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Summary: Sam writes three important letters and begins to succumb to sleep deprivation. Is school really the sanctuary Sam hoped it would be?
Flash forward: John Winchester is dead and Dean is not handling it well. Neither is Sam, but digging up the boogeyman seems like the last thing his brother should be doing...
Chapter 4: Dazed and Confused
May 1, 1993
Sam: 9-years-old
Dean: 14-years-old
Three nights, no sleep.
That morning, Sam had no patience for Dean's "fuck school" routine. His whining tone progressed to curious and then to demanding as Sam ignored him, zombie-like, while gathering his things. The clamor of a body exiting a bed registered somewhere in the back of Sam's mind as he walked woodenly and mechanically to the door to leave his older brother behind, rules be damned. Dean hadn't expected that at all.
"Hey. Hey! Sammy! Where d'you think you're going?"
"To school," Sam replied, banging out the door. School was a safe place right now. School was structure and sunlight and smiling teachers and kids who had normal problems like fighting over pencil cases and toys. School was a place away from that empty bed that he would never even think of claiming in that motel room because "it's Dad's bed" even though the man was never actually there to sleep in it. Like, ever.
School was far away from a dark closet where something watched and waited for him.
Dean caught up to Sam a block away, his Converse All-Stars slapping the pavement. It was accompanied by a rushed huffing that was 80 percent flabbergasted and 20 percent still asleep.
"Sam. Seriously, dude, what the hell is wrong?"
Sam ignored the real worry in Dean's tone. He carefully did not make eye contact; the bags under his eyes weighed a hundred pounds and there was nothing he could say that didn't sound grouchy or bitchy and simply increase Dean's curiosity when what he wanted was to just have space to figure this all out on his own. His whole soul was tired and one big, raw nerve that Dean knew how perfectly irritate on Sam's best day. Today was a million years away from a day like a "best" anything unless it was the "best" he could do with a furtive ten-minute nap here and there and three nights with no sleep. Just how long could a person go without sleep before they just keeled over and died, anyway? What was the record for that? He'd have to look it up when he got to school...
Thoughts like that and monosyllabic answers and grunts to his brother's questions fended Dean off to the bus. It managed to get him to school, too. Sam had no plan for afterwards, however. He had to live through today. And then tonight...and then somehow every day and night after this and, dear Mom, I am so tired...
During math, Sam was forced to ask to sharpen his pencil several times. This was partially because he was quietly poking himself in the inner arm to keep from slumping over his word problems. The frequent trips to the pencil sharpener were uncomfortable (why did every kid in the classroom have to look at a kid sharpening a pencil? For that matter, why was the pencil sharpener always in the front of the room?), but they also kept him awake. Barely.
Social Studies was little better. In her infinite wisdom, Mrs. Appleton combined a lesson on letter writing and history. Their assignment for 25 minutes was to write a letter to an important figure of the Civil War and demonstrate an understanding of three distinct contributions that figure made during the war or Reconstruction afterwards.
Sam stared at his paper. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them very wide, hoping the blue-lined paper would come back into focus. The Civil War and a bunch of actually dead people seemed so far from his current troubles. So far away, in fact, it almost physically hurt. Or maybe that was just his head being tired. After a couple of minutes of what felt like a doze, Sam took a deep breath to get himself together and happened to glance up.
Mrs. Appleton was looking right at him, and the look was a "good one" teacher expression of deep concern. Maybe an "I might have to call home" look of concern.
Oh shit. Write a letter, Sammy.
How long had he been out of it? With sweating palms, Sam let his eyesight focus on his right periphery, at the paper of a kid named Parker Thompson. Parker's letter started out:
"Dear General Lee,
So I gess you lost the Civil War. That was a prety importnt thing you did. I hate to loose to. I hate it wehn my brother Kevin kicks me when we play Super Mario Kart and makes me loose."
Jesus Christ.
But Sam's exasperation and momentary sense of superiority faded away. Brothers were supposed to fight over video games, after all. They were supposed to have a few things in common, compete over the same kinds of things. Right? But lately, in his own little world, the distance between him and Dean was growing. And it wasn't just the weird changes, either. Ever since Dad started to let Dean go with him on some hunts, his brother's eyes had changed. And then the two of them would talk about it in half phrases, truncated purposefully to keep Sam in the dark about details. Sam hated that most of all. Not from their father-he'd been keeping things from both of them for years-but Dean's hesitation to share the secrets with him put Sam always on the outside. Why couldn't they be like they were? Once upon a time, Dean was the greatest kid in the whole world, his personality notwithstanding. Maybe he still would be if his level of concern rose above Dad's edict to "take care of Sammy" like cleaning up after a pampered poodle. Like he was a chore.
