Fear Not That Ye Have Died for Naught
Title: Fear Not That Ye Have Died for Naught
Summary: Fusion 'verse. Mrs. O'Keefe finds that she has more in common with her new neighbours than she thought.
Characters: Sam, OFC, brief appearances by Dean and Bobby
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,537
Disclaimer: I still maintain they would be better off with me. Alas, the CW disagrees and won't let me have them.
Warnings: mentions of suicide
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I haven't done an outsider POV for Fusion in a while, and I've been wanting to get into Mrs. O'Keefe's head for a really long time. So this is as much about her as it is about Sam and Dean.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Every time I worry that I might be getting near the end of this 'verse, three more ideas pop into my head. At this rate, I will be writing them for years. It's like the plot bunnies are really trying to live up to their names and reproducing like it's going out of style.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: The title is taken from a poem by Moina Michael called We Shall Keep the Faith, which was a response to the famous poem In Flanders' Fields by John McCrae.
Janet O'Keefe never does catch the exact moment when the Winchester boys move in next door. In fact, to her dying day it remains one of the great mysteries of her life. She has long since retired from her teaching job and spends most of the day at home, with not much better to do than to keep an eye on the goings-on on her street, and yet one day she finds herself looking out the window to find that they have already moved in. She's already met them, of course, when Ray Billings brought them out to visit the house, and she's glad that she's getting two reliable, steady young men as neighbours. A family would have been nice, of course, but she likes the look of Dean and his little brother Sam, even if they are a little odd. Odd is something this little town of hers does well, in any case.
She never sees them move in any furniture at first, although they must, since they do need a minimum to live with and the house didn't come furnished. The Johnstons did a fair job of cleaning it out from top to bottom when they moved their father to that nursing home. As far as Janet is concerned, she will be carried out of this house feet first or not at all, rather than go the way poor Bob Johnston did, victim to his rapacious family. All cousins from out of town, she thinks with a disapproving sniff as she dusts her windowsill and takes the opportunity to look through the window outside, just in case the boys are there and need help with anything.
She's soon rewarded with the sight of Sam -the younger brother- coming slowly down the front steps, broom in hand. It's been cold this year, but there's no snow on the ground even a week into December. While Janet generally likes the snow, she can recognize that it's probably a mercy for Sam that there isn't any covering the ground yet, because the front yard is a bit of a mess, still covered in leaves and small branches which haven't been cleared away in months with no one to take care of the yard. It would have been even worse come springtime, when the snow melted away, revealing the sodden mess beneath. She gives up her pretence at dusting to watch as Sam carefully sweeps the debris away from the path leading to the door, moving the broom methodically in counter-clockwise semi-circles, pushing the dirt and leaves into the street. Of course, the broom won't serve at all if he wants to get the lawn clear, she thinks, and that gives her her best idea of the day.
Sam is almost finished sweeping the path when she catches up to him, holding the rake she fetched from her shed in the back yard. He has his back turned, doesn't appear to have noticed her approach at all, so she clears her throat.
"Good morning. It's Sam, isn't it?"
He starts violently, dropping the broom with a clatter onto the path as he whirls to face her, his face white as a sheet, and she immediately feels a pang of guilt.
"I'm so sorry, dear. I didn't mean to scare you."
He bends to pick up the broom, and she can't help but note that his hands are shaking as though he has a palsy of some kind. "Sorry, sorry," he says quietly. "Jumpy. Dean says I am. That I'm jumpy. I'm trying not to be," he adds with a small smile.
"Don't worry about it. You would have given me a start if our positions had been reversed." Somehow she wants to take this boy and pet his hair and reassure him that everything is going to be fine. "I saw you sweeping and thought you must not have a rake yet, seeing that you only just moved in. Would you like to borrow mine?" she motions to the rake she brought, feeling only a little foolish.
He twists his hands on the broom handle, glances at the debris on the front lawn. "Um," he looks at her, back at the lawn, and drums his fingers on the broom handle. It's a simple enough question, but it appears to have thrown him for a loop. "Okay. I mean, yes. Yes, please. Is it okay?"
She laughs. "Of course it is! Otherwise I wouldn't have offered."
"Right," Sam ducks his head, cheeks reddening. "Sorry, I should have -I didn't. Um. Sorry."
