The Baffled King Composing Hallelujah (1 of 2)
Title: The Baffled King Composing Hallelujah
Author: Kadiel Krieger
Characters: Sam, Dean, John. Other canon and non-canon characters.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers: Through 4.22
Wordcount: 13K
Disclaimer: Only wish they were mine. Woe.
Summary: Belief is one thing, faith is another. It takes Sam a lifetime to figure out what it means to him.
Thanks to: elizah_jane for her supremely patient hand-holding and beta work.
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
-Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"
Sam still remembers the first time he prayed.
Newnan, Georgia - April 1989
Dad’s gone on one of his trips, the kind that takes him a week to come back from even after he finally shuffles through the door. School’s out, but not for summer and Sam is scared.
It feels a hundred years ago, but he remembers asking Dean why as they tromped back to the motel across the red dirt and thin grass in the middle of the day. Dean simply smiled at him, wide-eyed and excited about the surprise free time, and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Everybody's sick. Flu from what Mrs. Bundy said. Don't worry, Sammy. We Winchesters don't get sick."
Sam wishes that were really the case.
Because all he can do is stare at the shaky rise and fall of his brother's chest and think how wrong his breathing sounds. Dean would know what to do if only he would wake up, but he hasn’t gotten out of bed for three days and the last thing he told Sam was not to go to the front office, no matter what. That Dad would get in trouble for leaving them alone and they would never see each other again.
So Sam sits - still as a statue, terrified.
He’s tried everything he knows to try. But he can’t find Dad’s first aid kit and he can only spout dumb jokes for so long without Dean to laugh at them.
He’s rummaging through the drawers one last time, as he tries to come up with an excuse to go to the office for help anyway, when he finds it.
The Holy Bible.
Everything Sam knows about God he learned sitting next to Tommy Grayson at the lunch table one Monday a month ago after Dean got suspended for fighting. He knew what he was in for when he did it. Anyone who'd been going to Turner Elementary for more than a day would. But listening to Tommy babble about nothing scared him less than trying to make up stuff to talk about with the other kids. As it turned out, sometimes Tommy actually had something to say. He looked up from his mushy pile of green beans when he heard the word 'dog' tumble out of Tommy's mouth. Sam always wanted one but never got up the guts to ask. So he said, "Huh?" without even thinking. It was a bad idea to encourage Tommy with questions.
"I said, I think I'm going to ask God to make me a dog. My parents don't want me to get one because they think I can't take care of it and it'll make too much noise. But if I ask God for one and he brings it to me, they have to let me keep it, right?"
"Sure, I guess," Sam said, confused. He'd heard Dad swear to God and other things he got in trouble for repeating, but he never thought you could ask for things. "Do you think if I asked, God would make me something?"
"Maybe," Tommy said, "God can do anything. But you have to pray and brush your teeth and go to bed when your Mom tells you to. And it helps to always eat your vegetables. He can't grant wishes for just anybody, you know."
Sam stopped paying attention as Tommy jabbered his way onto other topics, but he made a point to ask Dean about God when he got home from school.
"They're just stories, Sammy," Dean said. "People get scared and they don't have anyone to help them. They don't have Dad. So they make something up to make themselves feel better."
Sam couldn't be sure then, can't be sure even now.
Because in motel rooms from one end of the country to the other, Sam watches Dad pull the Bible out and hold it. Hears the things he whispers to Mom when Sam and Dean are supposed to be sleeping.
Not that he has much of a choice. His heart thuds in his throat when Dean moans and turns over, leaving a sweat-damp spot on the pillow behind him. Now or never. He hefts the book with both hands and slides onto the bed.
He doesn’t know how to do it, but Dad never says the same thing twice so it can’t be that hard.
Sam closes his eyes, breathes deep, and feels the Bible slip in his too-tight grip. This has to work, because he can't do this without Dean. Can't be the new kid his entire life without Dean to make him not invisible. Can't come home to an empty motel room and watch cartoons by himself. Can't even think about it.
Dean is all he has. All he knows.
And Dean would do anything for him, even if he wasn't sure it would work. So he steels himself, sets his chin, and prays.
“Um. Hi God, it’s Sam Winchester. I could really use some help. My brother’s real sick and my dad’s not here. I don’t know what to do…”
A brisk knock startles him and he almost drops the Bible.
“Housekeeping.”
It could just be chance, but Sam chooses to believe it isn’t. He scrambles for the door and yanks it open, tripping over his own feet because the room has gone blurry.
"Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much," he mutters, and the woman standing outside looks at him funny, but Sam doesn't care because it means Dean will be okay. It's only once she's inside with the back of her hand against Dean's forehead that Sam lets go, feels the tears spill down his cheeks.
Adams, Tennessee - February 1993
It’s been just over a year since he found out the truth. Six months of which he spent still pretending Dad was only a traveling salesman. Then he messed up, told Dad to be careful as he was leaving, and Dean got read riot act.
Now they’re both out there. And for the first time, he’s…alone. Doing everything he can to distract himself. He’s even written a book report that’s not due for another two weeks. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong. They should have been back by now.
By Dad’s account, all they’re after is another vengeful spirit. It’s a strong one, which is why he needs Dean to watch his back, but nothing that they can’t handle.
That was yesterday morning.
He goes to school on Monday just to have something to do. When he gets back to the motel that afternoon and the Impala is still MIA, he calls Pastor Jim.
“John Winchester never did know when to ask for help,” he sighs. “He shouldn’t have taken this on by himself.”
“Dean’s with him,” Sam says, as if that makes it better. It doesn't. It just makes him alone. No matter how calm he may come across, Sam's insides are in an uproar. Waiting in the car was never like this, but those were just what Dad calls 'salt and burns' and they took a couple hours. This waiting is unbearable. Not knowing where they are or whether they're okay. Sam feels like he's been watching the clock for days and every minute that ticks by amps up the acid flow in his stomach and the pain in his head. How dare Pastor Jim criticize his dad? If anyone can take this spirit it's Dad and Dean, and if Sam thinks about it long enough he can almost hear the laughter on his brother's tongue over the weird, angry, worried breakdown he appears to be having.
Still, he can't take any chances.
“Give me half an hour to load up. I’ll call my friend in Cookeville. She’ll make it long before I can.”
“Thanks,” he says, “is there anything I can do?”
