Conversations With The Dead - Chapter 3
Previous
Pastor Jim - 18th June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
There's something enchanting about an empty church. Of course, he loves the lively joy of full pews as his flock prays and sing hymns together. But here in his church, with twilight filtering through stained glass windows, he has only the company of God.
Jim kneels in one of the front pews, resting his clasped hands over the bible as closes his eyes.
He recites a prayer. A simple one that even a faithless man might know. It's a prayer he recites with his flock for every Sunday service. It's a prayer he recites before bed. He recites it now and feels it fall short like loose leaves drifting to the ground.
He needs stronger words if he wants God to really hear.
He opens his mouth, but pauses. He thinks a moment, choosing his words, pulling them from where they rest in his heart.
"Dear, God," he begins, speaking aloud, "I have served you for many years now. I don't ask much of you, only that you watch over those who have no one to protect them. I have protected Sam Winchester for almost three years now. I have fed him at my table, dressed him, kept him warm. I've done my best to keep him safe. I'd loved the boy dearly for many years, but these past three years I've come to love him like my own son."
Jim looks up and meets the white, marble eyes of the Virgin Mary.
"One of God's gifts to mankind was freewill and I know I must respect the will of Sam. But, you see, Sam has made a decision to return to something that has scarred him deeply. He is a fragile boy, and I don't believe this is something he has the strength for. He can't do this without you. I beg you, Lord, keep Sam safe. Spare some of your light to guide him on this dark path. Protect him, Lord. Amen."
Jim crosses his heart and leans forward onto his hands, reciting that same little prayer, hoping that God might hear him. The wooden floor creaks beside him and he looks up to find Sam there. Sam smiles softly and places a trembling hand on Jim's shoulder. Jim clasps his own hand over Sam's and holds it steady.
And suddenly Sam is wrapped around him, leaning his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim returns the embrace fully, holding the boy like he has no intention of letting go.
"Sam, I know you have made a decision," Jim says. Sam nods into the crook of his neck to show he's listening. "I'm worried, Sam. You find it so hard to leave your room some days. How will you manage a trip to Georgia? How will you go back to that house?"
Sam lifts his head. He shrugs a little, his expression is sincere.
"You have to," Jim sighs. "I know you believe you have no choice here, but you do. I know you're worried about your father, but John made his own decision. You shouldn't have to pay for it."
Sam frowns at him, disapproving. He reaches out and places his palm over Jim's chest. The same way Jim does for Sam when he's having a bad night.
"You're right," Jim admits. "I'm terrified for you. And maybe I'm thinking selfishly here, but I wish you wouldn't go. How will you protect yourself?"
Sam thrusts a thumb over his shoulder.
Jim sighs again, deeply. "I know you have Dean, but what if Dean isn't there, even just for a moment?"
Sam shakes his head. No answer.
"Sam, I'm afraid," Jim says. Sam smiles a little and raises his shaking hand. The tremble itself says me too.
Jim leans forward again, clasping his hands. "Pray with me?" he asks. Sam shifts in the seat and mimics Jim's position. Together, they pray silently.
John - May 2nd 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
The brown paper wrapping trembled under Sam's hands, his head was bowed forward, the white patch of hair at the front covered his face. It was a longer process than it should have been, but Sammy's hands had been like wind-up toys for nearly four years. Four years of shaky hands, complete silence and panic attacks. Any time Sam smiled, it was the brightest thing John had ever seen.
It was a rare occurrence.
Sam smiled now as he finally pulled the last of the wrapping away to reveal a well-worn book. John had found it for ten dollars at thrift store. The thing was apparently an original copy and there were notes in the margins that he was sure Sam would like. It had spent the last month or so wedged between sawed-offs in the back of his trunk.
Sam reached over and touched John's shoulder, smiling again. He held the book up and tapped it, then tapped his own chest. I love it was simple enough for John to translate.
"I'm glad," John replied. "I just thought it would help you with the garden. When you showed me all your plants last time I was here, I could see how happy it makes you. Sammy, you don't know how happy it makes me to see you happy."
Sam ducked his head shyly and carefully touched the cover, admiring the illustrations of flowers and trees. The Anatomy of a Plant was written beautifully across the top.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," John added. He watched Sam flip slowly through the book for a few minutes, then he checked his watch. Dean still wasn't there.
If you'd asked him a few years ago if Dean would purposely distance himself from Sam, he wouldn't have believed it. Now, Dean buried himself in work, darting around the country too fast for even John to catch him face-to-face.
Dean was running as much as Sam was. Sam was running from whatever happened in Georgia by keeping his mouth shut. Dean was running from the guilt of it by hunting. And John was probably running, too. He could count on both hands how often he visited Sam per year. He would have to change that.
He was about to grab his phone to call Dean when he heard a heavy engine growl in the driveway. John and Sam peered over to the window to see the Impala pull up. He'd given Dean the old thing when he upgraded to the black truck he had now. Not long after, his oldest took on hunting solo.
Dean stepped out and waved brightly, holding up a crudely wrapped package. A moment later, Dean followed Jim into the living room.
