Unseen, unheard

Chapter 7

'Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd'

Hamlet, William Shakespeare.

Eventually, they gave up their questions. Sam heard none of them, and his only response was to ask earnestly, over and over again, 'Will he be ok?' After the sixth or seventh attempt to work out what happened, the flustered medics resigned themselves to the fact that he was too distracted to answer. The only conclusion they could come to was that he was suffering from severe shock, but their curiosity was unsatisfied, and a few looked suspiciously at Sam out of the corners of their eyes, wondering if guilt might have something to do with the almost catatonic state he had fallen into. The bizarre, disturbing nature of Dean's injuries hadn't escaped their notice, either. In the confined space offered by the ambulance, they tried their best to maintain a safe distance from Sam.

For his part, Sam noticed none of this. He was still locked inside his own head, his vision filled with the luminous scarlet words daubed on his brothers chest, regardless of the direction his head was facing. His mind, inconveniently and irritatingly, was repeating an unwelcome snatch of Shakespeare's Hamlet, learned and forgotten in High School and now echoing loudly in his ears when they were the last words he wanted to hear.

Another part of his mind, which was still, largely, rational, was combating the endless cycle of unbearable guilt with the repeated mantra that Dean would be ok. Every time he said it to himself, he believed it less. The more he tried to convince himself, the more he failed, but he felt that it was a belief he couldn't just let go of. It was the only link remaining to a reality that once was. If Dean was ok, then he knew what happened next. Hospital bills, evading payment, a long period of recovery, and having to wrestle with Dean, possibly physically, to make sure he took it easy and remembered his medication. It wasn't exactly an attractive routine, but it was a familiar one, and it was idyllic when compared to the alternative.

The alternative was a thought he didn't want to admit, but somehow it crept uninvited into his consciousness and nagged at him, refusing to be ignored. If Dean wasn't ok, then what happened? He tried to imagine a future, but his imagination's picture could produce only a black hole. Darkness, oblivion, and uncertainty. Would he go back to school? No, he wouldn't, it would be like a betrayal of Dean's memory: leaving him behind when he was too silent and dead to object. He tried to imagine himself hunting alone, and saw himself defeated at the first hurdle, with no-one to watch his back. He tried to imagine himself re-teaming with Dad, and saw them arguing each other to death within days, no reliable presence between them to act the voice of reason. Whatever he thought of, he kept returning to the black hole. After Dean, there was nothing.

Blinking, he focused his eyes with a great effort, reminding himself sternly that Dean was alive, that he didn't, wouldn't believe that he was going to die. It just wasn't an option.

Especially when it's my fault, said the unhelpful voice. He pushed it away, and the mental act was accompanied by a violent gesture which added to the alarmed looks of the medics who sat around him in the ambulance.

He fixed his eyes on Dean's face, trying not to see the distressing pallor of his skin or the vivid spot of crimson by his lip. He concentrated instead on the familiar, reassuring lines of his face: the strong cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the eye sockets and closed lids, the eyelashes resting against the skin of his cheek. Shapes which had been a comfort to him since he'd been old enough to recognise them, since he's first laid eyes on the small boy holding him and, somehow, realised, this is my brother.

But the face was too still, too pale, and too damaged, and these things permeated through the reassuring image until it dissolved. This was Dean, but he couldn't help, now. He couldn't fix this, couldn't save Sam. Not this time.

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When they reached the hospital, Sam had regained the power of speech, but his eyes were still unfocused. A young nurse was entrusted with the task of coaxing a name and other details out of the frightened young man, and she eventually concluded that the patient's name was Dean Simmons, that the distraught relative was his brother, and that whatever had happened, Sam didn't want to tell her about it. The story he concocted was hesitant, vague and full of holes. She guessed that even when he was more coherent, Sam lacked the conviction, confidence and creativity to be an effective liar.

'Thank you,' she said quietly, realising that she wouldn't get anything else out of him until he knew his brother would be alright. And that's debateable. She slipped out of the room discreetly, leaving Sam sitting on a plastic chair, slumped forward, with his head in his hands, unmoving. The waiting room was deserted, otherwise. It wasn't a busy hospital, especially not so late at night.

