The Glass Vial | Chapter Five
Chapter Five: Wandering
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Sometimes, Sam gets these episodes of complete, jarring, disconnect between mind and body. He won’t be hallucinating, not exactly, but he spaces out and finds himself confused and often having wandered away from home. He’s not sure why it happens, or where he thinks he’s walking to, but it’s happened enough times for him to have to always wear the ID bracelet with his name on per Dean’s request, as well as Dean’s name and work and mobile numbers, in case he ever wanders off and somebody finds him.
He knows he’s not the same Sam as before, remembers and knows the before-Sam wouldn’t need to do something like that, to wear something like a dog tag, but he also knows it’s something important to Dean, and so it must be important for him, too.
He knows before-Sam wouldn’t be banned from the drawers under Dean’s bed where the weapons and tools are stored, would be allowed home alone, and would be able to drive. It’s okay though, Sam is sure it’s okay, because he’s not there anymore and he’s happy.
But, unfortunately, the subconscious wandering tends to be an increasingly common thing. Dean gets worried when he does it, and he really tries not to, but sometimes he just slips up. Sometimes his mind just takes a break and his body takes over. It takes Sam a few moments to realize that somebody is talking to him. He tries not to flinch or jump back, but his expression must change, because the small, ginger boy who’s tapping his arm moves back, eyes wide.
“Are you okay, mister?” he asks, and Sam looks down at him, and frowns. He looks around and sees he’s standing on a path in-between a row of trees. He thinks he might be near the woods, and there’s an old woman walking towards them with a frown on her face.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Sam says.
“Timmy!” The woman shouts, and Sam flinches, can’t help it. He knows it annoys Dean when he does that, but he still gets jumpy over tiny things, and at the moment he doesn’t feel very steady.
The woman looks angry but as she walks over her expression softens, and Sam wonders what she must see in him for her to stop being worried about the tall, scary man with her grandson or nephew, and instead look at him like he’s a lost child.
“Are you okay, there?” she asks in a hesitant voice, Timmy standing beside her. He knows the answer to that question, he does, he’s okay, but he finds himself standing there, staring about, finding it difficult to keep eye contact.
When she speaks again, she’s a little kinder and a lot more confident. “What’s your name?”
“Sam,” he says. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, or how far away from Dean he is, but Dean is gonna be angry. He tries not to think about that as he listens to the old woman talk.
“I’m Marge. This is my grandson, Timmy.”
Sam looks towards them, makes eye contact with her and smiles, and he can see her relax a little bit, the worry going out of her eyes. Sam doesn’t want to scare her, and so takes a small step backwards, but the worry comes back in her eyes when he does that and Sam wonders what he should be doing differently. He’s not used to dealing with people who aren’t Dean or Bobby.
“Hey, it’s okay, Sam,” she says. “Are you lost?”
“I wandered. Didn’t mean to.”
She nods at him and smiles sweetly. “Do you want us to walk you back? Where do you live? Me and Timmy were just on a walk in the woods and we were heading back to town. Is that where you live?”
“Um,” Sam starts, and moves a piece of hair out of his eyes. His left hand goes to the bracelet on his right wrist and he toys with it, unsure how to answer. He knows all of the answers to those questions, it’s not that, it’s just sometimes hard to get them all straightened out in his head.
She laughs lightly, but it isn’t mean, and there’s still warmth in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam, I do like to ramble on. Do you live in town?”
“With my brother. Dean.” He looks down at the bracelet that he’s still tugging at and Marge follows his gaze. She takes a step forward and looks up at him, and Timmy stays standing still, awkwardly watching them.
“Can I take a look, Sam?”
Sam nods and she slowly takes hold of his wrist, that looks huge in her tiny hands. She twists the bracelet around and reads it before smiling up at him again.
“I’ll call Dean for you, okay?”
Sam feels a rush of worry pour out of him. “Thanks,” he says, and smiles. She returns it and opens her red handbag, and roots through it, before giving a small mobile to Timmy.