"There's no need to apologize, sweetie." She holds out the rake, considering him. He reminds her a little of Greg, she thinks with a pang. Maybe a little less unhappy, but a lot more lost. "Is your brother home?"
"Dean?" He shakes his head. "No, Dean's not home. He's coming home -tomorrow. It's why I'm doing this. It has to be safe, you know. Safe so he can walk."
"Did he have his surgery, then?" Janet asks, and Sam nods. "Are you here all by yourself, Sam?"
He shrugs. "I'm waiting for Dean. I was with him before, but they said I couldn't stay, so I came here. It's only a couple of days. I'm okay. I'm just waiting for Dean to come home."
She bites her lip, not wanting to overstep her bounds, but there's obviously something wrong, here. "Have you eaten today?"
Sam blinks at her as though she's just spoken a foreign language. "What?"
"When's the last time you ate, sweetie?"
The question gives him pause, at least. "Um..."
"Sam, does Dean know you're here by yourself?"
He shakes his head. "He was in surgery. I was going to stay, Dean told me to stay, but they said I had to go. I'm okay, I'm just going to wait. Bobby said he'd drive us back after, so I'll just wait. I'm cleaning up," he adds, reminding her vividly of nothing so much a little boy eager to 'help' with the chores.
She tries very hard not to smile. This is serious, she reminds herself. She's spoken enough with both Sam and Dean already to know that Sam shouldn't be left on his own with no one at all to keep an eye out for him. "How long have you been on your own?"
"What?"
"How long has it been since you left Dean? Since you came home on your own?"
He looks up at the sky as though the answer might be written there, rubs the back of his left hand with his thumb. "Um, I don't -I don't know," he admits. "I lost track. I can't -everything kind of blurs, you know? I should…" he doesn't finish his sentence, catches his lower lip in his teeth, and for a moment she thinks he might be on the verge of tears.
"Oh, Sam… Okay, it's all right," she tries to sound soothing. "Why don't you come inside with me and have an early lunch? I've got soup on the stove, and I can make sandwiches."
"No," he shakes his head again. "Dean's coming back soon, I have to make sure things are ready."
"Right," Janet says, a bit at a loss. "Well, you can't do that on an empty stomach, can you? Take a break, and, um, I can help you after. You said that someone was supposed to drive you back with Dean?"
"Bobby," he confirms.
"Who's Bobby?"
"He's a friend. An old friend. We've known him since we were kids. He used to take care of us, and he looks out for Dean. He's a friend," Sam repeats. She's starting to get used to his slightly halting way of speaking, as though he's never entirely sure he's using the right words.
"All right. Why don't we give him a call, so that he'll know that you don't need a ride as well? He must be worried if he was expecting you to be at the hospital. Come on," she holds out her hand. "You can come with me, we'll use my phone. Do you know Bobby's number?"
"Yeah. Yes, I know his number. I, uh…" he looks at the broom in his hands as though he has no idea what to do with it anymore.
"Just lean that up against the house, sweetie. You can get it later. I'll leave the rake right next to it, see?"
She props the rake up, holds out her hand again, and after a moment's hesitation he stretches out his arm and takes it. His hand is enormous, twice the size hers is, and for the first time, standing this close to him and leading him toward her front door, she's keenly aware of just how much bigger he is than she. He gives his own house one last backward glance, but follows meekly enough, holding her hand as carefully as if he was cradling a bird's egg. His sweater is a shade too small for him, the sleeves a little short, and just under the edge of his sleeve she can make out what look like fairly fresh scars, pink and raised against the skin. She leads the way into the kitchen, motions him to a chair.
"Sit down, sweetie, and I'll get the phone. Would you like coffee?"
"Um…" He's visibly uncomfortable, is still rubbing the back of his left hand with his thumb, his whole posture stiff, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
Janet blows out a breath. "Okay. I'll pour you a cup, and if you want some it'll be there. I'll make you a sandwich. I only have ham and cheese, but it's all right if you decide you don't want it." It's obvious enough by now that even making simple decisions about coffee and sandwiches is beyond Sam, and she wonders just how his brother manages it all with his bad leg. "If you'd like, later on you can help me make a casserole, and that way you and your brother won't have to worry about dinner tomorrow when he gets back."
