Always Beside You (1/4)
Word Count: 12,276
Characters: Sam (POV), Dean, Haley Collins
Category: M/M
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A retelling of 1.02 Wendigo. There’s something killing hikers in the dark Colorado woods, a mysterious figure is haunting Sam’s dreams, and the one thing stopping him from running away again is also the reason he knows he should leave.
A/N: This was supposed to be a mini bang, but it ended up quite a bit longer than expected. It was a lot of fun (and a lot of hard work), and I'm so glad to finally be able to share it.
Credit for the wonderful cover art goes to kuwlshadow. And special thanks to my awesome friends and beta-readers, RiverSongTam (who also submitted a big bang this round!) and Crosstown_Rapid. Without their encouragement and feedback I would have quit writing altogether a long time ago.
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, it is only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
-But who is that on the other side of you?
~ T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
Sam knows how to count, of course, has known since before he even started kindergarten, and considering he just graduated from Stanford he should be able to count how many people are in the Impala. It’s easy, one-two, just him and Dean-at least, he’s pretty sure.
He thought it would be harder to leave Stanford, but it turns out it’s not so difficult to walk away when all you’re leaving behind is the shell of a burned-out apartment and a shiny new gravestone where your girlfriend used to be. And then there was the way Dean leaned towards him out of the car window, the way he said, You know, we made a hell of a team back there-the way Sam’s heart stuttered, stopped, restarted again in a whole different gear, like a car transmission slipping. It’s only been a few weeks since then, but Sam’s already fallen back into the rhythm of the road, drive-hunt-drive, as if that’s the only beat he’s ever moved to-as if the four years at Stanford were only a rest, or a pit stop, or a dream. Maybe they were.
They’re stopped right now, having paused for fuel. Sam’s eyes automatically seek the Impala’s windows as he comes back from the gas station bathroom, checking on the occupants, counting them out, one-two-only that isn’t right, because it’s just him and Dean on the road, and he’s still outside in the parking lot, so there should only be one of them in the car.
He thinks, for a moment, that maybe the third is John-it would be just like their father to lead them on a wild goose chase across the country and then show up unannounced at a random gas station-but when he gets into the car he finds that there’s no third after all. It’s still just him and Dean. One, two.
He twists to peer into the backseat, because even though it’s clearly only them now, he’s certain he saw the shape of another figure from the parking lot, dark and indistinct.
“What are you looking for?” Dean asks from the driver’s side.
Sam faces forward again, settles into the upholstery, ignoring the prickle on the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he says, because there is nothing back there. No one behind him. Just Dean beside him.
Dean’s giving him that look again, the puzzled, measuring look that means Dean doesn’t know what to say to him, how to respond. The one Sam hates because it makes him think maybe the years at Stanford weren’t a dream after all.
Sam clears his throat, grabs the roadmap off the dashboard and unfolds it over his lap. There’s an X circled in marker over a stretch of Colorado woods. Their destination, according to John’s coordinates.
“You know, this place Dad’s sending us is pretty remote,” Sam remarks, measuring out the miles with his finger. “It’ll take us till the afternoon, at least.”
“Well, good,” says Dean, peering both ways up and down the road as he pulls out of the gas station, though they’re already so far out of the way there’s unlikely to be any cars coming. “You can get a few more hours of sleep. I know you were awake last night.”
Heat rises in Sam’s cheeks, the way it always seems to whenever Dean pays him the least bit of attention-embarrassment and annoyance and secret joy, all writhing together in a fluttery mess-and he rustles the map uncomfortably. “I’m good, thanks,” he mutters.
He intends to prove it by staying awake, studying the map and arguing with Dean over his choice of route, but there really aren’t that many ways to get to Lost Creek, Colorado. The highway is empty and serene, nothing but mountains and trees on either side and gray, overcast sky above, and Sam is finding it difficult to stop his head from lolling against the window, and he keeps having to force his eyes back open. And then Dean flips the radio to a soft rock station, turns it down low, and Sam is done for.
The figure is waiting for him in his dreams, as if it’s been there all along.
Distantly, Sam can still feel the road rumbling beneath his seat, the cold glass of the window rattling against his skull, and when he looks around he still seems to be in the Impala; but everything is dim and unfocused, the scenery outside only a haze, and his perspective is skewed, so that it looks like Dean is sitting several feet away from him instead of only a few inches. Sam stretches across, trying to reach Dean, to touch him-but a flicker of movement from the backseat distracts him, and when Sam turns to look there’s someone sitting there all right, hunched in the shadows so that all Sam can see is the vague, flowing outline of a hood.
Sam reels back, startled, and he reaches out again to Dean, but Dean is even farther away than before, sitting frozen with his eyes on the road, and Sam finds himself turning back slowly to face the figure, like a compass needle drawn to magnetic north. This time, he catches the faint reflection of eyes under the hood, gleaming a reptilian yellow, and the figure lifts an arm, trailing shadow like a cloak, and salutes him.