"Happy birthday, birthday boy!" Dean called. He dropped down into the spare armchair and placed the gift on the coffee table. Sam waved a small greeting, then he slid his hands under his legs to keep them still.
Dean frowned. "Aren't you gonna open it?"
Sam nodded and brought up a hand, holding up one finger. In a minute. Dean frowned again, but Sam pointed over his shoulder towards the kitchen just as the oven timer pinged. Jim announced dinner and the three of them followed him to the table.
Sam didn't talk much, he didn't talk at all, but he paid attention to everything. No doubt the kid had been counting down the timer to the second in his head.
They had macaroni and cheese. John knew it wasn't Sam's favourite meal but Jim insisted that Sam had requested it. Honestly, John had thought Sam hated having to eat the crap when he'd lived with them on the road. Jim had roasted some vegetables and grilled a few vege-hotdogs to go with it. Dean didn't touch anything but the macaroni, eyeing the meat-free hotdogs suspiciously. Sam didn't eat meat, not anymore.
Sam ate slowly, his trembling hands didn't allow for much more than complete and utter care. No wonder he'd decided to open Dean's present after they'd eaten. It would have taken at least ten minutes to get Dean's excessive amounts of tape off the thing.
After dinner, they ate cake. Sam blew all seventeen candles out one by one, not bothering with birthday wishes. It was strawberry cake made by one of the women at Jim's church, who'd taken quite a shine to Sam.
"Sam helped Leanne with her geraniums a couple of weeks ago. She said he's got a real green finger," Jim told them.
Dean snorted. If Sam heard, he didn't let on, just carefully cut a portion of cake off with the side of his fork before bringing it to his mouth. John glared at Dean, who he was sure sometimes forgot that Sam wasn't deaf as well as mute.
Dean might have seemed like he wasn't understanding when it came to Sam's condition, and maybe that was true, but John was sure that Dean was just afraid. Dean thought the whole thing was his fault, everything that had happened to Sam, and maybe he stayed away because he didn't want to cause any more damage.
They ended up back in the living room, watching Sam spend a painstakingly long amount of time to unwrap Dean's gift. When he was done he unfolded the paper to reveal an assortment of things: candy bars, a pocket-sized copy of The Great Gatsby, some plant seeds, and a photograph of the two of them when Sam was four years old and John had thought it would be a good idea to take them to a fun fair.
Sam smiled, carefully setting the gifts onto the table next to John's book. Sam paused and picked up a bracelet at the bottom of the wrapping paper that he'd missed.
"Got that from a psychic I met in Louisiana," Dean explained, leaning forward in his seat. "She helped me with a case, then at some point I mentioned it was your birthday coming up. She already knew, of course, being psychic and all. She made the thing by hand, promised it would bring protection."
Sam grinned, teeth showing. John hadn't seen a smile like that in a long time. Sam reached out a trembling hand and dropped the bracelet into Dean's hand. Dean fastened it around Sam's wrist and patted his arm.
"Lookin' badass," he said. Still, John saw the sadness in his eyes.
How different would things have been if John had never rented that house? Sam would probably be about to graduate from high school, ready to hunt full time. Sam would still speak. He would be able to firmly shake a person's hand…
A lot of things would be different, but John couldn't change the past. All he knew was hunting. And maybe hunting down the thing in that house in Georgia, the thing that hurt his boy, was the only thing he could do to make things right.
Dean - 19th June 2000, On the road.
Dean admits that he's always dreamed about being on the road with Sam, just the two of them. The dream started when his father taught him to drive on some middle-of-nowhere road when he was twelve. Most kids dream about going into space or becoming rich and famous. Not Dean. Dean dreamed of freedom with his brother by his side.
He can remember that first time he'd been driving, the wheel under his hands, the peddle under his feet, and he'd felt at home. He remembers, just as clearly, looking to his dad in the passenger seat, then to Sam in the back, and thinking that one day it would be him and Sam out on the road.
And when his dad gave him the Impala on his eighteenth birthday, he remembers taking Sam out for a ride. They went through a drive thru and ate fries, driving out to nowhere in particular, laughing and singing off-key to Dean's cassettes. And Dean remembers thinking how right it felt.
Just him and Sam.
But not long after that Sam went missing, and a little while after that Sam came back different.
And now things would never be like they were supposed to.
Dean drives with the radio on low. He'd had it turned off for the first half hour but Sam had seemed fidgety, so Dean put the radio on, then he had to turn it down when Sam's fidgeting got worse. In between, with the volume down low, Sam seems as relaxed as he can be.
They don't talk. Of course they don't talk. Because Sam gave up talking four years ago.
Dean hates to admit that it's awkward. He wishes he could say something to fill the near-silence but he knows he'll get no response. He notices that Sam looks at him now and then. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, keeps his focus on the road, pretends he doesn't see Sam looking.
He wonders if Sam wants to say something. If he wants to speak, why doesn't he? He wishes he could understand. He wishes it so badly. But there are things about Sam that he can't make sense of. A lot of things. He loves Sam so damn much… it just feels like if Dean gives him even the barest touch, it might send Sam shattering into a million pieces.