“Don’t know how to use these things, so you punch those numbers in and press call, okay, Timmy?”
“Sure, Gran,” he says. He looks hesitantly up at Sam before walking forward and looking at the bracelet. Sam holds it up and Timmy calls Dean, before holding it back to Marge.
Sam stands there feeling self-conscious, and Dean’s mobile answers on the first ring if Marge’s face is anything to go by.
“No,” she says, smiling at him. “But I’ve got him right here. He’s fine, just outside of town, by Bierbrook Woods. I can walk him back for you-- No, of course. Of course not, that’s no trouble. We’ll be at the end of the road. I promise you, he’s fine.”
She gives him a look that Sam thinks means she understands what big brothers are like, that Dean’s worrying too much, and Sam smiles a little.
“You can hear for yourself if you like,” she says, handing the phone towards him. Sam takes it and puts it to his ear.
“Dean,” he says, and hears Dean let out a breath of relief at the other end of the phone.
“Are you okay, Sammy? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” he says, gripping the phone tight. “Sorry, Dean.”
Dean makes an agitated sigh, as if he’s about to tell Sam off, but then he just sighs, and Sam can hear the sound of keys and a door shutting in the background. “No, Sam. Don’t apologize. I should have been looking out for you. I’m coming to get you, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam says quietly, wanting to say more, wanting to yell at Dean and tell him it’s not his fault, that it’s not anyone’s fault. Dean hangs up and he awkwardly hands the phone back to Marge, who takes it gently from his hand.
“Come on, then,” she says, slipping the phone back into her bag. “Let’s walk to the end of the road and wait there until your brother turns up, okay?”
Sam nods and walks beside her down the path, keeping a slow pace, his legs almost double the length of hers. Timmy stays quiet, watching him with wide eyes, and Sam gives him a short smile, before turning back around and watching his feet as he walks.
They stop by a postbox and Marge makes small-talk with him for about ten minutes until he hears the engine of the Impala, and he snaps his head up, breathing out in relief when he sees it roll up beside them. Dean gets out and walks over, tension in his movements.
“Thanks,” he says, breathless, like he ran here instead of drove. “I owe you, really. Thank you. Come on, Sammy.”
Sam walks over to the passenger’s side and slips in, giving a small wave to Marge and Timmy before he does, and Dean says thanks again.
“No trouble,” Marge says, waving back, and Dean gets into the car with a swift nod. They drive off and Sam relaxes back into the seat, finding comfort in the low rumble of the car. Dean’s hands are tense on the steering wheel, knuckles white.
They drive in silence for five minutes, until Dean says, “You alright, Sam?”
“Fine, Dean,” he answers, truthfully. “I’m sorry, though. Didn’t want you to worry.”
Dean looks over at him, assesses him, and then gives a small smile. “What, your gigantor legs decide to take a walk and not tell you?”
Sam smiles back. “Something like that.” After a pause, he says again, “Sorry.”
“Dude, what I have I said about that?”
Sam shrugs and looks out of the window, watches as the scenery flies by. “Not to say it.” In a quieter voice, he says, “Not my fault.”
“Exactly.”
Sam lets his eyes shut and feels himself sink into the vibrations of the car, feeling safe, like home.
“Hey, Sam?” Dean says softly, a few minutes later, from the driver’s side. “Want me to drive around a little bit? Let you get some rest.”
“Okay,” Sam says, slumping down.
Dean turns on a soft rock station, turns it down quiet, and keeps driving. Sam slips into an easy sleep, and knows he’s safe.
***
Dean heads into town the next morning to get a newspaper and look for any job vacancies. Sam’s with Bobby, helping him translate some new books, and Dean had some time to get the money situation dealt with.
They’ve been settling into the new apartment for nearly three weeks now, and although the rent has been payed for the month, his hustling money is dwindling down. Sam has a thing about the heating being on in the house, and if Dean doesn’t get a small income coming in soon then they’re fucked.