Sam took a deep breath and began:
"Dear President Lincoln,
How did you find the determination and the willpower and strength to take two broken halves of the country and unite them as one? How did you get the idea that these two disparate masses of people, with different cultures and beliefs, could ever possibly see eye to eye enough to join under one flag again?"
Sam paused. He stared at his paper for a moment, and the words spilled out.
His letter was done in ten minutes. It was full of facts and Sam's spontaneous appreciation of them-of Lincoln and his work. It was suddenly easy to imagine how stressed out Lincoln must have been trying to reconcile families who had to fight each other for what they believed in, to survive. Empathy for that astronomical task had translated into respect and two pages of heartfelt correspondence. He hoped it was okay.
He could write another letter, maybe. He had plenty of paper here, and in a few more minutes, a freshly sharpened pencil. But who would he write to? Dean? Right. That would go over well. "Why'd you write me a letter when you live with me? Idiot." So, no thank you.
Dad? Sam thought about it. His heart jumped at the idea of it...but then, he'd never know what the reaction would be to it. At all. If he wrote his father a letter, he'd read it while he was away. And then when he came back he'd probably never say anything about it, no matter what Sam wrote, even if it was important. And then it would eat at him and eat at him because he'd have to wonder what he thought about it. So, no. Not him either.
Maybe Bobby Singer? He seemed like a decent guy. And he had an actual address to which Sam could mail it. Sometimes when Dad was gone for a really long time, Dean and Sam would stay with Bobby. His house was huge. It was filled with all kinds of weird things, giant books, and he had dogs that remembered Sam and Dean every time and who liked to play. Bobby himself was a tough guy, and a bit rough around the edges, but Sam and Dean had never felt unwelcome there. That was rare. But what could Sam talk about in a letter? Maybe history? It seemed like Bobby knew a lot of really random facts about antiquity and the past.
Sam picked up his pencil.
"Dear Bobby,
Hi. It's Sam Winchester. I'm supposed to write a letter in this social studies class about someone important during the Civil War, so I picked Abraham Lincoln. Maybe he was an obvious choice. Do you know anything really cool about the Civil War? Are there any legends that they don't put in text books? You seem like the guy who would know those sorts of things. I hope business is going well. I'm fine and so is Dean. He's excited about high school girls. I got an A on a paper yesterday. Dad's been gone for awhile. I guess he is okay too. I know you won't be able to write back to this, since I don't know if we will even still be here when you get this letter. That's okay because I hope we visit soon. I miss South Dakota, though Wisconsin is kind of pretty. Maybe we can come stay with you this summer? We'd like that.
Sincerely,
Sam Winchester"
Sam reread his letter and smiled at it. Bobby would probably be surprised to get a letter from him. It might be a nice surprise-he hoped it would be. Getting the stamp might be a challenge, but he knew Bobby's address by heart. He'd get it there somehow.
Sam put down his pencil and sat back. The other students were still writing and the room was deathly silent except for the ticking of the round black and white clock next to the American flag and the sound of his blood rushing in his ears...
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick...
Sam...Sam...
Disgusted look. Packing a bag and turning away. I don't even know you anymore.
Dean, don't...
Standing at the door. Dark eyes. You aren't one of us, Sam.
Dad? Fear. Terror. Those words, finally said.
Where are you guys going? Hang on, Dean. Wait. I can...I can. I can do it too, Dad!
Dean can handle it. You were a mistake, Sam. You're different.
No.
Please.
Dad. Don't take Dean...Don't go. Please. Please! It's dangerous. I hate the hunting. I hate it! You could die. You and Dean could die! We could all die, just like Mom...
Please. Let's just go away. Let's just be normal. Let's ignore the monsters and then nothing will happen. Nothing is going to happen.
It's not that simple, son. If you don't choose us, then you are one of them. You're a monster too, Sam. A monster.
An icy hand. Forehead. Who is that? Who are you? What do you want from me!