It's all his fault. And now Sam's coming with him to find Dad. He's putting himself in danger, again, and Dean is letting him. Maybe there are things about himself that he can't make sense of.
He spots a sign just before it flashes out of sight. He grins and turns to Sam. "You hungry?"
Sam nods slowly, hesitantly, like he doesn't really know the answer.
"There's a diner a couple of miles up ahead. We'll stop there for a bit," Dean says it like a question, trying to sound more patient than he really is. When he glances at Sam, Sam is looking out of the window, like he never heard Dean speak at all. It's more likely that he's just ignoring him. Sam does that to people sometimes when he doesn't feel like making an effort to communicate.
Dean sighs and looks back to the road.
The diner is identical to the thousands of others they've stopped at across the country. At this point in his life, Dean couldn't say how many diners he's eaten at, and he certainly couldn't tell you how many motels he's slept in.
There's a big luminous sign on top of the building that reads Elle's Diner. The words are pink and one of the E's has flickered out. The windows are wide and clean enough that he can see that the place is barely even a quarter full. It should be fine for Sam, who doesn't do well with big crowds.
Dean holds the door open for Sam, who's hands are busy being stuffed in his pockets, chattering away under the fabric of his coat like there's ice in there. The two of them have barely set one foot inside before a waitress in a short, pink uniform pops out of nowhere.
"Table for two?" she assumes. The sudden sound of her voice makes Sam jolt but the waitress doesn't seem to notice. She leads them over to a table in the centre without waiting for an answer from either of them. Dean stops her by clearing his throat.
"Do you mind if we sit in a corner?" he asks, lowering his voice so only the waitress can hear. The waitress, whose nametag reads Haylee, purses her lips. She seems a little irritated, but she quickly pastes on a bright smile and shows them to a booth in the corner.
Sammy is glancing around nervously and has removed his hands from his pockets, wringing them like he's trying to get them clean, so Dean quickly ushers him into his seat. Dean sits so he's facing out into the rest of the diner, keeping a lookout for anyone who might bother Sam.
And Sam. Sam is now tapping his twitchy hands against the table in a simple rhythm. Already, Dean is wondering if takeout might have been a better choice. He's pretty sure it would have been. But Dean doesn't always think things through…
"Would you like to order some drinks?" the waitress is back again, appearing out of nowhere like a rabbit out of a magician's hat. Sam doesn't jump this time, he's too busy retreating into his corner of the booth, shrinking down until his chin's almost under the table.
Haylee the waitress stares at Sam for a second, looking like whatever she's thinking isn't exactly polite. Dean clears his throat sharply and she turns her gaze on him.
"Just water. Thanks."
She nods and turns away, casting one last glance at Sam, who is now reappearing a little once she's out of sight. Dean grabs a menu from the stand and drops it in front of Sam.
"Whatever you want," Dean offers. Sam nods and looks down at the menu intently as if he'd rather melt into the pink, printed words than stay out here in the real world.
Dean leans back and scopes the area. A few truckers are sitting at the bar, a couple is in the middle of a dispute on the other side of the room, and two tables away is a family with about four kids under the age of ten. Not much to be wary about. Still, Dean feels for his Glock at the back of his belt, just to make sure it's there.
The waitress comes back again with water and asks for their orders. Dean takes his usual; a greasy double cheeseburger with everything on it. Sam asks for the vege-special by pointing to it on the menu, looking anywhere but at the waitress. When Haylee the waitress seems to notice something isn't quite right with Sam, her expression turns from irritation to pity. Dean isn't sure which is worse. She leaves and Sam lets out a long breath.
"You're doing good, Sammy," Dean says. The glare he gets from Sam tells him it mustn't have been the right thing to say. Too patronising. God. Dean sucks.
He's trying to think of a new thing to say when a small voice pipes up.
"What's wrong with your hair?" It's one of the kids from a couple of tables away. She's probably no taller than Dean's knee but she sure has a loud voice and everyone in the near vicinity, who is everyone in the diner, looks their way.
Sam turns his head and focuses on a crack in the wallpaper, probably trying to blend into his surroundings, which is hard when you're six foot two and constantly trembling like a snowstorm follows you around each and every day. The kid is still staring, waiting for an answer, but the mom comes hurrying over and grabs the girl's hand.
"I am so, so sorry," she gasps. She glances at Sam, pity making its way onto her face. "Is your friend alright?"
"He's fine," Dean says quickly.
The woman gives him an apologetic nod and moves to turn away but the girl digs her heels in.
"But, Mommy, that man has white hair! His hair's white at the front!" she exclaims. Sam curls in tighter on himself, clenching his eyes shut.
"Annabelle! Be quiet!" the mother hisses. She turns to Dean, "I am really sorry."
Dean shuffles forward in his seat, trying to block Sam out of sight. He's thinking about giving the brat a piece of his mind, but it's probably not such a good idea because the kid's only about three years old, and he doesn't think the mother would appreciate him yelling at her toddler.
He notices the wonder in her eyes and he realises. She isn't making fun of Sam, she doesn't think he's weird like most adults would. She thinks Sam is pretty damn cool.
