But truth be told...I'd rather be in a place where...I don't have to take the shallow breaths of desperation. ― Gary Haugen
So, we drive away from the Happy Daze (rolling my eyes) Nursing Home, leaving Donnie with his jello, and the fate of all up & coming prophets a little less grisly. Cas is in the back seat. Sam is in the front seat, still shaky, still miserable, still sniffling those wet sniffles that mean he's still trying to pull himself back in from his – his moment, or whatever, back there.
He tucked the remains of the six pack between us when he got into the car but I don't want to pull over to put them into the cooler or even just pass them back to Cas to ask him to set them out of the way. Any words, any talking, any anything would be too much. I just want to drive, I just want to get us home.
Another sniffle or two from Sam and I pull my bandanna out and offer it to him. He probably has his own but he's not using it. I don't say anything, I don't look at him, I just hold it out to him. He doesn't say anything, only takes it with a shaky nod. He wipes his nose with the bandanna and wipes his eyes with his hand, he clears his throat and doesn't say anything.
He sniffles again and wipes his nose.
And we don't say anything.
Down the road somewhere, I don't know where, far enough from our 'discussion' that we need to stop for gas, I pull into a quick fill quickie mart. I get out to put the gas in and Sam's staring straight ahead, and when I've put the gas in and get back into the car, he's still staring straight ahead.
I drive but only far enough to park next to the store.
"C'mon," I tell Sam. "C'mon in, let's get something to eat. Cas? You want anything?"
He doesn't, I think maybe he knows this could turn out to be more than just a snack run. Sam looks at me, stares at me, a few seconds. He's probably going to say he's not hungry.
"C'mon with me," I coax and he eases out of the car, stiff almost, like he's suddenly arthritic or at the long end of bad beat down. He follows me up the few front steps to the quasi porch of the quasi log cabin storefront. The overhang is outlined with those long triangle plastic banner flags that snap in every whistling gust of air and even though there's other cars in the lot and lights are blazing from the store's windows, the place has a desolate feel that makes me tap Sam's arm to reassure us both that we're both still here.
He looks at my hand like I surprised him, then nods. We go inside.
The store is clean and organized and Sam follows me through cold drinks and packaged meals and junk food. He doesn't say what he wants and I don't ask him because he won't know because he'll think he's not hungry.
And maybe he's not hungry but food'll still do him good.
The kid at the cash register is brisk and in a couple of minutes we're out of the bright lights and sterile aisles and back on the dark porch with the snapping flags and whistling breeze and the rest of a long night of driving to get home.
"I'm sorry," I hear Sam say. He almost whispers it. We're at the top step and he's on my right, just behind me. He's got my bandanna in his hand, it's been in his hand the whole time in the car and the store and now he's looking at it. He's looking at it so hard he could be talking to it when he says again, "You know I'm sorry..."
"Sorry that you wanted to save my life?" I try for affection and forgiveness. Maybe some gratitude is in there, too. I'm stuck somewhere between relief that I'm not going in the ocean in that box, at least not yet, and fear of what happens if I don't. But I'm closer to relief.
"Sorry – sorry I couldn't find a better way to convince you. Sorry that I had to – had to – "
"Punch some sense into me?" I try for truth wrapped in humor and still Sam is making eye contact only with the bandanna.
"The thought of you trapped in that box, trapped for eternity, trapped for even just a -" He pushes each of the last few words out on a forced exhale. "I couldn't. I just couldn't do it."
"I know. I know you couldn't."
There was a time when I 'just couldn't' let Sam lock himself away, trapped in a box for all eternity with a rabid angel, only I did let him. I don't bring that up to him, standing on a dark porch on a breezy night years away from that terrible moment, but I remember how it felt and when I put my hand out this time, instead of a tap, I grip his arm, as much to ground myself as to get his complete attention.
"You did what you had to, how you had to. That's not anything to be sorry for. Okay? We're together. We're back in it together. You did that. You got it done, that's – that's what matters."
And he does look up at me. He looks at me with that pinched look of doubt, confusion, defiance, and questioning that he gets when thing are overwhelming and he's working overtime to get it all figured out.
There's gratitude, too, though. He's not one hundred percent past the anger and anguish that he threw against my jaw. And neither one of us will ever be past the fear of losing the other, some day, some way, some how.
But right here, right now, we're together. I'm here, right here, right now, with Sam.
And he's grateful.
"'Let's go home', right?" he asks.
"That's right, Sammy. Let's go home."
The End.