The Vision Giver: Chapter Five
Sam walked. He walked until his feet were numb and he wondered who had the nerve to declare that wool stayed warm when wet. He walked until he slipped over frost and patches of black ice. Until he wanted to turn around and head back to the motel.
He never did. But he stopped once or twice to curse the stars.
He kept to the backroads, realizing that Dean had probably noticed his absence by now. For a town so small, there were numerous roads in. And out. Ditches ran alongside all of them, deep enough that Sam could hide from any car he even suspected to be the Impala.
His broken hand was numb, yet tingling. Though he hardly felt it, he knew he needed to see a doctor soon. If he waited too long, he might permanently lose sensation in his fingers.
Every once in a while, he’d take stock of his other injuries, but they weren’t bothering him as much as the cold was. The cuts on his neck, the raw patch on his chest, the bruises over his rib cage, the ligature marks on his wrists… those wounds were superficial, at least individually, and not his main concern.
His main concern - other than not freezing to death - was heading south to Stanford. Upon further inspection of the tourist map he’d snagged from the motel room, he found the town to be only an hour north of campus. It was eerie, really, but if the alternative was hitchhiking all night, he’d gladly accept the coincidence and shut up about it.
He came to an unmarked fork in the road and reached into the duffel bag over his shoulder to retrieve the map. Most roads weren’t marked unless they were called things like Marilyn Lane or Elizabeth Road, but they were shaded on the map well enough. He mused over it for a few minutes, feeling more like a boy running away from home than a grown man-
Pain bolted through his skull. It drove him to his knees, dragging on and on, until he clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw against a tortured yell. Fire flashed before his eyes, destroying, consuming, spreading… it climbed bedroom drapes and burned rugs to ash. Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears. Glass knick knacks cracked from the sheer heat of the fire, distorted flames reflected over their curves. Fire engulfed him before he could run, before he could react-
He swayed on his knees, caught between the vision and reality. Ice-cold air breezed over his skin, making him shiver, but relief flooded through him. The breeze meant he was safe. Black spots before his eyes encouraged him to duck his head. Passing out on the side of the road wouldn’t allow him to hide from Dean.
Struggling to steady his breaths, Sam raised his head and tried to get his bearings. The fork in the road. He’d been reading the map now half-submerged in a puddle of slushy water. His jeans hadn’t fared too well either. They were drenched from the knees down. At least in front. Frustrated and helpless, feeling like the situation couldn’t get any worse, he swallowed a lump in his throat. He stared at the road until the burn behind his eyes disappeared. Then he smiled sadly.
Behold: Giver extraordinaire, ready to sit in a puddle of his own urine and cry because life isn’t fair.
He wasn’t four years old anymore, but sometimes he felt like he was. With a chuckle and amused headshake, Sam rose to his feet, albeit unsteadily. His hand was shaking when he reached inside the duffel for a juice box. Just the thing to cheer up a four-year-old at heart.
Though not thirsty in the slightest - in fact, the fiery vision made him want to vomit - he emptied the juice box in less than a minute. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to throw it into the bushes as an improvised screw you to life. Instead, he tucked it into the duffel with little more than a grumble. Knowing himself as well as he did, he might have searched for the box after throwing it, or at the very least, felt guilty about it. What was the point in rebelling if his actions only hurt himself?
One thing was for certain: he couldn’t hurt himself more than the visions did. And for what? A couple flashes of fire that revealed no details he could follow, no hints as to where the fire would occur. Without a scrap of intel, it was a useless vision. And he hated it when useless visions knocked him on his ass.
Retrieving the soaked map with thumb and forefinger, Sam tried to decide if it could be saved. The weight of water tore it down the center.
Whatever.
He let it fall to the ground, one foot flattening it with a squish when he chose the right fork. There was a difference between littering and letting go.
About an hour later, when Sam’s limbs were stiff and he was more than ready to take an everlasting nap, headlights shone just over his shoulder. He numbly glanced behind him, thoughts muddled and slow. Curling his fingers into a semblance of a thumbs up, he lifted his arm. Part of him wanted to dive into the street and stop the car with his body, but reason prevailed.
His knees almost buckled in shock when the car slowed, tires crunching over rocks half-embedded in the dirt. He thought it strange that he hadn’t noticed the change in terrain, but hell, with frozen feet, he could soon walk over broken glass without feeling it.
When he turned around, he saw that it was a pick-up truck. What little light the moon emitted revealed doors outlined in rust, chipped paint, and a windshield cracked down the center. It was the most beautiful vehicle he’d ever seen. He hobbled to the driver’s door when the truck came to a stop.
The window screeched in protest as the driver rolled it down manually. The driver wasn’t the gruff, backwoods type he expected, but a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair. Dirty blonde, as Jess would say.
“You lost?” the woman asked, eying him from head to toe. She raised an eyebrow at his lack of footwear.
“Not exactly,” Sam shivered. “Just trying to head south for the winter. Had my shoes stolen in the process.”
“Sounds like a rough night.” She paused, as if considering something. “I’m headed south myself. Redwood City, actually. Normally I don’t pick up hitchhikers, but half-frozen as you are, you don’t look like much of a threat.”
