Warning: I change from past tense into present tense in the middle of this purpose. Call it creative license
Acknowledgements: Thank you Google and Wikipedia for teaching me the rudiments of the noble art of lock-picking. If you pride yourself on your lock-picking skills and cringe at my crude attempts to portray them…well, let me just say… crits are welcome. Thank you to my Beta HappyPancreas!
Chapter 10
Storm's Coming
That morning, 3:45 AM
Sam had run along the road, his mind racing in several different directions.
It was too late to go by her house and even if he did, once he saw her he wouldn't be able to leave. Still, there had to be a way to let her know that he wasn't leaving willingly.
He considered the park, but it would take too long and was poorly lit. As it was, he was taking a risk right now; as soon as Dean and his Dad realized he had taken off, they would come looking for him.
The school was close and, although it was not his first choice, it was convenient.
Within fifteen minutes, he had avoided the brightly lit front doors in favor of a seldom used maintenance door along the back walls of the school, near three large green garbage dumpsters. Breathing hard, sweat pooling between his shoulders, he rooted around in his pack and pulled out the small toolkit –a present from Bobby on his fifteenth birthday.
Opening the kit, he selected a small flashlight, a miniature torsion wrench and a half-diamond pick. The flashlight, once turned on, was held between his teeth and aimed at the door lock.
With well-practiced dexterity and coordination, he slid the torsion wrench into the lock, followed by the pick. He began the process of using the pick to manipulate the four pins inside the lock and used the torsion wrench to apply torque to the plug and hold the pins in place.
Although movies would have one believe otherwise, lock picking was not a process that could be rushed; Sam's movements were slow and methodical. When the pins were ready and the tumblers had fallen into place, he turned the wrench and the door knob rotated.
He gathered his kit into his back pack and he went in the school, his footsteps echoing throughout the hallway as he walked purposefully toward the library. Once he reached his destination, he sat in Giles' office, turned on the small desk light while he pulled some blank paper along with a few cards from his backpack and paused, unsure of how to begin.
What could he say?
The truth, he decided, was a good place to start.
When he was finished, he folded the paper and put it into the envelope.
He took out the last remaining postcard and printed Bobby's address on the back. Aware of the clock ticking down until his departure, the majority of postcards that he had purchased had been taken to the clearing a few days before. Though he hoped to persuade his father to let him stay, Sam wanted to be prepared in case he would not.
Next, he took out the latest book that Giles had loaned him (Origins –Book One: The Watcher) and put it under the envelope. Lying flat on the top of the shelf in front of him was the next book in the series, Origins – Book Two: The Slayer. He smiled as he was reminded of the old chicken and egg joke- What came first -The Watcher or The Slayer?
With a small twinge of guilt, Sam slid the book into his bag. It wasn't stealing, he reminded himself, Giles had already told Sam that any books he borrowed could be mailed back if needed.
At the door, he paused while he looked around the small office. The majority of his early mornings at the school had spent in this office or in the Library with Giles over the last month. Sam often talked about his family and their expectations. Giles would listen and then ask, "But what do you want to do Sam?"
On impulse, he sat down and wrote a second letter, this time to Giles.
He made one last stop in the school, slipping a folded piece of paper into Oz's locker. Then he left, through the same door he had arrived.
The lights in the motel room were still on and, as Sam walked up to the door, he hoped he could make them understand. Bracing himself, he opened the door and faced his father and his brother.
He hadn't said one word since they drove out of the parking lot in Sunnydale. What was the point? His father and Dean had made their opinions clear.
Sam was a kid.
He didn't know shit about crap.
It all boiled down to one simple fact… Sam had no say in this family.
Once he realized how futile it would be to argue, he stopped arguing. Too many emotions festered inside and if he spoke, he knew that every bitter thought he ever had would tumble out and he wouldn't be able to stop. Opting for total avoidance, he put on his headphones, inserted a CD (The Pixie's "Dolittle") and sat silently in the backseat, staring out the window, listening to Black Francis sing as the sun began its ascent and the sky lightened.
Each road marker was a visual reminder that the he was being carried further away from Sunnydale, from the first place he wanted to call home. Further away from ...her.
After fifty miles, he imagined different scenarios where he took a bus back to Sunnydale or hitchhiked. He knew he wouldn't do it ("We're a family, we stick together"), but it felt good to imagine he could.