She wasn't really expecting an answer, and so isn't disappointed when she doesn't get one. She picks up the phone and places it gently in his hand. "I need you to dial your friend's number for me. Can you do that?"
"Sure. I know Bobby's number. It's the same as it's always been, so I remember. It doesn't change," he tells her with a small smile. "It's the same as before. Dean remembered it too, when he came back. Bobby never changed it."
She waits patiently while he fumbles with the phone, gently takes it away again as soon as she can hear it ringing, and he doesn't argue with her. After three rings, a man answers, his tone gruff. He's older than she thought he would be, somehow. "Singer."
For half a second Janet can't think of how to start. "Uh, yes, hello, is this Bobby?"
"Who's this?" the man asks, and she wonders exactly what it is that warrants the suspicious tone.
"Oh," she lets out a nervous laugh, flustered in spite of herself. "This is Janet O'Keefe. I live next door to Dean and Sam Winchester?"
"Right." He sounds less suspicious now, but still guarded, and he doesn't prompt her any further, leaving her no choice but to forge ahead anyway.
"Sam told me you were meant to drive him and his brother home from the hospital?"
"Wait," he interrupts. "Is Sam there with you?" There's no mistaking the urgency in his voice now. She was right to call, she thinks -they were obviously worried about him.
"Yes, he's here in my kitchen. He's fine," she hastens to add.
Bobby blows out a relieved sigh. "Thank God. It's Sam," he says, but it sounds as though he's moved the phone away from his mouth to speak to someone else in the same room. "Neighbour's got him, he's okay. How'd he get there?" he asks her.
"I have no idea, he was just outside when I looked. Is everything all right? He said that the hospital sent him home."
"Yeah, well, that ain't exactly it. The boy… he's havin' a hard time, and the staff here didn't really get that. It ain't their fault, they were looking after Dean -there were some complications with his surgery and they weren't exactly payin' attention to Sam. He tends to wander if his brother ain't lookin' out for him"
"Oh. Well, he seems to have come right back home, and he's none the worse for wear." There's a pause while Bobby is obviously trying to gather his thoughts, so she ventures to interrupt. "When were you supposed to bring them home?"
"Tomorrow. They can't release Dean before then, no matter how much he hollers about it," he says, and she gets the feeling that the words aren't really directed at her. "Just a second. Dean, boy, if I have to tell you to stay in that bed one more time, so help me -that's better. Sorry," he says into the phone again. "Look, I can't leave here, it don't make sense to drive out there and back here. You're sure Sam's okay?"
She doesn't know quite how to answer that with Sam sitting in the same room without being insulting. "Why don't I have him talk to you, and you can ask him yourself?" She hands the phone to Sam. "Your friend wants to talk to you, Sam."
Sam starts a bit, turns from where he was staring out of her kitchen window into the garden, takes the phone gingerly. "Bobby? Yeah… no, I'm okay. I'm okay, they said I should go… No, I don't -they said I wasn't supposed to stay… I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know Dean said to stay, but they said I couldn't and that I should go home… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I -Dean?" his face breaks into a smile at that. "You okay? No, I'm fine. I'm fine, they told me I wasn't allowed… I'm sorry… Dean, are you okay? Yeah, okay. Okay. Okay, yes." He looks up at Janet and grins. "He's okay," he tells her, and she gives him a thumb's up. "He wants to talk to you."
Janet takes the phone back. "Hello?"
It's Dean on the phone. She doesn't know why she's surprised that it's really him, except to think that perhaps she was under the impression that Sam was less coherent than he is. Dean sounds exhausted. "Hey, Mrs. O'Keefe, thanks for looking out for Sammy. You sure he's okay?"
"Nothing a sandwich and a bowl of soup won't cure, I'm sure of it. How are you, dear? Did your surgery go well?"
"Yeah, sure, no sweat. I'm going to kill whichever of these idiots told Sam he should go home, though," he says darkly, and she can't quite suppress a shiver, suddenly quite sure that he fully intends to carry out his threat. She hears Bobby say something she doesn't quite catch, and Dean clears his throat. "Right. Uh, look, Mrs. O'Keefe, I realize you don't really know us all that well, and I hate to ask, but… there's no way me or Bobby can get back before tomorrow afternoon at the latest, and-"
"Of course Sam can stay with me," Janet interrupts. "I have a guest room, it's no trouble at all."