He doesn’t care what the job is, as long as he gets the money for rent, bills and food and can have a flexible enough schedule for Sam. He tries shops closest to their apartment, and first tries a small bookstore, but they’re not looking for any more employees. He could have gotten discounts for Sam, but it’s not a big deal, so he carries on down the street.
He looks towards a gun shop, but feels uncomfortable at the idea, in case Sam ever left to come meet him at work. He’s still got his weapons, and a gun beneath his bed and a knife beneath his pillow, but they’ve been trying to separate themselves from the hunting life as much as possible. His eyes linger on the window but he walks past, eyes scanning other stores for vacancy signs.
He gets to the end of the road when he sees a music store, which looks independent and rundown, but has a sort of charm to it. He walks through the door, a bell chiming above his head, and walks in to see it looks larger on the inside than he had first thought. It’s two floors, separated by a set of wooden stairs that are to the left of the main floor, and the cashier desk is to the right. He walks towards it to sees a bored-looking man behind the counter, flicking through a magazine. He puts on his most charming smile and stands in front of him.
“Hi,” he says, and the man looks up at him with disinterest.
“Can I help you?” he asks, pushing the magazine to the side and straightening up.
“I was wondering if you’re looking for staff, and have any vacancies.”
Dean catches the look of surprise in his eyes but it’s gone as soon as it was there, and he gives a small shrug. “I’ll have to ask for you, if you wait here a sec.”
“Sure,” Dean says, watching as he disappears through a door in the back. He glances around at the shelves, notes the metal section and classic rock, and can already see some of his favorites sitting on the shelves.
“Hello!” a voice says, and Dean turns back to see a man who looks a little older than him walk through a door behind the desk, with a grin on his face. He’s got thick, black-rimmed glasses and a scarf around his neck, and his blond hair is curly and wild around his head. “I’m Walt, the owner. You’re interested in a job?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows at him. “Have you got any vacancies?”
“Maybe, maybe,” the man says, glancing around the store as if the answer would somehow appear there. “Have you got experience--”
“Dean Winchester,” he offers.
“Dean, then. Have you got any experience in retail?”
“Not exactly,” he says. He’s good at lying about anything personal, professional at it even, but they’re hopefully going to be sticking around awhile, and the more lies there are, the harder it is to keep up with them. “I’ve just got here with my brother, and we’re new in town. I’ve never worked in retail.”
“What experience do you have?” he asks.
“Nothing... conventional,” he says and Walter looks suspiciously at him.
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, I, uh...” Dean tries to think of something he’s done that’s related to selling CDs, and nothing comes to mind. “I can field-strip a .45 in 20 seconds?”
His eyes widen and Dean snaps his mouth shut.
“Uh, shit, I didn’t...” He trails off and rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
The man frowns at him, and in a quiet voice, as if he were being conspiratorial, he asks, “Ex-army?”
“Something like that,” Dean says, and it seems to satisfy the main who nods at him, serious, as if they’re now on the same page.
“I understand. I won’t speak a word of it.”
“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, staring at the strange little man, trying to get an angle on him. “Listen, though, before you even consider me. My brother, he’s not... Sometimes there might be emergencies, where I need to leave. I sort of look after the guy, and he’s having trouble adjusting. I just need something flexible.”
“Say no more,” he says, holding up a hand. “We can sort out specifics at a later date. But tell me, Dean, do you like music?”
“Well, yeah,” he says.
“Great!” he says, and slaps him on the shoulder over the counter. “Welcome aboard!”
Dean walks out of the store in a daze, and heads back to the apartment feeling confident that they’re going to be able to work this out.
***
All his life Dean has been pro at looking after Sam and knowing what he wants, and now he’s pretty adept at keeping Sam lucid and snapping him out of whatever hell hallucination he’s in. A few weeks ago, Mr Jacobs, one of the neighbors, had come knocking and handed him some leaflets that he said had been helpful when their son had come back from the war. Dean had taken the leaflets, uncomfortably thanked him, and shut the door without inviting him inside. For the first few days he’d avoided them, leaving them on the kitchen side. But once he’d actually had the chance to read through them a little bit, they had sort of been helpful.