Dean smiles a little. "You wanna know why his hair's white?" he asks the little girl. She nods enthusiastically.
"Well," Dean explains, "it's because he can control the weather. Ever heard of the X-men?"
The girl shakes her head.
"They're a group of superheroes," Dean tells her. "My brother here's a member. They call him Storm. You know how sunny the weather's been? That's because of Sam."
The girl gapes and looks over at Sam.
Dean presses his finger to his lips. "But don't tell anyone, okay? It's his day off from fighting super villains."
The girl nods seriously.
Meanwhile, Sam has uncurled himself from the corner a little and he's staring at Dean with much the same expression as the girl, part confused and part amazed. The woman is smiling softly as she manages to steer her daughter back over to their table.
Dean looks to Sam and smiles. Sam smiles back and Dean is so surprised he can't speak for a second. Irony, huh? Sam brings up his hand and presses the tips of his fingers to his chin then moves his hand away in a small motion. Sammy doesn't use sign language much, or at all, because he doesn't like to speak. But their dad had tried to get them all to learn some signs when it became clear Sam didn't plan on talking any time soon.
Thank you, Sam had said.
And Dean smiles even harder.
But still, Sam's hands are shaking like leaves in a busy storm, and Dean can't help but ask himself something he's been wondering for years.
What the hell happened to Sam?
Sam - Unknown, In The Dark
He was cold. So cold.
There was nothing but black. Everything was pitch black.
Something was hard beneath him. He reached out and felt nothing but air.
There wasn't enough air. He couldn't breathe. He was panting, panicking, losing air.
Help, he croaked. The sound of his voice travelled away into the dark and didn't come back. He called again and again until he couldn't anymore, sobbing too hard to get a word out.
He forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled, feeling out for something, anything. Nothing but darkness.
He was suffocating in the Dark. He couldn't even see his own fingers in front of his face.
Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?
If there was a way in, there had to be a way out.
Something was glowing. There was light up ahead. Sam crawled faster. He didn't know how long he'd been moving but his body ached and his knees felt bruised. By the time he got to the light, it began to flicker. And he realised.
Ghosts.
Children. Just like the girl in the house. They were different ages. Some seemed as small as five, and some seemed only a little older than Sam himself. Their eyes turned to him, just as dark and empty as the blackness surrounding them.
Their faces were all fixed in terror, but it was more than that. They were all so miserably sad.
"What did this to you?" Sam asked, keeping his voice as low as he could. He received no answer.
He saw her. The same girl from the house. She came close, face-to-face. Sam felt the chill of her and shuddered.
"You were trying to warn me," Sam realised.
Her head titled ever so slightly in a nod. She reached out a white, faded hand as if to touch Sam, but she paused.
I am so sorry, boy, she said. Her voice echoed in his ears like a bell's ring.
The light of the spirits flickered and dimmed until it was almost pitch black again. The ghosts shrank away and hid in the shadow.
Something brushed Sam's shoulder. He tried to get away, clambering to his feet, but he tripped, landing on his back. He felt a weight press against him. He panted frantically, eyes darting around and seeing nothing.
He felt cold fingers touch his face and caress his hair. He closed his eyes.
Look at me, it said. Its voice was loud and quiet, close and far away, all at the same time. Sam clenched his eyes closed tighter.
Look at me.
He felt those fingers on his face again, tugging at his eyelids until they were open. Sam saw it again, clearer than he could see it in Dean's bedroom, despite the pitch-black-nothing they were encased in.
It almost looked human. Almost. Its skin was pale and hairless, sagging on its long limbs like an over-sized coat. The bones stuck out sharply under the thin stretch of flesh, jutting along its spine. But the face…
The face was blank and pale. Its mouth was a gash, lips like festering scabs, showing too-sharp teeth under a too-stretched smile. Its nostrils were like slits which puffed as it lowered its head and sniffed at his skin. And the eyes. There were no eyes. The skin stretched over sockets, and in the dim glow of the ghosts Sam almost thought he could see through them.
Sweet boy. Little boy, it crooned. What gift will you give me?
Sam struggled, but it gripped tight and he felt sharp points dig into his skin. He forced down a yelp of pain.
A boy with clever words won't speak? It said, chuckling its amusement. This boy speaks clever words, but now he won't speak at all. He only squeaks. You mustn't have use for your tongue anymore.
Then, Sam screamed as those long spindled fingers brushed down his face, traced over his chin. The creature laughed, cold and hard enough to chill his bones.
This will only hurt a little.
Dean, help me! Sam screamed. Please help me! DEAN!
The creature reached out its other hand and pressed it over his mouth, clamping it shut. The other hand stoked him, down to his neck. There was a moment of nothing where Sam panted and waited, then he felt the nails dig into his skin.
Sam felt a burning in his throat. He couldn't breathe under the scold of it. It hurt so much. There was a strain like a violin string being pulled, then he could feel the pluck of something snapping inside. His scream snapped in half along with it.
It was over quickly the thing crawled away, leaving nothing but darkness and a pain so deep he couldn't move. When Sam opened his mouth to cry, he couldn't make a sound.