Sam jerks upright and awake, gasping, to find Dean’s hand hovering uncertainly in the air between their bodies. He’s giving him a sideways version of that look Sam hates so much, and he’s frowning, but space has righted itself so he’s where he should be, less than a foot away on the other side of the car. Sam breathes out a long sigh, wanting to grab Dean’s hand and pull it the rest of the way over, but instead just scooting minutely closer to the middle of the seat.
“You okay?” Dean asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Sam. He watches Dean replace his hand on the steering wheel, precise and deliberate at 2 o’clock, a little white around the knuckles.
“Another nightmare?”
Sam gives a noncommittal grunt, which Dean seems to take as an invitation to ask more questions. “About Jessica again?”
Hearing her name makes Sam angry, like it always does, and he considers retorting with a truthful No, but he can’t quite bring himself to say it. Jessica’s not even two months dead, and already it’s like she never existed; already she’s been washed from his thoughts by the flood of Dean in the weeks since the fire-Dean sitting next to him in the driver’s seat, Dean kicking him under the table at restaurants, Dean barging his way into the bathroom while Sam’s in the shower. Dean fitting into the space beside him like the other half of a friendship charm. Dean filling up the gaps, making him whole. Sam almost resents it, how easily he’s forgotten the grief that’s all he has left of Jessica, except that he knows it’s his own fault. He’s always found it easy to lose himself in dreams.
But Sam has learned the hard way how to tell a dream from reality, and the reality is that he’s with Dean for a cold, practical purpose; and the way his heart is beating double-time at the thought of Dean reaching out to touch him while he slept has no place in it. Which means Sam will be leaving again as soon as Jessica is avenged, no matter what his heart does. Even if it breaks.
<>
“Any idea what we’re after here?” Sam asks, as Dean turns the car off the highway. They emerge onto a much narrower road, with dark trees leaning in on either side, menacing. Their leaves wave a mocking farewell as the Impala speeds past.
“Nope,” says Dean blithely.
“So we’re just going in blind?”
“Well, I was going to check out the ranger station first, see if anything’s going on, but if you’d rather skip that….” Dean shakes his head. “Man, what is up with you?”
Truthfully, the nightmare has left Sam unsettled and jumpy, but he can’t explain that to Dean without explaining why it’s affecting him so much, and if Dean’s already giving him weird looks for things like ironing his clothes (a habit he picked up from Jess) or drinking frappuccinos (he discovered them during one particularly hellish finals week), then Sam doesn’t like to imagine how he would react to the idea that Sam has prophetic dreams now, too.
“I just wanna figure this out, is all,” Sam says instead. Dean snorts, but doesn’t press him.
The ranger station turns out to be little more than an old log cabin tucked among the trees at the end of a gravel drive. There are no other cars in the small parking lot, and the only sounds are the creak and slam of the car doors, the crunch of gravel as they approach. Sam half-expects the door to be locked, the station abandoned, but it opens easily, and they file inside, their boots clunking on the wooden floor. It’s so dark that it takes Sam’s eyes a second to adjust. There’s a boxy computer monitor glowing on the reception desk, but no one manning it; the room is empty aside from a few racks of maps and brochures, a glass display case, and various stuffed animal heads staring down from the walls.
Dean goes right to the far wall, clearly fascinated by the animal heads, while Sam examines a topographic map of the forest housed in the display case. According to the map, the terrain is rugged and mountainous. A dotted line marks the Lost Creek trail, the only way up onto Blackwater Ridge, and there’s a scattering of red, spiky stars indicating the entrances to old silver and gold mines. Sam shifts slightly, not liking the idea of hiking through this forest without a clue as to what they’re supposed to be doing there. The edge of his hoodie catches on something with a rustle; looking down, he sees a paper sign taped to the side of the case-Bear Attacks: Are You Prepared to Avoid One?
“Dude,” he says, turning to look for Dean. “This is-”
But he stops speaking abruptly, because he was certain it was just him and Dean in the station-it was definitely just them, one, two-but now there’s a third figure standing there, dark and bulky in the doorway. The switchblade Sam keeps in the pocket of his jeans is out and in his hand before he’s even aware of reaching for it, and the only reason he doesn’t throw the knife right then is that he can’t quite tell, against the relative brightness of the open doorway, where the figure’s heart would be.
Then the figure moves further into the room, out of the glare. It’s just a man, a ranger; there’s a badge adorning his jacket, and his face is lined and weather-beaten under a wide-brimmed hat.
“I hope you boys weren’t planning a hike out to Blackwater Ridge,” says the ranger.
“Why’s that?” asks Dean. He moves to stand at Sam’s side, close enough to cover the knife still gleaming deadly-sharp in Sam’s fist.
“Trail’s closed,” the ranger tells them, while Sam tries to make his fingers unclench. “Because of the murders.”
