Conversations With The Dead - Chapter 1
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Dean - 17th June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
Sam looks like a shell of what he should to be. He's skinny, his bones seem stretched too long for his body. There's not enough fat on him to keep his cheeks from sinking. His fingers are long and shaky as he gently shovels away dirt with a green trowel. His hair is too long, falling to brush his shoulders, covering his face. The white strand at the front of his scalp is bright in the sunlight.
He doesn't look seventeen.
Dean sits in the Impala for a moment longer, watching. Sam seems at ease. As content as he seems capable of being. God, Dean doesn't want to get out of the car. He waits a moment longer and watches as Sam tenderly places a long-leafed plant into the ground. Sam spends a good few minutes finding the right angle to stand the plant, then he takes even more time to fill the gaps around it with soil, shovelling a delicate amount each time.
After Sam has watered it, he sits there, on his knees, and stares at it like he might be able to catch one of the buds opening up into a flower. Dean bets that if it were up to Sam, Sam would watch the plant day and night, sitting right there in the grass outside of Pastor Jim's house.
It's been twenty minutes since Dean pulled up into Jim's drive and Sam still hasn't noticed. Or maybe he's choosing to ignore Dean. Probably avoiding Dean's likely attempts at making conversation.
God. Dean wishes he didn't have to be here. For Sammy's sake.
But he doesn't have a choice, not this time, and Dean finally climbs out from behind the wheel. He takes extra care to close the door as silently as possible before walking up to the house. He makes the effort to walk around Sam and into his line of sight - the kid doesn't do so well with surprises. Once Dean is right next to him, his shadow falling over his little brother's shoulders, Sam glances up at him through a strand of hair that's fallen over his face.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, forcing a grin. Sam's not stupid, he can hear the forced brightness in Dean's voice and he frowns, questioning. Dean goes on, "Is Jim around?"
Of course Jim is around. If Sam is here, so is Jim.
Sam nods and points towards the front door. Dean smiles again, but it's thin, stretched tight over his teeth. "You mind showing me in?" he asks. Sam nods again, more reluctantly. He gazes again at the plant, looking a little disappointed, then he climbs to his feet, using a shaking hand to pull himself up with the windowsill for support.
Dean lets Sam walk ahead and he traces his eyes over the hunched line of Sam's shoulders, the bow of his head. Not once has Sam looked Dean directly in the eye.
Jim Murphy is in his kitchen, slicing bread. There's a couple of pots boiling on the stove, the room is filled with the smell of cooking vegetables, the windows are fogged with steam. Jim looks surprised, but pleased, when he notices Dean.
"Dean," he says, "It's been a while. Sam and I were wondering what mess you must have gotten yourself into this time."
Dean feels a swell of guilt in his gut. It has been few months since he's visited. "Sorry about that," he apologises. "I got swept up with work, you know."
"I know," Jim says softly. "There's always another hunt." He pauses to finish slicing off a piece of bread. "How's your father?"
Sam looks up from his seat then, listening. Dean could swear he almost saw a twitch of a smile on Sam's face. The kid never got on with John until he decided to stop talking. Their relationship was better than ever once Sam couldn't argue back. Dean remembers the last time he saw Dad. They'd hung out at some no-name bar right before John left to see Sam for a couple of days before heading off to re-work the case from Georgia.
Dean glances at Sam awkwardly, then back to Jim. "Do you, uh, mind if I talk to you alone for a second?"
Jim hasn't had a chance to reply before Sam pushes his chair roughly out from the table. He glares stormily at Dean's shoulder then disappears from the room without a sound. Dean waits until he hears the heavy click of a door upstairs before turning back to Jim.
"He's missed you," Jim says. "I know it's hard to tell when he's so quiet. I'm with that boy all day, every day and I can tell he's missing his family something fierce, even if he doesn't say so."
"I miss him, too," Dean insists. And he does, God, he misses Sam more than any words could describe. But he doesn't know if he's missing Sam, or the kid Sam used to be. Dean sighs, "I really do miss him. But you know he can't come on the road with us."
"Oh, I know," Jim assures. "It's a dangerous place for any person. Sam has gotten so much better with the stability he has here. You and your father made the right decision for him. Besides, I enjoy his company."
"How's he been doing?" Dean asks. He's just avoiding the thing he really came here for. He has been since his dad didn't answer the phone almost two weeks ago.
"Better," Jim answers. He sighs. "He still doesn't sleep well. I find him pacing his room at night. He seems more agitated recently, spends a lot of his time writing."
"Writing?" Dean repeats, surprised. "But he hasn't said a word in four years, not since…" he clears his throat. "What is he writing?"
"I don't know," Jim admits. "It seems impolite to look without asking. I know what the answer will be if I do ask."
Dean nods, understanding. Jim puts the bread knife down and takes a step forward. "I had asked about your father and I didn't get an answer. The fact you asked to speak privately tells me something is wrong."
Dean decides to get to the point. Now or never. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."
"Ridgeville?" Jim guesses, but the serious look in his eye makes it clear he already knows exactly where Dean means.
Dean nods. "He was checking in everyday until about two weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't answered any of my calls. I drove over there right away. His truck is parked outside but I can't find any sign of him."
"And you think - "
"I know."
"And you're asking for my help?" Jim clarifies. "I've been out of hunting for a while, Dean. I'm not the best help for you."
