day. In fact, she'd ripped out the best part of his day. Kaya was gone and he was left with the pitiful remnants of his failed date.
"You should try that fry bread. Most people like it."
Sam offered the bread to Bill numbly.
"Nah," he waved it off. "I'm trying to cut back on carbs, besides, I already had an elk burger."
"Elk burger sounds good." Sam took a bite of the fry bread. He chewed it slowly and thoughtfully. "This is not bad," he told Bill before he swallowed and then glanced at the coffee, wishing he hadn't given it away.
"Here." Bill reached into the cooler beside him and pulled out a cold beer, handing it to Sam.
Sam drank half the bottle in one go before he sat back in the chair and let out a heavy sigh. "I don't even know what happened," he said helplessly.
"You got blindsided." Bill sipped the coffee and gave out a pleased little moan. "Good coffee." He smacked his lips exaggerating his claim a little.
"It was like the perfect storm, brewing all afternoon and nothing I could do to stop it," Sam continued. "Hell, I didn't even see it coming."
Bill nodded. "Blindsided."
"Yeah," Sam huffed.
"It was the two women coming face to face. That's never a good idea. I figure Mark did you a solid, taking Rosemary out of Kaya's face."
"I didn't know Rosemary was gonna be here." Sam's voice began to rise as his numbness gave way to frustration. "I didn't know I was gonna be here." Sam made a wild sweeping motion with his arms, encompassing the array of classic cars. "Hell, I didn't even know here was gonna be here. This wasn't my idea. Kaya thought it would be fun to surprise me." Sam huffed bitterly.
"Yep, blindsided."
"All I wanted was a simple date, a quiet evening." Sam looked at the fry bread in his hand and dropped it to the ground. "Taste like crap," he groused.
"Yeah, well it's not everybody's favorite." Bill reach down, picked up the fry bread and dropped it along with the now empty coffee cup into a trash bag beside his cooler. He got out a beer, stretched out his legs and took a long pull on the Corona.
Sam spent the rest of the afternoon brooding and nursing his beer while Bill talked to people who came by admiring his car. People stopped to look at the Impala, but Sam didn't make any effort to accept compliments or engage in conversation or even acknowledge that the Impala was his.
Finally the sun began to set, and with the fading light, what was a chilly winter day turned decidedly cold. Bill's voice was pensive as he broke through Sam's silent funk. "Kaya's a tenderhearted girl, Sam. She'll do anything to help just about anybody she thinks needs help."
"She thinks I need help?"
"Well, you did when she first met you."
"Yeah, but . . ."
"You don't now. So maybe what drew you two together then isn't the same now, and maybe that's a little confusing."
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "I know."
"She's a bit feisty to go along with that tender heart—got a little bit of a temper. She's quick to judge sometimes, especially when she's a little unsure of herself." Bill gave Sam a long thoughtful look. "Maybe she's a little unsure of you."
"Yeah, I'm beginning to see that."
Bill took a long pull on his beer, finishing it off before dropping the empty bottle in the trash bag. "But, she's forgiving, and she has a loving soul."
"And she's so beautiful . . . um . . . I mean her soul. She has a beautiful soul," Sam floundered.
Bill gave Sam another long look, then he seemed to study something off in the distance. "Her mother was like that." A smile crossed his face. "Beautiful woman with a beautiful soul. She knew who she was and what she wanted. She was a force to be reckoned with sometimes."
"I think I can see the resemblance."
"Sometimes she'd be miffed at me and I had no idea what I'd done, but I would give anything—do anything—if I could have her back."
.
.
Sam never thought he would have spent his afternoon with Bill. It wasn't at all what he had hoped for, but now he knew Kaya's father better, and it was a relief to know that he'd been wrong about the man. He didn't hate Sam.
In fact, Sam thought Bill was a lot like Bobby, calm and thoughtful. He helped Sam to quell his anger and disappointment over the terrible way his plans had been torn apart. Bill had some good insight, but the most help was just sitting with Sam, listening and letting him brood without judgment.
The thing Sam found most intriguing about the man was his uncanny perception. "What are you into, Sam?" and "What is Sam Winchester passionate about?" These two questions Bill had asked him, niggled at Sam's mind long into the night, until Sam came to realize the truth. Most of his life—with the exception of his few years at Stanford—Sam had been into whatever Dean was into, and he had no idea what he was passionate about. Killing Yellow Eyes? Stopping the apocalypse? Killing Dick Roman? Saving a world that had no idea it needed to be saved? In other words, hunting. The thought sent a chill down Sam's spine. That's not who he thought he was. It's not who Sam ever thought he wanted to be. But it was how he'd lived most of his life.