After a hundred miles, just outside of Santa Clarita, they turned North on I-5. The car picked up speed and the Impala roared up the interstate. He wondered if she was awake.
After a hundred and fifty miles, he wondered if Giles had arrived at the library.
Did he find the note? The address?
After two hundred miles, they stopped to refuel about fifty miles south of Fresno. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, Sam left the car, ignored any attempts by his father or brother to get his attention and went into the Gas Station. In the doorway, he paused and scanned the interior (one attendant behind a plexiglass wall, one rear doorway to a back exit – there was always a back exit- two male and one female customers wandering around the interior).
In front of a large, square window, a rustic looking barrel was overflowing with slim, square cases and a sign which excitedly proclaimed "Soundtracks of the 70's!"
He sighed. Why did every gas station in the country have a fixation with the stylin' sounds of the seventies?
At least this one had CD's instead of 8-Tracks and cassettes. As he flipped through the CD's, he was surprised to find something he actually liked and plucked the case from the bin. Next, he went to look for some batteries. He selected the largest pack of Duracell AA's he could find-he didn't want to run out of batteries on the road.
Dean and his father walked into the station. Dean went straight for the candy aisle, tossing two large bags of peanut M&M's in to a small basket along with a bag of popped popcorn and then walked to the coolers to grab a soda. Catching Sam's eye, he shot a toothy grin toward the younger Winchester.
Sam looked away.
On the other side of the store, his father grabbed a couple of six packs of Miller from one of the refrigerators that lined the walls of the gas station.
A rack filled with a variety of postcards caught his eye and Sam walked over to it. One in particular stood out from the rest. The front showed a skull and crossbones symbol on top of a badge, with the words "Zombie Response Team (Fresno Division)" written around it.
For the first time since he had left Sunnydale, Sam smiled.
He pulled out one of the postcards as well as a few others from the display. On his way over to the cash register he picked up a couple of apples from a fruit basket and asked a store attendant if they had any stamps. The cashier rang up his total and Sam pulled out the last of his cash to pay.
A large calloused hand gently pushed Sam's hand to the side.
"I got this." His father said.
Sam shrugged, averted his gaze and stepped to the side. The cashier handed him his purchases and he walked out of the gas station and got into the backseat. The white plastic bag rustled as he pulled CD, removed the cellophane and inserted the CD into his Discman. He skipped over the first few songs until he found the song he wanted.
The sound of rain and thunder came through his headphones and Roger Daltry sang about finding spiritual redemption in the pouring rain.
His father and brother got into the car and the roared to life.
Sam closed his eyes.
Images, flickering through his mind, like snapshots...
They walk into the diner.
John and Dean sit side by side, backs to the wall
A waitress delivers food to a family of four- a mother, father with two children.
A toddler who keeps pointing out the window.
(Look)
lightning flashes across
the sky.
thunder rumbles, a loud continuous roll that seems to shake the diner
Someone yelps in the back
(Storms make him nervous)
A waitress points with a bottle of steak sauce.
"Storm's coming," she says.
(Look! Look!)
The trucker stands up
Bad Company's "Burning Sky" begins to play.
Dean and his father share an appreciative smile.
LOOK!
Two packages of Thousand Islands dressing…
A booming CRACK.
Glass shatters,
A woman wails.
Charlie? No. nonononononoooooooooooo
A whisper in his mind. "Embrace your gifts…"
His eyes opened.
Disorientated, his heart hammering in his chest, he looked around. Behind him, through the rear window, he could still make out the shape of the gas station. In the front seat, Dean was opening the bag of popcorn and dumping his M&M's inside.
Already, the images were fading from his mind.
What had he been thinking about? Sam felt it was something he should remember and looked through his window, searching the cloudless blue sky as if he expected to see the answer written across it.
Storm's coming, he thought then shook his head at the ridiculous thought. Tiredly, he rubbed his forehead. For some reason, the middle of his forehead felt sore…like someone had given him a hard poke.
Deciding he was imagining things, he rummaged through the bag and pulled out the Zombie postcard. He rooted around his backpack one handed for a pen and reset the song on his CD with the other. While The Who's "Love, Reign O'er Me" played, he put the Zombie postcard on his knee and began to write.