"I'm asking Sam for help," Dean corrects.
Jim's eyes widen. He shakes his head frantically. "You can't get him involved in this. He can't handle it."
Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "Jim, I know, alright?" he hisses. "I can see what that fucking house did to him. Anyone can see it, okay? But Sam is the only person who knows what's in there. He's the only person who can help."
Jim closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. "I won't allow it. Sam cannot be a part of this. I know you're scared for your father. I am too. But Sam - Sam is fragile. Getting him involved in this will hurt him badly."
"Jesus Christ, Jim," Dean swears. "I don't want to hurt him. I want him to be okay. I want that more than anything. But this is our dad. Sammy's dad. And without Sam, Dad's dead."
"And how do you know he isn't already?"
"Fuck you, Jim," Dean spits. "I just know. I'd know if he was dead."
Jim purses his lips, looks like he wants to say something. He shakes his head, a silent conversation with himself which ends in a relenting sigh.
"This is Sam's decision to make. If he doesn't want any part in it, you leave him be. You understand?"
Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. "I understand."
"Good," Jim says curtly. Then he adds under muttered breath, "Go and traumatise your brother."
Dean doesn't pay any notice. The guy acts like he's Sammy's only family, like he's the only authority when it comes to Sam. Well, Jim isn't family. Jim can suck it.
There's a soft light up the stairs, shining through the crack of Sam's door. Dean treads lightly up the steps, wincing at every creak and groan the wood makes beneath his feet. When he gets to Sam's bedroom door he raises his fist to knock, but pauses and peers inside.
Sam is hunched over the desk, scribbling away at something Dean can't see. Sam suddenly turns in his seat and looks straight at Dean, a scowl emerging across his face. He hurriedly reaches behind and flips the notebook shut. Dean clears his throat and steps into the room.
"Sorry if I startled you. Um, Sam?"
Sam doesn't say anything. Just stares.
Dean shifts on his feet. "I came up to talk to you about something," he explains. If Sam is curious at all, he doesn't show it. Dean clears his throat again. "It's about Dad. He was hunting but, uh, he hasn't called in a few days."
There's a flicker of something across Sam's face. It's not what Dean might have expected, like worry or fear. He can't place it, and it's gone as quick as it came.
"So," Dean begins. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."
Sam seems to unfreeze, hunch slightly lower in his seat. His eyes close and he swallows hard, gripping the arms of his chair tight enough to whiten his fingers.
"He hasn't come back," Dean finishes. He gives Sam a moment and sits on the edge of the bed. Sam releases one hand from the chair and brings it up in a fist which he presses against his eye, pushing hard. Dean is up and hurrying forward, he grabs Sam's wrist, prying his hand away from his face.
"Sammy, stop," he orders. Sam loosens a little, slumping slightly, leaning towards Dean so that his head is almost against his chest. Dean places his other hand on Sam's head and rubs gently.
"Calm down. It's okay," he soothes. "Can you keep calm for me?"
Sam nods.
"Okay, kiddo, you're doing great," Dean praises, like Sam's a puppy that didn't piss on the carpet for once. "Sam, I need to ask you some things. I need answers. I need to know what you know so I can help Dad."
Sam shakes his head.
"Please, Sammy."
Sam sits up, shoving weakly at Dean's chest. The look on his face is a mix of terror and fury. Dean sighs and glances around the room, eyes landing on the notebook on the desk.
"Hey, what if you write it down, huh? That way you don't have to say anything out loud."
He's just managed to grab the book when he's knocked to the floor. Sam is straddled over his stomach, shoving his bony elbow into Dean's chest, using his other hand to try to grasp the book. Dean grips it tighter and bucks, knocking Sam off of him and onto the floor.
"What the hell, Sammy?" he barks, trying to get to his feet. Sam comes at him again and shoves him into the desk, grunting with the effort. The table jolts and several objects topple from its surface.
Dean uses his feet to keep Sam at a distance as the kid's arms fly wildly at his face.
"Good God! What's going on here?" the door bursts open to reveal Jim's startled face. The pastor doesn't hesitate a moment longer and he lunges forward, pulling Sam away from Dean, pinning the kid's arms tightly to his side. Dean sits up and tries to catch his breath.
"Fuck, Sam," he gasps. He glances to the other side of the room where Jim still has Sam restrained, trying to get him to lie down on the bed and muttering soft words in his ear. Dean looks away, down to the black spiral-bound notebook in his hand. It's slightly crooked now, a corner of the cover bends outwards.
He opens it. Sam's writing is a mess, but Dean can just make it out. He flips through the notebook and feels something heavy make its place in his gut. Page after page is filled with the same sentence, scrawled out over and over:
She'll be hungry again.
Sam - 7th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
The house was bigger than any Sam had ever seen up close. At least, one that wasn't haunted.
He stood in the middle of the path, staring up at the three-storied building. It was a little old and weathered; the white-painted panelling was now yellowish in places and peeling away, a couple of the blue shutters were hanging off their hinges.
Sam didn't mind. He'd dreamed of houses like this.
Dean knocked him back to reality, shoving by with a sly grin on his face. He marched up to the porch with his bag slung over his shoulder.
"I get to pick my room first!" he declared.
Sam furrowed his brow. "Why do you pick first?"