“That’s great,” he burst out. At her wary expression, he continued, “I mean about Redwood City. I’m trying to get to Stanford University.”
“College boy, huh? I suppose that’s a bonus. But listen up, college boy: I’ve got a gun on my hip. Plenty of practice with it, too. If I slam on the brakes and tell you to beat it, you’re on your own. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sam tried to look as pathetic as possible. He begged with his eyes, hoping against hope that she’d take pity on him. She’d already cranked the heater up and everything. Warm air wafted through the open window, thawing his cheekbones.
Finally, she nodded. “Get in.”
He grinned, hurrying around to the passenger door. There was a puddle of ice in the center of the road that nearly landed him on his back. The slip wasn’t something he could hide under the harsh glare of her headlights. Sheepishly regaining his balance, he managed to climb into the truck with considerably less trouble. It smelled faintly of fish and mothballs, but he couldn’t have cared less.
“I’m Meg.” The woman held out her hand.
“Sam.” He shook it firmly, catching her shudder at how cold his hand was.
“Buckle up, Sam.”
He fumbled for the seatbelt. Frozen fingers didn’t make it any easier.
After rolling up the window, Meg eased her foot off the brake, and they began moving down the road. Sam was amazed by how easy it seemed. They covered distance at an extraordinary pace, sitting comfortably on padded seats in a heated compartment. It was something he would never take for granted again.
“Been in California long?” He was jarred from his thoughts by her question.
“Uh, no,” he mumbled, still shivering. “Just arrived, as a matter of fact. Road trip. To visit my… girlfriend.” It was stupid to hope Jess hadn’t moved on by now, despite his wishes for her to find happiness. But he couldn’t help it.
It was a matter of luck that Meg didn’t press him for details. “That’s sweet of you. A road trip brought me to California, too. Although I must have been on one hell of a bender, because I remember jack. As in nothing, not the liquor. Though I’m sure a lot of Jack was involved.”
He quirked a smile. Though he’d never been one for drinking himself into oblivion, Jess had regaled him with so many tales that he almost felt like he’d experienced it himself. “Let me guess,” he started. “Three cities over, with no recollection of how you arrived?”
She scoffed. “I wish. I came here from Andover, Massachusetts. About as far as you can travel without crossing any borders, you know? My receipts showed three days worth of bus tickets, with plenty of lost time in between. I’m pretty sure I hitchhiked. That’s where liquid courage will land you. I was lucky I didn’t get my ass beat. Anyway, when I saw you on the side of the road, I figured you and I might have crossed some of the same bridges in life.”
Sam felt her shoot him a sidelong glance.
“Looks like I was right.”
Warmth from the heater was making him drowsy, but he stifled a yawn and tried to act interested. If she was in the mood for conversation, he’d rather talk about her than himself.
“Where exactly did you end up? Couldn’t have been too bad, since you’re still in California. Unless-” He threw her a sidelong glance of his own, laced with amusement. “Unless you’re still recovering from the fallout.”
She laughed before resting a hand on her chest in mock outrage. “Hell, no. That was my first and last three-day bender, and it was almost… five years ago? Yeah, about five years. Maybe a little longer. I woke up on the outskirts of a herring fishery in Pillar Point Harbor. You know it?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered, feeling his heart skip a beat. “I know it.”
Pillar Point was the first place he was taken after signing away his life for Jessica’s freedom. He still remembered the black hood that had dropped over his head once he put the pen down. The auction. The bids. The Come Again! sign on the way out of town.
“Figured you’d know the place, being from Stanford and all,” Meg continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Anyway, I think they thought I was homeless. The head honcho offered me a job on the spot. Working in a fishery isn’t my dream job, but at the time, I needed money to get home to Massachusetts. So I accepted.”
“And you never left,” Sam absently murmured.
She chuckled, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Never got around to it, I guess. The truth is, college was never really my scene. Or it was too much my scene, obviously. I had to get out of there. Unfortunately, there’s something to the saying old habits die hard. We’ve had a small break this herring season, and, well…”
“Yeah?”
He saw her wince by the glow of the dash lights.
“Last night, I had a couple beers with some coworkers to celebrate. Just a couple, I swear. Next thing I know, I’m an hour north of Redwood City in some sleazy motel. I had the hangover of a lifetime, I’m telling you. I tried to sleep it off most of today. When I finally woke up, I felt well enough to drive, thank goodness. The herring wait for no fisherman. Or fisherwoman, as the case may be. Worked out for you though, didn’t it? I stumbled across your sorry-looking self, and here we are…”
Meg kept talking, but her words were lost on Sam. It sounded like she was asking him where he was from. He wanted to answer her, really he did, but it was like the seat molded to his body, allowing him to sink further into it. Coupled with the heat and soft white noise of the heater, it did him in. He slumped against the door and surrendered to sleep.
Dean was frustrated as hell. He couldn’t understand why a town so small had so many roads. By this point, he figured he’d crossed them all and traveled the length of them at least once, but there was no sign of Sam. How far could a guy without shoes go anyway?