He ignored the apprehension twisting in his gut and the itch that was inching its way down his back.
Storm's coming…
After three hundred miles, they stopped at a rest stop on the outskirts of Yosemite National Park. It was a large rest stop and included a gas station/souvenir gift store. While his father topped off the fuel of the Impala, Sam dropped the postcards he had written into the mailbox and he wandered into the gift store, making a beeline for souvenir postcards.
He selected two and paid for them.
When he walked outside, he checked the sky again and frowned at the impulse.
There is no storm coming, he told himself.
It was a perfect spring day, but he wasn't reassured by the sight of cotton candy shaped-clouds stretched across the sky.
In fact, he was down-right uneasy.
This time, as the car sped along the highway, he stopped watching the road markers and began to watch the sky. By the time they stopped for a late lunch, the blue sky had flattened to a slate gray and the clouds no longer fluffy or white. Instead, they were a dark gray, heavy and low in the sky. They pulled up in front of a diner where, besides the Impala, there were only four other vehicles in the parking lot - a minivan , a Semi, a Jeep Wrangler and a motorcycle.
In front of the diner a sign proudly proclaimed it as the famous "Redwood Diner".
Why did it look so familiar?
Dean gestured toward the lone pecan tree that grew in front of the building, dotted with small buds on the tips of its branches and wondered aloud why it was called the Redwood Diner.
A light wind had picked up, making the branches dance.
They walk into the diner.
The three of them choose a booth in the back; John and Dean sit side by side, with their backs to the wall, so they have a clear view of everyone in the diner, Sam sits with his back to the room, humming softly along to the Kenny Roger's song coming from the jukebox.
"…know when to walk away, know when to run. You'd better count your money…"
Sam looks around at the occupants of the diner taking in the lone trucker who sits on a stool at the counter and the waitress delivering food to a family of four in one sweeping glance. One member of the family is a toddler who slips out of the booth seat and crawls under the table.
They look at the menu until the waitress arrives at their table; John orders the steak and eggs, Dean a Cheeseburger with fries and they look expectantly at Sam.
"I'm not hungry," he mumbles and his father gives a resigned sigh and tells the waitress to bring a large house salad for him, in case he changes his mind.
Sam feels the itch on the back of his neck.
"Look!"
Sam whips his head around. The toddler has moved away from the booth and is standing in front of a large picture window as lightning flashes across the sky. His father and Dean watch him inquiringly. Sam tries to see out of the window, but his position makes it difficult.
So familiar. This is so familiar. He thinks uneasily.
The child is excited. The wind has picked up and it is moving the branches of the pecan tree.
"Charlie, sit down baby." The mother says, "You need to eat."
She is out of her seat and she swings him up and into the cradle of her arms. The little boy giggles, wraps his hands around his mother's neck and gives her a loud, sloppy kiss then playfully pats her face.
She puts him down in the booth and the young child immediately slides under the booth and goes to the opposite side, where his father sits.
"Are you sitting with me now, Tiger?" the father asks as he pulls the boy up and sits him beside him on the booth. In a practiced motion, the parents switch plates; the mother takes over feeding the baby and the father puts a plate in front of the toddler then ruffles his hair.
It's nothing he tells himself.
Sam can hear the family in the booth talking, the happy giggles as the father tickles his young son affectionately and seeing the child sitting placidly beside his father calms Sam a little.
Until thunder rumbles outside and Sam's head begins to throb.
The waitress returns to the table, expertly balancing the trio of plates in one hand and a bottle of steak sauce with the other. She points toward the window with a bottle of steak sauce.
"Storm's coming," she says.
Sweat beads on Sam's lip and her voice sounds like it is coming from a distance.
Something is going to happen. Something is going to happen.
The thought echoes in his head.
Lightning flashes in the sky. Most heads in the diner turn and look out the window. Almost immediately, thunder rumbles in loud continuous roll that seems to shake the diner. A yelp comes from the kitchen behind the counter and the waitress sighs.
"Frank's gone and burned himself again!" She looks at them sadly, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Poor guy lost his family in a tornado down in Alabama a few years ago. It was a real shame. Storms make him nervous." She tuts and walks toward the back.
Storms make him nervous...the thought echoes in his head.