Has to do something besides sit around, stare at the clock, and feel helpless. His entire world has gone hunting, might be lying broken and bloody in some barn, and there's nothing he can do about it. He decides then to ask Dad when he gets back to train him with Dean, because he's no good at this and hunting can't be any harder.
“Sit tight. And pray. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Samuel. Have no fear.” The line goes dead.
Have no fear?
Sam has been afraid ever since he found out what Dad really does, like a coiling black snake in the pit of his stomach that won’t let him sleep easy even in the best of times. Fear for Dad. Fear for Dean. Fear for himself if something were to happen to one or both of them.
But he can pray.
It helps settle his stomach and bleeds away a little of the ache in his head. Sam knows how to pray, has for awhile. Even though he doesn't do it every night, he hopes God understands and forgives him. He prays when it counts, which is almost every night anyway.
He’s still lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling, pleading silently for salvation, when Pastor Jim’s friend stumbles in with what’s left of Dad. Nose bloodied, coat in shreds, long gash running from his temple to the base of his neck, but he’s at least conscious. Sam’s off in a flash, yanking open the door of the battered old pickup parked outside to check on Dean. He’s fared better than Dad, but not by much and Sam wonders when his brother got so heavy as he slides him out of the truck and drags him inside.
Damaged, but alive.
The pastor’s friend, Lynn, helps him get both of them into bed and asks if he’ll be okay before taking off. She doesn’t say anything, but the look she gives Dad is sharp and sad. Sam is grateful when the door closes behind her.
Dad grabs his wrist as he starts to slip him a couple of painkillers from the kit.
“You did good, Sammy. Thank you.”
He just nods, knowing the thanks aren't his to accept and passes them on where they belong with another silent prayer.
Stanley, Idaho - October 2000
Sam hates his life most of the time - the constant motion, lumpy beds, bad food, late nights. Other times…
No, he hates it pretty much all the time now, especially when he’s taking the ACT in the morning and nobody seems to give a shit.
Dad and Dean are in the front seat laughing about how they sharked some random guy out of $500 last night, but all Sam can think about is how he doesn’t need to be here. Dad did the research, Dean scouted, and all that leaves is the killing.
Chupacabra is the working theory, but since no one has seen one in seventy-five odd years there’s no way to be sure. Supposedly, it’s about the size of a Great Dane and not the smartest tool in the supernatural shed, which means they should be able to handle it. And yet here he sits. At 11:30. On a school night. With a test that will decide his entire academic future coming up in nine hours. Who cares if Dean noticed some irregularities in the attacks? So yeah, these things don’t usually attack people. It’s still basically a big reptilian canine that sucks your guts through an oversized cartilaginous straw. Tracking it down and chopping its head off is not work that requires three people
Dean leans back over the seat and punches him in the shoulder, derailing his brood.
“Why the long face, Sammy?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dean. Maybe I’ve got something better to be doing. Like studying, for instance?”
“Studying? What for?” Sam has told him half a dozen times, but it never seems to register. It’s like his brother has this impenetrable blind spot for anything related to school.
There are days when he remembers what it was like to worship Dean. This is not one of those days.
“Life," Sam says, by way of an answer, but Dean just shrugs. He catches Dad’s eyes on him in the rear view and slumps further down in the seat.
“Killing nasties is a pretty important fact of life. Especially if you’re us.”
“Right. Us. As opposed to the millions of people out there living sane, normal lives. How could I make that mistake?”
Dean turns on him then, eyes flashing, jaw clenched, “Did you just call our lives a mistake?”
“Enough!”
And Dad means business. Dean mutters a yessir and plants himself firmly facing forward. Sam holds his tongue this time, but knows he won't, can't, hold it forever. Dad and Dean both love the life, at least as much as they are able, but Sam would give anything if they could just find a house somewhere and stop…running. If that’s what this is. He’s forgotten what it feels like to stay any place more than a month and it’s long past old.
They ride the rest of the way in silence.
When they arrive in Stanley, the town’s eerily hushed, streets deserted. According to Dad there have been six victims so far, all of them at assaulted at night and no real description aside from big, dark, and doglike. It wouldn’t be their case at all, except every one of the victims has died of unknown causes within hours of the attack. Dad swings the Impala into a spot in front of the ramshackle bar at the far end of town. Sighing, Sam unfolds himself from the backseat, hoping the hunt ends quickly.
“No,” Dad says, not even bothering to look up from gathering his gear, “You’re staying here.”
“You’re kidding, right? Now you want me to stay in the car?”
“That’s exactly what I want, Sam. Your head isn’t right. You’re distracted and I don’t want it getting us killed.” Dad tosses Dean his shotgun and slams the trunk lid closed. “Get in the car. Lock the doors.” Like he's five again.
Sam knows better than to argue where the job's concerned, knows that it will get him all kinds of nowhere fast because Dad is Dad. So he just kicks the rear tire of the Impala and gets back in the car.
“Whatever.”
An hour later and he can’t sit still. Pissed at Dad, the world, the sense of duty, the circumstances that put them in these situations. He’ll be damned if he’ll be sidelined for stupid shit. What better way to relieve some of the tension that’s been singing up his spine than to kill some mutant bloodsucking puppy?
He’s picked the lock on the trunk probably a thousand times. Dean, in his oddly appropriate wisdom, made him learn it blindfolded over the course of a month the summer he was ten.
“Never know,” he’d said, “when you’ll have to get in quick and dirty.”
Sam had laughed at the time, thinking to himself that they had bigger problems if the keys ever went missing or, the unthinkable, Dad went missing. All he can feel now, as the trunk pops open at his probing, is satisfied.
Dad and Dean have already taken most of what might be useful, but they had originally planned on Sam going in with them so the cache isn’t completely cleaned out. One machete that’s seen better days, an ancient pump action shotgun and Sam’s ready to do some damage.
He knows better than to follow the same path as his brother. Dean is nothing if not a good soldier and he will have cleared every inch of his grid systematically. Dad, well, Dad’s an ex-Marine. That’s all that needs be said. Instead Sam lopes blindly through backyards and alleys, making his way to the other end of town. It will take them longer to find him, that way.
The old growth forest looming at his back isn’t helping his mood, and Sam wonders if maybe Dad wasn’t right. Maybe he is too preoccupied to be out here tonight.
So he turns his face to the moon, closes his eyes and inhales - trying to focus.
The only warning he gets is a gentle rustle of dry leaves. It could have been the wind, but there isn’t any tonight, and he’s got three inches worth of Chupacabra teeth embedded in the back of his thigh.