Though it seemed hopeless, Dean kept looking. He changed the radio station whenever a commercial came on, and tried to enjoy the music. But all he could think about was how cold it was outside. Sam might not survive the night without some form of shelter. He might have hitched a ride, but if that was the case, Dean had no idea where to search.
Maybe he should start calling the nearest hospitals to see if someone matching Sam’s description had been brought in. He might have more luck. Just as he reached for his phone, it rang. Without taking his eyes off the road, Dean answered it and held it up to his ear.
“Bobby?”
“Dean, I have some info on the Giver you guys are looking for. Still think it’s a bad idea to track him down, but if you’re dead set on it, it looks like the chip was implanted at Stanford University. Sam Wesson is the name, correct?”
Dean blinked, realizing Sam had never mentioned his last name. “Yeah, I think so.”
“He was transferred to Pillar Point Harbor and auctioned off shortly afterwards. First buyer was a hunter named Walt Sanders. Real son of a bitch, sounds like. Only kept Sam for six months before selling him to another hunter, Roy Carnell. I tell you, boy, in the last five years, Sam’s been passed around to over fourteen hunters. It’s no wonder he ran away-”
“Don’t get me wrong, Bobby, I appreciate the work you’ve done. But I’m looking to find him, not write his autobiography. Have you come across anything that might give us a hint about where he’s going?”
“Since you asked so nicely,” Bobby drawled. “He signed a contract that voided the contract of another Giver, Jessica Moore. Seeing as how both his parents are dead and he’s an only child - not that you’re interested in his history - my guess is, he’s going to see her. He was a senior when he voided her contract, but she was only a freshman. Since it took over a year for her to return to school after she was released, she’s a senior now. She lives on campus in student housing. Building two, apartment 12C. That the info you wanted, hotshot?”
Dean winced. “Yeah, thanks, Bobby. Sorry for… all that, earlier. I guess I don’t need to ask if there’s another hunter around who can take care of the cursed mirror case?”
“Yeah, I’ll put someone on it. Just get the info you need from Sam. Then let the man be. You idjit.”
Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile when the line went dead. At the next corner, he took a left and ignored the speed limit signs. Driving with a lead foot might be the only way to catch Sam if Stanford was where he was headed.
“Hey.” Someone nudged Sam’s shoulder.
He came awake slowly, surprised to find himself in the cab of a pick-up truck. Once glance at Meg was enough to remind him what happened. He blinked at her once and then looked around. The truck was parked just outside student housing.
A nervous jolt ran through him. They’d arrived so quickly that he’d had little time to prepare himself. A part of him never believed he’d make it this far without being caught. And he probably wouldn’t have, if Meg hadn’t been there to pick him up.
“This is your stop,” Meg said, gently coaxing him out of the truck. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your time with your girlfriend.”
“Thanks,” he finally uttered, voice thick with sleep. “Thanks for everything. Really.”
She merely nodded and smiled. Sam could take a hint. He opened the passenger door and stepped onto the street. Cold immediately seeped through his socks, but he hardly noticed. This was it. He was going to see Jessica for the first time in over five years. Hopefully she lived in the same apartment she’d mentioned over the phone. Otherwise, things would get awkward.
At some point, he must have shut the truck door and walked to the sidewalk, because he came back to himself to hear the truck drive away behind him. It was now or never.
He let himself in the main gate, only mildly startled that it wasn’t locked. He’d been diligent about locking it when he lived here, but he couldn’t expect everyone to share his discipline. They hadn’t grown up in the same household as him.
His steps were quiet as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 10C… 11C… 12C. Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He raised his uninjured hand to knock, trying to think of an explanation for showing up at too-early AM.
The instant his knuckles rapped on the door, he yanked them back. The door was hot. Really hot.
More cautiously, he felt the door with the back of his hand, only to pull away with a hiss. It was then that he noticed the firelight flickering beyond the window blinds. Strange. There was no fireplace inside the apartment.
The vision, he thought. Dread knotted his stomach. Oh, my God.
Adrenaline flooded his system as he backed away from the door. He raised a foot and kicked it in, indifferent to the searing pain that radiated in his heel. Splinters of wood separated from the frame when the door gave way. It banged against the wall, hanging at an angle on broken hinges.
“Jess!” His voice was drowned out by the whoosh of fire. It grew louder as fresh air filled the entryway.
The apartment was engulfed in flames. They climbed the walls and traveled over the ceiling. Heat washed over him in waves, so hot that it was dangerous to breathe. One deep breath might burn his throat, causing it to swell and suffocate him. But Jess might be inside. He couldn’t just leave her.
Holding his jacket sleeve over his nose and mouth, Sam ran inside. His eyes watered from the blinding light and rising smoke. Instinct made him drop to his knees and awkwardly crawl. The rugs were charred under his hand. He could feel blisters forming on his palm.
The fire was consuming all the oxygen in the room. He tried to inhale, but no relief accompanied the action. About halfway to the bedroom, Sam realized he was in trouble. The flames were growing more intense, which meant he was nearing the source of the fire. If Jess was still in the apartment, she was dead by now.
Stumbling to his feet, Sam swayed, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His legs carried him the remaining distance to the bedroom, where he again fell to his knees. When he looked up, horror gripped his heart.