A chilly smile. Cold face. Shiny eyes.
So much fear...
The sound of Parker hitting the paper with his pencil jolted Sam awake. He looked over, startled, but the boy was simply writing the word "Becase." That was it. And then Sam noticed he was slouching in his seat and his eyes were wet. Had someone been talking? His heart hurt in his chest and a chill seized him. He swallowed hard and sat up. This was bad. If he did nothing for-he checked-eight more minutes he'd be asleep. Really asleep.
Seriously? Still eight more minutes to go? Sam cast his eyes around the room, and only a few of his classmates were actually finishing up. Technically, he had time for one more letter and, honestly, Sam was kind of warming to this whole letter-writing thing. It felt nice to be communicating with humanity, even if it was delayed communication through pencil and paper. But who else would he want to talk to? Who else could inspire him to reach out like this?
And then, it hit him.
Amber.
Sam sat up and stared at the blue paper. The idea of writing to her made his face burn. It...woke him up. His palms started to sweat in earnest and his fingers slid across the glossy yellow paint of his pencil as he started to mentally compose a letter to that little girl who was fighting an adult world by herself and with a sick body. Yeah, he could write to Amber. Sam pursed his lips. She was only in third grade, so he had to be careful what words he picked but...but they had something in common. They had more than one thing in common.
Suddenly Sam didn't feel the need to sharpen his pencil.
"Dear Amber,
How are you today? I hope you feel better. I just wanted to say it was nice to meet you. I also wanted to say I'm sorry. I yelled yesterday, but I wasn't mad at you. I hope you know that. I was mad at the people who left you alone. I was mad at the people who didn't say 'I'm sorry' to you. I am mad at the people who made you think you did something wrong. I'm mad at the people who make you say 'I'm a lot of trouble.' But I think your mom probably loves you a lot. I think you are a very strong person. I think you are doing a good job. And I think things will work out if you keep trying. I hope we can be friends.
Sincerely,
Sam Winchester"
Sam read his letter. He felt giddy, dizzy. He knew he had a crazy grin on his face, but he couldn't wipe it off until he reread it for the third time. And then he frowned. Boy, he certainly sounded like an angry kid. Hastily he scribbled in a postscript:
"P.S. I get mad a lot, it's true, but I don't mean to make other people sad."
Sam poked his chin with his eraser. Was this something she could read? The words seemed right for a third grader. His sentences weren't too long.
"I hope we can be friends."
Sam swallowed hard. You shouldn't write that, Sam. You can't be her friend. You can't be anyone's friend. But despite the tone of his stern inner voice, constructed from the sentiments of his father and brother over the years, he couldn't bring himself to erase it.
Sam folded Amber's letter neatly and wrote her name, small, on the front. When he had tucked the letter into his rucksack, he stood up and walked to Mrs. Appleton's desk to turn in his assignment. He tried hard not to meet her eyes.
"Sam? Are you getting enough sleep at night? You're not watching TV until too late, are you?" Her voice was riddled with concern, and the irony of her suggestion would have caused Sam to laugh and laugh for a half hour like a moron had he not suspected that her next step would be to find his father's contact number in that rolodex she had somewhere and call him up to voice her worries...
Sam's cheeks went from red to white in the space of a second and the loss of blood pressure made him feel faint.
"Oh, my brother has a spring cold right now. He's been keeping me up for hours at night. But I think he's getting better." Did that sound okay? He was so tired. He may have said it a little too loudly.
"Oh dear. Older or younger?"
Oh crap, please don't talk to Dean.
"Older."
She smiled and Sam felt his heart reach up into his throat and throttle him.
"Brothers can be a pain, can't they?"
Sam tried at a smile that said "yeah, you know it" and not "HAHAHAH WOW I WAS JUST THINKING THAT!" Because being level was extremely difficult right now.
He must have succeeded because she didn't press the issue. "Well, I hope your brother is over it by tonight so you can get some rest."
Sam nodded, agreed in some fashion, and casually turned around to return to his seat. Crisis had been averted for one more day, but this excuse wouldn't hold tomorrow. If he made it to tomorrow.
