Chapter 2 What Dreams May Come
Casper, Wyoming. August 2011.
Sam sat at the counter, pushing the lettuce around his plate. The small bar was nearly full, the jukebox volume somewhere around eight, bass pounding and riffs shrieking but still not quite able to overcome the rumble of conversation that filled the place.
He felt invisible, sitting there, alone in the centre of all these people. The bartender had smiled at him when he'd sat down, but her eyes drifted past and over him every time she moved from one side of the bar to the other. People jostled him from behind, edging or squeezing or just barrelling past, not acknowledging that he was sitting there. Might as well have been an ill-placed piece of furniture.
It was a strange feeling. It had been growing in him for the last two weeks, as he'd driven aimlessly south down the country. The attendants in the gas stations had barely looked at him. In convenience stores when he picked up another sack of road food, and another six pack of beer, their gazes went straight through him.
He looked down at his hands. Still solid, so far as he could tell. Still there. He'd spent ten minutes looking at his reflection in the mirror at the last motel, unable to see anything different about himself.
It might've been that he didn't feel present, he thought vaguely. Didn't feel like he belonged anywhere in this life, on this planet, among these people. There were shadows deepening under his eyes. Hollows deepening in his face. The nightmares had started a few weeks ago, when he'd run out of ideas, and they were vicious, giving him a couple of hours sleep a night but that was all. Even Lucifer's raucous presence in his mind hadn't been like the dreams. He would wake, his hands clutching the air, his throat raw from screaming and the linen soaked in his sweat, minutes passing before he could recognise the cheap motel room or the back seat of the car, minutes in which the last few terrifying images would play and replay over and over again.
Hell hadn't been this bad, he thought sourly, pushing the plate away from him and picking up the bottle of beer.
Dean was gone.
He made himself think the words, feel them. He was alone. No one would ever watch his back again. No one would wake him in the middle of the night, rasping breath and shuddering moans and the distinctive scritch of a flask lid being undone. No one would give him a hard time for liking poetry and art, indy music or not knowing how to clean a carburettor. No one would make him laugh with a bad joke at a crime scene, or make his heart ache watching emotions pass like shadows in deep green eyes.
He dragged in a breath and finished his beer.
Centennial, Colorado. August 2011.
The darkness was complete and he could only hear, not see. Around him, the furtive rustlings seemed loud, getting closer. The ululation made him start, fingers tightening into fists.
He saw Dean step forward, looking wide-eyed around him. How can I see him when I can't see my hands in front of my face? The question was gone in a flash as the creatures attacked, three of them, coming from all sides and surrounding his brother.
NO! The scream was locked inside of his head, his feet locked to the ground, arms outstretched hopelessly as he watched the whip-fast strike, Dean's side opened under the long, curving claws, his brother's grunt as he swung the makeshift weapon at the werewolf, and the arch of his back as the second monster raked its claws down into his flesh, blood flowing from each of the rips, spine gleaming white amidst the red. In seconds, the three dropped to feed on the still-living body, and the scream rose in the black, filled with agony, until one blood-soaked muzzle plunged into the chest and silenced it.
Christ. Sam fought his way free of the tangled bedding that held his feet and legs trapped, shaking helplessly as the images played out in front of him even with his eyes open. He got up unsteadily and walked to the bathroom, turning on the shower taps and stepping under the spray of water until the sweat and tears had been washed from him, his t-shirt clinging to his skin, leaning against the smooth tiled wall as the visions flickered and faded and finally disappeared.
He was starting to shiver, the hot water having run out long ago, when he turned off the taps and got out. Stripping the wet clothes off, he wrung them out over the sink, his hands tightening and crushing the fabric, the muscles in his shoulders and chest, back and arms bulging with the effort. When not a single drop came out, he threw them over the shower curtain rail and grabbed a towel, rubbing himself down hard, trying to bring some warmth back to his skin, trying to desensitise the sense memories of claws ripping through flesh, of blood trickling and flowing and pouring down from wounds that couldn't possibly be survived.
The room was full of shadows and he hurried to the nightstand, turning on the lamp, looking around uneasily as the shadows were dispersed by the soft, golden light. The bed linen was soaked through, the sour smell of fear-filled sweat making him turn away.