When he walks into the living room, and finds Sam sitting on the couch, subconsciously scratching at his bare forearms and muttering about hellhounds, he thinks back to one leaflet in particular about dealing with flashbacks, and steadies himself. He walks towards the television and turns it off, and shuts the window so the noises from outside are dulled, so he’s removed as many distractions as possible.
He kneels down in front of him and taps him on the knee. “Sammy? Hey, look at me, man.”
Keep calm. Don’t startle the person. Simple commands. Reassurance.
Sam’s eyes snap to him and the muttering stops, but Dean isn’t sure he’s actually seeing him yet. “It’s Dean, Sam. You with me?”
Sam gives a slow nod and slowly lets out a breath. “I’m okay,” he says, and Dean gives a short smile.
“I know you are, man.”
“Sorry,” he says, sounding breathless.
“Hey, no. You don’t apologize. You know that.”
Sam nods at him, blinking more now and Dean can tell when he’s finally back, eyes locking on Dean.
Sometimes there are things that trigger the episodes, and sometimes there aren’t.
“Bad day?” Dean asks, getting up and walking over towards the kitchenette.
“Bad day,” Sam confirms. Dean makes Sam his mug of warm milk, and keeps a running commentary going about his first days at his new job. Sam provides a response when it’s needed but otherwise stays quiet.
Dean doesn’t like to pressure him into doing anything, and concentrates on making dinner. Once they’re sat down in front of the television, plates of food on their laps, Dean tries to push down the anxiety he always gets when talking about this sort of shit and steadies himself.
“So, how were you today? You know, by yourself?”
Dean’s been taking short four hour shifts, just to start with, but Sam has been left alone during them, and the seconds tend to tick by torturously slow.
“Okay,” Sam says quietly, eyes not leaving the television. “I can look after myself, you know. I’m not a child.”
“I know,” Dean says, feeling defensive now. “I just wanted to know if it was okay. If you didn’t, you know, feel lonely or shit.”
Sam’s quiet, and neither of them say anything for the next few minutes. When Dean can’t take it any longer, he says, “I don’t want to go to work and you hurt yourself, okay? I mean man, cut me some slack, I’m your older brother. If I don’t look after you, what am I supposed to do?”
Sam looks over then and there’s something fierce in his eyes. “Look after yourself?”
“I’m fine, Sam,” Dean says softly. “I’m just worried about you, dude.”
Dean watches as all of the fight leaves him and he slumps back against the couch. “It was a bit rough,” he finally admits, and Dean strains to hear him over the TV. “It’s just easier when there’s someone to talk to.”
Dean’s half relieved to hear that Sam’s actually telling him, and half anxious as he runs through what he can do, how he can get enough money but watch out for him at the same time. Finally, he says, “Bobby. He can come up tomorrow, and you two can play cards and shit. Do more translations. Just for a day, and then we can sort something else out.”
“Sure,” Sam says, and puts his half-eaten dinner on the small coffee table in front of them. “But when I’m better we’ve got to repay him for everything, okay? He’s. He’s done a lot.”
“We will, Sammy,” Dean says, relaxing now that Sam’s agreed to it. “We’ll get him a case of Jack and a lady.”
Sam snorts and looks over at him, smiling. “A lady? You want to hook Bobby up with someone?”
“I’m telling you, there’s this crazy Spanish cat-lady across the hall who would be great for him.” He sticks a chip in his mouth, and says, “And she wouldn’t put up with any of his shit either.”
Sam laughs then, and it’s a bright, carefree sound that makes Dean feel accomplished at something, like, along with the mysterious glass vials that keep turning up in their mailbox, he’s managing to help him heal.