Walking to the cafeteria in line Sam experienced tunnel vision for the first time. Luckily he only bumped into the wall, not anyone else. He was careful not to do that. Thankfully, either none of the teachers saw him, or they chalked the blunder up to a child's clumsiness and didn't begin any messy inquiries. It was ironic, really, because Dad actually put him and Dean through balance training for God's sake.
When the lunch line started to queue, Sam maneuvered his way around the sea of bodies once again. He thought of the letter in his rucksack, carefully tri-folded, with a girl's name on it, and he lost almost all sensation in his feet. Was it the sleep deprivation that was making him feel so...goofy? Or was it the presence of that letter, the thought of handing it over? Whatever it was, Sam was certain that his brain and entire body was on a collision course with some kind of wall.
The rucksack smacked onto the empty chair next to him and he sat down to await her.
July 25, 2006
Flash Forward
Sam 23-years-old
Dean 27-years old
Dad is dead...
Dean wiped his sweating face on the rag and approached the back door. He had completed his inspection of the Impala, the wreck of the Impala. The destroyed, twisted, mangled remains of what used to be something so solid, so dependable, so...always there.
Fuck. Do not think about Dad.
And then his brain jumped right into what he would need to fix his baby-what he could use that was still left. The frame was a nightmare, and the engine and drive shaft were shot. There were a few spark plugs that had survived, maybe a fan belt.
Goddammit, Dad. What happened to you?
Half of the electrical system was too mangled and fused to consider, but wires were wires and they were cheap. Bobby had a lot of stuff around here, and when the boys arrived a day earlier he had put his hand on Dean's shoulder and said, "Anything you need, son."
I'm not your son.
But all his baby would need would be TLC and time and a fresh coat of paint. She'd hum again and then...
"I can't believe this, but he's going to make a full recovery." Not possible, Doc. Never.
Too much thinking. Stop thinking. Car. Think car. Think car.
Dean pushed through the back door. He was about to call for Bobby (he needed a new torque wrench since he had somehow out-torqued it trying torque Death in his mind) when he heard Sam's voice and two words. Two fucking words.
"...Osseo, Wisconsin?"
Dean stopped at the threshold of the library where Bobby kept a lot of books and a table and chairs. He stepped to the side and listened, his body sheltered from sight.
"Osseo, Wisconsin..." Bobby's voice was thinking.
"This would have been around...April and May 1993? Did he...did he ever happen to mention anything about what he was fighting?"
Dammit, Sammy. Really? You really want to do this now? Haven't seen Bobby in years. Haven't been here for two days yet...don't we have enough to...
"Yeah. I seem to remember a bit, maybe. From Osseo." Pause. "Didn't you...write me a letter or something?" He made a small laugh. "Some...history assignment?"
Sam breathed out and Dean could hear a smile in there.
"Wow, Bobby, that's...that's some memory. Yeah, yeah I did. It was on..."
"Abraham Lincoln, right?"
"That's it. That's the time and place." Sam was warming and Dean was cooling. A chill seized his spine.
"Yeah. He was tracking a boogeyman. Said he had it nailed down to the day and was tightening the net as fast as he could."
Silence.
Dean's heart pounded-pounded so damn hard that he could barely hear Sam's intake of breath. And then the silence got strange...
"Bobby, what did he say? What..." Dean could imagine Sam's face, his chin trembling. The words were all Sammy emotion. And then the pacing started. "What...did he say...happened?"
"Sam? You okay, son? Why don't you sit down..."
"Bobby, please!" Quieter. "Please...just. What did he say about it?"
A pause. Dean felt they were all perched on the edge of a cliff. Down there...down there they'd all break...but even Dean couldn't bring himself to stop it.
"Nothing."
"...N-nothing? He didn't...say what happened? He was right there and...and he didn't...he didn't say anything else?"
Bobby's voice was gentle, "That's what I'm tryin' to say. All he said was 'it didn't work out.' That's it. He never brought it up again and I didn't ask."
Dean heard the scrape of a chair and a heavy slump. The top of a scotch decanter clinked open and a drink was poured and set on the table in front of his brother.
"Now, what the hell is this all about, Sam? What's got you all shook up? Did you see the thing he was talkin' about?"
But Sam's bitter laugh dried the air.
"'It didn't work out?' That was what he said. Wow. God...Dad..." And then Sam drank the shot and Dean bit the inside of his bottom lip so hard he could taste blood.