Sam's squinted in the morning light. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his truck crunched through the thin layer of packed snow on the long drive leading to the stables at Aspen Ridge. His life was over. No, he wasn't going to kill himself, and it wasn't a depressing thought. In fact, Sam felt good. He felt a burden lifted from his shoulders—the burden of living a life he didn't want, a life where his passion was someone else's passion—someone else's obsession. There was no more family; there was no more family business. There was no one left to disappoint; there was no one left for him to fail.
Sam could start a new life, and he decided to start his new life searching for his own passion. First on the list was horses. Aspen Ridge was beautiful and something about it calmed Sam's soul. He'd felt a peace inside and a closeness to the horses that he thought he could be passionate about, and when Frank had sent him packing it was a hard blow. He missed the horses. He missed the hard work, but he had a plan to get back both.
Sam found Frank in the stables, wheezing and huffing as he mucked out one of the stalls.
"Frank?"
Frank brushed Sam out of the doorway and stepped out of the stall. He leaned heavily on his shovel as he pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped at his runny nose.
"What's wrong, Frank?" Sam watched as Frank let out a wheezy cough and blinked red swollen eyes at Sam.
"Years of smoking and now I can't breathe in all that dust." His laugh was as bitter as it was wheezy. "But horses got to be taken care of whether you boys show up to work or not."
"I'll finish up for you." Sam reached to take the shovel from Frank, but he wouldn't relinquish it.
He used the shovel like a crutch, leaning on it as he walked to a bench nearby and dropped heavily down, took an inhaler out of his shirt pocket, and holding it to his lips, he took a deep breath in. His eyes closed softly as he held his breath, and Sam could see the relief on Frank's face as the medicine did its work on the man's lungs.
"I don't give second chances, Sam." There was no bitterness or anger in his voice. He seemed more philosophical—resigned.
Sam sat next to him, stretched out his long legs and leaned back against the wall with a sigh. "That's kind of hard, isn't it."
Frank didn't answer, and Sam sat quietly, listening as the older man's breath began to ease a little.
"Abe?" Sam guessed.
"Yeah. Gave him Saturday off, and he never came back." Frank shook his head and heaved in a deep breath. "Knew I ought'na done it. He'd been twitchy all week. Jonesin'. But I ain't no damn social worker. 'S grown man." Frank threw up his hands, then slapped them down on his thighs. "Gotta take responsibility for himself sometime, but I reckon he's holed up somewhere drugged out. Damn shame."
Sam thought about Abe, and he wasn't surprised. He'd liked working with Abe. The young man was mid-twenty's, a quiet guy working along side Sam—two wounded souls working the ranch together. Abe had never asked anything of Sam, not even friendship, and Sam never had anything of himself to give.
Now that Sam thought about it, maybe he'd had an inkling that Abe had drug problems. He'd looked the type: skinny, malnourished, twitchy, slow to pick up on the job. Frank had been more than patient with Abe.
"Doc Hanson has a heart as big at Montana." Frank gave a thoughtful smile. "She does. And I love her for it. Who doesn't? She's a kind soul, and I've been helping her with her 'projects' for more years than I care to remember." Frank seemed suddenly even older than his wrinkled, weathered face showed. Sam didn't remember ever seeing Frank looking so weary.
"Projects?"
"Yeah. Project horses and project people." Frank's watery blue eyes seemed to peer deep into Sam's soul. "I give the horses second chances. Hell, I give 'em third, fourth, however many they need." Frank's breath was coming easier now and he was beginning to show a little passion. "Doc Hanson, she keeps this ranch afloat boarding and training rich people's show horses and pets, and she loves 'em all. But the 'project' horses, they're the ones that outlived their usefulness to their owners, ex-racers or barrel racers, rodeo horses. They're wonderful, noble animals, and many a young'n's learned to ride on the backs of Doc Hanson's 'project' horses."
Sam swallowed hard. "And the 'project' people?"
"Young fellas mostly. Down on their luck. Drunks or addicts that need a chance. She gives 'em to me, just like she does the horses, and I give 'em a chance—a chance, Sam. No seconds. 'Cause the horses don't make choices; the people do." Frank looked out over the stalls and sighed.
Realization hit Sam hard. "I was one of the doc's 'projects?'"