“NO!”
Jessica was on the ceiling. Charred to black, she appeared to be a silhouette. There was no mistaking her form. Flames billowed outward around her, as if her death was the very reason for the fire.
Tears left his eyes, only to dry up on his cheeks. Sam felt his skin begin to crack and peel, but he felt it in the depths of his mind. Jess was dead. Nothing else mattered. Everything he’d done for her, everything he’d sacrificed… it had all been for nothing.
Unable to cope with the shock of what he saw, he fell backwards onto the carpet. He could do little more than stare up at the flaming ceiling. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t fight anymore. He’d spent the last five years fighting. Enough was enough. Maybe this was the way it was meant to be.
Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears. It wasn’t Jess. That was all he knew. Overwhelmed with grief, feeling his throat close up, he shut his eyes and prayed for the fire to take him quickly. Then he would be with Jess. Forever.
Hands fell on his chest, violently shaking him. Sam pried open his eyes to see the blurry form of Dean leaning over him, mouth opening and closing with muted shouts. Now he knew Jessica’s death had broken him. Dean wasn’t here, he couldn’t be. He was miles away, in a small town-
There was no time to brace himself before he was hauled up and over Dean’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. The action raised him up into the smoke, where it was impossible to breathe. His ribs were constricted by his own weight. Though he no longer cared to escape the fire, his body wouldn’t let him give up without a fight. It hitched, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.
Dean was moving now. Furniture passed in a blur. There was a deafening crash, and the floor rushed up to meet Sam. His muscles tensed, bracing for impact, but it never came. Instead, his body lurched as Dean caught himself on one knee and again rose to his feet.
They passed a table of glass knick knacks, cracked from the heat of the fire. Sam found himself mesmerized by distorted flames reflecting over their surfaces.
He couldn’t pull a full breath, not even when a rush of night air breezed over his face. His vision was fading, though blaring sirens kept him from passing out. Red-tinted stairs drifted below. Sam was contemplating whether the journey was worth staying conscious for when Dean’s voice broke through his haze.
“Sam, are you with me? Try to stay awake, okay? Once we reach the ambulance, they should have some oxygen for us-” He broke off into a coughing fit, wheezing with every inhale.
Sam grimaced as he felt the shoulders beneath him tremble with effort. A gate clanged, and then they were lurching across the lawn. About that time, Dean’s legs gave out. He grunted when they hit the ground.
The impact wasn’t as painful as Sam expected, but he hadn’t the strength to roll over onto his back. The grass felt blissfully cold on his face. Running footsteps pounded over the ground. Clinical, efficient hands cradled his head to align his neck. Others rolled him onto a backboard. Unfamiliar voices barked orders, and something was pressed over his nose and mouth.
He tried to sit up, hands flailing to remove it. He couldn’t breathe.
“Take it easy,” a stranger ordered, grabbing his wrists to restrain him. Someone else pressed his shoulders down. He fought their hold in a rush of panic. Everything was happening too fast. They were supposed to help him, and yet, their presence was suffocating, dragging him down, surrounding him with body heat when he was already on fire…
“We’re going to need the Ativan,” a female voice broke in.
“Just give him a minute.” The stranger’s face came into view. It was a paramedic in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and eyes that matched his navy uniform. “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
When the mask over his nose and mouth - an oxygen mask, Sam realized - was lifted enough for him to talk, he croaked out, “Sam.”
“Okay, Sam,” the paramedic nodded. “We’re going to get you squared away, all right? Try not to move too much. Just take deep breaths. Let the oxygen work.”
A collar was wrapped around Sam’s neck. He realized that in the time the paramedic had been talking, he’d been strapped to the backboard. They lifted him on the count of three. As they carried him to a waiting gurney, he tried to see if Dean was okay. But the collar prevented him from turning his head. He could only look up at the sky and the people surrounding him.
“Please,” he started, voice muffled under the mask. “The guy who carried me out-”
No one was listening to him, too caught up in transporting him as quickly as possible. Either they were expecting more patients, or he was worse off than he thought. They lowered him onto the gurney and buckled more straps across his chest and hips. The gurney must have been directly outside the ambulance, because he felt it lurch as it folded up and slid inside. Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.
The paramedic who’d asked his name climbed in beside him.
Sam felt a blood pressure cuff wrap around his arm. Shivers wracked his frame, though his skin felt ready to blister for how it was burning. He’d never been severely sunburned, but now he knew how it felt. Only when a space blanket was tucked around him did the shivers finally cease.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tickling his eyelashes. He tried to blink them away, to no avail. When tears filled his eyes, he didn’t know if they were tears of petty frustration or tears again reminding him of Jessica’s death.
She was gone.
Gentle fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. Sam tried to jerk away, taken aback by the touch.
“Shhh,” the paramedic murmured. His eyes flashed to yellow. “You’re safe now, Sam. I’m going to take good care of you. Don’t you worry.”
Back to Chapter Four
The Vision Giver Masterpost
He never did. But he stopped once or twice to curse the stars.