Again, Sam looks at the family behind him.
With a clatter of utensils, little Charlie has slid off the seat, under the table and is standing in front of the large window with a big grin on his face as he practically vibrates with excitement.
"Look. Look." He is pointing out the window again, rising up and down on the balls of his feet, enthralled with the sight of the darkening sky and the spastic jerking the branches of nearby trees.
Dean gives the kid an annoyed look.
"Somebody needs to make that kid sit down." He mutters quietly.
"Charlie, come here, son." The boy smiles sweetly at his father and bounces back to him.
Rain begins to hammer on the roof of the diner. The trucker stands up and walks back to the jukebox and feeds a few quarters into it. When the first chords of Bad Company's "Burning Sky" begins to play, Dean and his father share an appreciative smile.
Sam feels like he is going to throw up.
"What kind of dressing do you want, hon? We have Ranch and Thousand Islands – our morning delivery didn't come this morning, so it's all we got." The waitress smiles, apologetically.
Sam tells her ranch and she returns a minute later.
"Oops, I lied. Seems all we have left is Thousand Island. Sorry, hon." She lays two pouches of dressing on the table.
Panic over comes Sam.
Images, flicker, like snap shots.
John and Dean sit side by side, with their backs to the wall; the waitress delivers food to a family of four; a toddler pointing out the window; (Look); lightning flashes, thunder rumbles; "Storms make him nervous"; "Storm's coming,"; "Look! Look!"; Bad Company's "Burning Sky" begins to play; "LOOK"; Two packages of Thousand Islands dressing; A booming CRACK; Glass shatters, A woman wails; Charlie? No. nonononononoooooooooooo
And finally, a very clear image of the little boy, covered with shards of broken glass, his little body bloody and lifeless.
The kid is up again, pointing out the window. "LOOK!"
Suddenly, Sam knows what to do.
No one looked at the little boy, the diner's guests and employees now used to kid's excitement over the storm but there are a few mumbled comments when the lightning and thunder flash and roll simultaneously.
With a speed that had been drilled into him over the years, Sam jumped up out of their booth and sprinted as fast as he could. Outside, a loud CRACK was heard just before a tree limb was propelled through the window.
Someone screamed, a shrill cry that bounced off the walls and made his ears ring then a woman's voice whispered fearfully.
"Charlie? Charlie?"
Frozen with horror, everyone in the diner stared at the tree branch that had powered through the window, where the toddler had stood only moments before, and swiveled to Sam and the young toddler he sheltered with his body.
"He's okay. He's okay." Sam repeated softly, but hardly heard his own words; the pain in his head so sharp it eclipsed most other sound.
The next few minutes passed in a blur, Charlie whisked into his mother's arms and Sam became the object of everyone's attention, who exclaimed (loudly) with excitement over his quick reflexes.
The dimness of the interior of the restaurant caused by a power outage that must have happened during the crack of lightning did nothing to lessen the pain in his head. In an attempt to hold back a moan, Sam clenched his fist, a movement caught by his brother's sharp gaze and relayed in a shared look between his father and brother.
Brusquely, Dean moved the diners away while his father carelessly tossed money on their table and, in one coordinated effort, they propped Sam between them as they left.
Winchester's always know when it is time to go.
Back in the car, his headache still a painful throb and slumped in the backseat, Sam tried to concentrate enough to focus on the questions from the front seat.
"I don't know. I just had a bad feeling." Sam responded tiredly.
I think I saw it happen...impossible. Right? Impossible.
Sam missed the look that passed between the other hunters, too grateful for the reprieve. His eyes closed, lying across the length the leather seat, Sam tuned out the quiet back and forth conversation between his father and brother.
"I feel cold. I wish she..." the thought remained unfinished as sleep claimed him and the pain dulled.
In Northern Nevada, Sam woke to find that he had slept through dinner, his headache was gone and his stomach rumbled loudly on the outskirts of the town. Sam realized he was ravenous.
They pulled into a motel parking lot with a Denny's across the street, and, as his father booked the room, they each grabbed a duffel. This would be just a quick layover, only essentials were needed and everything else remained in the vehicles.
First rights to the shower (and the majority of the hot water) were claimed by an unapologetic Dean, who had brushed by Sam in the race to get to the bathroom first.