The rest of the evening is spent talking in an easy way, Sam asking about working at the music store and Dean telling him about Walt, and the groups of teenage girls that come in clusters and giggle at him from behind the pop section. Sam appears more happy and like the old Sam than Dean’s seen him in months, and Dean sleeps easy that night, content in the decision that leaving the old life was right.
***
Dean wakes at seven the next morning for a six-hour shift from half eight, and answers the door to Bobby at eight while he’s slipping his boots on.
“Cheers for this, Bobby,” Dean says quietly, as he grabs his jacket. “It’s only temporary, until I can figure this out. It’s just Sam keeps wandering lately, and--”
“You shut your trap, boy,” he says, pushing Dean towards door and into the hallway. “Me n’ Sam are gonna be fine. And don’t treat this as a favor because it isn’t. You boys are family.”
Dean stops just outside the door and swallows down the gratitude that’s making his throat constrict. “Thanks, Bobby.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Medicine is on the kitchen side, he hasn’t taken it yet,” he says, and Bobby nods at him. “See you, Sam,” he shouts back into the apartment, and Bobby shuts the door behind him as he walks down the corridor and heads to work.
***
With each day that passes, Sam feels more like himself again. It’s like he’s slipping into an old shell but learning to fill the space again, and everything stops feeling so overwhelming. He can do things now, and Bobby decides that they should go for a walk after lunch.
Outside the safety of the apartment Sam’s comfort level goes down a few notches, but the town isn’t busy, and Bobby walks beside him the entire way. They pick up a fresh loaf of bread from the bakery, and then turn back. It’s only a short journey, but it’s baby steps, and it’s enough to make Sam feel proud of the progress he’s making.
Dean gets in at three in the afternoon and Bobby leaves soon after, telling them there’s a case a few hundred miles away that he needs to do some research for. Dean looks tired when he gets in, and collapses on the couch with a beer in hand, and puts his feet up on the coffee table.
Sam makes him a bowl of instant noodles and Dean smiles up at him with his shit-eating grin, the one that girls and guys alike swoon for, and Sam rolls his eyes.
“You’re awesome,” Dean says, after the first bite.
“It’s from a packet. I didn’t really do anything.”
Dean moans around his fork and nods to himself. “Best shit ever. We’re getting more of these.”
Sam huffs out a laugh and goes to the pile of books that Bobby left for him to translate, and opens one up. He sits there for the next hour, translating the latin into something quick and easy to reference to, when he feels himself drifting, the words blurring on the page.
Sam suddenly stops, hand outstretched, when he finds his eyes glued to a piece of paper stuck on the door. It reads, in capital letters: STOP! SAM. DON’T GO OUTSIDE, with a little drawing of a stickman next to it with floppy hair and long legs, walking through a cartoon door with an ‘X’ over it.
Confused, he withdraws his hand. He looks towards the table, where the books are still spread out and frowns. He reads the sign again, and laughs. “Hey, Dean?” he calls out.
He hears as Dean runs from the back office and walks into the room, and then stops behind him. He slowly walks to the door and smirks.
“Shit, I didn’t think it would actually work.”
“I just sort of... turned up here. Wandering. I saw it and stopped.”
Dean laughs and puts a hand on his shoulder. “So you won’t listen to me, but you’ll obey the stickman drawing? Insulted, Sammy.”
“When did you put this up?” he asks, and knows he would have noticed it earlier today. It wasn’t there when he left for town with Bobby, and wasn’t there when Dean got back, so he must have put it up within the last hour.
“Dude you were sitting in here doing your book shit. I literally put it up half an hour ago,” Dean says grinning at him. “Man, I am awesome.”
Sam shakes his head at him and Dean walks off still smiling. Sam looks back over at the sign and wonders how he could have gotten lost in himself so easily, and walks back over towards the books to do some more research. He listens to Dean as he sings along to the small radio in the kitchenette, completely off-key, and feels for the first time that Lucifer isn’t riding on his back anymore, and he’s going to be okay.
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