Next
Pastor Jim - 18th June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
There's something enchanting about an empty church. Of course, he loves the lively joy of full pews as his flock prays and sing hymns together. But here in his church, with twilight filtering through stained glass windows, he has only the company of God.
Jim kneels in one of the front pews, resting his clasped hands over the bible as closes his eyes.
He recites a prayer. A simple one that even a faithless man might know. It's a prayer he recites with his flock for every Sunday service. It's a prayer he recites before bed. He recites it now and feels it fall short like loose leaves drifting to the ground.
He needs stronger words if he wants God to really hear.
He opens his mouth, but pauses. He thinks a moment, choosing his words, pulling them from where they rest in his heart.
"Dear, God," he begins, speaking aloud, "I have served you for many years now. I don't ask much of you, only that you watch over those who have no one to protect them. I have protected Sam Winchester for almost three years now. I have fed him at my table, dressed him, kept him warm. I've done my best to keep him safe. I'd loved the boy dearly for many years, but these past three years I've come to love him like my own son."
Jim looks up and meets the white, marble eyes of the Virgin Mary.
"One of God's gifts to mankind was freewill and I know I must respect the will of Sam. But, you see, Sam has made a decision to return to something that has scarred him deeply. He is a fragile boy, and I don't believe this is something he has the strength for. He can't do this without you. I beg you, Lord, keep Sam safe. Spare some of your light to guide him on this dark path. Protect him, Lord. Amen."
Jim crosses his heart and leans forward onto his hands, reciting that same little prayer, hoping that God might hear him. The wooden floor creaks beside him and he looks up to find Sam there. Sam smiles softly and places a trembling hand on Jim's shoulder. Jim clasps his own hand over Sam's and holds it steady.
And suddenly Sam is wrapped around him, leaning his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim returns the embrace fully, holding the boy like he has no intention of letting go.
"Sam, I know you have made a decision," Jim says. Sam nods into the crook of his neck to show he's listening. "I'm worried, Sam. You find it so hard to leave your room some days. How will you manage a trip to Georgia? How will you go back to that house?"
Sam lifts his head. He shrugs a little, his expression is sincere.
"You have to," Jim sighs. "I know you believe you have no choice here, but you do. I know you're worried about your father, but John made his own decision. You shouldn't have to pay for it."
Sam frowns at him, disapproving. He reaches out and places his palm over Jim's chest. The same way Jim does for Sam when he's having a bad night.
"You're right," Jim admits. "I'm terrified for you. And maybe I'm thinking selfishly here, but I wish you wouldn't go. How will you protect yourself?"
Sam thrusts a thumb over his shoulder.
Jim sighs again, deeply. "I know you have Dean, but what if Dean isn't there, even just for a moment?"
Sam shakes his head. No answer.
"Sam, I'm afraid," Jim says. Sam smiles a little and raises his shaking hand. The tremble itself says me too.
Jim leans forward again, clasping his hands. "Pray with me?" he asks. Sam shifts in the seat and mimics Jim's position. Together, they pray silently.
John - May 2nd 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
The brown paper wrapping trembled under Sam's hands, his head was bowed forward, the white patch of hair at the front covered his face. It was a longer process than it should have been, but Sammy's hands had been like wind-up toys for nearly four years. Four years of shaky hands, complete silence and panic attacks. Any time Sam smiled, it was the brightest thing John had ever seen.
It was a rare occurrence.
Sam smiled now as he finally pulled the last of the wrapping away to reveal a well-worn book. John had found it for ten dollars at thrift store. The thing was apparently an original copy and there were notes in the margins that he was sure Sam would like. It had spent the last month or so wedged between sawed-offs in the back of his trunk.
Sam reached over and touched John's shoulder, smiling again. He held the book up and tapped it, then tapped his own chest. I love it was simple enough for John to translate.
"I'm glad," John replied. "I just thought it would help you with the garden. When you showed me all your plants last time I was here, I could see how happy it makes you. Sammy, you don't know how happy it makes me to see you happy."
Sam ducked his head shyly and carefully touched the cover, admiring the illustrations of flowers and trees. The Anatomy of a Plant was written beautifully across the top.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," John added. He watched Sam flip slowly through the book for a few minutes, then he checked his watch. Dean still wasn't there.
If you'd asked him a few years ago if Dean would purposely distance himself from Sam, he wouldn't have believed it. Now, Dean buried himself in work, darting around the country too fast for even John to catch him face-to-face.
Dean was running as much as Sam was. Sam was running from whatever happened in Georgia by keeping his mouth shut. Dean was running from the guilt of it by hunting. And John was probably running, too. He could count on both hands how often he visited Sam per year. He would have to change that.
He was about to grab his phone to call Dean when he heard a heavy engine growl in the driveway. John and Sam peered over to the window to see the Impala pull up. He'd given Dean the old thing when he upgraded to the black truck he had now. Not long after, his oldest took on hunting solo.
Dean stepped out and waved brightly, holding up a crudely wrapped package. A moment later, Dean followed Jim into the living room.
