Warnings for: starvation, illness, death, mental illness.

Another extra story.

Castiel comes back to camp carrying a person on his back.

Sam's working out in the garden when it happens, his palms blistered and forty-first birthday swift on the horizon; the apple tree is filling in, a little red world in the middle of green, green, green. Alive. The opposite of what the carried woman looks like, Sam thinks later on. He almost doesn't notice when his friend crosses past their fences, lost in the hazes he finds himself in sometimes. But then — he's just there, panting and requesting help, and Sam isn't even sure how to do that. He's never been a healer, and despite what others say, he's too worried his hands will break whatever living thing they're touching. Why wouldn't he think as much? Look what Lucifer's done, with his hands and feet. Stomping through people, sapping life out of them, and all with his face. No, he's not a healer. He's no good with handling delicate creatures.

He's good with tomatoes, but.

"Sam," Castiel manages, shifting the weight on his back; the woman's body sags over, but remains steady enough. "Are you all here, right now?"
Sam knows what that means. He nods, suddenly realizing that he's a Winchester, and Winchesters are bound to the life of handling corpses. If he's allowed to hold a baby, he's required to handle bodies as equivalent exchange. He reaches out and, despite how thin he's gotten, easily plucks her from Castiel's back like someone taking another's coat. Holding her like she's a tired babe, he looks down into a gaunt face; she's young, a teenager maybe just out of puberty, blonde hair matted and in her face… Light as a feather, warm as a furnace; he can see the bones in her limp hands curled against her stomach. Sick. She's very sick, not a corpse, not dead but alive. The thoughts strike him like slaps across his face as he adjusts a shaking grip to hold her as comfortably as he can against his dirt-speckled. All the while, Castiel catches his breath and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"She's sick," Sam says, panic edging in the way he stands, but Castiel just squeezes his broad but bony shoulder to ease him down.

"Can you carry her for me, Sam?" Castiel asks, and Sam swallows hard. He doesn't have time to freak out. He remembers how they used to save people, a long time ago. Before Lucifer. He remembers carrying a lot of people just like this. Kids. Sam remembers pulling children from water and out of holes and from the clutches of monsters, which are undoubtedly still out there somewhere, wondering where their food supplies have gone. She reminds him of that. She looks like something sucked the life out of her. He nods, nods and starts pacing away, leaving Cas to follow as his mind picks up. Doctor. Medical. She needs to be looked after. She's so thin. Too thin. Even he isn't that thin, and it's like walking with skeletons in your hands instead of hoarding them in your closets.

The skeleton moans (it's not a skeleton). Sam blinks hard, looking down into her dazed face.

"It's okay," Sam speaks softly. "It's okay, it's okay. I got you. You're going to be okay."

"… Mom…" she mumbles, and he wishes he could give her something for it. He doesn't know her mother. He knows what it's like to whisper her name and recieve nothing in return, though. He tucks the crown of her head under his chin and hushes her softly, listening to the rhythm of his and Castiel's shoes as they move through the thick and unkempt grass. They've got her settled into a bed before long, and Dean's clomping his way through in those intimdating boots of his to see what the hell is going on; inside the medical tent, Sam gains his wits all at once, putting a hand over Dean's heart and stopping him short. The girl's been in and out of consciousness, and while Sam knows his brother has a ever-growing heart, he also knows his brother still scowls too much and has long-since forgotten his bedside manner.

His voice is steady, eyes soft with concern. "She's sick. Cas carried her in, but she's all skin and bones. We're letting Bedham check on her and see what he can do."

Dean's posture goes from alpha male to sheepish animal under Sam's stern gaze, and he pats his brother's hand. "… Right. I got it, Sammy. Cas brought her in?"

He explains in full, though there's not much to it; Castiel had just been out on the edges of the camp (Dean grumbles a lot about how he shouldn't be doing that shit), and he'd come across her, barely conscious and ill. Sam had left seeds strewn in the dirt and his watering pail can't handle much more rust, but he decides to hand the reins over to the others in camp. Just this once. He plops down next to the sick girl and tries to remember what is the most comforting thing to do here; he's been where she is, only he wasn't able to die. He'd just lay there with Dean and Cas by his side, sometimes Risa or Chuck. He remembers wanting to die back then sometimes, wishing someone could crush his head under something heavy and finally take him out. Did she want that, too? Was she too frail and in pain to ask for it, to do it herself? He'd tried, he remembers. He'd tried, and… It was awful. He doesn't want to think about it. Dean's sewn up his throat before.