"Uh, I was just going to ask that you make sure he got home okay, but if you're sure you don't mind…"
"Not at all. Sam, you don't mind staying with an old biddy like me? Keep me company until your brother gets back?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. I mean, yes. Yes, it's okay. I mean, I can stay. If it's okay with you and Dean."
"That settles it, then." She beams. It's been far too long since it's been anyone but her rattling around in this old house anyway. "You get some rest," she tells Dean. "We'll be here when you get back tomorrow."
Sam picks at the sandwich she makes for him afterward, sips gingerly at the coffee in his mug. His gaze keeps cutting away to the window that looks out onto the garden, but she's not sure what he's seeing there.
"You don't mind that your brother wants you to stay here, do you?" she asks after a moment, sitting at the table in front of him. In Sam's shoes, she might be upset that her brother didn't trust her to be left on her own even for one night, after all, but Sam just shrugs.
"No. I just… I wish things were different, sometimes. You won't tell Dean, right?" he asks, suddenly anxious.
"Not if you don't want me to, but why? There's nothing wrong with wishing." She thinks of Greg, of all the times she's wished things were different too.
"He'd be upset. It's -he thought I was dead, when I was gone," Sam explains, even though it doesn't explain much of anything. "And when I came back I messed everything up. I wanted -I want him to be happy."
"And you think he's not?"
"I don't know," Sam whispers miserably. "I should have left him alone, but I couldn't. I couldn't stay away when I came back. I shouldn't have come at all, you know? I just don't know how to be without him, and when he's not here I get lost. It all looks the same when he's not here, like it's not really there at all. Like he's the only thing that's real."
She's not sure what to say to that, but she's damned well going to try. "I don't think your brother wants you anywhere but with him."
Sam clasps his hands in his lap, fiddles with his fingers, and she catches another glimpse of the scars on his wrist. He has them on both arms, she notes -they look like they go further up his forearms, maybe all the way up to his shoulders, but it's hard to tell under his long-sleeved shirt. Finally she lets her curiosity get the better of her.
"Sam… you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but… where were you? Before you came back. You never said."
He flinches visibly. "I can't tell you."
"All right," she makes her voice softer, reaches out carefully and takes his hand, strokes his wrist with her thumb and her heart breaks a little when she feels how badly his hand his shaking. "You know, you're not the only one who's had trouble re-adjusting to home. Bad things happen to a lot of boys like you."
To her surprise, he lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah."
"Sam… were you a prisoner?"
He looks up, eyes bright. "I'm not supposed to-" he breaks off, looks back through the window at the bright autumn sky outside.
She clears her throat. "They took my boy prisoner too," she says quietly. "And he wouldn't tell me about it when he came back either. They did terrible things to my Greg, and all I ever saw were his scars and the way his eyes had changed when he came back. Did they do something to you?"
He shakes his head, but it's a refusal rather than a denial. "I -there was light, and screaming, and… I'm not -you can't know," he says finally.
She shouldn't say anything, but she can't bear the thought of a single other boy ending up like her Greg. "You don't have to tell me, but you should tell someone. You don't have to carry all this on your own, sweetie."
This time when he looks at her, his expression has changed. His eyes are clearer than before, sympathetic and a little calculating. "What happened to your boy, Mrs. O'Keefe?"
She should have expected the question, but it feels like a knife through the heart anyway. There was a funeral in the rain, a volley of gunfire that she still sometimes hears in her dreams, and a folded flag that she keeps in her top dresser drawer.
"He, uh -he passed away."
"I'm so sorry," he says, shifting so he can take her hand in his. "You shouldn't have had to suffer that. Did he do it himself?"
She doesn't trust herself to speak, so she just nods and swallows the lump in her throat. A moment later she catches her breath. "I hated to see him suffer. He was my baby, but he was a good man too, you know, even after the war. It couldn't change who he was inside, not really. I just don't want anyone to have to go through what he did alone."
Then, to her surprise, Sam gets up smoothly, though not so quickly as to startle her, and gathers her into a hug. "Thank you," he says, so quietly she can barely hear him, even this close up. "You're the only one who's ever asked."
She stays stock-still for a moment, hardly knowing how to react, then wraps her arms as far around him as they'll reach. "You're welcome, sweetie."