He kept to the backroads, realizing that Dean had probably noticed his absence by now. For a town so small, there were numerous roads in. And out. Ditches ran alongside all of them, deep enough that Sam could hide from any car he even suspected to be the Impala.
His broken hand was numb, yet tingling. Though he hardly felt it, he knew he needed to see a doctor soon. If he waited too long, he might permanently lose sensation in his fingers.
Every once in a while, he’d take stock of his other injuries, but they weren’t bothering him as much as the cold was. The cuts on his neck, the raw patch on his chest, the bruises over his rib cage, the ligature marks on his wrists… those wounds were superficial, at least individually, and not his main concern.
His main concern - other than not freezing to death - was heading south to Stanford. Upon further inspection of the tourist map he’d snagged from the motel room, he found the town to be only an hour north of campus. It was eerie, really, but if the alternative was hitchhiking all night, he’d gladly accept the coincidence and shut up about it.
He came to an unmarked fork in the road and reached into the duffel bag over his shoulder to retrieve the map. Most roads weren’t marked unless they were called things like Marilyn Lane or Elizabeth Road, but they were shaded on the map well enough. He mused over it for a few minutes, feeling more like a boy running away from home than a grown man-
Pain bolted through his skull. It drove him to his knees, dragging on and on, until he clenched his eyes shut and set his jaw against a tortured yell. Fire flashed before his eyes, destroying, consuming, spreading… it climbed bedroom drapes and burned rugs to ash. Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears. Glass knick knacks cracked from the sheer heat of the fire, distorted flames reflected over their curves. Fire engulfed him before he could run, before he could react-
He swayed on his knees, caught between the vision and reality. Ice-cold air breezed over his skin, making him shiver, but relief flooded through him. The breeze meant he was safe. Black spots before his eyes encouraged him to duck his head. Passing out on the side of the road wouldn’t allow him to hide from Dean.
Struggling to steady his breaths, Sam raised his head and tried to get his bearings. The fork in the road. He’d been reading the map now half-submerged in a puddle of slushy water. His jeans hadn’t fared too well either. They were drenched from the knees down. At least in front. Frustrated and helpless, feeling like the situation couldn’t get any worse, he swallowed a lump in his throat. He stared at the road until the burn behind his eyes disappeared. Then he smiled sadly.
Behold: Giver extraordinaire, ready to sit in a puddle of his own urine and cry because life isn’t fair.
He wasn’t four years old anymore, but sometimes he felt like he was. With a chuckle and amused headshake, Sam rose to his feet, albeit unsteadily. His hand was shaking when he reached inside the duffel for a juice box. Just the thing to cheer up a four-year-old at heart.
Though not thirsty in the slightest - in fact, the fiery vision made him want to vomit - he emptied the juice box in less than a minute. It took a great deal of self-restraint not to throw it into the bushes as an improvised screw you to life. Instead, he tucked it into the duffel with little more than a grumble. Knowing himself as well as he did, he might have searched for the box after throwing it, or at the very least, felt guilty about it. What was the point in rebelling if his actions only hurt himself?
One thing was for certain: he couldn’t hurt himself more than the visions did. And for what? A couple flashes of fire that revealed no details he could follow, no hints as to where the fire would occur. Without a scrap of intel, it was a useless vision. And he hated it when useless visions knocked him on his ass.
Retrieving the soaked map with thumb and forefinger, Sam tried to decide if it could be saved. The weight of water tore it down the center.
Whatever.
He let it fall to the ground, one foot flattening it with a squish when he chose the right fork. There was a difference between littering and letting go.
About an hour later, when Sam’s limbs were stiff and he was more than ready to take an everlasting nap, headlights shone just over his shoulder. He numbly glanced behind him, thoughts muddled and slow. Curling his fingers into a semblance of a thumbs up, he lifted his arm. Part of him wanted to dive into the street and stop the car with his body, but reason prevailed.
His knees almost buckled in shock when the car slowed, tires crunching over rocks half-embedded in the dirt. He thought it strange that he hadn’t noticed the change in terrain, but hell, with frozen feet, he could soon walk over broken glass without feeling it.
When he turned around, he saw that it was a pick-up truck. What little light the moon emitted revealed doors outlined in rust, chipped paint, and a windshield cracked down the center. It was the most beautiful vehicle he’d ever seen. He hobbled to the driver’s door when the truck came to a stop.
The window screeched in protest as the driver rolled it down manually. The driver wasn’t the gruff, backwoods type he expected, but a young woman with shoulder-length blond hair. Dirty blonde, as Jess would say.
“You lost?” the woman asked, eying him from head to toe. She raised an eyebrow at his lack of footwear.
“Not exactly,” Sam shivered. “Just trying to head south for the winter. Had my shoes stolen in the process.”
“Sounds like a rough night.” She paused, as if considering something. “I’m headed south myself. Redwood City, actually. Normally I don’t pick up hitchhikers, but half-frozen as you are, you don’t look like much of a threat.”
“That’s great,” he burst out. At her wary expression, he continued, “I mean about Redwood City. I’m trying to get to Stanford University.”