"Happy birthday, birthday boy!" Dean called. He dropped down into the spare armchair and placed the gift on the coffee table. Sam waved a small greeting, then he slid his hands under his legs to keep them still.
Dean frowned. "Aren't you gonna open it?"
Sam nodded and brought up a hand, holding up one finger. In a minute. Dean frowned again, but Sam pointed over his shoulder towards the kitchen just as the oven timer pinged. Jim announced dinner and the three of them followed him to the table.
Sam didn't talk much, he didn't talk at all, but he paid attention to everything. No doubt the kid had been counting down the timer to the second in his head.
They had macaroni and cheese. John knew it wasn't Sam's favourite meal but Jim insisted that Sam had requested it. Honestly, John had thought Sam hated having to eat the crap when he'd lived with them on the road. Jim had roasted some vegetables and grilled a few vege-hotdogs to go with it. Dean didn't touch anything but the macaroni, eyeing the meat-free hotdogs suspiciously. Sam didn't eat meat, not anymore.
Sam ate slowly, his trembling hands didn't allow for much more than complete and utter care. No wonder he'd decided to open Dean's present after they'd eaten. It would have taken at least ten minutes to get Dean's excessive amounts of tape off the thing.
After dinner, they ate cake. Sam blew all seventeen candles out one by one, not bothering with birthday wishes. It was strawberry cake made by one of the women at Jim's church, who'd taken quite a shine to Sam.
"Sam helped Leanne with her geraniums a couple of weeks ago. She said he's got a real green finger," Jim told them.
Dean snorted. If Sam heard, he didn't let on, just carefully cut a portion of cake off with the side of his fork before bringing it to his mouth. John glared at Dean, who he was sure sometimes forgot that Sam wasn't deaf as well as mute.
Dean might have seemed like he wasn't understanding when it came to Sam's condition, and maybe that was true, but John was sure that Dean was just afraid. Dean thought the whole thing was his fault, everything that had happened to Sam, and maybe he stayed away because he didn't want to cause any more damage.
They ended up back in the living room, watching Sam spend a painstakingly long amount of time to unwrap Dean's gift. When he was done he unfolded the paper to reveal an assortment of things: candy bars, a pocket-sized copy of The Great Gatsby, some plant seeds, and a photograph of the two of them when Sam was four years old and John had thought it would be a good idea to take them to a fun fair.
Sam smiled, carefully setting the gifts onto the table next to John's book. Sam paused and picked up a bracelet at the bottom of the wrapping paper that he'd missed.
"Got that from a psychic I met in Louisiana," Dean explained, leaning forward in his seat. "She helped me with a case, then at some point I mentioned it was your birthday coming up. She already knew, of course, being psychic and all. She made the thing by hand, promised it would bring protection."
Sam grinned, teeth showing. John hadn't seen a smile like that in a long time. Sam reached out a trembling hand and dropped the bracelet into Dean's hand. Dean fastened it around Sam's wrist and patted his arm.
"Lookin' badass," he said. Still, John saw the sadness in his eyes.
How different would things have been if John had never rented that house? Sam would probably be about to graduate from high school, ready to hunt full time. Sam would still speak. He would be able to firmly shake a person's hand…
A lot of things would be different, but John couldn't change the past. All he knew was hunting. And maybe hunting down the thing in that house in Georgia, the thing that hurt his boy, was the only thing he could do to make things right.
Dean - 19th June 2000, On the road.
Dean admits that he's always dreamed about being on the road with Sam, just the two of them. The dream started when his father taught him to drive on some middle-of-nowhere road when he was twelve. Most kids dream about going into space or becoming rich and famous. Not Dean. Dean dreamed of freedom with his brother by his side.
He can remember that first time he'd been driving, the wheel under his hands, the peddle under his feet, and he'd felt at home. He remembers, just as clearly, looking to his dad in the passenger seat, then to Sam in the back, and thinking that one day it would be him and Sam out on the road.
And when his dad gave him the Impala on his eighteenth birthday, he remembers taking Sam out for a ride. They went through a drive thru and ate fries, driving out to nowhere in particular, laughing and singing off-key to Dean's cassettes. And Dean remembers thinking how right it felt.
Just him and Sam.
But not long after that Sam went missing, and a little while after that Sam came back different.
And now things would never be like they were supposed to.
Dean drives with the radio on low. He'd had it turned off for the first half hour but Sam had seemed fidgety, so Dean put the radio on, then he had to turn it down when Sam's fidgeting got worse. In between, with the volume down low, Sam seems as relaxed as he can be.
They don't talk. Of course they don't talk. Because Sam gave up talking four years ago.
Dean hates to admit that it's awkward. He wishes he could say something to fill the near-silence but he knows he'll get no response. He notices that Sam looks at him now and then. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye, keeps his focus on the road, pretends he doesn't see Sam looking.
He wonders if Sam wants to say something. If he wants to speak, why doesn't he? He wishes he could understand. He wishes it so badly. But there are things about Sam that he can't make sense of. A lot of things. He loves Sam so damn much… it just feels like if Dean gives him even the barest touch, it might send Sam shattering into a million pieces.