"I'm the oldest," Dean said with a shrug. Sam scowled. That was Dean's answer to everything.
Sam took another long glance at the house and turned back to the car. His dad was bent over the trunk; his journal was open in one hand.
"How long are we staying here?" Sam asked. John looked up, then down, to Sam. He carefully closed the journal and tucked it away in his jacket.
"Until the job's done, Sammy," he answered, reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. Sam squirmed away and ducked under his dad's arm to peer into the trunk. It had been five years since Dean had told him the truth and Sam still wasn't quite used to seeing so many weapons in one place.
"What are we hunting?" Sam asked, picking up a wooden crucifix and twirling it in his hands. John grabbed it and put it back in its place.
"Not we, Sammy," he said. "This isn't a hunt for you."
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, trying to stand up a little taller than he was. "How come?" he demanded. "You always make me come on hunts."
John sighed wearily. "Sam," he said, hard like he was holding back from raising his voice. "I said you're not coming on this hunt. Just do what I say and don't argue about it, okay?"
"But - "
"Sam. I've been driving for thirteen hours straight. Just… give me a break."
Before Sam could get another word out, John dumped two duffel bags into his arms and nudged him towards the house. Sam sighed and headed for the porch. The two bags piled high up to his nose and he could barely see where he was walking. He was tentatively feeling around for the front step with his foot when one of the bags disappeared out of his grip.
Dean stared down at him from the top step, duffel hanging off his shoulder. "What's taking so long, squirt?"
"Nothin'," Sam mumbled, jogging up the last couple of steps and onto the porch. Dean held the front door open and let Sam pass. Pausing in the hallway, Sam turned to Dean. "Do you know what Dad's hunting?" he asked.
Dean smiled, looking a little proud, chest puffing out. "You mean, do I know what me and Dad are hunting?"
Sam dropped the bag he was holding onto the carpet. "How come you're going and I'm not?"
Dean strode past him, whacking the side of Sam's head on his way to the stairs. "Relax, Sammy. Besides, since when do you care about hunting?"
Sam stomped up the stairs after him. "I care," he cried indignantly.
Dean snorted. Sam followed him across the landing and into a room at the end of the corridor. He paused in the doorway, finally taking a moment to appreciate the interior of the house. It was as weathered as it was on the outside, but the ceilings were tall and the windows were wide. Sunlight came through and soaked the wooden floors with bright warmth.
The room was spacious and mostly empty, apart from a large bed and drawers. Dean dumped his duffel on the floor and took a short run-up to leap onto the bed. He landed with a soft oof and spread out his arms and legs, grinning like a contented cat.
"What if that bed had woodworm and disintegrated underneath you?" Sam pointed out.
Dean glared at him. "It didn't," he snapped. "Why do you always have to dig at things, huh?"
Sam blinked at him, feeling heat flush in his cheeks. "I… I don't - "
Dean sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean that," he said, voice softening. "You just ask a lot of questions."
Sam stared at his shoes. One of his laces was longer than the other. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked.
"No," Dean said. He sounded sincere, and a little apologetic. "It's just, in this life you have to listen to orders or someone will get hurt."
"Is that why I'm not allowed to come with you and Dad?"
Dean sighed. "It's not that. There are some hunts that kids shouldn't get involved in."
"I'm not a kid," Sam insisted.
Dean grinned. "You might not think so," he said. He straightened his face, serious. "Just trust me, okay? You don't want to be involved in this."
After a moment, Sam nodded. The difference between Dean and Dad was that Dean actually talked to Sam, rather than shout out orders like Dad did.
"Maybe, when me and Dad are away," Dean went on, "you could explore the house. I bet there's a ton of cool old crap around here. And there's the lakes nearby, and a big pond on the other side of the field."
Sam nodded, but none of Dean's suggestions sounded very appealing when he knew he'd be alone. He would spend most of his time by himself in this huge house, hoping and praying that his family would be coming home. And it was summer, which was even worse because he didn't even have school to occupy him.
Sam didn't like hunting, but when he went along on a job at least he could be with his dad and brother.
Sam looked back up from his space in the doorway but Dean had already turned his attention away to an old batman comic he'd had since he was ten. At seventeen years old, Dean must have read it hundreds of times. Sam sighed and stepped back out into the hallway.
"Close the door behind you!" Dean yelled. Sam groaned and pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary. Dust filled the air and Sam coughed on his way up to the third and final floor of the house.
The attic only had two rooms; a bedroom and a bathroom. Sam discovered that there was no running water in the bathroom. The pipes groaned in protest when he turned the taps. The bedroom was the best part of the house, Sam was sure. The ceilings were sloped and the room was long. There was a bed, not quite as large as Dean's but larger than any Sam had slept in before. Of everything, it was the window that Sam liked best.
It was large and circular, stretching from floor to ceiling. Sam sat down, legs crossed, in front of the window and peered down to the long driveway out front. He could see his dad still leaning into the car's trunk. Sam squinted one eye closed and reached out with his fingers, squishing his ant-sized dad between them.
He spent the rest of the afternoon organising what little he owned in his room. All five of his books were balanced neatly on the table, all of his clothes were fit into a single drawer in the dresser, the polaroid Bobby Singer took of him and Dean in a treehouse they built in the yard one summer was taped next to his bed.