The nurse couldn't have known, but the last thing Sam wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. His own mind attacked him more cruelly than any other judge could, reminding him mercilessly, over and over, over again, that he had taken up a knife, in his sleep, and used it against his brother. The message itself, apart from its painful irony, was unimportant, as far as he was concerned. He didn't care whose last words they had been, who had been taken out by the hand of this mysterious demon. If Dean didn't live, he couldn't care who else died. The thought made him shiver: he didn't want to be this person, who cared only for himself. But it was true: he would kill a thousand Louises, a thousand Philips, to save Dean.

He squirmed in his seat, trying to escape the accusations of his mind. He wished he could be sedated; anything just to stop thinking. When the door opened with an apologetic click, he was relieved. For once, he was eager to make small talk. He would discuss the weather with some anxious relative; it would provide an escape from silence and loneliness, and from his own company.

'Sam?' said a hesitant voice. 'It is Sam, right? I asked reception…'

Sam looked up, and met the eyes of a skinny kid with a narrow face and a black t-shirt, who was watching him with wide, concerned eyes.

'Hey…' he said, recognition kicking in slowly. 'We thought you'd been killed. You went missing…'

'Yeah…' the kid replies, looking sheepish. 'I just… I live in an institution. The woman who runs it is really nice, but still, sometimes I just need to get away for a while.'

Sam half-smiled in sympathy. People said that when you were depressed, it helped to find someone worse off then you. He didn't feel better exactly, but… less bad. He was chokingly afraid of losing Dean, but this kid had never had a Dean, or anyone. That would be worse, surely?

'I hope you weren't too worried about me,' muttered the kid, with a nervous laugh, shooting an embarrassed glance at Sam.

'No, it's ok,' Sam replied distractedly.

'I'm Michael,' offered the skinny teen, after a pause, sitting down opposite Sam. Sam was grateful that Michael hadn't interpreted his silence as a signal that he wanted to be alone: he wanted to talk, to keep his accusing mind quiet, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

'Hey, Michael,' Sam replied, dully. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. 'Sorry… I just… my brother's… sick.'

'Yeah, I saw them bring him in. I was passing. Thought you might… want to talk…,' he paused, thoughtfully. 'I mean, if you don't, I totally understand. I just thought… if I had a brother, and he was hurt… I'd want to… have someone to talk to. Take my mind off… everything.'

Sam looked up, surprised by the accurate insight. 'Thanks,' he said, hoarsely. He attempted a smile, but could manage only a tightening of lips which left his eyes stinging with misery.

'So… actually, I wanted to talk to you anyway. You see… I have these… weird abilities. I get dreams and stuff. Sometimes even when I'm awake… like, a headache, and then I see something. And then, it happens. It's been freaking me out.' Michael paused, uncertain, frightened eyes seeking guidance in Sam, appealing to him for help. Sam was lost for words. 'I'm really sorry, we don't have to talk about it. It's not a good time…'

'No, it's fine,' Sam replied quickly. He didn't want to be left alone, and, despite everything that was happening, his interest was peaked. 'I just… Michael, why are you telling me?'

'Because… you're going to thinks I'm nuts. But, when you arrived in town, I dreamed of you. Before I even met you. But not... doing anything in particular. Usually my… visions are… violent. Like they have a purpose. With you, I just… saw you. Am I freaking you out? I think there's a connection… I wondered… please don't think I'm insane… if you ever get… freaky dreams, or anything like that…'

Sam stared at him incredulously, wide eyed. 'Yeah,' he breathed, eventually. 'I do. It's been going on for… 8, 9 months now. That's… really weird…' he finished, lamely, still studying Michael's concerned face carefully. Now that it was mentioned, Michael did seem familiar. Ever since he'd arrived in this town, his visions had been different: he hadn't remembered them afterwards. It had to be the effect of another psychic so close by. And, looking at the teen opposite him, he felt the same conviction that he recognised him as he had experienced when faced with Louise's body. Meeting someone else like him was liberating, refreshing. He felt an instant sense of kinship with Michael: finally, another freak. He wasn't alone. Then, he remembered Michael saying that he lived in an institution, and every muscle in his body seemed to tense simultaneously in agonizing anticipation.