"Yeah, but I thought you'd be different, Sam. You started off like the rest of 'em, skinny, malnourished, twitchy," Sam thought of Abe and wondered if Frank had somehow read his mind. ". . .but you learned fast, and you seemed to thrive here. You beefed up, got strong. I thought you were a natural with the horses. The work seemed to calm you down. I don't know—kinda gave you purpose." He turned his gaze back to Sam. "I'm sorry, son. You were doin' so good. I thought some time off would be good for you—thought you could handle it. If I'd known—"
"I'm not a drunk." Sam could see how it seemed to Frank, but he was wrong. "Not a drug addict either. I just . . ." Sam leaned forward, his shoulders hunched, his eyes focused on the floor. How the hell do I explain this to you? "I lost my brother a few months back." Watched him explode in a ball of black goo—saving the world, killing the creature that would destroy us all, and leaving me with no one. "And a man who was like a father to me just a few months before that." Watched him die, burned his bones and then sent his ghost to God knows where. Sam took a shaky breath. "They were the only family I had left." He swallowed down the all too familiar grief that threatened to spill out in tears. "It kinda came crashing down on me. I'd been trying to stay busy so . . ."
"I'm sorry, son. I didn't know."
"No. It's okay. I think I needed time alone." Sam sat up straight. There was a reason he'd come to Frank, and he wouldn't let grief stop him. "I needed to face my demons, maybe find some peace with what happened."
Frank nodded. "So, you better now?"
"Yeah. I think I found something." Sam could feel the warmth of a blush creeping across his face. "Something worth working for—worth living for."
"So, a girl?"
With that, Sam's smile got bigger and his face heated even more. "Yeah. I hope so." If she'll even speak to me anymore. "Well, it's not just her, but . . . Anyway, I'm not here to ask for my job back—not exactly. I've got an idea I think you'll like. But first, I'm gonna finish mucking out these stalls for you." Sam reached for the shovel, and this time Frank released it from his grasp. "You need me to come by tomorrow morning?"
"Thanks." Frank's watery blue eyes melted even more. "Got a couple new guys coming by tomorrow afternoon, so I should be good after that." He gazed at Sam for a long moment. "I appreciate the help, son. You want to share your idea with me."
"Let me finish these stalls first and then we'll talk."
Sam moved through the motions of the familiar job, finding the routine comforting while his mind began to work out the details of finding his passion.
The first thing on his list was to ride. That depended on Frank, but now that he knew why Frank had made him leave the ranch, and he'd had a chance to work things out with him, Sam was certain that Frank would let him barter work for a few lessons and some riding time.
Second on the list was school. Sam was one semester from finishing his bachelor's degree. He could never have the excitement filled college days he'd thrived on when he was at Stanford, never get his network of friends back, and he would never have Jess again. The idealistic boy who left hunting behind, quit the family business and followed his passion—his love of learning—was long dead, but Sam could finish what that boy started.
He was no longer one of Doc Hanson's project people. Instead, he was his own project.
.
.
Running straight into the King of Hell when he walked out of the bathroom toweling his damp hair nearly scared him out of his meat suit.
"Oh." The demon quickly stumbled away bowing his head at the king's glare. "Sir?"
Crowley pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and flipped it open, flashing the embroidered blood red C with the red, orange and yellow flames surrounding it. He dusted imaginary filth off of his black wool coat all the while eying the demon with obvious contempt.
The demon trembled, not knowing what to expect but searching his mind frantically to recall any way in which he might have angered his king recently. There was nothing he remembered that he could grovel or apologize for, so he waited.
"We seem to be at a stalemate, Sam Winchester and I," Crowley mused.
The demon nodded, still cautious, but less so. It seemed he was mad at Winchester not at him.
"He's not making any move to hunt for his brother or the prophet." Crowley paced about the cabin.
The demon smiled inwardly at seeing the King of Hell in a quandary, one of his own making since Crowley had the prophet inprisoned, but then let the boy outsmart him and escape. That juicy tidbit of gossip spread like wildfire through Hell. All the demons laughed about it, but not loud enough for Crowley to hear.
"Perhaps we will have to shake him up a bit."
I told you that. The demon wanted so badly to snicker, to point out to the king that he had been right all along.
"Quiet, you! I can hear what you think," Crowley roared. "Wipe that grin off your face before I sear it off, and I don't mean the face of your current meat suit." Crowley moved closer to the demon until they were nearly touching nose to nose. The demon pulled away and once again, cowered before the king. "I should send you back to the fires of Hell," Crowley snarled. "You know what I will do to you there."
The demon froze. There was not so much as a flicker of his black, dead eyes. He'd been in hell fire, and he'd been on Crowley's rack. He knew very well what Crowley would do.
"Find another meat suit," Crowley told him. The demon breathed a sigh of relief. "And figure out how to be useful when the shit hits the fan. I'll deal with things here."
He relinquished his meat suit. He didn't particularly like it anyway. It was ineffective, weak, and the effects of the drug withdrawal were annoying. The body was itchy and the mind bounced around like a bunny.
The demon flew through the window in a billow of smoke without a second thought that the person he abandoned was standing in the presence of the King of Hell. Instead, he was delighted to be released from that one and vowed to himself the next body would be a lot more enjoyable. It was about time he had some fun.
TBC