This entry was originally posted at http://ratherastory.dreamwidth.org/210734.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Summary: Fusion 'verse. Mrs. O'Keefe finds that she has more in common with her new neighbours than she thought.
Characters: Sam, OFC, brief appearances by Dean and Bobby
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3,537
Disclaimer: I still maintain they would be better off with me. Alas, the CW disagrees and won't let me have them.
Warnings: mentions of suicide
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I haven't done an outsider POV for Fusion in a while, and I've been wanting to get into Mrs. O'Keefe's head for a really long time. So this is as much about her as it is about Sam and Dean.
Neurotic Author's Note #2: Every time I worry that I might be getting near the end of this 'verse, three more ideas pop into my head. At this rate, I will be writing them for years. It's like the plot bunnies are really trying to live up to their names and reproducing like it's going out of style.
Neurotic Author's Note #3: The title is taken from a poem by Moina Michael called We Shall Keep the Faith, which was a response to the famous poem In Flanders' Fields by John McCrae.
Janet O'Keefe never does catch the exact moment when the Winchester boys move in next door. In fact, to her dying day it remains one of the great mysteries of her life. She has long since retired from her teaching job and spends most of the day at home, with not much better to do than to keep an eye on the goings-on on her street, and yet one day she finds herself looking out the window to find that they have already moved in. She's already met them, of course, when Ray Billings brought them out to visit the house, and she's glad that she's getting two reliable, steady young men as neighbours. A family would have been nice, of course, but she likes the look of Dean and his little brother Sam, even if they are a little odd. Odd is something this little town of hers does well, in any case.
She never sees them move in any furniture at first, although they must, since they do need a minimum to live with and the house didn't come furnished. The Johnstons did a fair job of cleaning it out from top to bottom when they moved their father to that nursing home. As far as Janet is concerned, she will be carried out of this house feet first or not at all, rather than go the way poor Bob Johnston did, victim to his rapacious family. All cousins from out of town, she thinks with a disapproving sniff as she dusts her windowsill and takes the opportunity to look through the window outside, just in case the boys are there and need help with anything.
She's soon rewarded with the sight of Sam -the younger brother- coming slowly down the front steps, broom in hand. It's been cold this year, but there's no snow on the ground even a week into December. While Janet generally likes the snow, she can recognize that it's probably a mercy for Sam that there isn't any covering the ground yet, because the front yard is a bit of a mess, still covered in leaves and small branches which haven't been cleared away in months with no one to take care of the yard. It would have been even worse come springtime, when the snow melted away, revealing the sodden mess beneath. She gives up her pretence at dusting to watch as Sam carefully sweeps the debris away from the path leading to the door, moving the broom methodically in counter-clockwise semi-circles, pushing the dirt and leaves into the street. Of course, the broom won't serve at all if he wants to get the lawn clear, she thinks, and that gives her her best idea of the day.
Sam is almost finished sweeping the path when she catches up to him, holding the rake she fetched from her shed in the back yard. He has his back turned, doesn't appear to have noticed her approach at all, so she clears her throat.
"Good morning. It's Sam, isn't it?"
He starts violently, dropping the broom with a clatter onto the path as he whirls to face her, his face white as a sheet, and she immediately feels a pang of guilt.
"I'm so sorry, dear. I didn't mean to scare you."
He bends to pick up the broom, and she can't help but note that his hands are shaking as though he has a palsy of some kind. "Sorry, sorry," he says quietly. "Jumpy. Dean says I am. That I'm jumpy. I'm trying not to be," he adds with a small smile.
"Don't worry about it. You would have given me a start if our positions had been reversed." Somehow she wants to take this boy and pet his hair and reassure him that everything is going to be fine. "I saw you sweeping and thought you must not have a rake yet, seeing that you only just moved in. Would you like to borrow mine?" she motions to the rake she brought, feeling only a little foolish.
He twists his hands on the broom handle, glances at the debris on the front lawn. "Um," he looks at her, back at the lawn, and drums his fingers on the broom handle. It's a simple enough question, but it appears to have thrown him for a loop. "Okay. I mean, yes. Yes, please. Is it okay?"
She laughs. "Of course it is! Otherwise I wouldn't have offered."
"Right," Sam ducks his head, cheeks reddening. "Sorry, I should have -I didn't. Um. Sorry."