"Yeah, that's what he said." Bobby sounded sorry to relate it. His body sat down heavily in another chair. "You wanna maybe...talk about it? Maybe...sort this out?"
Damn. Sam.
"No, he doesn't wanna sort it out." Dean turned the corner and both men looked up. Sam's face was devastated, streaked with quiet tears, and surprised. Bobby less so.
"Was wonderin' if you were gonna join us, or if I was gonna have to start chargin' admission." Bobby sat back, his older, sympathetic yet calculating gaze probably coming to 20 conclusions.
"Dean." Sam stood up and that was when it hit him. That little bitch. He planned for me to not be around.
"Sam. Stop. We're not doin' this." Dean pointed the rag at him with finality.
"Dean, Dad didn't leave anything in the journal, in the Impala. I just...Don't you think that's weird? Not saying anything? Not leaving anything behind?"
"No, it's not weird, because Dad didn't haveta talk about family business with anyone. Anyone. And it's over, Sam." Dean had to end it. Completely. There was no dealing with Dad's death and Sammy going back to a state of catatonia for...weeks.
"It's not over. That's what I am trying to say!" Sam's voice rose above the sadness, slipped into anger. "Besides, Dad didn't talk about family business with the family, and isn't that the problem right here? Dad never talked about it again. For God's sake, he just told Bobby 'it didn't work out,'" he gestured to the whole house.
"It didn't! Sam, it didn't work out. Now shut up about it. Don't look for it. Don't bring it up. For all we know, Dad went back and took care of it and just didn't tell us. Did you ever consider that?"
Sam's chest heaved. He clenched his teeth and shook his head. His voice was quieter. "Dean, you know what he said. Back then. This was on me. And, God, if it wasn't, if that was all a lie too, then..."
"Then what, huh? What, Sam? You couldn't forgive him? You couldn't leave it alone and just...fucking leave it alone?"
It was way too loud. Way too public. This wasn't how to handle this, Dean knew, but all he could think about was Dad. And Dad was gone. That man...I loved that man.
"Dean, I am going to tell Bobby, and I am going to ask him for help." Sam enunciated each word and pointed at the ground resolutely. "This isn't family business. It's my business, okay? Mine. I have...have to do this."
The big brother closed in on Sam's personal space and he was both angry and more than a little afraid that Sam didn't back down at that point. Of all things, he had to back down to this. Sam was tall, but Dean's fear, his resolve, more than made up for the difference in height.
"Don't you tell me this is just your business. Don't you dare. I told you it was my fault. Mine. You wanna go back there, Sam? Really? Because you didn't talk for two weeks. I had to fucking dress a ten-year-old kid. Take him to the bathroom. You went so far away, Sam, I didn't think you were ever comin' back. And you wanna do this? Take us both back there?"
Sam's face cracked.
God, this kid. What the hell. This kid brother who should just listen...listen to himself. Listen to his big brother when he knew what was good for him. For them.
"Dean," Sam's voice was too gentle, "I'm not...I'm not that kid. Not anymore. I changed."
Dean's chest caved.
Fuck, I know. I know and that's why. No more changing, Sam. No more! If you change into something else, Dad said...
"Sammy, you're all I have left. I'm tellin' you. Begging you. Leave this thing alone."
There were two seconds before Sam's shoulders sagged. His whole body language submitted, and he sighed deeply before he shook his head. He wiped his face with his hand and looked away.
"Okay, Dean."
"Sam, I mean it."
"Fine." It was only when Sam put up his hands and physically stepped away that Dean could take a breath and banish the red and fear and anger and the goddamn loneliness.
Dean glanced at Bobby. The man had the good decency to have his head down, his eyes hidden under the brim of his baseball hat-invisible in the room.
"Bobby, I broke your torque wrench. I'll replace it. In the meantime, you got any others lyin' around?"
The spell was broken. Bobby stood up. "Yeah. God, what? Broke my torque wrench? What the hell are you torquing out there, the Great Wall of China?"
Dean gave Sam one last look, but Sam was pointedly staring at a wall.
Whatever. Keep out of it, Sam.
But he didn't.
Weeks later, when his baby girl was almost as good as new again, he saw it-Sam's notebook. It was on his bed. Why the notebook, Sam? What were you researching? But Dean knew. He didn't have to even pick it up to know.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
Sam was at the door frame. Dean tried to keep everything neutral.
