Don't Feed After Midnight
Chapter 5
Sam ran a hand through his hair and grimaced, there was conditioner in there he hadn't washed out earlier.
He'd been in the shower washing his hair, when the water had inexplicably gone ice-cold; he'd stood there, futilely twisting knobs, blinking through suds, with his eyes stinging.
Then, letting lose a string of curses, he'd given up and stumbled out of the cubicle to escape the arctic torrent, hair still dripping with product.
He'd stood there, out of the flow still longer, attempting to restore the warmth; but to no avail, the pipes had refused to cough up anything but ice melt, the sound of water in the old pipes had begun to sound like mocking laughter by the time he figure it was futile.
Shivering, skin prickled with goose flesh that was half from cold, half from the associated memories which being cold always brought.
'Sorry if it's a bit chilly. Most people think I burn hot. It's actually quite the opposite.'
Shuddering he'd hastily pulled on clothes, towelled his hair as dry as he could, then fled the memories and shower room. His scalp itchy and greasy.
One of the things he'd enjoyed about the men of letters bunker, were the shower rooms. They had surprisingly good pressure, and seemingly endless hot water.
Until today.
As youngest son, raised in an incessant string of down and out motel rooms, with a Jerk of a big brother like Dean, Sam had experienced more than his fair share of cold showers growing up. Dean had always spent ridiculous amounts of time in the bathroom, especially after he hit puberty, Sam suspected he was exercising his overactive libido, but really didn't want to ask.
Growing up, Dean seemed to think using up all the hot water was his god given birth right as eldest, he hadn't changed much, truth be told.
So yeah, the bunkers seemingly inexhaustible hot water was an asset, especially now they were getting older, aching muscles and bruises were less easy to shake off in your 30's.
However, being cold was also something he found hard to tolerate these days for other reasons.
The Letter's shower rooms were something Sam had come to quietly treasure.
Sam wasn't sure about the machinery that powered the bunker. It wasn't like there were utility bills, they'd worked out from cursory investigation and pawing through the records that power and water were piggybacked out of the old WPA power plant built along the river, everything appeared pretty automatic, and would probably keep running til the next apocalypse. The problem was probably inside the bunker somewhere. After Abbadon murdered all The Men of Letters, the place hadn't exactly been getting any maintenance.
On the hunt for an explanation for his icy shower, Sam was heading for the stairs to the lower levels, when he heard a hoarse cry from Kevin's room.
Nightmare?
Sam knew nightmares well.
Sometimes, he'd contemplated, on nights and mornings when he woke dry mouthed and heaving chested, that nightmares were the only real payment you could expect for trying to save the world.
The least he could do was wake the kid up.
He pushed open the door, found Kevin slumped at the desk, blinking eyes still heavy with sleep, he'd probably passed out translating again, obviously scared himself awake.
"Hey, you okay?… I heard." Sam stopped himself, not wanting to embarrass the boy.
"Ah, yeah. Just a bad dream…"
Sam nodded, watching Kevin fumble for his coffee cup, take a mouthful and gag.
Did the kid even drink coffee before all this?
Mrs Tran had struck him as one of those organic Mom's, the ones that prohibited sugar, caffeine and artificial food additives; had a color coded calendar in the kitchen planning out all of Kevin's extra curricular activities, so she could be sure not to miss any of them.
A far cry from Sam's own pre-college experience, sneaking around behind Dad's and Dean's backs, (well mostly Dean's 'cause Dad was never there.) Pitch battles over 'pointless bullshit school activities,' trying to secretly write entry essays and cram for SAT's by torchlight under blankets or in the back of a moving car…
Yet now Kevin was a college drop out, as addicted to coffee as the rest of them.
"Nothing like stale, cold, coffee after waking up from a nightmare. Let me get you a fresh cup." He offered, watching Kevin throw back some of those pills Dean had gotten him.
Of course, Kevin may have just as easily been one of those kids, pushed ruthlessly by a load of parental vicarious aspirations, popping pills just to keep up with Mommy's unreasonable expectations.
If there was one thing Sam knew from the life he'd lived, a family's outward appearance often hid something totally different behind closed doors.
Kevin hadn't quibbled at all when Dean had given him the pills.
Still, those things couldn't be good for him, especially on an empty stomach.
"And maybe some food too?" He offered. "Think we need to do a food run, but I'm sure I can scare something up…"
Kevin's eyes were on the tablet again, dismissing Sam as unimportant.
He remembered doing the same thing to Dean about that age, the focus of youth and desperation to escape a life caging him in.
He sighed and ran a hand through his greasy hair again, thinking he should probably say something more, let Kevin know he wasn't alone, Dean would have…
"What was the dream about?" he asked.
Kevin flinched and glared up at him, his slanted eyes underlined in ashy shadows.