"There's no need to apologize, sweetie." She holds out the rake, considering him. He reminds her a little of Greg, she thinks with a pang. Maybe a little less unhappy, but a lot more lost. "Is your brother home?"
"Dean?" He shakes his head. "No, Dean's not home. He's coming home -tomorrow. It's why I'm doing this. It has to be safe, you know. Safe so he can walk."
"Did he have his surgery, then?" Janet asks, and Sam nods. "Are you here all by yourself, Sam?"
He shrugs. "I'm waiting for Dean. I was with him before, but they said I couldn't stay, so I came here. It's only a couple of days. I'm okay. I'm just waiting for Dean to come home."
She bites her lip, not wanting to overstep her bounds, but there's obviously something wrong, here. "Have you eaten today?"
Sam blinks at her as though she's just spoken a foreign language. "What?"
"When's the last time you ate, sweetie?"
The question gives him pause, at least. "Um..."
"Sam, does Dean know you're here by yourself?"
He shakes his head. "He was in surgery. I was going to stay, Dean told me to stay, but they said I had to go. I'm okay, I'm just going to wait. Bobby said he'd drive us back after, so I'll just wait. I'm cleaning up," he adds, reminding her vividly of nothing so much a little boy eager to 'help' with the chores.
She tries very hard not to smile. This is serious, she reminds herself. She's spoken enough with both Sam and Dean already to know that Sam shouldn't be left on his own with no one at all to keep an eye out for him. "How long have you been on your own?"
"What?"
"How long has it been since you left Dean? Since you came home on your own?"
He looks up at the sky as though the answer might be written there, rubs the back of his left hand with his thumb. "Um, I don't -I don't know," he admits. "I lost track. I can't -everything kind of blurs, you know? I should…" he doesn't finish his sentence, catches his lower lip in his teeth, and for a moment she thinks he might be on the verge of tears.
"Oh, Sam… Okay, it's all right," she tries to sound soothing. "Why don't you come inside with me and have an early lunch? I've got soup on the stove, and I can make sandwiches."
"No," he shakes his head again. "Dean's coming back soon, I have to make sure things are ready."
"Right," Janet says, a bit at a loss. "Well, you can't do that on an empty stomach, can you? Take a break, and, um, I can help you after. You said that someone was supposed to drive you back with Dean?"
"Bobby," he confirms.
"Who's Bobby?"
"He's a friend. An old friend. We've known him since we were kids. He used to take care of us, and he looks out for Dean. He's a friend," Sam repeats. She's starting to get used to his slightly halting way of speaking, as though he's never entirely sure he's using the right words.
"All right. Why don't we give him a call, so that he'll know that you don't need a ride as well? He must be worried if he was expecting you to be at the hospital. Come on," she holds out her hand. "You can come with me, we'll use my phone. Do you know Bobby's number?"
"Yeah. Yes, I know his number. I, uh…" he looks at the broom in his hands as though he has no idea what to do with it anymore.
"Just lean that up against the house, sweetie. You can get it later. I'll leave the rake right next to it, see?"
She props the rake up, holds out her hand again, and after a moment's hesitation he stretches out his arm and takes it. His hand is enormous, twice the size hers is, and for the first time, standing this close to him and leading him toward her front door, she's keenly aware of just how much bigger he is than she. He gives his own house one last backward glance, but follows meekly enough, holding her hand as carefully as if he was cradling a bird's egg. His sweater is a shade too small for him, the sleeves a little short, and just under the edge of his sleeve she can make out what look like fairly fresh scars, pink and raised against the skin. She leads the way into the kitchen, motions him to a chair.
"Sit down, sweetie, and I'll get the phone. Would you like coffee?"
"Um…" He's visibly uncomfortable, is still rubbing the back of his left hand with his thumb, his whole posture stiff, as though he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.
Janet blows out a breath. "Okay. I'll pour you a cup, and if you want some it'll be there. I'll make you a sandwich. I only have ham and cheese, but it's all right if you decide you don't want it." It's obvious enough by now that even making simple decisions about coffee and sandwiches is beyond Sam, and she wonders just how his brother manages it all with his bad leg. "If you'd like, later on you can help me make a casserole, and that way you and your brother won't have to worry about dinner tomorrow when he gets back."
She wasn't really expecting an answer, and so isn't disappointed when she doesn't get one. She picks up the phone and places it gently in his hand. "I need you to dial your friend's number for me. Can you do that?"