Sam manages to stay upright long enough to swing his shotgun at the thing’s neck and pull the trigger. Unfortunately all that does is piss it off and make it clamp down harder. Every muscle in his leg spasms at the same time and he feels the wound open further, leaking blood and he’s sure its rabid or something because there’s foam on its fangs. And, oh God, it hurts. Worse than any stab wound, much worse than a dog bite. Sam pumps the shotgun once and lays the muzzle right up against its eyeball, angling as far away from his leg as he can, and pulls.
He’s heard the expression - the ground rushing up to meet you - but until this moment he’s never experienced himself. El Chupacabra twitches its death throes, jaws still locked on his leg. Dad and Dean will have heard the shots go off and come running to investigate. The angle that was there with the shotgun is gone when he reaches down to try and pry the creature’s teeth free, so instead of making things worse, Sam decides to lie still and wait.
Dean shows up first, red-faced and breathing hard, even in the dark Sam can’t miss the panic in his eyes.
“Jesus, Sam. What are you doing?”
“Well, right now it looks like I’m bleeding out.”
It’s enough. Enough to convince Dean he’s not dying and Sam watches the terror subside.
“Not what I meant,” says Dean, and he kneels, tosses his own shotgun down in easy reach, then goes about prying the beast’s jaw open.
Dad appears about a minute later, hand on the grip of his machete and ready to draw.
“Dean?”
Sam would smile at the ‘you fucking owe me’ look Dean gives him, but right now he’s focused on not passing out.
“It’s Sam. Chupa Loops got him before he got it. Missed the femoral, so it’s just going to be a nasty scar.”
They both know he’s making light of it, but Sam appreciates every bit of help he can get. Dad’s going to be seriously pissed and at this point it’s all about degrees. The more life threatening the injury, the more irate he’s likely to be.
But when Dean helps him up, it’s not anger he sees in Dad’s eyes. It’s fear.
“Dad? What?” he says, because it takes a hell of a lot to scare John Winchester. Sam would rather be prepared.
“Did either one of you read the autopsy reports?”
“No sir,” they say, in unison.
And there’s the anger.
“Every single one of these people died with extremely high levels of an unidentified toxin in their blood stream. It liquefied their organs.”
“Venom,” Sam says, eyes locked on the tear in his pants leg. He feels the air go out of his lungs and tries to ignore the little white spots that swim between his Dad and Dean when he finally gathers the courage to look back up at them.
“Dean, go get the car.”
The drive back to the motel is the most excruciating half hour of Sam’s life - the silence an nearly physical force pressing against his skull until he feels like it might implode. That is until he spends the next half hour watching Dean silently stitch and dress his wound while Dad throws back four fingers of whiskey. For the life of him, Sam can’t remember a single word’s worth of research that said anything about venom. But then a creature who’s been invisible for that long is likely to have evolved and he was distracted by things he thought were more important. Still. There has to be something they can do.
He feels like screaming at them both, but knows it wouldn’t do any good. Winchesters use their silence as a weapon and he’s not about to break first. If Dad can live with not trying, so be it. Except Dad just looks tired. And when it comes right down to it, Sam can’t live with it - especially if it means...
“Dad?”
Dad just looks at him, his expression unreadable in the dim lamplight, eyes lost to shadow.
“Dad, come on, I…don’t want to go like this. There has to be something we can do. Please, just-Just say something?”
Sam watches his dad set the glass aside, deliberately, and rock forward in the chair, settling elbow against knee. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s practically vibrating the tacky pastoral pictures off the wall.
“Now you’re ready to listen?” he says, “When it’s too late?”
“Dad, really?” Dean says, and Sam couldn’t be more grateful for him trying to make the peace - while there’s still peace that can be made. At least everyone’s talking.
“What Dean? Go easy on him? Sam screwed up. Disobeyed a direct order. And now…”
The light catches just right and now Sam can see the unshed tears, realizes he doesn’t deserve them.
“Now we get to watch him die. Or do the merciful thing and put a bullet in his hormone addled brain. This thing moves fast and I don’t have the lab reports to even make a stab at an antidote. No. He doesn’t deserve easy.”
Of course not. Sam knows better than to expect it, because life with Dad has never been anything resembling easy, and how could he have been so stupid to think that silence wasn’t the better alternative? At least if he’s going to get his ass chewed into the afterlife, he’s going to say goodbye to Dean.
But Dean already has his coat on and the keys to the Impala threaded through his fingers. He kneels next to the chair, eyes gone bright and glassy and Sam can tell it takes everything Dean has just to meet his gaze.
“Sammy. You know I’d fix this if I could. Do anything to fix it.” He laughs, a clutching ragged sound. “I wish it were me. You’re my brother, and I--I just can’t. Can’t stay here and…”
Then he’s gone.
Sam watches the curtains sway absently as the motel door slams hard enough to knock it off its hinges. It hangs on, barely. He waits for it, but Dad seems to have given up the bluster just in time to send Dean packing. So yeah, he thinks, silence was better. He settles into it, closing his eyes against the garish colors and generic furnishings. Breathing helps, so he does, pulling himself together as much as he can given the knowledge that he’s going to die.
Belief is all Sam has left. If he has ever had a right to pray for himself, it’s now.
He mouths the words, softly, carefully.
“I know I’ve asked a lot already, but I still have things to do. Go to college. Get married. Settle down and have a real life. I want to be happy.”
Please, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Please. He sits very still, holding on to the prayer as long as he can, filling his head with things he doesn’t want to forget. The way Dean smiled at him the first time he sat down behind the wheel. The way Dad grinned wide and dusted him off the first time he sparred with Dean. The thousands upon thousands of hours riding the backseat of the Impala listening to Dad and Dean scream AC/DC at each other.
Suddenly, he’s at peace. He doesn’t know why, because Winchesters fight down to the last drop…but it’s there. Just for a second.
Then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes, sees his dad still canted forward in the straight-backed chair, his hands wrapped white-knuckled around the Bible like it’s the only thing keeping him together and he knows there’s no peace. This will destroy his dad. Probably beyond repair.
Sam can’t talk about it, even now. Because what is there to say?
So he simply waits. And hopes. Leaves everything between them unsaid.
Next thing he knows, he’s waking up, without a memory of ever falling asleep. The clock tells him it’s eight and Sam wonders how that’s possible. He squints at the crack in the drapes, can see his dad there peering out at the parking lot.
