Chapter 32

Thursday, May 2nd, 2002

The map had been one of the few things left untouched by the events of the night. By the interior light Sam traced a new line back to Mississippi, the tip of his pen hesitating before reaching the black letters that read, 'Lyon', before etching a circle around the town itself. Dean had hobbled back to the car with Sam's help, falling into the passenger seat once again without a sound besides a grunt of pain. Sam could see - he was losing a fight against his exhaustion, the harsh bags under his eyes more pronounced then before in the yellow light of the cab, and even before Sam had started the car, Dean was asleep with the blanket under his chin and the seat belt keeping it all in place.

Sam followed the empty country road till once again joining Highway 75, nothing but the glow of the radio and Dean's steady breath keeping him company. It was nearly impossible to believe they had been on this same highway just hours earlier, when he shredded the tire and…started this all. The bullet hole in the rear window whistled to a higher pitch while he accelerated.

"Sammy," murmured the tired voice to his side. By this point they couldn't have been on the road for more than half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes. "Happy birthday."

Sam looked at Dean whose eyes were still closed, slumped in his chair under the blanket, then turned to the radio. The digital clock proved Dean's words were true. 12:43 AM, May 2nd, 2002.

—

If Sam were ever the type to cry about missing the ball drop on his birthday, this was the night for that, because within the passing few miles they crossed into the city of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and into the previous time zone. The clock on the radio announced the time was a few minutes before 1 AM, and as Sam took an exit and eased into the roadside gas station, he rolled back the hour. Parked at a pump near the Tennessee border, Dean asleep with his head against the window, a bullet hole in their back window, and a driver's side door he had to kick to open, Sam celebrated his birthday for the second time that day, watching the hour change to midnight.

—

Sam used some of his cash for gas, thankful Chattanooga was large enough to sport all-night stations like this, and had even splurged for a soda. At this point coffee would only make him sick, but he was still determined to stay awake. He knew he couldn't stretch this out any longer than he already had. It had to end today. He paid for his gas and his drink with the bored-looking cashier, grabbing Dean a pack of small convenience store donuts last minute, for whenever he woke up. Sam watched him sleep through the window while he pumped the gas, and he didn't wake up still when they pulled away from the station, and even through the heinous whistle while Sam got them back on the highway.

Their ransacked car limped across the border into Georgia for a moment, wound them back into Tennessee, and finally deposited them into Alabama a few miles later. Sam watched the 'Welcome to Tennessee!' sign retreat in his rearview mirror through the small spiderweb of cracks. Each sign he passed and each line he crossed, with every announcement of the passing miles and roadside rest stops, it was becoming truer. His return. It made his heart race. For a moment he'd even considered calling John, just to…he didn't know, but in the end it was pointless. The phone was lost somewhere in the car, and no doubt soaked from the rain like everything else, or lying with a dead battery. It didn't matter. John didn't need a warning that he was coming back. It wasn't going to last long anyway.

Such was the cycle of thoughts in Sam's head while he drove that he didn't bother with the radio or the boxes of tapes in the back seat, thrown across the floor now. The night was still and silent, the blackness of the road unbroken besides their headlights and the rare semi truck that joined them. He wanted to keep it that way. After the day he was content listening to Dean's deep breaths. He could have done without the screaming window, however. The hours passed as did another sign, setting Sam's nerves on edge. 'Welcome to Mississippi!'.

The scenery began shifting into the land of the familiar, and it was beginning to hit Sam how close they were coming. They passed exit signs for Tupelo and Chesterville, some of these places Sam had never been to but had heard of, living in Mississippi for the time he had; later on, before Sam knew it, they approached the off-ramp for Oxford, and Sam's breath clenched in his chest, pausing his heart. He and Claudia had made a day trip there once along with her parents when they first started dating, to look at the university. Sam watched the passing city through the passenger window, and noticed then that Dean's eyes were open, the clenched ones of someone just waking up. The streetlights at the exit bathed them in light then left them in darkness, then again a few times more, till Oxford was behind them. Sam let go of his breath.

A hand entered Sam's peripheral. Dean patted Sam's knee. Did he know what Sam was feeling?