Swallowing convulsively, he reaches out and smooths back her hair. He liked when the others did this for him, before the depression lessened.

But maybe she'll hate him for it. It's okay. He can risk it, apologize later. At the very least, apologize for how calloused his hands are. They probably are too rough. He didn't think of that.

"Shouldn't be in here," Dr. Bedham tells him, adjusting the IV drip in her arm. "She could be contagious. Could be disease."

Sam shrugs. "I'll be fine. If Croatoan viruses can't kill me, not sure this will."

Dr. Bedham just cocks his head at him, as if remembering what a specimen he is. Sometimes he expects the doctor to just forgo all common courtesy and prod him with a stick. Maybe Dean's potential ire is the only think that keeps that away. The doc just leaves them be with the reminder that he shouldn't get too attached; as if she's a cat or a dog or something. Sam knows the guy means while, isn't as awful as he sounds because he's just seen too much like Dean has — but this kid, she's not an animal. She's a person. Someone who's got very little chance to make it through the next few weeks.

But she could, though. She could.

Sam takes up watching out for her the way he does his gardens, abandoning them to Castiel, much to the ex-angel's disdain; he's not much of a gardener, telling Sam that he would have preferred Joshua the angel over him — but Sam just shakes his head with a smile and reminds him that Castiel is the only angel Sam can depend on. Sam takes up feeding the quiet girl some apple sauce when she's strong enough to even open her mouth and swallow, and he's quick to get a basin for her when she can't keep it all down. Sometimes she doesn't aim very well, but it's okay. He's had chupacabra guts on him before. "That's a smell you can't get off you," he finishes telling her while he's stirring the lukewarm bowl, setting it aside. The shell-shocked teenager blinks slowly, glancing distantly at him. He talks about wendigos, because he figures it doesn't matter anymore, keeping secrets.

"Mom…?" she whispers again, and Sam sighs and runs a hand over her forehead again. It's so hot. She's boiling in there. Infection, Dr. Bedham told him. She has to fight it herself; it's bad. Malnutrition makes it worse.

Sam bites his lip, rubbing his neck. "I'm not your mom. I hope your mom doesn't look like me. I'm not much of a looker."

A few hours later, the girl says, "What's a wendigo?"

So Sam explains in detail, getting a few spoonfuls of soup in her. Dean watches sometimes, looking like he feels bad for Sam. What's there to feel bad for, for him? He's not the one suffering, right now. Maybe it reminds Dean of something sad. Maybe Dean's projecting a little. He or Cas nudges at him to leave for a little bit, take a piss, take a shower. Has he really been staying in here that long? He just didn't want to miss anything, leave her in a bad way. He carried her in there, didn't he? He's waiting to see if he has to carry her out, is all. He owes her because she grew up in this world because of him. If she asked for his liver or an eyeball or his heart, he'd rip it out and hand it over. That's just how life is now. Sam's lucky like that, he thinks. Could be worse. Could be the dark again.

"I'll leave a nightlight for you," he says patiently to the girl. She furrows her brow slowly at him. "To keep the dark away."

She slouches into her pillow, closing her eyes. "You can't. Keep it away. Not forever."

He's stunned at first, to hear her speak so certainly. So clearly. Like she knows everything. Maybe she does. Maybe Sam's only just began to understand the world, himself. He's never sure what he knows.

He crouches down beside her bed like he's about to start prayer.

"What's your name? You ever gonna tell me?" he says, rubbing her hand gently with his thumb.

Her lips work for a moment. Her eyes look like bruised spots on fruit, sinking and darkening. A tear jaggedly rolls into her ear.

"Sam," she whispers, drifting off again, and shaking her lightly doesn't change the answer. She passes away in the middle of the night, while Sam reads a book beside her. He's damaged enough that he lets himself cry a little for her, as he considers how to take care of what's left behind. A sheet is good for wrapping bodies; he wraps her safely, considering if they should burn her. Ghosts are always in pain. But he thinks maybe a burial is okay, just for now, just today. And he'll carry her there, because life is a cycle, and this is how his life spirals, an infinite fate. As he carries the skeleton to their graveyard with his brother close enough to touch shoulders (fitting), he's still not sure if she told him her name, or just his own.