It wasn't much but it made him feel a fraction more normal.
Dean only came out of his room when dinner was on the table. Dinner was Chinese takeout which was cold from the thirty-minute drive between the town centre and the house. The table they ate at had one leg shorter than the others, shifting any time someone moved their elbow even just slightly.
John handed Sam and Dean a glass of tap water. Dean downed his in one go, Sam stared at it suspiciously. He took a tentative sip and placed it back down on the table.
"The water doesn't work in the third floor bathroom," Sam told his dad.
"You'll have to use the one downstairs," John replied with a shrug.
Sam twirled some noodles with his fork. "What's happening tomorrow?" he asked. He'd wanted to ask if they'd be around much, but he didn't want to seem like he was scared of being alone. He's supposed to be John Winchester's son. John Winchester isn't afraid of anything.
"Me and Dean will be heading into town," John said, spearing a piece of pork into his mouth.
"Yeah, Dad thinks I look old enough to question witnesses with him," Dean added, beaming.
Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean's only seventeen," he reminded his dad.
"He looks older," John pointed out. Sam turned his concentration back to his uneaten noodles. He couldn't really deny that Dean looked old enough to drink.
"Don't worry too much, bud," John said, patting Sam's shoulder. "Besides, I bet you're looking forward to getting us out of your hair."
Sam shrugged away from his Dad's grip and tried to ignore the hurt look it caused. "Yeah," Sam muttered. "I can't wait."
The truth was: the house was awesome, it was the perfect weather for summer, there was a big, clean pond nearby to swim in… but none of it seemed that great when there was no one to share it with. None of it was that great when Sam couldn't get the heavy weight of worry out of his gut.
He wished he could ask them to stop. But no one ever listened to him.
"I'm going to explore a bit," Sam said, pushing his mostly-full plate away. Dean shrugged and scraped Sam's leftovers onto his own pile and continued devouring it with similar grace to a werewolf on a full moon.
Sam slipped out of the kitchen as quickly as he could, feeling his father's eyes on his back.
In the main hallway, the floorboards creaked and groaned under his weight. He glanced up at the towering ceiling where a dusty chandelier hung, swaying slightly in the breeze let in through the open windows. Sam never did think to ask his father how he managed to find a place like this for them to stay in.
He heard muttered conversation from the kitchen, the occasional mention of his name got his feet moving again. Sam found his way into the living room. He hadn't been in there, not properly, only a glance through the door on his way down for dinner.
There was a pile of dust sheets sitting by the door. Old furniture was arranged crookedly around the room. Sam dropped down onto the nearest couch and kicked his feet up, glancing around. The fireplace was huge; black metal with intricate designs coiling around its body. Carvings of a similar fashion crept around the top of the walls.
There wasn't much else to see. Sam sighed, disappointed.
He was about to leave when the scratching started; a soft scuffling in the walls. Sam knew the signs of a malevolent spirit better than he knew the alphabet, probably. 1) Flickering lights, 2) a drop in temperature, 3) noises like rats…
"What are you doing?" Dean's voice startled him from behind. Sam turned around; his brother was leaning in the doorway with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
"Is Dad letting you drink?" Sam asked, not bothering to hide the disapproval in his tone.
Dean rolled his eyes and made a noise. "Pfft. Sammy, you're such a prude," he said, grinning, holding back a laugh. Sam frowned. How come Dean was like that? Why was he always smiling, so full of life, when Sam was so miserable?
"So, what's so interesting in here?" Dean asked, tapping his fingers idly against the neck of the beer bottle.
Sam glanced one last time around the room. The noise was gone. His dad had checked the house before he rented it, of course. If John Winchester didn't find any signs of a ghost, then it was likely there wasn't one. In a house as old as this, the likelihood was that the noises came from rats. Sam might have preferred a ghost.
"Nothing," he finally answered.
Dean patted him on shoulder. "Well, I'm heading for bed. You coming?"
That night, Sam woke up shuddering. He was frozen, skin standing up in prickles. He rubbed his eyes and pulled the covers closer. He drifted too close to sleep to wonder how he could be so cold in the middle of summer in Georgia.
Half-sleeping, Sam heard the floorboards groan under someone's weight, growing closer. He sighed and pulled the blanket higher, up to his nose.
"G'way, Dean," he mumbled. He felt weight dip the mattress by his feet and a cold hand brushed the hair from his face. Sam sat up, annoyed, and turned to glare at his brother. He blinked, confused, when he was met with nothing but a dark and empty room.
He shuddered again, this time not because of the cold. Impulsively, Sam made a dash for the door, nearly stumbling down the steps and into Dean's room. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, sweat layered his upper lip.
He found his brother fast asleep on top of the covers, windows wide open, covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Down in Dean's room, Sam was feeling the heat again. He tiptoed over to the bed and climbed in, squeezing as close as he dared without waking him. Dean mumbled sleepily and rolled over, away from Sam.
He dared to peek over Dean's shoulder, into the hallway. Nothing, until he saw something shift in the dark. Sam ducked under the covers. It took a while for him to get back to sleep again, heart thundering in his chest, sweltering under the blanket.
When he woke up in the morning, he was back in his bed in the attic.