“Dad? What happened?”
“I wish I knew. Maybe the gods cut us a break.”
Sam thinks stranger things have happened.
“Maybe,” is all he says. “Maybe.”
Palo Alto, California - May 2004
The extra clack against pavement alerts him first, a set of footsteps that shouldn’t be there. Something’s following them - the thought makes him pull Jess tighter against his side.
“You’ll just have to wait ‘til we get home.”
Jess giggles, girlish, and leans into him. They’ve both had a few. She’s probably had a few too many. But it’s not every day you turn twenty one. He doesn’t mention that Dean gave him his first beer when he was thirteen after they took down a werewolf in Poughkeepsie. She wouldn’t understand, mostly because he doesn’t talk about his family, but also because the Winchester boys are fucked six ways from Sunday. Sam knows he can’t expect anyone, even Jess, to not only believe that nightmares are real, but that his mom was killed by one and his dad dedicated their lives to destroying it without even asking.
He wishes he could forget himself.
Now, though, Sam’s grateful for the years of training that honed him into six plus feet of deadly force, because whatever’s behind them is probably his fault. Oddly enough, it’s like riding a bike, all of it flooding back with startling clarity. He feels his gait change, his shoulders tense, and he has to wrap his arm around Jess’s waist to keep her from tripping.
Please, he thinks, please God, don’t make me do this. Not here. Not in front of her. He knows she’ll never see him the same and can’t stand the thought of Jess looking at him with fear in her eyes.
Sam feels the point of a knife at his back and realizes this time his prayers have gone unanswered.
Apparently, whoever it is has misjudged how drunk he really is, because when Sam stops abruptly, he feels the blade slide against his coat and the attacker’s wrist turn against his spine. He spins Jess away from him as gently as he can and says, “Call the cops,” because it’s just a mugger. A big mugger, an apparently persistent and suicidal mugger, but human all the same and easily handled.
The guy lumbers at him, grip reset on the blade, and Sam can hear Jess on the phone, her voice sharp and reedy giving the dispatcher the intersection. He sidesteps the first lunge and puts his hands up, a last ditch effort to avoid the worst.
“Dude, seriously. My girlfriend’s calling the cops. Maybe you ought to just…”
Unfortunately, Sam doesn’t even get to finish the rest of the sentence before the guy charges him again. No more dicking around.
This time when the guy gets close, Sam throws an elbow at his throat, sweeps his legs and catches the knife as it arcs towards the sidewalk - every inch the superhero.
It feels good and he hates that it does.
Jess hangs up with the police and weaves her way over to him, face crumpled with confusion. At least it isn’t fear, but then she doesn’t know what he could have done. Sam flips the knife over in his hand, testing the weight, avoiding the questions as long as he can. Jess seems to get it and that’s why he loves her. She doesn’t ask, not now.
She just says, “They’re on the way,” and curls against him.
“Good,” he says. Then he carefully gathers the past up, stuffs it back in its box, and throws away the key. Convinces himself that the ache in his belly is just the adrenaline high wearing off.
Later, when they’ve answered all the questions, signed statements, spoken with detectives - when they’re home and safe, showered and sleepless. Later is when she asks.
“So are we going to talk about it?” she says, as if he really had a choice.
Playing dumb with Jess, is like…playing dumb with Dean. She knows better and it only makes her angry, so considering the night they’ve already had it’s probably best to be as honest as he’s comfortable with.
“If you want to, we can. There’s nothing much to tell.”
Sam despises himself for lying to her, but the whole truth would merely hurt them both. The pit in his stomach is still there and all he wants is to go to sleep and forget any of this ever happened.
“Are you like some undercover secret agent?” She smiles at him, trying to make it easier.
“No,” he says, if only. That would be easier to believe.
“Then what?”
So he tells her as much as he can without freaking her out. That his dad’s an ex-Marine and that when he and his brother were kids, he trained them like soldiers. He doesn’t say why and she doesn’t ask. It’s close enough to truth that she seems able to breathe again, and Sam doesn’t feel like he’s betrayed her trust.
It does nothing to fill the hole in his gut, so when Jess kisses him on the cheek and heads for bed, Sam stays up, pretending to read one of his textbooks until he hears the soft, even sound of her sleeping. Sighing, he rummages through the junk drawer in the kitchen for a screwdriver; pads over to the vent in the far wall of the living room and unscrews it. The cell is both dead and dusty, but it’s the same model as the one he actually carries so Sam just swaps out the battery. It tinkles to life merrily to report 43 missed calls and 20 voicemails.
Sam scans the log and sees one of the voicemails and two of the calls are from tonight. It’s not a number he recognizes, but Dad and Dean both dump their cells frequently to keep the creditors off their backs. He prepares mentally and scrolls down to dial his voicemail - thankful that the new messages land at the top of the heap.
“Hey Sam, it’s Dean,” he slurs, obviously well past buzzing himself, “Guess you’re still not taking my calls, but I just wanted to…I always thought I’d be the first one to get you drunk legally and it sucks you have to be such a bitch about all this... Fuck it. I ….”
The phone beeps, ready to move on to the next message, but he hangs up before it can, then checks the call log again. The voicemail falls between the two calls and the second one is from half an hour ago. Dean has to be on his own, there’s no other way he would call. Dad would kick his ass. Already he knows this is a bad idea, but Sam hits redial anyway and listens to it ring.
“What?” Dean says, and Sam wonders what time it is, because he can’t remember when he last looked at a clock. Two maybe.
“Hello?” Sam hears a rustling on the other end of the phone, the creak of cheap bed springs, and he’s tongue-tied because what can he say that he hasn’t before - that won’t make things worse. They’re his family, but he wants his own life and nothing has changed. There’s more noise on the line, probably Dean checking the number before he hangs up. And that must have been what he was doing because the next word out of his mouth is…
“Sammy?” It nearly breaks him. He hasn’t been Sammy to anyone for over a year.
He flips the phone closed, pulls the battery before it rings, and secures it back behind the vent.
Jess wakes him in the morning, still on the couch. The TV’s on and the “Night of the Living Dead” DVD menu is up.
“I thought you hated this stuff.”
“I do,” Sam says, and it’s just going to have to be one of those things that doesn’t make sense.
On to Part Two
Author: Kadiel Krieger
Characters: Sam, Dean, John. Other canon and non-canon characters.