"Crowley, I dreamed about Crowley! Are you satisfied? I dreamed he was torturing me again!"
That was one way Kevin differed from them, if you asked a Winchester about his nightmares he'd brush you off, pretend it was fine, or that he didn't remember. Kevin was just that much more open.
"Kevin…" he began, suddenly uncertain what he should say. Sam might have far too much experience with torture and nightmares himself, but he'd yet to discover a useful way to negate their effects.
"What Sam? Are you going to tell me I'm safe? That he can't hurt me anymore?
Seriously?!"
Sam swallowed and stepped back, startled by the boy's vitriol.
"He's just downstairs. Is it any wonder I'm having nightmares?" Kevin demanded, blinking exhausted red rimmed eyes at him.
What was he supposed to say?
He hated Crowley!
So many people had died because of that bastard.
Just to start off, he'd led them to believe the Colt could kill Lucifer. Jo and Ellen died because of that pointless mission.
Then, Crowley had coerced Cas into opening purgatory, was to blame for the Leviathans escaping, everything those monsters had done. From Cas' actions, when he'd been warped into thinking he was some kind of new god; to their Leviathan doubles turning them into wanted men, massacring people whilst wearing their faces live… to Dick Roman shooting Bobby. All that led back to Crowley's door.
Then Crowley had murdered all those people they'd saved after Jess burned.
Sarah Blake choked to death right in front of him, killed by a hex bag hidden in the phone, like it was all some kind of sick chess game.
Sarah had had a life, a husband, she had been a mother! A good woman, someone Sam could have imagined having a life with if things had been different.
Crowley had nearly murdered Jody to. Asked her out on a date, wined and dined her, screwed with her head, for the fun of it. Left her coughing up blood. Crowley was a monster! It wasn't like he wanted to have Crowley under their roof or wanted Kevin to relive what the Demon King had done to him.
Sam saw a lot of himself in Kevin; they had both been smart, on track for a bright future; until the supernatural world broke their lives apart and destroyed everything. Both had watched the girl they loved killed by a demon.
Sam felt he had let Kevin down more than anyone else, apart from Dean; left him in Crowley's hands to be tortured after Dean and Cas disappeared killing Dick Roman. Kevin would be living a normal life if the Leviathan had stayed in Purgatory.
Sam was ashamed that he'd left Kevin in Crowley's hands after everything went down at Roman Enterprises, left Dean in Purgatory! That was another thing he had to blame Crowley for; not searching for Dean when he was in purgatory.
When he'd tried summoning the demon, frantic to make a deal and save his brother from Hell, Crowley had said Dean wasn't in Hell, couldn't deal.
Sam had assumed his brother was dead, but safe in heaven, at peace. He couldn't take heaven from Dean.
Instead Dean had been living in some kind of eternal Monster fight club all that time.
Crowley hadn't lied, but he hadn't told the truth either, he must have known where Dean and Cas ended up.
Yeah, okay, none of that excused him for not searching for Kevin, leaving him in Crowley's slimy clutches all that time, but Sam had been a complete wreck.
Alone, out of ideas, spun out and fighting the urge to just eat his gun, join his brother. Except he wasn't sure if he would go to Heaven, he'd probably have landed in Hell.
Back then, he'd hardly known Kevin, and yeah, he was mostly just dead tired of it all, having to always be responsible for saving everyone else.
He'd done what he'd always done, he ran away and hid his head in the sand. Now Sam hated himself for that weakness, that selfishness. Suspected Kevin and Dean probably did to.
Maybe if Crowley hadn't taken Kevin, things might have gone differently, he'd have had some sort of anchor.
Instead he'd drifted, shellshocked, at a loss on what to do. Drifted mindlessly until he hit a dog, then Riot and Amelia had become his anchor. Until that became a bust too, Amelia's husband, a war vet, turned out not to be dead, after all… he came home… so Sam had bowed out, left her to the better man.
When the time came to kill Crowley, he'd celebrate the demon's death. But Dean was right; killing him straight out would be stupid, a lost opportunity.
Sam blinked back at the prophet; aware he hadn't responded for far too long.
"Kevin— it's the safest place we have to keep him." He said apologetically looking down at his hands, stared at the hand he'd cut open for that final trial, attempting to make Crowley human.
"Yeah, I know…" Kevin replied sullenly, and Sam hated how defeated the kid sounded. "I better get back to work… try find a way to put the angels back where they belong…"
He pulled on his headphones and picked up the angel tablet.
"Yeah…" Sam agreed, turned away, left Kevin to it.
Sam made his way from Kevin's room to the kitchen, all the more aware of how many ways he'd let Kevin down.
He should have finished the job, made Crowley human, closed the gates of Hell. Maybe a human Crowley would have spilled the information they wanted willingly.