Next
Dean - 17th June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
Sam looks like a shell of what he should to be. He's skinny, his bones seem stretched too long for his body. There's not enough fat on him to keep his cheeks from sinking. His fingers are long and shaky as he gently shovels away dirt with a green trowel. His hair is too long, falling to brush his shoulders, covering his face. The white strand at the front of his scalp is bright in the sunlight.
He doesn't look seventeen.
Dean sits in the Impala for a moment longer, watching. Sam seems at ease. As content as he seems capable of being. God, Dean doesn't want to get out of the car. He waits a moment longer and watches as Sam tenderly places a long-leafed plant into the ground. Sam spends a good few minutes finding the right angle to stand the plant, then he takes even more time to fill the gaps around it with soil, shovelling a delicate amount each time.
After Sam has watered it, he sits there, on his knees, and stares at it like he might be able to catch one of the buds opening up into a flower. Dean bets that if it were up to Sam, Sam would watch the plant day and night, sitting right there in the grass outside of Pastor Jim's house.
It's been twenty minutes since Dean pulled up into Jim's drive and Sam still hasn't noticed. Or maybe he's choosing to ignore Dean. Probably avoiding Dean's likely attempts at making conversation.
God. Dean wishes he didn't have to be here. For Sammy's sake.
But he doesn't have a choice, not this time, and Dean finally climbs out from behind the wheel. He takes extra care to close the door as silently as possible before walking up to the house. He makes the effort to walk around Sam and into his line of sight - the kid doesn't do so well with surprises. Once Dean is right next to him, his shadow falling over his little brother's shoulders, Sam glances up at him through a strand of hair that's fallen over his face.
"Heya, Sammy," Dean says, forcing a grin. Sam's not stupid, he can hear the forced brightness in Dean's voice and he frowns, questioning. Dean goes on, "Is Jim around?"
Of course Jim is around. If Sam is here, so is Jim.
Sam nods and points towards the front door. Dean smiles again, but it's thin, stretched tight over his teeth. "You mind showing me in?" he asks. Sam nods again, more reluctantly. He gazes again at the plant, looking a little disappointed, then he climbs to his feet, using a shaking hand to pull himself up with the windowsill for support.
Dean lets Sam walk ahead and he traces his eyes over the hunched line of Sam's shoulders, the bow of his head. Not once has Sam looked Dean directly in the eye.
Jim Murphy is in his kitchen, slicing bread. There's a couple of pots boiling on the stove, the room is filled with the smell of cooking vegetables, the windows are fogged with steam. Jim looks surprised, but pleased, when he notices Dean.
"Dean," he says, "It's been a while. Sam and I were wondering what mess you must have gotten yourself into this time."
Dean feels a swell of guilt in his gut. It has been few months since he's visited. "Sorry about that," he apologises. "I got swept up with work, you know."
"I know," Jim says softly. "There's always another hunt." He pauses to finish slicing off a piece of bread. "How's your father?"
Sam looks up from his seat then, listening. Dean could swear he almost saw a twitch of a smile on Sam's face. The kid never got on with John until he decided to stop talking. Their relationship was better than ever once Sam couldn't argue back. Dean remembers the last time he saw Dad. They'd hung out at some no-name bar right before John left to see Sam for a couple of days before heading off to re-work the case from Georgia.
Dean glances at Sam awkwardly, then back to Jim. "Do you, uh, mind if I talk to you alone for a second?"
Jim hasn't had a chance to reply before Sam pushes his chair roughly out from the table. He glares stormily at Dean's shoulder then disappears from the room without a sound. Dean waits until he hears the heavy click of a door upstairs before turning back to Jim.
"He's missed you," Jim says. "I know it's hard to tell when he's so quiet. I'm with that boy all day, every day and I can tell he's missing his family something fierce, even if he doesn't say so."
"I miss him, too," Dean insists. And he does, God, he misses Sam more than any words could describe. But he doesn't know if he's missing Sam, or the kid Sam used to be. Dean sighs, "I really do miss him. But you know he can't come on the road with us."
"Oh, I know," Jim assures. "It's a dangerous place for any person. Sam has gotten so much better with the stability he has here. You and your father made the right decision for him. Besides, I enjoy his company."
"How's he been doing?" Dean asks. He's just avoiding the thing he really came here for. He has been since his dad didn't answer the phone almost two weeks ago.
"Better," Jim answers. He sighs. "He still doesn't sleep well. I find him pacing his room at night. He seems more agitated recently, spends a lot of his time writing."
"Writing?" Dean repeats, surprised. "But he hasn't said a word in four years, not since…" he clears his throat. "What is he writing?"
"I don't know," Jim admits. "It seems impolite to look without asking. I know what the answer will be if I do ask."
Dean nods, understanding. Jim puts the bread knife down and takes a step forward. "I had asked about your father and I didn't get an answer. The fact you asked to speak privately tells me something is wrong."
Dean decides to get to the point. Now or never. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."
"Ridgeville?" Jim guesses, but the serious look in his eye makes it clear he already knows exactly where Dean means.
Dean nods. "He was checking in everyday until about two weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't answered any of my calls. I drove over there right away. His truck is parked outside but I can't find any sign of him."
"And you think - "
"I know."
"And you're asking for my help?" Jim clarifies. "I've been out of hunting for a while, Dean. I'm not the best help for you."
"I'm asking Sam for help," Dean corrects.
