The clothes Sam pulls on after his shower, have been crammed at the bottom of his bag for too long and the wrinkles have taken up permanent residence. The mirror in the bathroom is small and spotted with black, little empty holes where the silver surface under the glass has worn away. Sam stares at his face, an incomplete reflection gazing back at him, he pushes his hair from his face and wonders who the sickly looking kid who won't meet his eyes really is.
His supplies are now non-existent, no food, no coffee and only half a roll of toilet paper left. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Sam is going to have to go shopping.
The Impala is covered in a light layer of dust and more than a few hits of bird poop.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes to the car before sliding behind the wheel. The car grunts at him as his backside hits the seat. She doesn't sound that put out, he turns the keys in the ignition and the engine coughs to life and growls encouragingly as he pulls away from the cabin. The nearest store is a good half hour away. Sam tunes the radio to 33.3 AM, Christian Talk Radio and listens to a mother of ten and a Baptist Minister discuss the rise of Satan and its direct correlation with the slow decline in the teaching curriculum of elementary schools.
"I met him once, you know," he addresses the radio as he waits at an intersection, he glances at the passenger seat from the corner of his eye, but it remains determinedly empty. He grips the steering wheel overly tightly when he realizes he just the teeniest bit disappointed.
At 'Custer's General Store', which Sam's almost certain is in poor taste, he buys five flats of various canned foods, the biggest can of instant coffee he can find, some fruit because he's not too convinced that he isn't exhibiting at least some of the symptoms of scurvy, toilet paper and a large bottle of manly smelling shampoo. Sam isn't going to be caught off guard when Dean shows up, the least he can do is have clean hair and smell nice.
The guy at the checkout looks him up and down with an assessing eye, Sam peers down through his bangs and is just about to ask him what precisely his problem is when the guy hands him a coupon and tells him he can use it to pick up yesterday's baking from the back of the store. For free. Sam mumbles his thanks and goes back to the cabin with half a dozen strawberry frosted cupcakes and bag of Danish pastries. He refuses the extra flaky apple pie. He drinks instant coffee, black with lots of sugar and eats all of the cupcakes in one sitting and doesn't even feel sick. Dean would be proud.
The old red battered couch is marginally more comfortable than the floor and he and a thick woolly blanket spend the night wrapped up together. He spends much of the day writing, letters this time. The first one is to Jess and once he starts he finds it very hard to stop. All the things he never told her, all the things he had wanted so desperately to tell her and most all that he's sorry. He doesn't pin it to the wall, he folds in carefully and tucks it inside a book. Upon closer inspection he realizes it's a family bible from a century or so back. A fading family tree in various hands and inks meanders across the inner bindings, it's illustrated and he flicks through looking at the scenes depicted with an artist's overly melodramatic license. One in particular catches his eye, a man with a snake wrapped around his arm, its fangs bared and a fire flaring up behind them. He rubs a finger over the muted colors.
"Sucker," he whispers to himself. He writes more letters in the days that follow, the one to his father takes him two days; there's scrunched and torn paper all over the floor by the time he's finished and he's shaking with anger. He folds the letter and puts it with the others. He hasn't written to Dean, but then Dean, unlike all the others, isn't dead.
The weather is slowly getting warmer and the forest is noisier than ever. Sam notices that whenever he goes outside the birds and squirrels and other assorted critters take no notice of him whatsoever, and just carry on their business around him.
He leaves the door open on one particularly sunny afternoon and looks up to see a fat raccoon sitting not two feet away blinking up him as it rips open the foil packaging off one of his cereal bars and stuffs it greedily into its mouth.
"Hello," says Sam and turns back to his letter, this one is to his mother. It's not easy to write a letter to someone you've never met. Ghosts and alternate realities or timelines don't count.
The days and weeks spill over into another month and he can count the number of people he's seen in that time on one hand.
He's at the stove trying to melt some sealing wax he found at the back of a drawer, it's blue and decades older than he is and the perfect finishing touch to his letters, when he hears it. A car or maybe a truck, the engine is throaty and rough and coming his way.
Bill, who's eating a piece of toast, growls in alarm and waddles to the door, Sam grabs his Beretta, sticks it in the back of his waistband before reaching for the shotgun lying under the couch. It's not loaded and he lets loose a stream of curses. There are boxes of shells in the basement, too far away, he scrabbles at the cupboard by the 'fridge and finds a half empty box. The gun's loaded as he hears the engine cut off and he pulls open the door. Bill, still clutching his crusts bolts off at a surprising speed for a raccoon of such ample girth, past the ex-army jeep parked outside. Sam stands in the door way, gun raised. He doesn't want visitors and he doesn't need to see anybody, he has things to do.
"Whoa there," a man's voice calls out as the driver's side door opens on the other side to Sam and his visitor, with arms raised comes slowly around the front of the jeep. He's a big guy, Sam tightens his hold on the shotgun, tall, maybe even than Sam and broader, his shaved head dark and gleaming in the sun. He's wearing what looks like army parka; Sam can see the holes left by the stitches after badges and insignia have been removed. He's older than Sam, by how much he can't tell, could be a decade maybe even two. Sam cocks the hammer and tilts his head.
"Rufus around?" The stranger asks. Sam can't quite place his accent, he shakes his head emphatically. Parka guy is quick on the uptake.
"Damn," he glances around and shrugs. "Look the old geezer was a second cousin, or whatever. I left some things here a few years back. Before I got posted. If I can just pick them up, I'll leave you and your friend in peace." He smiles, hands still high and nods towards a clump of bushes. Bill is hissing at him from the undergrowth.
Sam stares unblinking at his visitor with the strange lilt in his voice. The accent of someone who has spent time, a long time, in parts foreign. Sam decides that he doesn't feel like shooting anyone today and if the guy's a threat, he's not sure what difference it makes in the long run. He lowers his gun and steps back into the cabin and waits.
The man fills the doorway, casting a long, wide shadow across the floorboards. He glances around, he eyes resting briefly on Sam's pinned lists, then coming to meet Sam's gaze. He smiles again, broad and genuine. Sam thinks it's genuine. He'd be the first to admit he's out of practice when it comes to assessing heartfelt or other such facial expressions.
"David. David Clay." The man drops his voice, a strangely gentle tone and Sam wants to tell him that he shouldn't worry about frightening Bill, because Bill is a greedy little shit who would sell his own mother for a Twinkie, but David is extending his hand and before Sam can process what he's doing his own hand is engulfed in a warm and firm handshake.
David looks at him expectantly. Oh, Sam thinks surprised that anyone would be that interested.
"Sam." His voice comes out lower and raspier than he expected and he ducks his head, hair falling over his face.
'Okay, Sam. I'll go see if my stuff is still downstairs." David moves past him carefully, giving Sam and the shotgun plenty of space. Sam sits by the kitchen table and waits. It's not long before David appears with a small wooden crate in his arms. It's quite clearly marked with the initials D.C. and covered in enough dust to lend credence to his story.
He stops at the open doorway. "Pity about Rufus."
"Yeah." Sam nods. "He was, he was one of the good guys." Weren't they all, Sam thinks bitterly and wipes a hand across his face. He looks up and David hasn't moved.
"Look, kid. I've got a bottle of Johnny Walker in the glove box. Was for the old man." David puts down the crate and points to himself. "So why don't I go get it." He points at Sam. "You grab a couple of glasses. For Rufus."
"Sure," Sam agrees and goes to pull mismatched glasses from the cupboard.