Or was all that talk, asking about looking for forgiveness, in the church, just another ruse.
And maybe Dean had been wrong, maybe Naomi had lied, maybe the trials wouldn't have killed him.
Even if it were true and the trials were a death sentence, surely his death would have been a small price to pay to shut the gates of Hell. Plenty of good, innocent people had died for less.
The kitchen was empty, Sam dropped Kevin's cup into the sink with the others and ran the water for a bit to spare himself scrubbing them out later. After a few moments, steam bloomed up from the flow coming out of the faucet. Sam stared at it and frowned. Did the showers run on a different system?
He shrugged to himself, and opened the morgue style refrigerator, peering in.
There wasn't much in there, leftover fried rice and enchiladas which had to be weeks old, half a loaf of bread, a few stray slices of cheese and dried out looking deli meat, butter, a couple of apples that were beginning to go pruny and the carton of organic blueberry yogurt he'd picked up on a whim on the drive home.
Yeah, a food run was long overdue!
He pulled out the bread, thinking to make Kevin a sandwich; only to discover on closer inspection that spots of green mould were beginning to grow on it, he pulled out the carton of yogurt instead, thinking granola and yogurt might work, only to discover his yogurt carton was empty.
A whiff of gun oil and a subtle change in the air told him Dean was standing in the doorway behind him.
He dropped the carton into the trash with a huff of annoyance and turned.
"How many times do I have to tell you Dean, if you finish something, toss it in the trash!" He muttered.
Dean blinked innocent green eyes at him, "Why blame me Sammy?" He asked looking mortally offended, "I've told you before, that organic shit is probably chock-full of hippy l-o-v-e, you know, like the coleslaw from KFC." He shuddered theatrically, "give me food testing, and food additives any day, it's what built this country, Sam."
"Seriously Dean? How can you even say that after the whole deal with Dick Roman? And I know with our job it's hard to get this, but there is such a thing as a bullshit urban legend. Besides who else am I gonna blame, this place doesn't have a skivey motel manager, and if you weren't aware, we're the only cleaners round here."
"Maybe it was Kevin…"
"Yeah," Sam snorted in derision, "Kevin barely leaves his room. Which reminds me we need to do a run, we're out of food and Kevin should at least be eating something, if he's gonna keep popping those pills you gave him."
They'd argued about the pills before, he'd been over-ruled on the topic by both Dean and Kevin, but he'd be damned if he was going to let the kid wind up back in the state he'd been in on Garth's boat.
Dean opened the refrigerator and peered in, "we have food," he said.
"The bread's mouldy Dean."
Dean hummed in derision, grabbed out the loaf of bread the cheese and the deli meat. Sniffed at the meat suspiciously, gagged and tossed it in the trash; raising an eyebrow, that asked silently if Sam had seen that? He, Dean Winchester had just tossed something in the trash, like his bitch of a brother had been harping on about.
Dean banged the cast iron skillet onto the element, switched it on. Hacked off the end of the loaf, removing the lion's share of green. Cut two slices and pared off the remaining bits of mould, lathered the bread liberally with butter, slapped the cheese between it and tossed the lot into the frying pan.
"Grilled cheese, food of champions… an' prophets. Might as well give the kid an apple while you're at it, vitamins and all that shit, don't want him getting scurvy."
Sam sighed and pulled out the bag with the two lone apples, chose the least worse-for-wear one for Kevin and bit into the other.
"Hot-water in the shower room's off," he informed his brother, between bites of rubbery apple, it didn't seem to have much in the way of flavour, but he guessed that was to be expected after the trials.
Dean grunted acknowledgment.
"Hot waters working here though." He leaned against the countertop watching Dean flip the sandwich.
"Weird, water's all on the same system. Maybe you were having one of those hot flushes' you chicks get at a certain age Sam, hear they're a real pain in the ass."
"Haha," Sam rolled his eyes, "you'd know more about being a certain age than me man."
He turned away and filled three fresh cups with coffee from the pot. Placed one on the counter by his brothers elbow and received a nod of thanks in return. "Seriously though, it was like ice."
"I'll look at it before the food run," Dean flipped the toasted cheese onto a plate with a flourish. Then grabbed out the carton of fried rice from the fridge, sniffed, took a cautious mouthful, nodded to himself and dumped it into the skillet to heat through. "You want some?" He asked, a few grains of rice flew from his mouth with the offer.
Sam held up his half-eaten apple in defence. "Nah, I'm good, that stuffs pretty old, Dean. You sure you should be…"
"What don't kill you, makes you stronger." Dean tossed him a wink and Sam shook his head in despair as he left the kitchen with Kevin's food. He'd remind Dean of that, if he ended up hugging the toilet bowl in a few hours, but he probably wouldn't. One of life's many injustices was Dean's cast iron stomach.