It's all his fault. And now Sam's coming with him to find Dad. He's putting himself in danger, again, and Dean is letting him. Maybe there are things about himself that he can't make sense of.
He spots a sign just before it flashes out of sight. He grins and turns to Sam. "You hungry?"
Sam nods slowly, hesitantly, like he doesn't really know the answer.
"There's a diner a couple of miles up ahead. We'll stop there for a bit," Dean says it like a question, trying to sound more patient than he really is. When he glances at Sam, Sam is looking out of the window, like he never heard Dean speak at all. It's more likely that he's just ignoring him. Sam does that to people sometimes when he doesn't feel like making an effort to communicate.
Dean sighs and looks back to the road.
The diner is identical to the thousands of others they've stopped at across the country. At this point in his life, Dean couldn't say how many diners he's eaten at, and he certainly couldn't tell you how many motels he's slept in.
There's a big luminous sign on top of the building that reads Elle's Diner. The words are pink and one of the E's has flickered out. The windows are wide and clean enough that he can see that the place is barely even a quarter full. It should be fine for Sam, who doesn't do well with big crowds.
Dean holds the door open for Sam, who's hands are busy being stuffed in his pockets, chattering away under the fabric of his coat like there's ice in there. The two of them have barely set one foot inside before a waitress in a short, pink uniform pops out of nowhere.
"Table for two?" she assumes. The sudden sound of her voice makes Sam jolt but the waitress doesn't seem to notice. She leads them over to a table in the centre without waiting for an answer from either of them. Dean stops her by clearing his throat.
"Do you mind if we sit in a corner?" he asks, lowering his voice so only the waitress can hear. The waitress, whose nametag reads Haylee, purses her lips. She seems a little irritated, but she quickly pastes on a bright smile and shows them to a booth in the corner.
Sammy is glancing around nervously and has removed his hands from his pockets, wringing them like he's trying to get them clean, so Dean quickly ushers him into his seat. Dean sits so he's facing out into the rest of the diner, keeping a lookout for anyone who might bother Sam.
And Sam. Sam is now tapping his twitchy hands against the table in a simple rhythm. Already, Dean is wondering if takeout might have been a better choice. He's pretty sure it would have been. But Dean doesn't always think things through…
"Would you like to order some drinks?" the waitress is back again, appearing out of nowhere like a rabbit out of a magician's hat. Sam doesn't jump this time, he's too busy retreating into his corner of the booth, shrinking down until his chin's almost under the table.
Haylee the waitress stares at Sam for a second, looking like whatever she's thinking isn't exactly polite. Dean clears his throat sharply and she turns her gaze on him.
"Just water. Thanks."
She nods and turns away, casting one last glance at Sam, who is now reappearing a little once she's out of sight. Dean grabs a menu from the stand and drops it in front of Sam.
"Whatever you want," Dean offers. Sam nods and looks down at the menu intently as if he'd rather melt into the pink, printed words than stay out here in the real world.
Dean leans back and scopes the area. A few truckers are sitting at the bar, a couple is in the middle of a dispute on the other side of the room, and two tables away is a family with about four kids under the age of ten. Not much to be wary about. Still, Dean feels for his Glock at the back of his belt, just to make sure it's there.
The waitress comes back again with water and asks for their orders. Dean takes his usual; a greasy double cheeseburger with everything on it. Sam asks for the vege-special by pointing to it on the menu, looking anywhere but at the waitress. When Haylee the waitress seems to notice something isn't quite right with Sam, her expression turns from irritation to pity. Dean isn't sure which is worse. She leaves and Sam lets out a long breath.
"You're doing good, Sammy," Dean says. The glare he gets from Sam tells him it mustn't have been the right thing to say. Too patronising. God. Dean sucks.
He's trying to think of a new thing to say when a small voice pipes up.
"What's wrong with your hair?" It's one of the kids from a couple of tables away. She's probably no taller than Dean's knee but she sure has a loud voice and everyone in the near vicinity, who is everyone in the diner, looks their way.
Sam turns his head and focuses on a crack in the wallpaper, probably trying to blend into his surroundings, which is hard when you're six foot two and constantly trembling like a snowstorm follows you around each and every day. The kid is still staring, waiting for an answer, but the mom comes hurrying over and grabs the girl's hand.
"I am so, so sorry," she gasps. She glances at Sam, pity making its way onto her face. "Is your friend alright?"
"He's fine," Dean says quickly.
The woman gives him an apologetic nod and moves to turn away but the girl digs her heels in.
"But, Mommy, that man has white hair! His hair's white at the front!" she exclaims. Sam curls in tighter on himself, clenching his eyes shut.
"Annabelle! Be quiet!" the mother hisses. She turns to Dean, "I am really sorry."
Dean shuffles forward in his seat, trying to block Sam out of sight. He's thinking about giving the brat a piece of his mind, but it's probably not such a good idea because the kid's only about three years old, and he doesn't think the mother would appreciate him yelling at her toddler.
He notices the wonder in her eyes and he realises. She isn't making fun of Sam, she doesn't think he's weird like most adults would. She thinks Sam is pretty damn cool.