"Everything will be fine, dude," he said with the might of a yawning dog. His hand slid away and Dean was asleep once more. The closer they got to Lyon, though, Sam was beginning to wonder.

Sam drove. He passed Alesville soon after, then Batesville after twenty minutes more, where he'd spent his eighteenth birthday on a hunt with John. He drove. The ebony sky began its transition to morning, throwing away the covers to begin the day. He drove. They reached the town of Marks, where Sam had eaten lunch one day spent ditching school with friends. He swallowed. Alongside the sun Dean had come out from under the blankets looking better than he had, but not well. It was clear that he could have slept for hours more still, and then more after that. Sam, however, had never felt more awake. He was bouncing his leg and tapping the wheel to the silent music. In some coincidence they only had enough gas to get them to Lyon, maybe Clarksdale, if the wind pushed them. They would have to stop regardless of how he felt anymore. Strangely, he didn't mind the stop so badly anymore. It felt more like fate this way.

He'd had hundreds of miles and hours of impenetrable silence to imagine what he would say to John, how he would possibly tie all of these lose ends together and still walk away believing he did the right thing, in the right ways. But he hadn't. Or couldn't, maybe. At this point, maybe there was no right way any longer. Only the way that would allow everyone to move on. Though, he knew he didn't need John to understand, or Claudia to forgive him, and neither could he ask them to. Or force them. All he could do was show himself bare to them. Be honest. It would have to be enough. He had to believe that, or go mad. Then him and Dean could be out of there.

It didn't matter whether or not he had rehearsed his words, or written a script, for John. With squeaking breaks, Sam eased the car against the curb, looking up at the same old apartment and noticed the blinds on the windows were closed against in the morning light. Not odd for, say, the neighbors, but John should have been awake. Climbing out of the car, taking his first steps in more than 7 hours, Sam stretched his arms over his head. He looked around the parking lot then paused. Dean pulled himself from his seat, using the top of the car for support.

"His car's gone," Sam said. He didn't know whether to feel disappointed or glad.

"I've got a key," Dean answered, rubbing his hands over his face. He pulled himself along on his hurt ankle to stop at the trunk, which Sam had to pull open.

The parking lot held an eerie silence. Sam had never seen the apartments at this hour, he realized. Sam had expected John to be here waiting for them, furious and ready to kill. Could they have somehow beat him back from Salt Lake? Maybe he should have looked harder for the phone, called ahead.

While Dean dug through the mess in the trunk, murmuring about how fucked it was - "thanks to someone" - Sam walked to their front door, and froze. Next to the frame sat a short stack of medium-sized cardboard boxes. The tops weren't taped but closed with the folded flaps. At the looks of one's crushed side and the bulging side of another, Sam had the impression that whoever packed them was in a hurry. Or upset. He pulled the flap of the top box, opening easily.

These were…Sam's clothes. He plucked the topmost article and pulled it out, showing a red hoodie he knew only as his, revealing a mess of clothes underneath. None of them were folded. Instead, they were shoved inside with the abandon of trash. It was becoming hard to catch his breath, though it hadn't dawned on Sam yet exactly as to why.

He glanced to the side. Taped to the door was a single white envelope. The top was torn to pieces, rather than sliced. He plucked it off the door, the world reduced to the simple sound of the tape coming free of the paint. Sam turned the envelope around while sliding out the contents, and gasped.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean eased up to Sam's shoulder with the sound of jangling keys. Sam felt him craning his neck to see. Just then, a loose page dropped away from the stack in Sam's hand. It fluttered to the ground out of his vision.

"I - " Sam said, before losing his breath again. He turned, putting up the letter, but he didn't smile.

The letter began, underneath the introduction of the Dean of Stanford, 'We are pleased to congratulate you…'

"I got in," Sam breathed.

Dean held in his hand the page that had escaped, having plucked it from the ground. In his expression was a shock Sam knew wasn't the tale of anything great. He turned it for Sam to read.

In hasty handwriting Sam knew as John's were the words, 'If you want to leave so bad, here's your chance.'