Rating: Teen
Spoilers: Through 4.22
Wordcount: 13K
Disclaimer: Only wish they were mine. Woe.
Summary: Belief is one thing, faith is another. It takes Sam a lifetime to figure out what it means to him.
Thanks to: elizah_jane for her supremely patient hand-holding and beta work.
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
-Leonard Cohen, "Hallelujah"
Sam still remembers the first time he prayed.
Newnan, Georgia - April 1989
Dad’s gone on one of his trips, the kind that takes him a week to come back from even after he finally shuffles through the door. School’s out, but not for summer and Sam is scared.
It feels a hundred years ago, but he remembers asking Dean why as they tromped back to the motel across the red dirt and thin grass in the middle of the day. Dean simply smiled at him, wide-eyed and excited about the surprise free time, and slung an arm around his shoulders.
"Everybody's sick. Flu from what Mrs. Bundy said. Don't worry, Sammy. We Winchesters don't get sick."
Sam wishes that were really the case.
Because all he can do is stare at the shaky rise and fall of his brother's chest and think how wrong his breathing sounds. Dean would know what to do if only he would wake up, but he hasn’t gotten out of bed for three days and the last thing he told Sam was not to go to the front office, no matter what. That Dad would get in trouble for leaving them alone and they would never see each other again.
So Sam sits - still as a statue, terrified.
He’s tried everything he knows to try. But he can’t find Dad’s first aid kit and he can only spout dumb jokes for so long without Dean to laugh at them.
He’s rummaging through the drawers one last time, as he tries to come up with an excuse to go to the office for help anyway, when he finds it.
The Holy Bible.
Everything Sam knows about God he learned sitting next to Tommy Grayson at the lunch table one Monday a month ago after Dean got suspended for fighting. He knew what he was in for when he did it. Anyone who'd been going to Turner Elementary for more than a day would. But listening to Tommy babble about nothing scared him less than trying to make up stuff to talk about with the other kids. As it turned out, sometimes Tommy actually had something to say. He looked up from his mushy pile of green beans when he heard the word 'dog' tumble out of Tommy's mouth. Sam always wanted one but never got up the guts to ask. So he said, "Huh?" without even thinking. It was a bad idea to encourage Tommy with questions.
"I said, I think I'm going to ask God to make me a dog. My parents don't want me to get one because they think I can't take care of it and it'll make too much noise. But if I ask God for one and he brings it to me, they have to let me keep it, right?"
"Sure, I guess," Sam said, confused. He'd heard Dad swear to God and other things he got in trouble for repeating, but he never thought you could ask for things. "Do you think if I asked, God would make me something?"
"Maybe," Tommy said, "God can do anything. But you have to pray and brush your teeth and go to bed when your Mom tells you to. And it helps to always eat your vegetables. He can't grant wishes for just anybody, you know."
Sam stopped paying attention as Tommy jabbered his way onto other topics, but he made a point to ask Dean about God when he got home from school.
"They're just stories, Sammy," Dean said. "People get scared and they don't have anyone to help them. They don't have Dad. So they make something up to make themselves feel better."
Sam couldn't be sure then, can't be sure even now.
Because in motel rooms from one end of the country to the other, Sam watches Dad pull the Bible out and hold it. Hears the things he whispers to Mom when Sam and Dean are supposed to be sleeping.
Not that he has much of a choice. His heart thuds in his throat when Dean moans and turns over, leaving a sweat-damp spot on the pillow behind him. Now or never. He hefts the book with both hands and slides onto the bed.
He doesn’t know how to do it, but Dad never says the same thing twice so it can’t be that hard.
Sam closes his eyes, breathes deep, and feels the Bible slip in his too-tight grip. This has to work, because he can't do this without Dean. Can't be the new kid his entire life without Dean to make him not invisible. Can't come home to an empty motel room and watch cartoons by himself. Can't even think about it.
Dean is all he has. All he knows.
And Dean would do anything for him, even if he wasn't sure it would work. So he steels himself, sets his chin, and prays.
“Um. Hi God, it’s Sam Winchester. I could really use some help. My brother’s real sick and my dad’s not here. I don’t know what to do…”
A brisk knock startles him and he almost drops the Bible.
“Housekeeping.”
It could just be chance, but Sam chooses to believe it isn’t. He scrambles for the door and yanks it open, tripping over his own feet because the room has gone blurry.
"Thank you. Oh God, thank you so much," he mutters, and the woman standing outside looks at him funny, but Sam doesn't care because it means Dean will be okay. It's only once she's inside with the back of her hand against Dean's forehead that Sam lets go, feels the tears spill down his cheeks.
Adams, Tennessee - February 1993
It’s been just over a year since he found out the truth. Six months of which he spent still pretending Dad was only a traveling salesman. Then he messed up, told Dad to be careful as he was leaving, and Dean got read riot act.
Now they’re both out there. And for the first time, he’s…alone. Doing everything he can to distract himself. He’s even written a book report that’s not due for another two weeks. But he can’t shake the feeling that something is very wrong. They should have been back by now.
By Dad’s account, all they’re after is another vengeful spirit. It’s a strong one, which is why he needs Dean to watch his back, but nothing that they can’t handle.
That was yesterday morning.
He goes to school on Monday just to have something to do. When he gets back to the motel that afternoon and the Impala is still MIA, he calls Pastor Jim.
“John Winchester never did know when to ask for help,” he sighs. “He shouldn’t have taken this on by himself.”
“Dean’s with him,” Sam says, as if that makes it better. It doesn't. It just makes him alone. No matter how calm he may come across, Sam's insides are in an uproar. Waiting in the car was never like this, but those were just what Dad calls 'salt and burns' and they took a couple hours. This waiting is unbearable. Not knowing where they are or whether they're okay. Sam feels like he's been watching the clock for days and every minute that ticks by amps up the acid flow in his stomach and the pain in his head. How dare Pastor Jim criticize his dad? If anyone can take this spirit it's Dad and Dean, and if Sam thinks about it long enough he can almost hear the laughter on his brother's tongue over the weird, angry, worried breakdown he appears to be having.
Still, he can't take any chances.
“Give me half an hour to load up. I’ll call my friend in Cookeville. She’ll make it long before I can.”
“Thanks,” he says, “is there anything I can do?”