Dean smiles a little. "You wanna know why his hair's white?" he asks the little girl. She nods enthusiastically.
"Well," Dean explains, "it's because he can control the weather. Ever heard of the X-men?"
The girl shakes her head.
"They're a group of superheroes," Dean tells her. "My brother here's a member. They call him Storm. You know how sunny the weather's been? That's because of Sam."
The girl gapes and looks over at Sam.
Dean presses his finger to his lips. "But don't tell anyone, okay? It's his day off from fighting super villains."
The girl nods seriously.
Meanwhile, Sam has uncurled himself from the corner a little and he's staring at Dean with much the same expression as the girl, part confused and part amazed. The woman is smiling softly as she manages to steer her daughter back over to their table.
Dean looks to Sam and smiles. Sam smiles back and Dean is so surprised he can't speak for a second. Irony, huh? Sam brings up his hand and presses the tips of his fingers to his chin then moves his hand away in a small motion. Sammy doesn't use sign language much, or at all, because he doesn't like to speak. But their dad had tried to get them all to learn some signs when it became clear Sam didn't plan on talking any time soon.
Thank you, Sam had said.
And Dean smiles even harder.
But still, Sam's hands are shaking like leaves in a busy storm, and Dean can't help but ask himself something he's been wondering for years.
What the hell happened to Sam?
Sam - Unknown, In The Dark
He was cold. So cold.
There was nothing but black. Everything was pitch black.
Something was hard beneath him. He reached out and felt nothing but air.
There wasn't enough air. He couldn't breathe. He was panting, panicking, losing air.
Help, he croaked. The sound of his voice travelled away into the dark and didn't come back. He called again and again until he couldn't anymore, sobbing too hard to get a word out.
He forced himself onto his hands and knees and crawled, feeling out for something, anything. Nothing but darkness.
He was suffocating in the Dark. He couldn't even see his own fingers in front of his face.
Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?
If there was a way in, there had to be a way out.
Something was glowing. There was light up ahead. Sam crawled faster. He didn't know how long he'd been moving but his body ached and his knees felt bruised. By the time he got to the light, it began to flicker. And he realised.
Ghosts.
Children. Just like the girl in the house. They were different ages. Some seemed as small as five, and some seemed only a little older than Sam himself. Their eyes turned to him, just as dark and empty as the blackness surrounding them.
Their faces were all fixed in terror, but it was more than that. They were all so miserably sad.
"What did this to you?" Sam asked, keeping his voice as low as he could. He received no answer.
He saw her. The same girl from the house. She came close, face-to-face. Sam felt the chill of her and shuddered.
"You were trying to warn me," Sam realised.
Her head titled ever so slightly in a nod. She reached out a white, faded hand as if to touch Sam, but she paused.
I am so sorry, boy, she said. Her voice echoed in his ears like a bell's ring.
The light of the spirits flickered and dimmed until it was almost pitch black again. The ghosts shrank away and hid in the shadow.
Something brushed Sam's shoulder. He tried to get away, clambering to his feet, but he tripped, landing on his back. He felt a weight press against him. He panted frantically, eyes darting around and seeing nothing.
He felt cold fingers touch his face and caress his hair. He closed his eyes.
Look at me, it said. Its voice was loud and quiet, close and far away, all at the same time. Sam clenched his eyes closed tighter.
Look at me.
He felt those fingers on his face again, tugging at his eyelids until they were open. Sam saw it again, clearer than he could see it in Dean's bedroom, despite the pitch-black-nothing they were encased in.
It almost looked human. Almost. Its skin was pale and hairless, sagging on its long limbs like an over-sized coat. The bones stuck out sharply under the thin stretch of flesh, jutting along its spine. But the face…
The face was blank and pale. Its mouth was a gash, lips like festering scabs, showing too-sharp teeth under a too-stretched smile. Its nostrils were like slits which puffed as it lowered its head and sniffed at his skin. And the eyes. There were no eyes. The skin stretched over sockets, and in the dim glow of the ghosts Sam almost thought he could see through them.
Sweet boy. Little boy, it crooned. What gift will you give me?
Sam struggled, but it gripped tight and he felt sharp points dig into his skin. He forced down a yelp of pain.
A boy with clever words won't speak? It said, chuckling its amusement. This boy speaks clever words, but now he won't speak at all. He only squeaks. You mustn't have use for your tongue anymore.
Then, Sam screamed as those long spindled fingers brushed down his face, traced over his chin. The creature laughed, cold and hard enough to chill his bones.
This will only hurt a little.
Dean, help me! Sam screamed. Please help me! DEAN!
The creature reached out its other hand and pressed it over his mouth, clamping it shut. The other hand stoked him, down to his neck. There was a moment of nothing where Sam panted and waited, then he felt the nails dig into his skin.
Sam felt a burning in his throat. He couldn't breathe under the scold of it. It hurt so much. There was a strain like a violin string being pulled, then he could feel the pluck of something snapping inside. His scream snapped in half along with it.
It was over quickly the thing crawled away, leaving nothing but darkness and a pain so deep he couldn't move. When Sam opened his mouth to cry, he couldn't make a sound.
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