"Sure. I know Bobby's number. It's the same as it's always been, so I remember. It doesn't change," he tells her with a small smile. "It's the same as before. Dean remembered it too, when he came back. Bobby never changed it."
She waits patiently while he fumbles with the phone, gently takes it away again as soon as she can hear it ringing, and he doesn't argue with her. After three rings, a man answers, his tone gruff. He's older than she thought he would be, somehow. "Singer."
For half a second Janet can't think of how to start. "Uh, yes, hello, is this Bobby?"
"Who's this?" the man asks, and she wonders exactly what it is that warrants the suspicious tone.
"Oh," she lets out a nervous laugh, flustered in spite of herself. "This is Janet O'Keefe. I live next door to Dean and Sam Winchester?"
"Right." He sounds less suspicious now, but still guarded, and he doesn't prompt her any further, leaving her no choice but to forge ahead anyway.
"Sam told me you were meant to drive him and his brother home from the hospital?"
"Wait," he interrupts. "Is Sam there with you?" There's no mistaking the urgency in his voice now. She was right to call, she thinks -they were obviously worried about him.
"Yes, he's here in my kitchen. He's fine," she hastens to add.
Bobby blows out a relieved sigh. "Thank God. It's Sam," he says, but it sounds as though he's moved the phone away from his mouth to speak to someone else in the same room. "Neighbour's got him, he's okay. How'd he get there?" he asks her.
"I have no idea, he was just outside when I looked. Is everything all right? He said that the hospital sent him home."
"Yeah, well, that ain't exactly it. The boy… he's havin' a hard time, and the staff here didn't really get that. It ain't their fault, they were looking after Dean -there were some complications with his surgery and they weren't exactly payin' attention to Sam. He tends to wander if his brother ain't lookin' out for him"
"Oh. Well, he seems to have come right back home, and he's none the worse for wear." There's a pause while Bobby is obviously trying to gather his thoughts, so she ventures to interrupt. "When were you supposed to bring them home?"
"Tomorrow. They can't release Dean before then, no matter how much he hollers about it," he says, and she gets the feeling that the words aren't really directed at her. "Just a second. Dean, boy, if I have to tell you to stay in that bed one more time, so help me -that's better. Sorry," he says into the phone again. "Look, I can't leave here, it don't make sense to drive out there and back here. You're sure Sam's okay?"
She doesn't know quite how to answer that with Sam sitting in the same room without being insulting. "Why don't I have him talk to you, and you can ask him yourself?" She hands the phone to Sam. "Your friend wants to talk to you, Sam."
Sam starts a bit, turns from where he was staring out of her kitchen window into the garden, takes the phone gingerly. "Bobby? Yeah… no, I'm okay. I'm okay, they said I should go… No, I don't -they said I wasn't supposed to stay… I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know Dean said to stay, but they said I couldn't and that I should go home… I'm sorry… I'm sorry, I -Dean?" his face breaks into a smile at that. "You okay? No, I'm fine. I'm fine, they told me I wasn't allowed… I'm sorry… Dean, are you okay? Yeah, okay. Okay. Okay, yes." He looks up at Janet and grins. "He's okay," he tells her, and she gives him a thumb's up. "He wants to talk to you."
Janet takes the phone back. "Hello?"
It's Dean on the phone. She doesn't know why she's surprised that it's really him, except to think that perhaps she was under the impression that Sam was less coherent than he is. Dean sounds exhausted. "Hey, Mrs. O'Keefe, thanks for looking out for Sammy. You sure he's okay?"
"Nothing a sandwich and a bowl of soup won't cure, I'm sure of it. How are you, dear? Did your surgery go well?"
"Yeah, sure, no sweat. I'm going to kill whichever of these idiots told Sam he should go home, though," he says darkly, and she can't quite suppress a shiver, suddenly quite sure that he fully intends to carry out his threat. She hears Bobby say something she doesn't quite catch, and Dean clears his throat. "Right. Uh, look, Mrs. O'Keefe, I realize you don't really know us all that well, and I hate to ask, but… there's no way me or Bobby can get back before tomorrow afternoon at the latest, and-"
"Of course Sam can stay with me," Janet interrupts. "I have a guest room, it's no trouble at all."