“College boy, huh? I suppose that’s a bonus. But listen up, college boy: I’ve got a gun on my hip. Plenty of practice with it, too. If I slam on the brakes and tell you to beat it, you’re on your own. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sam tried to look as pathetic as possible. He begged with his eyes, hoping against hope that she’d take pity on him. She’d already cranked the heater up and everything. Warm air wafted through the open window, thawing his cheekbones.
Finally, she nodded. “Get in.”
He grinned, hurrying around to the passenger door. There was a puddle of ice in the center of the road that nearly landed him on his back. The slip wasn’t something he could hide under the harsh glare of her headlights. Sheepishly regaining his balance, he managed to climb into the truck with considerably less trouble. It smelled faintly of fish and mothballs, but he couldn’t have cared less.
“I’m Meg.” The woman held out her hand.
“Sam.” He shook it firmly, catching her shudder at how cold his hand was.
“Buckle up, Sam.”
He fumbled for the seatbelt. Frozen fingers didn’t make it any easier.
After rolling up the window, Meg eased her foot off the brake, and they began moving down the road. Sam was amazed by how easy it seemed. They covered distance at an extraordinary pace, sitting comfortably on padded seats in a heated compartment. It was something he would never take for granted again.
“Been in California long?” He was jarred from his thoughts by her question.
“Uh, no,” he mumbled, still shivering. “Just arrived, as a matter of fact. Road trip. To visit my… girlfriend.” It was stupid to hope Jess hadn’t moved on by now, despite his wishes for her to find happiness. But he couldn’t help it.
It was a matter of luck that Meg didn’t press him for details. “That’s sweet of you. A road trip brought me to California, too. Although I must have been on one hell of a bender, because I remember jack. As in nothing, not the liquor. Though I’m sure a lot of Jack was involved.”
He quirked a smile. Though he’d never been one for drinking himself into oblivion, Jess had regaled him with so many tales that he almost felt like he’d experienced it himself. “Let me guess,” he started. “Three cities over, with no recollection of how you arrived?”
She scoffed. “I wish. I came here from Andover, Massachusetts. About as far as you can travel without crossing any borders, you know? My receipts showed three days worth of bus tickets, with plenty of lost time in between. I’m pretty sure I hitchhiked. That’s where liquid courage will land you. I was lucky I didn’t get my ass beat. Anyway, when I saw you on the side of the road, I figured you and I might have crossed some of the same bridges in life.”
Sam felt her shoot him a sidelong glance.
“Looks like I was right.”
Warmth from the heater was making him drowsy, but he stifled a yawn and tried to act interested. If she was in the mood for conversation, he’d rather talk about her than himself.
“Where exactly did you end up? Couldn’t have been too bad, since you’re still in California. Unless-” He threw her a sidelong glance of his own, laced with amusement. “Unless you’re still recovering from the fallout.”
She laughed before resting a hand on her chest in mock outrage. “Hell, no. That was my first and last three-day bender, and it was almost… five years ago? Yeah, about five years. Maybe a little longer. I woke up on the outskirts of a herring fishery in Pillar Point Harbor. You know it?”
“Yeah,” Sam answered, feeling his heart skip a beat. “I know it.”
Pillar Point was the first place he was taken after signing away his life for Jessica’s freedom. He still remembered the black hood that had dropped over his head once he put the pen down. The auction. The bids. The Come Again! sign on the way out of town.
“Figured you’d know the place, being from Stanford and all,” Meg continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “Anyway, I think they thought I was homeless. The head honcho offered me a job on the spot. Working in a fishery isn’t my dream job, but at the time, I needed money to get home to Massachusetts. So I accepted.”
“And you never left,” Sam absently murmured.
She chuckled, brushing her hair back with one hand. “Never got around to it, I guess. The truth is, college was never really my scene. Or it was too much my scene, obviously. I had to get out of there. Unfortunately, there’s something to the saying old habits die hard. We’ve had a small break this herring season, and, well…”
“Yeah?”
He saw her wince by the glow of the dash lights.
“Last night, I had a couple beers with some coworkers to celebrate. Just a couple, I swear. Next thing I know, I’m an hour north of Redwood City in some sleazy motel. I had the hangover of a lifetime, I’m telling you. I tried to sleep it off most of today. When I finally woke up, I felt well enough to drive, thank goodness. The herring wait for no fisherman. Or fisherwoman, as the case may be. Worked out for you though, didn’t it? I stumbled across your sorry-looking self, and here we are…”
Meg kept talking, but her words were lost on Sam. It sounded like she was asking him where he was from. He wanted to answer her, really he did, but it was like the seat molded to his body, allowing him to sink further into it. Coupled with the heat and soft white noise of the heater, it did him in. He slumped against the door and surrendered to sleep.
Dean was frustrated as hell. He couldn’t understand why a town so small had so many roads. By this point, he figured he’d crossed them all and traveled the length of them at least once, but there was no sign of Sam. How far could a guy without shoes go anyway?
Though it seemed hopeless, Dean kept looking. He changed the radio station whenever a commercial came on, and tried to enjoy the music. But all he could think about was how cold it was outside. Sam might not survive the night without some form of shelter. He might have hitched a ride, but if that was the case, Dean had no idea where to search.