Beside the lamp, a small, white, plastic bottle waited for him. The Zopiclone had been prescribed but he'd only taken one so far. The drug's effects including the disruption of dreaming sleep which was the only reason to take it. It screwed up his motor responses badly and he could feel how much his reactions were slowed if he drove the next day. He looked at the bottle for a long moment, then turned away, pulling on a clean shirt and boxers, and getting the spare blanket from the closet. The couch wasn't quite long enough, but it would have to do.
In the duffel at the end of the bed, there was a bottle. It didn't do any better than the drugs. If anything, it stripped him of all of his defences when he finally passed out, giving his subconscious free range, his memories filled with horrors that translated into the dreams of what his brother was facing down in the land of monsters.
This time he didn't even have a body to bury. It didn't change anything. Dean wasn't dead. Or he was. He didn't know. He couldn't find out. He couldn't let go. He couldn't move on.
He'd been through Dr Metcalfe's file on the mythology of Purgatory a thousand times. There was a lot of confirmation of what they'd discovered earlier, when they'd been trying to prevent the opening of the realm. He still had the spell to open the door. But there wasn't another full eclipse until November 2012. And Death hadn't responded to his summoning spell either.
After a few minutes of lying there, knowing full well he couldn't go back to sleep, he sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes. There was one more thing he could try. Dean would kill him if he ever found out. And it would be a complete waste if his brother was already dead.
It was a deal. When's a deal ever been a good thing?
He'd said it to Dean. He believed it too. Making deals had always brought them the worst pain and suffering. Had brought it to their family, to their friends, to the innocent bystanders who'd been around at the time. Deals for the Winchesters had brought a demon into their lives and even after the bastard had been killed, the repercussions had gone on and on.
But it was an option.
One week later. Clovis, New Mexico. August, 2011.
The crossroad was empty, a meeting of two dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. Above him, the moon rode high as he stood there, a small cigar box clenched tightly in his hand, painting the landscape in shades of silver and grey and black.
When crap like this comes around, we deal with it ... like we always have. What we don't do is we don't go out and make another deal with the devil!
He stood in the centre, the exact centre where the two roads met. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck.
What am I supposed to do, Dean? This could get you out. The thought bit into him and he knelt on the ground, one hand brushing aside the gravel.
"You really think anyone's going to make a deal with you, Sam?"
Crowley's voice was behind him and he spun around, dropping the box.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"In Hell, mostly," Crowley said, one brow lifted. "What do you think you're doing, Sam?"
"He's in Purgatory."
"I know." The demon walked slowly around him. "Dick shot back there as soon as the bone had finished its work."
"I have to get him out." Sam stared at Crowley, lips thinning as he saw the demon smile.
"No. You don't," Crowley shook his head. "You go on and live your life. Dean's stuck down there for good. There's no getting him out."
"There's my soul," Sam said, looking down at the box on the ground.
"But I don't want it."
"Why?"
"Because you're so much more entertaining running around up here, Moose." He stopped and looked at him. "You're completely impotent without him, aren't you? No hunting, no fighting. Good job on the leviathan destructuring, by the way."
"Where's Kevin?"
"Kevin's safe and sound and will remain so until he's finished the little job I have for him," Crowley said, smiling slightly. "Don't worry, once I'm done, I'll give you a bell."
"How do I get Dean out?"
"English a second language?" Crowley rolled his eyes. "You can't. Ever. He's down there for good. No one will deal with you. Surely you can comprehend that."
Sam felt the words as hammer blows against him, as nails pounded into a coffin. A coffin containing his brother. Containing his hope. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back.
When he opened them, Crowley was gone. At his feet, the small box sat on the ground. He picked it up and walked back to the car.
CR 115, Kermit, Texas, September 2011.
Sam stared through the windshield, feeling the cotton-wool hangover of the Zopiclone persisting in his mind. The road was empty, and the Impala's headlights lit up the lines wanly against the black tarmac, daylight not quite faded yet, night still to come, the edges shifting a little from side to side as he narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Last night's had been the worst one yet, a visceral blood-bath that had forced him out of the bed and into the bathroom, jettisoning his meal and the two beers into the toilet bowl, his head pounding, his heart racing. He'd taken the pills and had slept on the floor.
The flat plains stretched out to either side of the road, and he over-corrected as the car drifted onto the other side absently. The flash of white in the headlights made him jump then the tyres hit and he heard the yelp and the thump simultaneously, slamming his foot onto the brake, the car's steering pulling against his grip as the rear tyre lifted and fell.