“Oh?” says Dean. “Suspect still on the loose, or something?”
“No, they caught the suspects, all right,” says the ranger, rubbing his chin. “Normal people, until they decided to hack up their hiking partners.”
Sam finally manages to fold up his blade and tuck it back into his pocket, and he stands there, still trembling with adrenaline, as the ranger steps a little closer and lowers his voice.
“When they came back they were...different. Goin’ on and on about all kinds of weird stuff. Best stay away till we figure out whatever it was in those woods that made ‘em go crazy.”
“Yes, sir,” says Dean easily, nodding. “We’ll keep our distance.”
The ranger gives a short nod, but he doesn’t look very convinced, and his hand falls on Dean’s shoulder as he makes to step past him towards the door.
“You’re friends with that Haley girl, right?”
Dean’s eyes flick over to meet Sam’s, uncertain, gauging. It’s only a brief look, but something about it settles in Sam’s stomach like a pile of rocks, makes him clench his empty fist in sudden, sweeping rage.
“Yes. Yes, we are,” Dean says, turning back to the ranger.
“Well, you make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid,” the ranger says. “Her brother and his friends are in the woods without a permit. The best thing she can do now is let him go, let us do our jobs to find him.”
“Can’t promise anything,” Dean says, with another glance at Sam, and a strange, dark current in his voice.
By the time they get out to the car, though, Dean is grinning, bright and excited. “Well, we know why Dad sent us here,” he says. “It’s a hunt.”
Sam thinks of the figure in his nightmare. He thinks of the knife in his pocket, knocking cold against his leg, and of the ranger’s warning-best stay away.
“Yeah,” he replies, hollowly. “Great.”
<>
“So there’s something killing hikers in the woods,” says Dean. “And the survivors take the blame.”
“But we still don’t know what it is.” Sam punctuates this statement with a few loud taps on his laptop’s keyboard, and then makes a frustrated noise as the motel WiFi cuts out again. “I mean, Dad couldn’t have left us a hint, or anything? He just gives us these coordinates and expects us to figure it out?”
They didn’t glean anything from their visit to Haley Collins’s house that afternoon; there was no answer to their knock, so they took the liberty of climbing in through an open ground-floor window, but they found nothing of note aside from a large collection of photographs in the living room, all showing a pair of dark-haired children, the girl with her arm around her younger brother’s shoulders. They eventually gave up and checked into the closest motel they could find, where Sam has now been trying for at least an hour to access the local news website for information about the previous victims.
The motel is a kitschy wilderness-themed affair, wallpapered in a hideous forest scene. Sam could have dealt with the tree trunks stretching from floor to ceiling, but he thinks the life-size pack of gray wolves slinking out from the shadowy background are a bit much. There’s something distinctly sinister about their yellow eyes, the way they seem to fix directly on him, no matter where he is in the room.
“We need to talk to Haley,” says Dean. “See if she knows anything.”
“And I suppose you know where to find her,” says Sam, relaunching his browser for the fiftieth time.
“Sure,” says Dean, settling onto his bed and reaching for the TV remote. “Blackwater Ridge, looking for her brother.”
“We are not going to Blackwater Ridge,” Sam snaps, giving up on the WiFi and slamming the laptop shut.
Dean looks away from the TV to frown at him. “Why not?”
“Because-” Sam fumbles for a moment, trying to think of an excuse that won’t make it sound like he’s wimping out, which is surely what Dean would think if Sam told him that just the thought of going there fills him with the same prickly fear as the hooded figure from his nightmare. “Because it’s a waste of time. We’re supposed to be looking for Dad.”
“There’s people getting hurt,” says Dean.
“We don’t have enough information,” Sam tries instead, keeping his voice calm even though his fingers are itching to latch themselves onto Dean’s shoulders and shake him until he starts having prophetic dreams, too. “We’ll end up just like them.”
“You just don’t want to be here because Dad sent us here,” Dean mutters.
“I don’t want to be here, period,” says Sam.
Dean throws the remote down and folds his arms. “You can leave if you want,” he says coldly. “Not like you haven’t done it before. You know I ain’t stopping you.”
Sam opens his mouth to retort that yes, Dean is what’s stopping him from turning tail and running all the way back to Palo Alto; that he left before to chase a dream, and found it as elusive and ephemeral as all dreams are; that the only reality he knows consists of Dean, and the Impala, and the road. But Dean is staring fixedly at the TV screen, his expression stony, and Sam hesitates long enough to remember that he promised himself he’d leave before he messes everything up again with his dreams and fantasies and longings. So he grits his teeth over the words without speaking them, suddenly too tired to do anything but heave a sigh and get into his own bed.
It takes him a long time to fall asleep, though, even with all the lights off and the TV on low. And then, when he does sleep, he dreams again of a figure hooded in shadow, stepping out from between the wallpaper trees; and once again, the figure salutes him, and all around the wolves come alive, howling.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4