Jim's eyes widen. He shakes his head frantically. "You can't get him involved in this. He can't handle it."
Dean scrubs a hand over his face. "Jim, I know, alright?" he hisses. "I can see what that fucking house did to him. Anyone can see it, okay? But Sam is the only person who knows what's in there. He's the only person who can help."
Jim closes his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. "I won't allow it. Sam cannot be a part of this. I know you're scared for your father. I am too. But Sam - Sam is fragile. Getting him involved in this will hurt him badly."
"Jesus Christ, Jim," Dean swears. "I don't want to hurt him. I want him to be okay. I want that more than anything. But this is our dad. Sammy's dad. And without Sam, Dad's dead."
"And how do you know he isn't already?"
"Fuck you, Jim," Dean spits. "I just know. I'd know if he was dead."
Jim purses his lips, looks like he wants to say something. He shakes his head, a silent conversation with himself which ends in a relenting sigh.
"This is Sam's decision to make. If he doesn't want any part in it, you leave him be. You understand?"
Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. "I understand."
"Good," Jim says curtly. Then he adds under muttered breath, "Go and traumatise your brother."
Dean doesn't pay any notice. The guy acts like he's Sammy's only family, like he's the only authority when it comes to Sam. Well, Jim isn't family. Jim can suck it.
There's a soft light up the stairs, shining through the crack of Sam's door. Dean treads lightly up the steps, wincing at every creak and groan the wood makes beneath his feet. When he gets to Sam's bedroom door he raises his fist to knock, but pauses and peers inside.
Sam is hunched over the desk, scribbling away at something Dean can't see. Sam suddenly turns in his seat and looks straight at Dean, a scowl emerging across his face. He hurriedly reaches behind and flips the notebook shut. Dean clears his throat and steps into the room.
"Sorry if I startled you. Um, Sam?"
Sam doesn't say anything. Just stares.
Dean shifts on his feet. "I came up to talk to you about something," he explains. If Sam is curious at all, he doesn't show it. Dean clears his throat again. "It's about Dad. He was hunting but, uh, he hasn't called in a few days."
There's a flicker of something across Sam's face. It's not what Dean might have expected, like worry or fear. He can't place it, and it's gone as quick as it came.
"So," Dean begins. "Dad went back to investigate the house in Georgia."
Sam seems to unfreeze, hunch slightly lower in his seat. His eyes close and he swallows hard, gripping the arms of his chair tight enough to whiten his fingers.
"He hasn't come back," Dean finishes. He gives Sam a moment and sits on the edge of the bed. Sam releases one hand from the chair and brings it up in a fist which he presses against his eye, pushing hard. Dean is up and hurrying forward, he grabs Sam's wrist, prying his hand away from his face.
"Sammy, stop," he orders. Sam loosens a little, slumping slightly, leaning towards Dean so that his head is almost against his chest. Dean places his other hand on Sam's head and rubs gently.
"Calm down. It's okay," he soothes. "Can you keep calm for me?"
Sam nods.
"Okay, kiddo, you're doing great," Dean praises, like Sam's a puppy that didn't piss on the carpet for once. "Sam, I need to ask you some things. I need answers. I need to know what you know so I can help Dad."
Sam shakes his head.
"Please, Sammy."
Sam sits up, shoving weakly at Dean's chest. The look on his face is a mix of terror and fury. Dean sighs and glances around the room, eyes landing on the notebook on the desk.
"Hey, what if you write it down, huh? That way you don't have to say anything out loud."
He's just managed to grab the book when he's knocked to the floor. Sam is straddled over his stomach, shoving his bony elbow into Dean's chest, using his other hand to try to grasp the book. Dean grips it tighter and bucks, knocking Sam off of him and onto the floor.
"What the hell, Sammy?" he barks, trying to get to his feet. Sam comes at him again and shoves him into the desk, grunting with the effort. The table jolts and several objects topple from its surface.
Dean uses his feet to keep Sam at a distance as the kid's arms fly wildly at his face.
"Good God! What's going on here?" the door bursts open to reveal Jim's startled face. The pastor doesn't hesitate a moment longer and he lunges forward, pulling Sam away from Dean, pinning the kid's arms tightly to his side. Dean sits up and tries to catch his breath.
"Fuck, Sam," he gasps. He glances to the other side of the room where Jim still has Sam restrained, trying to get him to lie down on the bed and muttering soft words in his ear. Dean looks away, down to the black spiral-bound notebook in his hand. It's slightly crooked now, a corner of the cover bends outwards.
He opens it. Sam's writing is a mess, but Dean can just make it out. He flips through the notebook and feels something heavy make its place in his gut. Page after page is filled with the same sentence, scrawled out over and over:
She'll be hungry again.
Sam - 7th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
The house was bigger than any Sam had ever seen up close. At least, one that wasn't haunted.
He stood in the middle of the path, staring up at the three-storied building. It was a little old and weathered; the white-painted panelling was now yellowish in places and peeling away, a couple of the blue shutters were hanging off their hinges.
Sam didn't mind. He'd dreamed of houses like this.
Dean knocked him back to reality, shoving by with a sly grin on his face. He marched up to the porch with his bag slung over his shoulder.
"I get to pick my room first!" he declared.
Sam furrowed his brow. "Why do you pick first?"