Fuck! He looked up and back down the road, not another car in sight and got out, hurrying around the trunk. In the red glare of the taillights, the dog lay panting softly on the tar, moving a paw restlessly. Sam saw the blood and felt his chest constrict tightly.
"It's okay, boy, it's okay," he murmured, crouching down beside the dog, his hand smoothing over the fur of the animal's head. "I'll get you fixed up, you'll be fine, you'll be good."
Getting to his feet, he opened the back door and pulled out a towel from his bag. When returned to the rear of the car, he spread the towel gently over the dog and carefully lifted him to tuck it underneath.
No dogs in the car, Sammy.
Dean's voice whispered in his mind and was gone as he lifted the animal and laid him along the back seat.
Kermit was just ahead. He hoped there was a vet in town. He looked at the bloody froth spilling from the dog's mouth and swallowed hard, shutting the door and diving into the driver's seat. The Impala fishtailed wildly for a moment as he stamped on the accelerator.
Not another thing. Not another thing dead. Not for him. No more dying.
River Bluff Veterinary Hospital was just off Main Street, and the lights were on, the door open. Sam pushed the glass door aside with his elbow, staring at the young, dark-haired woman behind the counter fixedly.
"Help. I need help. The dog needs help." The words came out fast, falling over each other.
She looked at him and the muzzle of the dog in his arms and pointed to the hallway beyond the counter. "That way!"
Sam ran down the hall, slowing as the woman passed him and opened a door into a surgery.
"He just – he just came out of nowhere, right in front of my car," he muttered, laying the dog carefully on the stainless steel table. "We need a doctor. Are you a doctor?"
She looked up at him, then back at the dog. "The doctor's coming, sir. But I'm not sure –"
"You're not sure what?" Sam looked at her, leaning on the table, his voice rising as he took in her expression. Not going to die. Not now. Not here. Not with him. "This is an animal hospital. You save animals!"
She looked at him, and he could see that he was starting to scare her. Not going to die. No. Enough.
"Sir."
"Save this animal!" he yelled in her face, unable to shut out his thoughts. Dean. Bobby. Cas. No fucking more. Jess. Maddy. Mom. He'd had enough.
"Roberta, can you escort this gentleman out, please?" The voice was cool and calm, cutting sharply over his and Sam swung around, staring at the woman in the white coat who'd entered behind him. Dark curls drawn back from a heart-shaped face and held smoothly down. Dark, straight brows over brown eyes. A dimpled chin, raised slightly as she looked up at him.
He felt the throb of his anger diminishing as he looked at her, that smooth, calm face challenging him to get himself under control, to not give in to the desire to scream or to get the hell out.
"Yes," Roberta said, relief evident in her tone. She walked around the table as the vet came in.
Sam looked at the woman. "I did this."
He watched her walk past him as he backed out of the room. He didn't know why he'd said that. Taking responsibility? Or trying to tell her to undo this mistake, to make it all better?
"Come on," Roberta said impatiently from the hallway.
Roberta stood behind the counter, her gaze resolutely fixed on the files and papers in front of her. Sam recognised the shut out and looked down at his hands, clenched together on his lap. The soles of his boots were tapping lightly on the linoleum floor but he didn't notice the noise.
The vet came through the doorway and he looked up expectantly at her, a little surprised at how young she looked. He got to his feet as she stopped by the reception desk.
"He's sustained some serious internal bleeding. There's at least two leg fractures that I can see right now. But with some TLC, he should pull through for you," she said, her voice warm now, a hint of a smile on her face.
He let out the breath he'd been holding, eyes closing in relief. "Thanks, Doctor."
Not dead. He turned away. Saved.
"You're gonna take the dog?"she asked, seeing the movement toward the door.
Sam looked back at her, brow wrinkling up at the idea. "I-I would. He's... not mine."
"He's not anybody's," she agreed, glancing away, her mouth slightly curved as if she already knew the excuses she would be hearing next. Sam tried to think of something foolproof.
"Well, I-I spend a lot of the time on the road," he said, not liking the way the conversation was heading, unable to prevent the lack of certainty in his voice.
The smile had vanished from her face as she took a step toward him, head tilted slightly. "Don't you think you're responsible?"
"Why do you think I brought him here?" Sam said, lifting a shoulder defensively. Of course he was responsible; he'd nearly killed the damned dog.
She turned to the nurse behind the counter. "Roberta, could you hand this man his trophy on his way out, please?"