"Jerk," Sam muttered purely on principal since his words lacked any heat.
"Bitch." Dean fired back over his shoulder with a roguish smirk.
Sam's lips twitched at the exchange and Dean grinned at the first sign since Sunnydale that his brother acknowledged his presence.
As soon as the door closed, Sam's faint good-humor vanished.
His bitterness and resentment weren't as bright and sharp as they were that morning, but they were still there.
"I know you are mad, Sam." His father paused, waiting to see if Sam was going to explode at him. When he remained quiet, his father continued. "Right or wrong -I just did what I thought was best."
He walked up behind Sam and put a hand on his shoulder.
In a flash, a forgotten memory surfaced and Sam remembered...
…he was about three, maybe four years old. He had woken up in his bed, screaming and unable to remember what the dream was about. His father came running into the room and flipped on the light.
"What happened? What's wrong Sammy?" John's eyes searched around the room.
He moved around the room, not waiting for an answer, checked the window to make sure it was secure and peered at the thick unbroken line of salt in front. He looked over at Sam and saw his panicked, tearful face. Immediately, he went to the bed and pulled Sam into a hug. Sobs shook his small frame, he trembled with fear and words tumbled out incoherently.
Dean came into the room. They were staying at someone's house and Sam had never slept alone before. Rubbing his eyes, Dean climbed on Sam's bed.
"I'm here, Sammy." Dean told him. He pulled Sam back down on the bed and Sam began to calm down. His father stood up and went to shut off the light. He stepped out of the room -
-only to have Sam fly towards him. Sam wrapped his arms around his dad's legs, pleading with him to stay, stay, please daddy, no no no.
It took an hour to calm Sam down.
The youngest Winchester was so distressed, John had to pick him up and carry him downstairs with him as he made a call to his friend. He told them he couldn't go on the hunt with them after all, his son needed him.
As he heard the words, Sam wrapped his arms around his father in relief. His father carried him back up the stairs and put him back on the bed, Dean on one side of Sam, and he on the other.
Sam whimpered and rubbed his head.
"Hurts." he whispered. Then his little body shivered and he snuggled into his father's arms. "Cold." he whispered again.
John toed off his boots and pulled the blanket over the three of them. Sam locked his arms around his father's body and fell into a deep sleep. His son's hands and arms felt like ice.
Sam didn't know that for hours, John lay awake. Just before dawn he dozed, eyes always open at the smallest sound.
Sam never knew that the next day, John heard that two of hunter friends had died in an explosion. It could have been him, if he had gone along.
Sam knew his father always placed their safety first. He might go away for a few days, but he drilled safety and common sense into his boys. When they were younger, they were left in the care of friends or people who he had saved or owed him favors if John had to go away. When he felt he was old enough, Dean begged for John to let them stay by themselves.
"I am too old for a babysitter! I can take care of Sammy better than anyone." he had protested until John finally relented. Rules were established.
He would call twice a day, at five on the dot - no earlier, no later. They had better answer the phone. If he didn't call, they needed to call Bobby.
They could leave the motel, but only together. Sam could not walk to and from the motel alone.
Never take the same way to and from school. John always bought a map when they arrived. He tried to find the closest motel to the schools. He and Dean would look over the map and draw out various routes.
Trust no one.
Both boys knew how to handle guns. When John had free time, he would take them to somewhere to practice.
Always salt the room. Before Sam knew the truth about monsters and demons, he thought everyone salted their windows and doorways.
Their first night alone, Dean barely slept. He would wake up and check the windows and doors. He checked the shotgun. He wasn't anxious, but determined to prove to his father that he could be trusted. Sam slept as poorly as his brother, but pretended to sleep all the same. He didn't want Dean to think that Sam didn't trust him to keep them safe.
Sam felt his father's large, calloused hand on his shoulder. That hand had never been raised to him in anger. For a moment, he leaned toward his father. His father's words played again in Sam's mind.
Right or wrong -I just did what I thought was best.
"I know." Sam said quietly. For a minute the pair stood still, Sam not seeing the relief that crossed his father's face or the sheen of moisture that his father rapidly blinked away.
Later, Dean came out of the shower and Sam walked in. He stripped down, stepped into the lukewarm spray of the shower and used the fragrance-free glycerin soap they always brought with them. When he was finished, he dried off and dressed in clean clothes then left the bathroom.