"Uh, I was just going to ask that you make sure he got home okay, but if you're sure you don't mind…"
"Not at all. Sam, you don't mind staying with an old biddy like me? Keep me company until your brother gets back?"
Sam shakes his head. "No. I mean, yes. Yes, it's okay. I mean, I can stay. If it's okay with you and Dean."
"That settles it, then." She beams. It's been far too long since it's been anyone but her rattling around in this old house anyway. "You get some rest," she tells Dean. "We'll be here when you get back tomorrow."
Sam picks at the sandwich she makes for him afterward, sips gingerly at the coffee in his mug. His gaze keeps cutting away to the window that looks out onto the garden, but she's not sure what he's seeing there.
"You don't mind that your brother wants you to stay here, do you?" she asks after a moment, sitting at the table in front of him. In Sam's shoes, she might be upset that her brother didn't trust her to be left on her own even for one night, after all, but Sam just shrugs.
"No. I just… I wish things were different, sometimes. You won't tell Dean, right?" he asks, suddenly anxious.
"Not if you don't want me to, but why? There's nothing wrong with wishing." She thinks of Greg, of all the times she's wished things were different too.
"He'd be upset. It's -he thought I was dead, when I was gone," Sam explains, even though it doesn't explain much of anything. "And when I came back I messed everything up. I wanted -I want him to be happy."
"And you think he's not?"
"I don't know," Sam whispers miserably. "I should have left him alone, but I couldn't. I couldn't stay away when I came back. I shouldn't have come at all, you know? I just don't know how to be without him, and when he's not here I get lost. It all looks the same when he's not here, like it's not really there at all. Like he's the only thing that's real."
She's not sure what to say to that, but she's damned well going to try. "I don't think your brother wants you anywhere but with him."
Sam clasps his hands in his lap, fiddles with his fingers, and she catches another glimpse of the scars on his wrist. He has them on both arms, she notes -they look like they go further up his forearms, maybe all the way up to his shoulders, but it's hard to tell under his long-sleeved shirt. Finally she lets her curiosity get the better of her.
"Sam… you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but… where were you? Before you came back. You never said."
He flinches visibly. "I can't tell you."
"All right," she makes her voice softer, reaches out carefully and takes his hand, strokes his wrist with her thumb and her heart breaks a little when she feels how badly his hand his shaking. "You know, you're not the only one who's had trouble re-adjusting to home. Bad things happen to a lot of boys like you."
To her surprise, he lets out a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah."
"Sam… were you a prisoner?"
He looks up, eyes bright. "I'm not supposed to-" he breaks off, looks back through the window at the bright autumn sky outside.
She clears her throat. "They took my boy prisoner too," she says quietly. "And he wouldn't tell me about it when he came back either. They did terrible things to my Greg, and all I ever saw were his scars and the way his eyes had changed when he came back. Did they do something to you?"
He shakes his head, but it's a refusal rather than a denial. "I -there was light, and screaming, and… I'm not -you can't know," he says finally.
She shouldn't say anything, but she can't bear the thought of a single other boy ending up like her Greg. "You don't have to tell me, but you should tell someone. You don't have to carry all this on your own, sweetie."
This time when he looks at her, his expression has changed. His eyes are clearer than before, sympathetic and a little calculating. "What happened to your boy, Mrs. O'Keefe?"
She should have expected the question, but it feels like a knife through the heart anyway. There was a funeral in the rain, a volley of gunfire that she still sometimes hears in her dreams, and a folded flag that she keeps in her top dresser drawer.
"He, uh -he passed away."
"I'm so sorry," he says, shifting so he can take her hand in his. "You shouldn't have had to suffer that. Did he do it himself?"
She doesn't trust herself to speak, so she just nods and swallows the lump in her throat. A moment later she catches her breath. "I hated to see him suffer. He was my baby, but he was a good man too, you know, even after the war. It couldn't change who he was inside, not really. I just don't want anyone to have to go through what he did alone."
Then, to her surprise, Sam gets up smoothly, though not so quickly as to startle her, and gathers her into a hug. "Thank you," he says, so quietly she can barely hear him, even this close up. "You're the only one who's ever asked."
She stays stock-still for a moment, hardly knowing how to react, then wraps her arms as far around him as they'll reach. "You're welcome, sweetie."
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