Sam looked at the nurse, seeing her smirk as she nodded. He looked back to the vet. What had he done to deserve the tag-team treatment, he wondered.
"Well, maybe if you were such an upstanding guy, you wouldn't have hit him in the first place?" she said quietly, her eyes cool as she studied him.
He was boxed in between the two of them. Another asshole. He could practically see the thought above their heads. He didn't want to be that guy. He wasn't capable of looking after anything, he wanted to tell her. Not his family. Not himself.
"Fine. I'll take him."
She looked at him and he knew she could see his reluctance, could see his doubts. "There's my hero."
What the hell had that been? He'd felt her pushing at him, pushing hard to make him do what she'd wanted. He didn't know why she'd done it. He didn't know why he hadn't said something back. He didn't know why he was still standing there.
October, 2011.
Sam walked into the motel office, the dog hobbling just in front of him on the leash. He looked at the counter and raised his brows at the young man sitting behind it.
"Everett." He let the door go and it closed behind him. "Hey, buddy, you still on duty?"
Everett got up, leaning on the counter a little more heavily than usual, his eyes rolling slightly. "Yeah, yeah."
Sam looked at him, brow creasing as he saw the tiredness. "How's your dad?"
Everett glanced toward the door that led into their living quarters involuntarily. "He's kind of having it rough on the new regimen," he said, his gaze going past Sam as a memory hit him. "Can't keep anything down."
"That sucks."
The young man looked down at the counter, and Sam realised that it had been an understatement. It sucked for the whole family, not to put too fine a point on it. Everett looked like he could use a change of subject. Maybe even a change of life.
"Listen, um, I'm gonna stay on another week, okay? But I need you to run it on this card, 'cause I just cancelled the one you had on file." He dug the credit card out of his wallet and handed it over.
"Okay, sure," he said, taking the new card and getting out the machine. The air conditioner embedded in the window beside the door suddenly gave a long rattle and Sam glanced over at it.
"Figured you'd have moved on by now," Everett said, running the card through.
"Right. Well, I'm – I'm kind of between jobs," Sam said quickly. The air conditioner rattled again, like a pack of playing cards against the spokes of a bicycle wheel and he looked back at it, frowning. Everett glanced at it, entirely resigned to the noises and gurgles and thumps of the appliance. Sam looked at the dog. "Uh ... plus, uh, dog has a surgery follow-up on Tuesday."
"Yeah, you really messed up that dog," Everett said, his gaze following Sam's to the animal in question, who stood patiently beside the counter, one bandaged paw raised. He looked back to Sam. Sam's answering smile looked more like a wince.
"Right. Uh, thanks for that."
The air conditioner rattled and buzzed more loudly, starting to shake. Sam looked at it and slapped his palm against the grill, inciting a louder rattle.
"Oh, yeah, it's all that thing does – piss, moan, and eat up money we ain't got," Everett said, looking down at it. Sam turned to look at him.
"Well, you got any tools?"
"Hell," Everett said, brows rising. "If you can fix it, you don't need to go and look for a job." He turned away from the counter, reaching for a toolbox that sat on the floor beside the cupboard. "You got one here."
Sam stared at him. A job. There was a novel idea. Working for a living.
Four days later.
Sam put the toolbox outside the office door and came in, wiping his hands on the cloth rag he kept in the coverall pocket.
"Everett?"
He looked around, leaning over the counter to look through the glass panelled door to the left.
"Everett? I'm done with twenty-six."
"Hey, Sam, sorry," Everett came in through the office door behind him, carrying two bags of ice. "I'll be back out in a minute."
"Sure," Sam said, nodding. "No rush."
The ice was for Everett's father. Sucking on it kept his stomach from heaving every five minutes. He could hear Everett's voice, talking to him as he broke up enough ice in the bag to fill a cup, his father's responses a low rumble behind the door.
He turned away, looking at the silently running air conditioner in the window, feeling the cool stream of air blowing against his legs. Should have been installed higher, he thought vaguely, cold air falls. But it was a big improvement on the noisy, tepid air the unit had been pushing out.
"Sorry." Everett came back out.
"No problem. I finished twenty-six – you got anything else today?" Sam looked at him. He looked less tired, he thought critically. But no less worried.
"Ice machine," Everett gestured to the offending appliance against the far wall.