Maybe he should start calling the nearest hospitals to see if someone matching Sam’s description had been brought in. He might have more luck. Just as he reached for his phone, it rang. Without taking his eyes off the road, Dean answered it and held it up to his ear.
“Bobby?”
“Dean, I have some info on the Giver you guys are looking for. Still think it’s a bad idea to track him down, but if you’re dead set on it, it looks like the chip was implanted at Stanford University. Sam Wesson is the name, correct?”
Dean blinked, realizing Sam had never mentioned his last name. “Yeah, I think so.”
“He was transferred to Pillar Point Harbor and auctioned off shortly afterwards. First buyer was a hunter named Walt Sanders. Real son of a bitch, sounds like. Only kept Sam for six months before selling him to another hunter, Roy Carnell. I tell you, boy, in the last five years, Sam’s been passed around to over fourteen hunters. It’s no wonder he ran away-”
“Don’t get me wrong, Bobby, I appreciate the work you’ve done. But I’m looking to find him, not write his autobiography. Have you come across anything that might give us a hint about where he’s going?”
“Since you asked so nicely,” Bobby drawled. “He signed a contract that voided the contract of another Giver, Jessica Moore. Seeing as how both his parents are dead and he’s an only child - not that you’re interested in his history - my guess is, he’s going to see her. He was a senior when he voided her contract, but she was only a freshman. Since it took over a year for her to return to school after she was released, she’s a senior now. She lives on campus in student housing. Building two, apartment 12C. That the info you wanted, hotshot?”
Dean winced. “Yeah, thanks, Bobby. Sorry for… all that, earlier. I guess I don’t need to ask if there’s another hunter around who can take care of the cursed mirror case?”
“Yeah, I’ll put someone on it. Just get the info you need from Sam. Then let the man be. You idjit.”
Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile when the line went dead. At the next corner, he took a left and ignored the speed limit signs. Driving with a lead foot might be the only way to catch Sam if Stanford was where he was headed.
“Hey.” Someone nudged Sam’s shoulder.
He came awake slowly, surprised to find himself in the cab of a pick-up truck. Once glance at Meg was enough to remind him what happened. He blinked at her once and then looked around. The truck was parked just outside student housing.
A nervous jolt ran through him. They’d arrived so quickly that he’d had little time to prepare himself. A part of him never believed he’d make it this far without being caught. And he probably wouldn’t have, if Meg hadn’t been there to pick him up.
“This is your stop,” Meg said, gently coaxing him out of the truck. “It was nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy your time with your girlfriend.”
“Thanks,” he finally uttered, voice thick with sleep. “Thanks for everything. Really.”
She merely nodded and smiled. Sam could take a hint. He opened the passenger door and stepped onto the street. Cold immediately seeped through his socks, but he hardly noticed. This was it. He was going to see Jessica for the first time in over five years. Hopefully she lived in the same apartment she’d mentioned over the phone. Otherwise, things would get awkward.
At some point, he must have shut the truck door and walked to the sidewalk, because he came back to himself to hear the truck drive away behind him. It was now or never.
He let himself in the main gate, only mildly startled that it wasn’t locked. He’d been diligent about locking it when he lived here, but he couldn’t expect everyone to share his discipline. They hadn’t grown up in the same household as him.
His steps were quiet as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. Apartment 10C… 11C… 12C. Sam took a deep breath. He could do this. He raised his uninjured hand to knock, trying to think of an explanation for showing up at too-early AM.
The instant his knuckles rapped on the door, he yanked them back. The door was hot. Really hot.
More cautiously, he felt the door with the back of his hand, only to pull away with a hiss. It was then that he noticed the firelight flickering beyond the window blinds. Strange. There was no fireplace inside the apartment.
The vision, he thought. Dread knotted his stomach. Oh, my God.
Adrenaline flooded his system as he backed away from the door. He raised a foot and kicked it in, indifferent to the searing pain that radiated in his heel. Splinters of wood separated from the frame when the door gave way. It banged against the wall, hanging at an angle on broken hinges.
“Jess!” His voice was drowned out by the whoosh of fire. It grew louder as fresh air filled the entryway.
The apartment was engulfed in flames. They climbed the walls and traveled over the ceiling. Heat washed over him in waves, so hot that it was dangerous to breathe. One deep breath might burn his throat, causing it to swell and suffocate him. But Jess might be inside. He couldn’t just leave her.
Holding his jacket sleeve over his nose and mouth, Sam ran inside. His eyes watered from the blinding light and rising smoke. Instinct made him drop to his knees and awkwardly crawl. The rugs were charred under his hand. He could feel blisters forming on his palm.
The fire was consuming all the oxygen in the room. He tried to inhale, but no relief accompanied the action. About halfway to the bedroom, Sam realized he was in trouble. The flames were growing more intense, which meant he was nearing the source of the fire. If Jess was still in the apartment, she was dead by now.
Stumbling to his feet, Sam swayed, feeling light-headed and dizzy. His legs carried him the remaining distance to the bedroom, where he again fell to his knees. When he looked up, horror gripped his heart.
“NO!”