Has to do something besides sit around, stare at the clock, and feel helpless. His entire world has gone hunting, might be lying broken and bloody in some barn, and there's nothing he can do about it. He decides then to ask Dad when he gets back to train him with Dean, because he's no good at this and hunting can't be any harder.
“Sit tight. And pray. I’ll be there as soon as I can, Samuel. Have no fear.” The line goes dead.
Have no fear?
Sam has been afraid ever since he found out what Dad really does, like a coiling black snake in the pit of his stomach that won’t let him sleep easy even in the best of times. Fear for Dad. Fear for Dean. Fear for himself if something were to happen to one or both of them.
But he can pray.
It helps settle his stomach and bleeds away a little of the ache in his head. Sam knows how to pray, has for awhile. Even though he doesn't do it every night, he hopes God understands and forgives him. He prays when it counts, which is almost every night anyway.
He’s still lying there, staring blankly at the ceiling, pleading silently for salvation, when Pastor Jim’s friend stumbles in with what’s left of Dad. Nose bloodied, coat in shreds, long gash running from his temple to the base of his neck, but he’s at least conscious. Sam’s off in a flash, yanking open the door of the battered old pickup parked outside to check on Dean. He’s fared better than Dad, but not by much and Sam wonders when his brother got so heavy as he slides him out of the truck and drags him inside.
Damaged, but alive.
The pastor’s friend, Lynn, helps him get both of them into bed and asks if he’ll be okay before taking off. She doesn’t say anything, but the look she gives Dad is sharp and sad. Sam is grateful when the door closes behind her.
Dad grabs his wrist as he starts to slip him a couple of painkillers from the kit.
“You did good, Sammy. Thank you.”
He just nods, knowing the thanks aren't his to accept and passes them on where they belong with another silent prayer.
Stanley, Idaho - October 2000
Sam hates his life most of the time - the constant motion, lumpy beds, bad food, late nights. Other times…
No, he hates it pretty much all the time now, especially when he’s taking the ACT in the morning and nobody seems to give a shit.
Dad and Dean are in the front seat laughing about how they sharked some random guy out of $500 last night, but all Sam can think about is how he doesn’t need to be here. Dad did the research, Dean scouted, and all that leaves is the killing.
Chupacabra is the working theory, but since no one has seen one in seventy-five odd years there’s no way to be sure. Supposedly, it’s about the size of a Great Dane and not the smartest tool in the supernatural shed, which means they should be able to handle it. And yet here he sits. At 11:30. On a school night. With a test that will decide his entire academic future coming up in nine hours. Who cares if Dean noticed some irregularities in the attacks? So yeah, these things don’t usually attack people. It’s still basically a big reptilian canine that sucks your guts through an oversized cartilaginous straw. Tracking it down and chopping its head off is not work that requires three people
Dean leans back over the seat and punches him in the shoulder, derailing his brood.
“Why the long face, Sammy?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Dean. Maybe I’ve got something better to be doing. Like studying, for instance?”
“Studying? What for?” Sam has told him half a dozen times, but it never seems to register. It’s like his brother has this impenetrable blind spot for anything related to school.
There are days when he remembers what it was like to worship Dean. This is not one of those days.
“Life," Sam says, by way of an answer, but Dean just shrugs. He catches Dad’s eyes on him in the rear view and slumps further down in the seat.
“Killing nasties is a pretty important fact of life. Especially if you’re us.”
“Right. Us. As opposed to the millions of people out there living sane, normal lives. How could I make that mistake?”
Dean turns on him then, eyes flashing, jaw clenched, “Did you just call our lives a mistake?”
“Enough!”
And Dad means business. Dean mutters a yessir and plants himself firmly facing forward. Sam holds his tongue this time, but knows he won't, can't, hold it forever. Dad and Dean both love the life, at least as much as they are able, but Sam would give anything if they could just find a house somewhere and stop…running. If that’s what this is. He’s forgotten what it feels like to stay any place more than a month and it’s long past old.
They ride the rest of the way in silence.
When they arrive in Stanley, the town’s eerily hushed, streets deserted. According to Dad there have been six victims so far, all of them at assaulted at night and no real description aside from big, dark, and doglike. It wouldn’t be their case at all, except every one of the victims has died of unknown causes within hours of the attack. Dad swings the Impala into a spot in front of the ramshackle bar at the far end of town. Sighing, Sam unfolds himself from the backseat, hoping the hunt ends quickly.
“No,” Dad says, not even bothering to look up from gathering his gear, “You’re staying here.”
“You’re kidding, right? Now you want me to stay in the car?”
“That’s exactly what I want, Sam. Your head isn’t right. You’re distracted and I don’t want it getting us killed.” Dad tosses Dean his shotgun and slams the trunk lid closed. “Get in the car. Lock the doors.” Like he's five again.
Sam knows better than to argue where the job's concerned, knows that it will get him all kinds of nowhere fast because Dad is Dad. So he just kicks the rear tire of the Impala and gets back in the car.
“Whatever.”
An hour later and he can’t sit still. Pissed at Dad, the world, the sense of duty, the circumstances that put them in these situations. He’ll be damned if he’ll be sidelined for stupid shit. What better way to relieve some of the tension that’s been singing up his spine than to kill some mutant bloodsucking puppy?
He’s picked the lock on the trunk probably a thousand times. Dean, in his oddly appropriate wisdom, made him learn it blindfolded over the course of a month the summer he was ten.
“Never know,” he’d said, “when you’ll have to get in quick and dirty.”
Sam had laughed at the time, thinking to himself that they had bigger problems if the keys ever went missing or, the unthinkable, Dad went missing. All he can feel now, as the trunk pops open at his probing, is satisfied.
Dad and Dean have already taken most of what might be useful, but they had originally planned on Sam going in with them so the cache isn’t completely cleaned out. One machete that’s seen better days, an ancient pump action shotgun and Sam’s ready to do some damage.
He knows better than to follow the same path as his brother. Dean is nothing if not a good soldier and he will have cleared every inch of his grid systematically. Dad, well, Dad’s an ex-Marine. That’s all that needs be said. Instead Sam lopes blindly through backyards and alleys, making his way to the other end of town. It will take them longer to find him, that way.
The old growth forest looming at his back isn’t helping his mood, and Sam wonders if maybe Dad wasn’t right. Maybe he is too preoccupied to be out here tonight.
So he turns his face to the moon, closes his eyes and inhales - trying to focus.