The dog lay panting on the floor next to him as he finished the replacement of the frayed wire and flicked the switch. The machine began to hum quietly. A few seconds later there was a clunk-clunk from the inside as fresh cubes fell.
"Awesome!" Everett grinned at him. Sam smiled and lifted the panel down, setting it into place.
"Uh, if you're still on the clock, lady in one-eighteen says the sink's backed up," Everett continued, leaning on the counter and gesturing vaguely outside.
"Sure," Sam said, setting the screws in place on the panel and screwing it back in. He put the tools in the box and picked it up, heading for the door.
"Hey, Sam," Everett said from behind him. Sam stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You, uh, feel like getting a beer after work?"
He looked down at the keys in his hand, and nodded slowly. "Yeah, sure. Sounds good. I'll drop these back when I'm done."
"Good." Everett sat down in the chair behind the desk.
Going out of the office, Sam rolled his shoulders lightly. The job was easy, most of the work just replacing worn pieces, a little oil, some brushing the years of accumulated dirt and dust and grime out. Maintenance work. Keeping things in good repair. It suited him. Suited the way he was feeling. He and … his brother … had been running for the last three years, longer than that. Since Dad had died, he realised slowly. Running from things. Running toward things. Just running in place most of the time and never even recognising it.
He was beginning to understand his brother's feelings for the car. Taking care of her. Fixing the little things before they became big things. Doing the maintenance work. He didn't understand how, for the last seven years, they'd failed to do that maintenance work with each other. They genuinely got on, a lot of the time. Their shared history had stripped them both down to the core, to who they'd really been. And still they'd kept secrets. He'd kept secrets.
It was too late to make amends. Too late to admit that he'd been wrong, that he'd made choices that had screwed them – and the world – up so badly. Choices that he'd thought were right, but that he knew weren't. Wrapped up in his pride and his need to be … what? Stronger? Surer? He didn't know.
One-eighteen was a long-term rental, and the place was … lived in, sort of. He glanced around. Tequila, wine, mixers in cans, limes and margarita glasses encrusted in salt. Lady in one-eighteen was looking for some serious amnesia from her problems, he thought. Not that he was in any position to judge.
Once the pipe was off and he'd pulled the garbage disposal out, it was apparent what the problem was.
The door opened and he looked around, eyes widening as he saw the dog's vet walk in carrying two bags of groceries, her face undergoing a transformation from relaxed to outrage in seconds.
"What the hell?" She looked down at him, her voice getting louder as each word came out. "What are you doing here?"
No. No, no, no, no. Crap, not this woman. Sam's thoughts rocketed through his brain as he gripped the edge of the sink and stood up.
"I knew there was something off about you, with your creepy Army-Navy and your sideburns –" She looked him up and down as her thoughts came tumbling out of her mouth without any effort at courtesy or control.
Sam's face scrunched up. He didn't need this. Not today, not any day. Creepy Army-Navy?
"Stop! Stop." He looked at her. "Um, I'm fixing your sink."
It stopped her. "What?"
For a moment, they stood still, looking at each other. It was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable, Sam thought. Like standing at a crossroads and wondering which direction to take. He couldn't make the decision. He didn't need to.
"So that's what you do?" She looked from the sink to him and walked slowly to the counter, lifting the groceries onto it. "You stalk helpless women and you break into their motel rooms and you … fix their plumbing?" She stood behind the counter.
Sam watched her, listening in disbelief. Lady in one-eighteen had a few issues, he thought. And she obviously believed that offence was the best defence.
"Why are you fixing my sink?" her face screwed up as she asked, as if she couldn't imagine a single reason for him to be there. Sam swallowed a bubble of laughter. Frank could take lessons from this woman. Hell, Dean could take lessons … the thought doused his amusement instantly.
"Well, because somebody jammed about eight hundred limes down the drain," he said slowly, lifting the disposal out from under the sink and showing her the contents as he set it on the counter beside the bags. "And blew out the disposal."
"Oh. Right," she said. Sam saw the bag of limes sitting on top of the closest bag of groceries and lifted them. "Don't touch the produce."
"Right," he said, looking away as he let go of the bag.
"I thought you were leaving town?" she asked accusingly.
"I am. I'm just helping out with maintenance at the motel, you know, while Everett's dad is sick," he said, not sure why he felt the need to tell her anything at all.
"Who's Everett?"
Sam looked at her, one brow lifting quizzically. "How long have you been here?"
