Conversations with Dead People...

[stilljustandrew]

[...that never happened.]

Andrew's in his room, upstairs at Milliways. The room has a desk. The desk has piles of books.

There's always work to do.

Comments

[gavemea_45]

There is indeed.

Of course, that sort of thing tends to be for those who are left behind when others are gone.

A faint breath of air blows through the room. It's not unlike the draft from a door opening, and it's cold. Very, very cold.

When it fades, Andrew's not alone. Someone's standing behind him.

[stilljustandrew]

The cold draft makes him glance at the window, and then twist about sharply as the figure behind him catches his peripheral vision.

"...Sam?"

It's more confused than anything else.

[gavemea_45]

"Hey, Andrew."

He looks awkward, uncertain and confused. Sam shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket -- and winces violently as he does so.

[stilljustandrew]

"Hey," he says in abrupt concern, "what is it?"

There's also the questions of what are you doing here and how did you get in without me hearing you, but they can wait.

[gavemea_45]

"Hurts, that's all--"

He pulls his hands back out again, much more carefully.

"I, uh. Didn't mean to, er, didn't expect to, to be -- but I kinda needed to talk to you, I guess -- "

[stilljustandrew]

His eyes jump to Sam's hands, but there's nothing there to indicate why putting them in his pockets might be painful.

The concern's shading closer to alarm.

Lower: "What's wrong?"

[gavemea_45]

"I, um."

"I'm dead. I'm pretty sure I am, anyway."

A beat, and more quietly, Sam adds,

"I'm sorry, Andrew."

[stilljustandrew]

"What?"

[gavemea_45]

He winces again, but this time it's not out of pain.

Sam half-turns so that Andrew can see his back, looking over his shoulder as he does.

There's a rip in his jacket, over his spine.

There's also a lot of blood.

[stilljustandrew]

Andrew sucks in breath sharply, and rises from the chair.

"Oh my god."

A step forward, one hand reaching out unconsciously. "Sam -- we gotta get you to the infirmary, come on --"

[gavemea_45]

"... I think it's too late for that."

He sounds apologetic.

"I mean, for one thing, I'm not exactly sure how I got here."

[stilljustandrew]

"What do you mean, you're not --"

He stops.

Swallows.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

[gavemea_45]

"I remember it hurt a fuck of a lot," Sam tells him. "It was Jake -- I shouldn't have turned my back on him--"

Some complex emotion flares in his eyes.

"-- and then I couldn't stand any more, and I was falling, and Dean was there and it was getting dark--"

[stilljustandrew]

Sam sounds ... lost, and very young. Bewildered. As though it never crossed his mind that something like this could happen.

And it's starting to hurt, because Andrew has seen that look before.

(Dean was there; that's its own little twist to the pain.)

"Sam."

[gavemea_45]

"Maybe I shouldn't have come, not that I exactly meant to, but --"

Dazed confusion is fading fast, replaced by sharp determination.

"-- I had to, Andrew, I'm sorry, but you've gotta know -- "

[stilljustandrew]

"Sam --"

He reaches out to touch Sam's arm, gently, steeling himself for both the touch and the possibility that his hand will go through.

It doesn't, and that makes him falter for half a beat before continuing.

"You should sit down."