The only warning he gets is a gentle rustle of dry leaves. It could have been the wind, but there isn’t any tonight, and he’s got three inches worth of Chupacabra teeth embedded in the back of his thigh.
Sam manages to stay upright long enough to swing his shotgun at the thing’s neck and pull the trigger. Unfortunately all that does is piss it off and make it clamp down harder. Every muscle in his leg spasms at the same time and he feels the wound open further, leaking blood and he’s sure its rabid or something because there’s foam on its fangs. And, oh God, it hurts. Worse than any stab wound, much worse than a dog bite. Sam pumps the shotgun once and lays the muzzle right up against its eyeball, angling as far away from his leg as he can, and pulls.
He’s heard the expression - the ground rushing up to meet you - but until this moment he’s never experienced himself. El Chupacabra twitches its death throes, jaws still locked on his leg. Dad and Dean will have heard the shots go off and come running to investigate. The angle that was there with the shotgun is gone when he reaches down to try and pry the creature’s teeth free, so instead of making things worse, Sam decides to lie still and wait.
Dean shows up first, red-faced and breathing hard, even in the dark Sam can’t miss the panic in his eyes.
“Jesus, Sam. What are you doing?”
“Well, right now it looks like I’m bleeding out.”
It’s enough. Enough to convince Dean he’s not dying and Sam watches the terror subside.
“Not what I meant,” says Dean, and he kneels, tosses his own shotgun down in easy reach, then goes about prying the beast’s jaw open.
Dad appears about a minute later, hand on the grip of his machete and ready to draw.
“Dean?”
Sam would smile at the ‘you fucking owe me’ look Dean gives him, but right now he’s focused on not passing out.
“It’s Sam. Chupa Loops got him before he got it. Missed the femoral, so it’s just going to be a nasty scar.”
They both know he’s making light of it, but Sam appreciates every bit of help he can get. Dad’s going to be seriously pissed and at this point it’s all about degrees. The more life threatening the injury, the more irate he’s likely to be.
But when Dean helps him up, it’s not anger he sees in Dad’s eyes. It’s fear.
“Dad? What?” he says, because it takes a hell of a lot to scare John Winchester. Sam would rather be prepared.
“Did either one of you read the autopsy reports?”
“No sir,” they say, in unison.
And there’s the anger.
“Every single one of these people died with extremely high levels of an unidentified toxin in their blood stream. It liquefied their organs.”
“Venom,” Sam says, eyes locked on the tear in his pants leg. He feels the air go out of his lungs and tries to ignore the little white spots that swim between his Dad and Dean when he finally gathers the courage to look back up at them.
“Dean, go get the car.”
The drive back to the motel is the most excruciating half hour of Sam’s life - the silence an nearly physical force pressing against his skull until he feels like it might implode. That is until he spends the next half hour watching Dean silently stitch and dress his wound while Dad throws back four fingers of whiskey. For the life of him, Sam can’t remember a single word’s worth of research that said anything about venom. But then a creature who’s been invisible for that long is likely to have evolved and he was distracted by things he thought were more important. Still. There has to be something they can do.
He feels like screaming at them both, but knows it wouldn’t do any good. Winchesters use their silence as a weapon and he’s not about to break first. If Dad can live with not trying, so be it. Except Dad just looks tired. And when it comes right down to it, Sam can’t live with it - especially if it means...
“Dad?”
Dad just looks at him, his expression unreadable in the dim lamplight, eyes lost to shadow.
“Dad, come on, I…don’t want to go like this. There has to be something we can do. Please, just-Just say something?”
Sam watches his dad set the glass aside, deliberately, and rock forward in the chair, settling elbow against knee. Whatever he’s feeling, it’s practically vibrating the tacky pastoral pictures off the wall.
“Now you’re ready to listen?” he says, “When it’s too late?”
“Dad, really?” Dean says, and Sam couldn’t be more grateful for him trying to make the peace - while there’s still peace that can be made. At least everyone’s talking.
“What Dean? Go easy on him? Sam screwed up. Disobeyed a direct order. And now…”
The light catches just right and now Sam can see the unshed tears, realizes he doesn’t deserve them.
“Now we get to watch him die. Or do the merciful thing and put a bullet in his hormone addled brain. This thing moves fast and I don’t have the lab reports to even make a stab at an antidote. No. He doesn’t deserve easy.”
Of course not. Sam knows better than to expect it, because life with Dad has never been anything resembling easy, and how could he have been so stupid to think that silence wasn’t the better alternative? At least if he’s going to get his ass chewed into the afterlife, he’s going to say goodbye to Dean.
But Dean already has his coat on and the keys to the Impala threaded through his fingers. He kneels next to the chair, eyes gone bright and glassy and Sam can tell it takes everything Dean has just to meet his gaze.
“Sammy. You know I’d fix this if I could. Do anything to fix it.” He laughs, a clutching ragged sound. “I wish it were me. You’re my brother, and I--I just can’t. Can’t stay here and…”
Then he’s gone.
Sam watches the curtains sway absently as the motel door slams hard enough to knock it off its hinges. It hangs on, barely. He waits for it, but Dad seems to have given up the bluster just in time to send Dean packing. So yeah, he thinks, silence was better. He settles into it, closing his eyes against the garish colors and generic furnishings. Breathing helps, so he does, pulling himself together as much as he can given the knowledge that he’s going to die.
Belief is all Sam has left. If he has ever had a right to pray for himself, it’s now.
He mouths the words, softly, carefully.
“I know I’ve asked a lot already, but I still have things to do. Go to college. Get married. Settle down and have a real life. I want to be happy.”
Please, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Please. He sits very still, holding on to the prayer as long as he can, filling his head with things he doesn’t want to forget. The way Dean smiled at him the first time he sat down behind the wheel. The way Dad grinned wide and dusted him off the first time he sparred with Dean. The thousands upon thousands of hours riding the backseat of the Impala listening to Dad and Dean scream AC/DC at each other.
Suddenly, he’s at peace. He doesn’t know why, because Winchesters fight down to the last drop…but it’s there. Just for a second.
Then he makes the mistake of opening his eyes, sees his dad still canted forward in the straight-backed chair, his hands wrapped white-knuckled around the Bible like it’s the only thing keeping him together and he knows there’s no peace. This will destroy his dad. Probably beyond repair.
Sam can’t talk about it, even now. Because what is there to say?
So he simply waits. And hopes. Leaves everything between them unsaid.