"Three months. Why?"
He wiped his hands on the rag. "Because usually when someone moves into a town, they actually, uh …" He dropped the rag into the toolbox and spread his hands out. "You know, move into the town."
She nodded. "I did."
"A motel is not actually a part of the town that it's in," he said uncomfortably. "It's not part of anywhere." And he should know, he'd spent his entire childhood and most of his adult life in them. He wondered distractedly what she would say if he told her that.
She shrugged, looking away and then back to him. "Well, I haven't found a place yet."
In that moment, he saw it, in her eyes, in her face. She wasn't looking for a place. She didn't want a place. Not to call home. Not to tie her to anything. Not to have a connection of any sort, not even knowing the name of the guy she paid her rent to every single week.
"Why am I explaining myself to you?" she blurted out, hiding that sudden illuminating honesty behind a swiftly erected mask of disdain. "You're a drifter, or a handyman."
Sam turned away, his mouth curling up on one side at her attempt. One of life's casualties. One more of life's casualties. "I think I should just go."
"Yeah, I think you should go."
Sam picked up the toolbox and walked to the door. The keys were still hanging from the handle, and he pulled them out, tossing them onto the counter beside the sink, and pulling the door closed behind him.
He didn't have time to think about other people's mess and chaos, he thought, walking down the concreted path back to his own room. Didn't have time to feel pain for anyone but himself.
November, 2011.
The weather was holding, the days drifting on, sunny and cold. Sam closed the room door behind him and called to the dog who was sniffing conscientiously around the trees near the path.
"Come on, dog," he said, bending slightly and holding out the leash. The dog raised his head suddenly and barked, taking off down the path toward the other wing of rooms. Sam straightened, looking after him disbelievingly, walking fast behind him, faster as he saw the room the dog was heading for.
"No, no, no. Dog, dog, dog! Oh ... no, dog..." his voice dropped as he watched the dog disappear through open door of one-eighteen. "Don't bother the angry lady."
He walked slowly and reluctantly up to the doorway, knocking as he peered inside. Angry Vet Lady was the mental nickname he'd given her, refined down from Lady in One-Eighteen with Issues, which was too much of a mouthful even mentally. She was sitting on the sofa, legs stretched out and bare feet propped on the low table in front of her. The dog lay on the sofa, halfway across her lap, panting happily and looking in the other direction pointedly as he stepped inside the room.
"Uh … hey, sorry."
""Dog"? That's what you're calling him?" She looked up at him, mouth curving up.
It wasn't an expression he'd really seen on her before. "Uh ..."
"Well, it's accurate," she said, her fingers disappearing into the long fur at the back of the dog's neck as she looked down at the animal. Sam twisted the leash in his hands, wondering how to extract himself and the dog from the room without it turning into another insult-filled, tense and unnecessary confrontation.
"Is Dog taking his antibiotics?" She looked at him questioningly.
"Uh, yes, he is. He's doing much better. Thank you," he said awkwardly, unwilling to meet her eyes. It was ridiculous to be afraid of what she might say, he thought. You've faced every kind of monster, demon and angel. You've been to Hell. Geez, get a grip.
"You know, um," he said, peering through the open room divider, and walking around it. "I have to say – um ... I've seen a lot of stitches in my time, and you've got really good hands."
It wasn't what she'd expected him to say. And she took it at face value, he thought, watching the expressions flit over her face.
"Thank you."
Don't ask, he thought to himself as a thought popped into his head. Don't. It came out anyway. "So, you think I'm creepy?"
She smiled, tipping her head back as she qualified the statement carefully. "I think it's creepy you buy all your clothing at army surplus. White supremacists do that."
"Yeah … but I'm not," he said firmly.
"Drifting serial killers do that," she countered immediately. Sam laughed a little. Drifting serial killers – did that fit him? He killed. Serially. It was a valid comment.
"Fair enough," he said, looking down at the leash in his hand.
"You come from nowhere, you appear to be going nowhere, and you've, quote, 'seen a lot of stitches'," she cut him off, then dropped her eyes. "It's all pretty solid creepy."
Sam grinned, a shit-eating-gee-ya-caught-me grin. He couldn't remember seeing anyone with the defences this woman had. And the offence. She hit fast and hard and took no prisoners. He'd only seen one other person come close. The thought made him look at her more closely. He knew defences like that. He had some of them himself. Some he'd seen in others. They were the walls and barricades of someone who was still cracking from pain, so fragile that every day was a decision. To carry on, or to give up.