"I'm the oldest," Dean said with a shrug. Sam scowled. That was Dean's answer to everything.
Sam took another long glance at the house and turned back to the car. His dad was bent over the trunk; his journal was open in one hand.
"How long are we staying here?" Sam asked. John looked up, then down, to Sam. He carefully closed the journal and tucked it away in his jacket.
"Until the job's done, Sammy," he answered, reaching out to ruffle Sam's hair. Sam squirmed away and ducked under his dad's arm to peer into the trunk. It had been five years since Dean had told him the truth and Sam still wasn't quite used to seeing so many weapons in one place.
"What are we hunting?" Sam asked, picking up a wooden crucifix and twirling it in his hands. John grabbed it and put it back in its place.
"Not we, Sammy," he said. "This isn't a hunt for you."
Sam crossed his arms over his chest, trying to stand up a little taller than he was. "How come?" he demanded. "You always make me come on hunts."
John sighed wearily. "Sam," he said, hard like he was holding back from raising his voice. "I said you're not coming on this hunt. Just do what I say and don't argue about it, okay?"
"But - "
"Sam. I've been driving for thirteen hours straight. Just… give me a break."
Before Sam could get another word out, John dumped two duffel bags into his arms and nudged him towards the house. Sam sighed and headed for the porch. The two bags piled high up to his nose and he could barely see where he was walking. He was tentatively feeling around for the front step with his foot when one of the bags disappeared out of his grip.
Dean stared down at him from the top step, duffel hanging off his shoulder. "What's taking so long, squirt?"
"Nothin'," Sam mumbled, jogging up the last couple of steps and onto the porch. Dean held the front door open and let Sam pass. Pausing in the hallway, Sam turned to Dean. "Do you know what Dad's hunting?" he asked.
Dean smiled, looking a little proud, chest puffing out. "You mean, do I know what me and Dad are hunting?"
Sam dropped the bag he was holding onto the carpet. "How come you're going and I'm not?"
Dean strode past him, whacking the side of Sam's head on his way to the stairs. "Relax, Sammy. Besides, since when do you care about hunting?"
Sam stomped up the stairs after him. "I care," he cried indignantly.
Dean snorted. Sam followed him across the landing and into a room at the end of the corridor. He paused in the doorway, finally taking a moment to appreciate the interior of the house. It was as weathered as it was on the outside, but the ceilings were tall and the windows were wide. Sunlight came through and soaked the wooden floors with bright warmth.
The room was spacious and mostly empty, apart from a large bed and drawers. Dean dumped his duffel on the floor and took a short run-up to leap onto the bed. He landed with a soft oof and spread out his arms and legs, grinning like a contented cat.
"What if that bed had woodworm and disintegrated underneath you?" Sam pointed out.
Dean glared at him. "It didn't," he snapped. "Why do you always have to dig at things, huh?"
Sam blinked at him, feeling heat flush in his cheeks. "I… I don't - "
Dean sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "I didn't mean that," he said, voice softening. "You just ask a lot of questions."
Sam stared at his shoes. One of his laces was longer than the other. "Is that a bad thing?" he asked.
"No," Dean said. He sounded sincere, and a little apologetic. "It's just, in this life you have to listen to orders or someone will get hurt."
"Is that why I'm not allowed to come with you and Dad?"
Dean sighed. "It's not that. There are some hunts that kids shouldn't get involved in."
"I'm not a kid," Sam insisted.
Dean grinned. "You might not think so," he said. He straightened his face, serious. "Just trust me, okay? You don't want to be involved in this."
After a moment, Sam nodded. The difference between Dean and Dad was that Dean actually talked to Sam, rather than shout out orders like Dad did.
"Maybe, when me and Dad are away," Dean went on, "you could explore the house. I bet there's a ton of cool old crap around here. And there's the lakes nearby, and a big pond on the other side of the field."
Sam nodded, but none of Dean's suggestions sounded very appealing when he knew he'd be alone. He would spend most of his time by himself in this huge house, hoping and praying that his family would be coming home. And it was summer, which was even worse because he didn't even have school to occupy him.
Sam didn't like hunting, but when he went along on a job at least he could be with his dad and brother.
Sam looked back up from his space in the doorway but Dean had already turned his attention away to an old batman comic he'd had since he was ten. At seventeen years old, Dean must have read it hundreds of times. Sam sighed and stepped back out into the hallway.
"Close the door behind you!" Dean yelled. Sam groaned and pulled the door shut a little harder than necessary. Dust filled the air and Sam coughed on his way up to the third and final floor of the house.
The attic only had two rooms; a bedroom and a bathroom. Sam discovered that there was no running water in the bathroom. The pipes groaned in protest when he turned the taps. The bedroom was the best part of the house, Sam was sure. The ceilings were sloped and the room was long. There was a bed, not quite as large as Dean's but larger than any Sam had slept in before. Of everything, it was the window that Sam liked best.
It was large and circular, stretching from floor to ceiling. Sam sat down, legs crossed, in front of the window and peered down to the long driveway out front. He could see his dad still leaning into the car's trunk. Sam squinted one eye closed and reached out with his fingers, squishing his ant-sized dad between them.
He spent the rest of the afternoon organising what little he owned in his room. All five of his books were balanced neatly on the table, all of his clothes were fit into a single drawer in the dresser, the polaroid Bobby Singer took of him and Dean in a treehouse they built in the yard one summer was taped next to his bed.