Next thing he knows, he’s waking up, without a memory of ever falling asleep. The clock tells him it’s eight and Sam wonders how that’s possible. He squints at the crack in the drapes, can see his dad there peering out at the parking lot.
“Dad? What happened?”
“I wish I knew. Maybe the gods cut us a break.”
Sam thinks stranger things have happened.
“Maybe,” is all he says. “Maybe.”
Palo Alto, California - May 2004
The extra clack against pavement alerts him first, a set of footsteps that shouldn’t be there. Something’s following them - the thought makes him pull Jess tighter against his side.
“You’ll just have to wait ‘til we get home.”
Jess giggles, girlish, and leans into him. They’ve both had a few. She’s probably had a few too many. But it’s not every day you turn twenty one. He doesn’t mention that Dean gave him his first beer when he was thirteen after they took down a werewolf in Poughkeepsie. She wouldn’t understand, mostly because he doesn’t talk about his family, but also because the Winchester boys are fucked six ways from Sunday. Sam knows he can’t expect anyone, even Jess, to not only believe that nightmares are real, but that his mom was killed by one and his dad dedicated their lives to destroying it without even asking.
He wishes he could forget himself.
Now, though, Sam’s grateful for the years of training that honed him into six plus feet of deadly force, because whatever’s behind them is probably his fault. Oddly enough, it’s like riding a bike, all of it flooding back with startling clarity. He feels his gait change, his shoulders tense, and he has to wrap his arm around Jess’s waist to keep her from tripping.
Please, he thinks, please God, don’t make me do this. Not here. Not in front of her. He knows she’ll never see him the same and can’t stand the thought of Jess looking at him with fear in her eyes.
Sam feels the point of a knife at his back and realizes this time his prayers have gone unanswered.
Apparently, whoever it is has misjudged how drunk he really is, because when Sam stops abruptly, he feels the blade slide against his coat and the attacker’s wrist turn against his spine. He spins Jess away from him as gently as he can and says, “Call the cops,” because it’s just a mugger. A big mugger, an apparently persistent and suicidal mugger, but human all the same and easily handled.
The guy lumbers at him, grip reset on the blade, and Sam can hear Jess on the phone, her voice sharp and reedy giving the dispatcher the intersection. He sidesteps the first lunge and puts his hands up, a last ditch effort to avoid the worst.
“Dude, seriously. My girlfriend’s calling the cops. Maybe you ought to just…”
Unfortunately, Sam doesn’t even get to finish the rest of the sentence before the guy charges him again. No more dicking around.
This time when the guy gets close, Sam throws an elbow at his throat, sweeps his legs and catches the knife as it arcs towards the sidewalk - every inch the superhero.
It feels good and he hates that it does.
Jess hangs up with the police and weaves her way over to him, face crumpled with confusion. At least it isn’t fear, but then she doesn’t know what he could have done. Sam flips the knife over in his hand, testing the weight, avoiding the questions as long as he can. Jess seems to get it and that’s why he loves her. She doesn’t ask, not now.
She just says, “They’re on the way,” and curls against him.
“Good,” he says. Then he carefully gathers the past up, stuffs it back in its box, and throws away the key. Convinces himself that the ache in his belly is just the adrenaline high wearing off.
Later, when they’ve answered all the questions, signed statements, spoken with detectives - when they’re home and safe, showered and sleepless. Later is when she asks.
“So are we going to talk about it?” she says, as if he really had a choice.
Playing dumb with Jess, is like…playing dumb with Dean. She knows better and it only makes her angry, so considering the night they’ve already had it’s probably best to be as honest as he’s comfortable with.
“If you want to, we can. There’s nothing much to tell.”
Sam despises himself for lying to her, but the whole truth would merely hurt them both. The pit in his stomach is still there and all he wants is to go to sleep and forget any of this ever happened.
“Are you like some undercover secret agent?” She smiles at him, trying to make it easier.
“No,” he says, if only. That would be easier to believe.
“Then what?”
So he tells her as much as he can without freaking her out. That his dad’s an ex-Marine and that when he and his brother were kids, he trained them like soldiers. He doesn’t say why and she doesn’t ask. It’s close enough to truth that she seems able to breathe again, and Sam doesn’t feel like he’s betrayed her trust.
It does nothing to fill the hole in his gut, so when Jess kisses him on the cheek and heads for bed, Sam stays up, pretending to read one of his textbooks until he hears the soft, even sound of her sleeping. Sighing, he rummages through the junk drawer in the kitchen for a screwdriver; pads over to the vent in the far wall of the living room and unscrews it. The cell is both dead and dusty, but it’s the same model as the one he actually carries so Sam just swaps out the battery. It tinkles to life merrily to report 43 missed calls and 20 voicemails.
Sam scans the log and sees one of the voicemails and two of the calls are from tonight. It’s not a number he recognizes, but Dad and Dean both dump their cells frequently to keep the creditors off their backs. He prepares mentally and scrolls down to dial his voicemail - thankful that the new messages land at the top of the heap.
“Hey Sam, it’s Dean,” he slurs, obviously well past buzzing himself, “Guess you’re still not taking my calls, but I just wanted to…I always thought I’d be the first one to get you drunk legally and it sucks you have to be such a bitch about all this... Fuck it. I ….”
The phone beeps, ready to move on to the next message, but he hangs up before it can, then checks the call log again. The voicemail falls between the two calls and the second one is from half an hour ago. Dean has to be on his own, there’s no other way he would call. Dad would kick his ass. Already he knows this is a bad idea, but Sam hits redial anyway and listens to it ring.
“What?” Dean says, and Sam wonders what time it is, because he can’t remember when he last looked at a clock. Two maybe.
“Hello?” Sam hears a rustling on the other end of the phone, the creak of cheap bed springs, and he’s tongue-tied because what can he say that he hasn’t before - that won’t make things worse. They’re his family, but he wants his own life and nothing has changed. There’s more noise on the line, probably Dean checking the number before he hangs up. And that must have been what he was doing because the next word out of his mouth is…
“Sammy?” It nearly breaks him. He hasn’t been Sammy to anyone for over a year.
He flips the phone closed, pulls the battery before it rings, and secures it back behind the vent.
Jess wakes him in the morning, still on the couch. The TV’s on and the “Night of the Living Dead” DVD menu is up.
“I thought you hated this stuff.”
“I do,” Sam says, and it’s just going to have to be one of those things that doesn’t make sense.
On to Part Two