Only Dean remained, their father nowhere in sight.
Wordlessly, Dean stood up, fully dressed and car keys in hand.
"Going out to make some money, see you when I get back. Since you didn't eat, Dad thought you might be hungry so he left a twenty." Dean tilted his head at the top of the dresser and, as he passed by Sam, smacked his hand on the back of the head as he walked by.
"Jerk." Sam muttered, rubbing the back of his head.
"Pussy." His brother snarked as he opened the front door. Sam bit back a laugh.
He grabbed a room key, the money and looked around for his back pack, which was hanging in the closet. He opened the top, pulled out his disk man and searched the various drawers in the motel room looking for stationary until found a few pages in the desk, next to a bible. Sam headed out the door and across the street to Denny's.
The hostess showed him to a table, took his drink order and informed him that his server would be right with him. While he waited, he stared at the paper on the table and thought of what he wanted to write.
The waitress, a titian haired matron with large hoop earrings and penciled eyebrows, brought him coffee. When he rattled off his order without even opening a menu, she asked when the other members of his party would be joining them and raised an eyebrow when he said he would be dining alone.
"Okay Sugar, so you want a large grilled chicken salad with ranch dressing, the grand slam breakfast with extra sausage AND two slices of pie?"
Sam nodded.
"Oh - can I have the pie to go?" he asked.
She nodded and walked away. Sam put his headphones on and looked at the blank piece of paper and thought about the diner.
Where do I begin? He wondered.
Mr Giles,
How do you know the difference between intuition and prediction? Something happened today...
The next morning, he dropped the letter into the mailbox.
Over the next two weeks, he settled back into the familiar routine of assisting his father and brother with research for jobs. He would go to libraries and do research as they traveled north east – toward North Dakota and Bobby Singer. The day he saw the familiar sign "Singer Salvage" Sam felt mixed feelings as he carried their duffel bags out of the car and into the foyer, afraid to ask Bobby if he had any mail.
After passing by Bobby a few times, Sam realized that nothing had arrived.
Did you really think they would write to you?
Once the unloading was completed, Dean and his father drove the car into Bobby's large detached garage to give it a servicing.
When Bobby offered to help him carry the bags upstairs, Sam gave a half-hearted smile of thanks. With the largest bag remaining in the foyer (clothes that needed to be cleaned), he and Bobby carried the remaining bags up the stairs.
The house had four bedrooms, so whenever they stayed at Bobby's, they each had their own rooms. First they dropped two bags into his dad's room. Next, two bags for Dean. Sam carried his own remaining bags, slightly surprised when Bobby followed him.
He opened the door to the room -
"Stuff started arriving over a week ago, all from the same place. Sunnydale, California." Bobby spoke quietly. "Guess you made some good friends there?"
Shocked, Sam nodded. He had hoped for a post card, maybe two. He wasn't prepared for …this.
Bobby put a hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze. He turned to leave.
"Wait." Sam said. He said the next words carefully, "Bobby, can you- I don't want- I just ..." he stopped.
"You don't want me to tell Dean and your Dad?" Bobby guessed.
"Is that bad?" Sam asked. "That I just want something that is all mine?"
"It is what it is." Bobby said with a shrug. "I won't say anything, if you don't want."
Sam closed the door and looked at his bed. He touched the first item. It was a box, just a little larger than a shoe box. He picked it up and felt its solid weight. He looked at the return address and smiled.
Books, he guessed, from Giles.
Two envelopes from Oz.
From Xander, a slim manila envelope and two post cards.
Two postcards and an envelope from Willow.
Ten (TEN!) post cards and three envelopes from Buffy.
And another box, from a J. Summers. Buffy's mom. Stunned, Sam's fingers lightly traced the handwriting in the top left corner of the box. Buffy's mom had sent him a box too!
Sam sank down on to the bed, a small smile on his face which stretched to a full out grin when he looked at the pile of mail beside him.
Then he began with Oz's stack and worked his way down the assortment of mail, saving Buffy's (the best) for last.
~Stay tuned.
A/N: Awww! Sammy's friends wrote back!
Thank you Wikipedia. Aiding and abetting the criminals of today and tomorrow since 2001.