It wasn't much but it made him feel a fraction more normal.
Dean only came out of his room when dinner was on the table. Dinner was Chinese takeout which was cold from the thirty-minute drive between the town centre and the house. The table they ate at had one leg shorter than the others, shifting any time someone moved their elbow even just slightly.
John handed Sam and Dean a glass of tap water. Dean downed his in one go, Sam stared at it suspiciously. He took a tentative sip and placed it back down on the table.
"The water doesn't work in the third floor bathroom," Sam told his dad.
"You'll have to use the one downstairs," John replied with a shrug.
Sam twirled some noodles with his fork. "What's happening tomorrow?" he asked. He'd wanted to ask if they'd be around much, but he didn't want to seem like he was scared of being alone. He's supposed to be John Winchester's son. John Winchester isn't afraid of anything.
"Me and Dean will be heading into town," John said, spearing a piece of pork into his mouth.
"Yeah, Dad thinks I look old enough to question witnesses with him," Dean added, beaming.
Sam furrowed his brow. "Dean's only seventeen," he reminded his dad.
"He looks older," John pointed out. Sam turned his concentration back to his uneaten noodles. He couldn't really deny that Dean looked old enough to drink.
"Don't worry too much, bud," John said, patting Sam's shoulder. "Besides, I bet you're looking forward to getting us out of your hair."
Sam shrugged away from his Dad's grip and tried to ignore the hurt look it caused. "Yeah," Sam muttered. "I can't wait."
The truth was: the house was awesome, it was the perfect weather for summer, there was a big, clean pond nearby to swim in… but none of it seemed that great when there was no one to share it with. None of it was that great when Sam couldn't get the heavy weight of worry out of his gut.
He wished he could ask them to stop. But no one ever listened to him.
"I'm going to explore a bit," Sam said, pushing his mostly-full plate away. Dean shrugged and scraped Sam's leftovers onto his own pile and continued devouring it with similar grace to a werewolf on a full moon.
Sam slipped out of the kitchen as quickly as he could, feeling his father's eyes on his back.
In the main hallway, the floorboards creaked and groaned under his weight. He glanced up at the towering ceiling where a dusty chandelier hung, swaying slightly in the breeze let in through the open windows. Sam never did think to ask his father how he managed to find a place like this for them to stay in.
He heard muttered conversation from the kitchen, the occasional mention of his name got his feet moving again. Sam found his way into the living room. He hadn't been in there, not properly, only a glance through the door on his way down for dinner.
There was a pile of dust sheets sitting by the door. Old furniture was arranged crookedly around the room. Sam dropped down onto the nearest couch and kicked his feet up, glancing around. The fireplace was huge; black metal with intricate designs coiling around its body. Carvings of a similar fashion crept around the top of the walls.
There wasn't much else to see. Sam sighed, disappointed.
He was about to leave when the scratching started; a soft scuffling in the walls. Sam knew the signs of a malevolent spirit better than he knew the alphabet, probably. 1) Flickering lights, 2) a drop in temperature, 3) noises like rats…
"What are you doing?" Dean's voice startled him from behind. Sam turned around; his brother was leaning in the doorway with a beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
"Is Dad letting you drink?" Sam asked, not bothering to hide the disapproval in his tone.
Dean rolled his eyes and made a noise. "Pfft. Sammy, you're such a prude," he said, grinning, holding back a laugh. Sam frowned. How come Dean was like that? Why was he always smiling, so full of life, when Sam was so miserable?
"So, what's so interesting in here?" Dean asked, tapping his fingers idly against the neck of the beer bottle.
Sam glanced one last time around the room. The noise was gone. His dad had checked the house before he rented it, of course. If John Winchester didn't find any signs of a ghost, then it was likely there wasn't one. In a house as old as this, the likelihood was that the noises came from rats. Sam might have preferred a ghost.
"Nothing," he finally answered.
Dean patted him on shoulder. "Well, I'm heading for bed. You coming?"
That night, Sam woke up shuddering. He was frozen, skin standing up in prickles. He rubbed his eyes and pulled the covers closer. He drifted too close to sleep to wonder how he could be so cold in the middle of summer in Georgia.
Half-sleeping, Sam heard the floorboards groan under someone's weight, growing closer. He sighed and pulled the blanket higher, up to his nose.
"G'way, Dean," he mumbled. He felt weight dip the mattress by his feet and a cold hand brushed the hair from his face. Sam sat up, annoyed, and turned to glare at his brother. He blinked, confused, when he was met with nothing but a dark and empty room.
He shuddered again, this time not because of the cold. Impulsively, Sam made a dash for the door, nearly stumbling down the steps and into Dean's room. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, sweat layered his upper lip.
He found his brother fast asleep on top of the covers, windows wide open, covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Down in Dean's room, Sam was feeling the heat again. He tiptoed over to the bed and climbed in, squeezing as close as he dared without waking him. Dean mumbled sleepily and rolled over, away from Sam.
He dared to peek over Dean's shoulder, into the hallway. Nothing, until he saw something shift in the dark. Sam ducked under the covers. It took a while for him to get back to sleep again, heart thundering in his chest, sweltering under the blanket.
When he woke up in the morning, he was back in his bed in the attic.
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