'Michael… you said you lived in an institution. I'm really sorry to ask, but… what happened to your parents?'

Michael looked at him, meeting his eyes directly, and holding his gaze unblinking. 'They were killed, in a fire, when I was a baby,' he replied, in a voice which was quiet and calm, but trembling with suppressed emotion.

'Jesus Christ…' Sam choked, raising cold fingers to his face and releasing a long, shaky breath. 'Oh, my God. My God…'

'What?'

'My mother was killed, in a fire, when I was six months old. It was… there's…' He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the explanation. 'Now, you're going to think I'm crazy…' he warned, and then he began the story. From the beginning: the demon, his mother's death, Dad's crusade, leaving for college, Jess' death and starting the whole hunting thing up again with Dean. Even the recent dreams and the messages on the wall, the tree, the bed sheet. Even, because he was on a roll, because it was helping to get everything out, because he trusted Michael instinctively due to their shared abilities, he even told the truth about what had happened with Dean, and his fears that it had been his own work. Before he knew it, he had told everything, and his voice had given out and broken. He had admitted that he was afraid he had killed his brother, and his strength had failed. He choked on a sob, and scrubbed his hands forcefully through his hair, slumping forward over his knees so that his bowed head shadowed the anguish on his face.

Michael listened with wide eyed fascination and the sympathy of one who has suffered similarly. He said nothing, but nodded, and motioned for Sam to continue every time he faltered. He was a good listener, and he made no comment when his informant eventually broke down.

Eventually, Sam lifted his head, and gathered the frayed ends of his sanity, turning back to Michael. 'Sorry,' he croaked. 'I guess I got a little carried away. Guess I needed to tell someone…'

'Hey, it's ok. It was really interesting… Do you think the same thing killed my parents, then?' he asked, with genuine curiosity.

'I would… I think so. Probably. I'm sorry… I know, it's a lot to take in.'

'No, I don't mind. Actually… I feel like it explains a lot. Does that make sense?'

Sam frowned at him for a moment, then nodded. 'Yeah, it does. I understand.'

Glancing up, Sam noticed that a white coat was approaching the door of the waiting room, and he inhaled sharply, panicking.

'You ok?' Michael asked.

Sam grunted unintelligibly in reply, staring at the approaching doctor. Michael followed his gaze.

'I'm not sure if I can face it,' Sam admitted. 'If it's bad news… I honestly don't know what I'd do…'

'Do you want me to find out for you?' Michael offered. 'I don't mind, it's fine,' he added, standing up quickly when Sam hesitated.

He slipped quickly out of the door and intercepted the doctor before he could reach out for the handle. Sam saw him, through the blinds, wave a hand as he made some explanation, then gesture to the doctor that they moved away. Sam was grateful for that: he wasn't ready to know, yet, he didn't want to watch their facial expressions and frantically try to guess whether the news was good or bad.

He tried to prepare himself for the revelation, whatever it turned out to be. Again, he found himself staring into the black hole that was life without Dean. It formed itself, this time, into an image of Michael. He imagined himself clinging to the high schooler like a limpet, afraid of returning to his father or hunting alone, but sticking, instead, with someone who was, at least, similar to him in one essential way.

Shaking away the uncertain future, he tried to calm himself by taking several deep breaths. Whatever he tried, the tension wouldn't leave his body, and he could feel every muscle trembling convulsively, frozen in anticipation, and, he realised, in fear. Nothing in eighteen years of training could prepare him for a moment like this.

The door opened.

Michael's face, carefully schooled to impassivity, appeared around the frame. He took a deep breath, and then came straight out with it, humanely sparing Sam of any further waiting.

'I'm so sorry, Sam…'

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