There was a chair opposite her, on the other side of the low table and he walked to it, glancing back at her, wondering if she'd let him sit. And ask. And talk. He saw the flash of wariness fill her face, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.
"You have no idea where you're going, either, do you?" he asked her quietly, the smile gone.
"No," she said, her eyes looking into his. She dropped her gaze to the dog, and he saw the pretence of strength fall away. "Not really."
It occurred to him that she could get really mad. It didn't matter. Not now. If she didn't want to talk, she didn't have to. He wasn't going to make her. But for the first time in months, he wanted to talk. To someone. To reach out and feel like what he had to say was of some importance to someone. He wasn't invisible. He wasn't floating on the wind, waiting for Death.
"And that's because you have no one," he said, not cramming it down her throat, but laying it on the table. Out in the open. "I mean, at all, right? I mean, that's why you're ... here. In this place?"
She looked at him, trying to brush off the sudden intimacy of his question with a laugh. No one had asked her anything personal. For a long time. It felt … frightening. But liberating as well. She couldn't look at him directly.
"I used to – have someone, I mean. But that's over now. It's gone," she said, swallowing hard against the memories that rose up like a flood, closing her throat and pricking at the backs of her eyes.
He looked away, abruptly ashamed of asking, of asking her to show that to him.
"You know what that's like, don't you?"
He looked back at her, his expression as wary as hers had been. He did know.
For a long time, they sat there in a silence that seemed to be bottomless, just looking at each other, both weighing pro and con of telling the truth, telling someone how it was.
"My mother died when I was six months old. My father when I was twenty-three. I lost my brother seven months ago."
The words dropped into the silence and he could almost feel the ripples as they crossed the room and bounced back at him, bounced off her and back at him.
"I'm sorry," she said softly.
He nodded, lifting a shoulder. "I didn't expect it. I-I kind of had it in my head that he couldn't die."
She tipped her head back against the wall, eyes half-closed as she looked at him with perfect understanding. "Yeah."
"I'm Sam Winchester."
"Amelia Richardson."
December, 2011.
"Christmas? Really?" Sam looked around as he came through the door, dropping his tool kit on the floor next to it. Candles and tinsel and over-sized baubles hung from the walls and the room divider and the light fittings, giving the impression of being inside a shop window display.
"Not really," Amelia said, pouring out a glass of eggnog and handing it to him. "No presents, no carols, no tree and no ambitious, overdone dinner. Just …" She looked around, shrugging. "Just us, and no one else."
He looked around again, this time seeing a private place, warm and inviting without being too festive. Except for the red and gold and green tinsel.
"Okay," he said, following her to the sofa. "What brought this on?"
"I used to love Christmas," she said, sitting down. "And then …" She looked away for a moment, and he caught the sheen in her eyes, sipping his eggnog to give her the time to get her emotions back under control.
"Then it wasn't the same," she said, swallowing a mouthful of eggnog quickly. "I just want it to not be so awful again."
"I'll drink to that," he said quietly, clinking his glass lightly against hers. In the candlelight, she looked softer, almost gentle. Sometimes, in the last month, he'd seen what she must've been like before. Before whatever had happened, had happened. Those times, she was warm and beautiful and full of life and laughter. They didn't last long, but he treasured each moment when he'd seen it.
"Why did you long for a normal life, Sam?" She looked at him, turning her head and resting her cheek against the back of the sofa.
"I wanted to be free of the nightmare, I guess," he said, leaning back beside her. "I expected to lose my father and brother at any time. I got sick of that."
"Normal life isn't all that it's cracked up to be, you know."
"I know." He sighed. "But it beats what I've been doing."
He rolled onto one shoulder, looking at her. "I had a normal life with Jess, for a couple of years. And I was happy."
She closed her eyes, nodding. "Then I want you to have a normal life too. Life's too short to not be happy, at least some of the time."
He looked into her face, and put his glass on the table, taking hers from her hand and setting it down as well.
"I want you to be happy," he said softly, leaning closer.
She opened her eyes. Sam saw them widen a little, the pupils dilating a little. He felt her breath on his mouth, saw her eyelids flutter closed as his lips met hers. Heat uncoiled slowly inside of him, heat and a throbbing desire and a desperation that he hadn't felt for a long, long time, to be closer to someone, to be himself.