"I told you to let it go."
"I know. But I couldn't, and I have to get you to understand that."
Dean shifted his gaze to his brother's face who looked way too pitying. And guarded.
Jesus.
"What about 'leave it alone' did you not understand?" But he was keeping calm. The Impala was fixed. They had been making plans to leave Bobby's, to hit the road, and things had been...bearable. So much more bearable than that first week. But the memory of Dad's funeral pyre still kept him up at night and the edge wasn't far off.
"I know what you said," Sam stepped into the room carefully, "but look, I'm..." he tilted his head back and forth, "...okay. I mean, I'm still talking and walking. I'm not...gone, Dean."
Dean took a deep breath, wet his lips and turned his head, not liking the proximity this conversation was going towards things that felt somehow just buried.
"So?"
Sam looked confused, "So, what?"
"So, what did he tell you? Bobby. What did he say?"
Sam looked so relieved, so grateful at his response, that Dean had to let it go. He didn't want this conversation. He wanted his brother and his car and he wanted the road and he didn't care at that point exactly how they got there or where they went as long as they were moving in some direction.
His little brother picked up his notebook and flipped a page. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, "Not much, unfortunately. I mean, the lore on...on the boogeyman is so immersed in cultures around the world that it's hard to separate fact from fiction. And it doesn't help that it's used as a behavior-training concept. You know, 'Go to bed, be good, or...or'"
"It'll get you? Eat you?" Dean finished. He didn't know why that frown on Sam's face made him feel so vindicated. Sam was hardly over this, though his game face was getting better.
"Yeah. According to the lore, the so-called 'boogeyman' ranges from a demon, to an old man with a sack, to an amorphous bad spirit, and practically everything in between. The only thing that seems completely consistent is that it emerges from under a bed or a closet in close proximity to a bed and that it is almost inexorably connected to child fears."
Dean considered. "The truth of it is somewhere smack dab in the middle."
"Yeah, I was thinking that too, but," he shrugged his shoulders at his notebook, "with all of this lore, it's hard to find the middle." His face changed a little as he remembered. "Back...then...Dad said that it had a profile and pattern, but Bobby doesn't know what Dad was talking about except that he's pretty sure Dad nailed that much. And...we know he did. But what Dad knew about the profile?" Sam shook his head and sighed, "it's not gender, and it has something to do with birthdays, and Dad said he tracked it to Osseo..."
Dean interrupted that train of thought because it involved remembering. Remembering that day. "Does Bobby know how to kill it?"
Sam looked haunted again, "No. Bobby has never heard of anyone ever killing a boogeyman. And Dad didn't either. Remember what he said..."
Dean waved his hand, "Look if we don't have a way to kill it, and we don't know its profile and pattern, then we are leaving it alone."
Sam stood up straight. "You're right. We are."
Dean looked quickly at his brother's face. "Sam, this is a we thing if it's anything, you hear me?"
"Look, we have nothing to go on, now, but I'm not trying to hide this from you. Hate it, hate me, but Dean, I can carry this. I need to carry this." He raised his hands into the air. "See me? I'm carrying it."
"Yeah," Dean pushed his duffel bag, packed, into Sam's arms. "Carry this to the car while you're at it, bitch."
Sam smiled and took the bag. "Jerk." God. It was such a real smile.
"But hey," Dean stopped his brother with a hand on his chest before he could go two feet. "Swear to me you won't make a move on this without me. Swear it on something you won't break, Sam." And he was dead serious.
Sam swallowed, and that wasn't a good sign. "I'm not swearing anything, but I'll tell you what I find out. You have a right, okay, and I get that. I owe you."
"No, Sam, it's not about owing. You're my little brother..."
"Dean, please. I don't wanna fight about it. Please. Not now. I'm begging you on this one."
Sammy's earnest little face. Sammy. Why do you kill me, Sam? If I'm the good guy, then I let you go into this danger again. But if I try to hold you back...where will you go to get away from me? What the hell kind of choice is this?
"Fine. Now go tinkle and give Bobby a kiss goodbye. I'll be waiting at the car with your two bottles of water and a coloring book for the road."
Sam smiled a six-year-old smile. "You always knew what I liked."
Dean grinned too, but it was a lie. Inside he was afraid-afraid of the end of it all...
(to be continued...)