Jessica was on the ceiling. Charred to black, she appeared to be a silhouette. There was no mistaking her form. Flames billowed outward around her, as if her death was the very reason for the fire.
Tears left his eyes, only to dry up on his cheeks. Sam felt his skin begin to crack and peel, but he felt it in the depths of his mind. Jess was dead. Nothing else mattered. Everything he’d done for her, everything he’d sacrificed… it had all been for nothing.
Unable to cope with the shock of what he saw, he fell backwards onto the carpet. He could do little more than stare up at the flaming ceiling. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t fight anymore. He’d spent the last five years fighting. Enough was enough. Maybe this was the way it was meant to be.
Someone was yelling, but Sam couldn’t hear them over the roaring in his ears. It wasn’t Jess. That was all he knew. Overwhelmed with grief, feeling his throat close up, he shut his eyes and prayed for the fire to take him quickly. Then he would be with Jess. Forever.
Hands fell on his chest, violently shaking him. Sam pried open his eyes to see the blurry form of Dean leaning over him, mouth opening and closing with muted shouts. Now he knew Jessica’s death had broken him. Dean wasn’t here, he couldn’t be. He was miles away, in a small town-
There was no time to brace himself before he was hauled up and over Dean’s shoulders in a fireman’s carry. The action raised him up into the smoke, where it was impossible to breathe. His ribs were constricted by his own weight. Though he no longer cared to escape the fire, his body wouldn’t let him give up without a fight. It hitched, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.
Dean was moving now. Furniture passed in a blur. There was a deafening crash, and the floor rushed up to meet Sam. His muscles tensed, bracing for impact, but it never came. Instead, his body lurched as Dean caught himself on one knee and again rose to his feet.
They passed a table of glass knick knacks, cracked from the heat of the fire. Sam found himself mesmerized by distorted flames reflecting over their surfaces.
He couldn’t pull a full breath, not even when a rush of night air breezed over his face. His vision was fading, though blaring sirens kept him from passing out. Red-tinted stairs drifted below. Sam was contemplating whether the journey was worth staying conscious for when Dean’s voice broke through his haze.
“Sam, are you with me? Try to stay awake, okay? Once we reach the ambulance, they should have some oxygen for us-” He broke off into a coughing fit, wheezing with every inhale.
Sam grimaced as he felt the shoulders beneath him tremble with effort. A gate clanged, and then they were lurching across the lawn. About that time, Dean’s legs gave out. He grunted when they hit the ground.
The impact wasn’t as painful as Sam expected, but he hadn’t the strength to roll over onto his back. The grass felt blissfully cold on his face. Running footsteps pounded over the ground. Clinical, efficient hands cradled his head to align his neck. Others rolled him onto a backboard. Unfamiliar voices barked orders, and something was pressed over his nose and mouth.
He tried to sit up, hands flailing to remove it. He couldn’t breathe.
“Take it easy,” a stranger ordered, grabbing his wrists to restrain him. Someone else pressed his shoulders down. He fought their hold in a rush of panic. Everything was happening too fast. They were supposed to help him, and yet, their presence was suffocating, dragging him down, surrounding him with body heat when he was already on fire…
“We’re going to need the Ativan,” a female voice broke in.
“Just give him a minute.” The stranger’s face came into view. It was a paramedic in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and eyes that matched his navy uniform. “What’s your name? Can you tell me your name?”
When the mask over his nose and mouth - an oxygen mask, Sam realized - was lifted enough for him to talk, he croaked out, “Sam.”
“Okay, Sam,” the paramedic nodded. “We’re going to get you squared away, all right? Try not to move too much. Just take deep breaths. Let the oxygen work.”
A collar was wrapped around Sam’s neck. He realized that in the time the paramedic had been talking, he’d been strapped to the backboard. They lifted him on the count of three. As they carried him to a waiting gurney, he tried to see if Dean was okay. But the collar prevented him from turning his head. He could only look up at the sky and the people surrounding him.
“Please,” he started, voice muffled under the mask. “The guy who carried me out-”
No one was listening to him, too caught up in transporting him as quickly as possible. Either they were expecting more patients, or he was worse off than he thought. They lowered him onto the gurney and buckled more straps across his chest and hips. The gurney must have been directly outside the ambulance, because he felt it lurch as it folded up and slid inside. Fluorescent lights assaulted his eyes.
The paramedic who’d asked his name climbed in beside him.
Sam felt a blood pressure cuff wrap around his arm. Shivers wracked his frame, though his skin felt ready to blister for how it was burning. He’d never been severely sunburned, but now he knew how it felt. Only when a space blanket was tucked around him did the shivers finally cease.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tickling his eyelashes. He tried to blink them away, to no avail. When tears filled his eyes, he didn’t know if they were tears of petty frustration or tears again reminding him of Jessica’s death.
She was gone.
Gentle fingers brushed the hair from his eyes. Sam tried to jerk away, taken aback by the touch.
“Shhh,” the paramedic murmured. His eyes flashed to yellow. “You’re safe now, Sam. I’m going to take good care of you. Don’t you worry.”
Back to Chapter Four
The Vision Giver Masterpost