Conversations With The Dead - Chapter 5a

[lennelle]

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Sam - Unknown, In the dark

It hurt. The way his stomach clenched and squirmed, trembling with hunger. He knew nothing but the Dark, the memory of blue skies and sunshine were slipping away. Sometimes, he'd wake up and spend a minute trying to remember his own name.

My name is Sam. My brother is called Dean. My dad is called John. My mother was called Mary. My family are hunters. They will find me. I am still alive.

He repeated this mantra in his head whenever he was awake. But wakefulness and sleep were difficult to tell apart when he never saw anything but vast blackness. He didn't know when he was dreaming anymore, and the mantra was losing pieces and falling apart each time he tried to remind himself of it.

Little boy, I think you're turning quite mad, She crooned. Never mind. Your meat is young and fresh. Younger is better, I always say, keeps me healthy.

She was away more often than not, and Sam curled up in the cold darkness and hoped he might die before She came back. When She was there, She liked to play more games. Then She'd pluck away his hairs to eat, forcing Sam to eat whatever She'd brought him. He didn't find raw meat revolting when he was starving enough.

When I finish your hair, I'll start on your skin, She'd said once, licking a tuft of brown curls. The patch of scalp where the hairs had been rooted was now raw and painful. Or maybe I'll take your eyes first. You don't need them here, after all.



She said these things whenever She was around, She seemed to enjoy telling him which parts She'd eat next. The ghosts told him he was lucky that She started with his hair and not another piece of him. A part of Sam found himself waiting for Her; he was half-delirious with hunger and barely felt Her pull out his hair, too busy tearing into the chunk of meat She brought for him.

The meat always made him throw up after, and it was tough and fatty between his teeth, taking so long to chew through a small mouthful. But there was nothing else and Sam was so hungry. She gave him water, too. He couldn't see it in the Dark, but the taste of it made him sure it was clouded and muddy. Still, he gulped it down fast enough to make himself choke.

When She wasn't there, Sam slept. Or he'd lie down and feel at his face to make sure his eyes were still there. Sometimes, the ghosts would talk to him, but Sam could never talk back and they'd drift away into the dark, leaving behind a chill on his skin.

Aren't you gonna try, mister? One of the spirits asked. He looked much younger than Sam, maybe around five or six years old, and he was dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt that reached his knees. Sam wished he could ask the boy his name, who his parents were, when he had died…

Mister? The ghost said again. Sam just shook his head. The ghost flickered a little, sadly. If you don't try, you'll never leave.

Sam couldn't try even if he wanted to. He'd crawled around in the Dark until his knees bled, and She had still found him. She would always find him.

Dean - 20th June 2000, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.

It's a goddamn stupid plan. It's the worst plan in the history of plans. No way is this happening…

But it is happening, because it's the only plan they have and they're running out of time.

Sam was the one who came up with it. That stupid, genius kid.

Annette's collection of research is heavy and leather-bound, sitting in the back seat of the Impala like it's a passenger. Sun-down would be in a few hours and Dean and Bobby only have so long to formulate a plan. Sam couldn't offer much; he wouldn't write anything more than what he'd given Dean at Annette's house. It seems like he's shut himself off again, sitting hunched, head-down in the passenger side.

The town isn't much but there it's all they have. Bobby has driven over to the next town to see if he can find more of what they need.

It's just Dean and Sammy.

Dean pulls up right next to an electrical store. It seems a little out-dated, along with most of the rest of the town, but they're running out of time and they can't afford to wait another day. They need to get Dad back. Dean grips the steering wheel tightly, eyes clenched closed. Breathe… 1… 2… 3…

He can do this. He has to do this.

He glances to his right where Sam seems to have buried himself even further into his seat. Dean wants to reach out, place a hand on Sam's back, be as comforting as he can be. His hand pauses mid-way and he quickly pulls it back. Sam is shaking, not just in his hands but all over.

"Sammy," Dean says it as softly as he can, but Sam still flinches. It takes a moment, but Sam looks up at him, head still bent so far forward that it must be uncomfortable.

"Sammy," Dean says again, "Do you want to come in to the store, or do you want to stay in the car?"

Sam glances up over Dean's shoulder, eyeing the electrical store warily. Dean watches his unsteady hands find their way into his coat pocket and pull something out. Dean can't see what it is, but Sam holds onto it like a length of rope keeping him from falling.

"I'll be real quick, okay?" Dean finally says, because Sam is looking down again, fiddling with the woven bracelet Dean gave to him for his birthday, and not making any indication that he's going to move from where he is.

Dean sighs and climbs out of the car. He locks it, just in case, and heads into the store. The old guy behind the till is busy with a heaped mess of wires and bulbs, so Dean wanders around the store until he finds what he needs.

There are only five UV lightbulbs and none of them are big enough. He piles all of them into his arms and heads over to the checkout. The shopkeeper looks up, eyes gliding up and down what Dean has in his arms. The guy shrugs, then sweeps aside everything in front of him, not seeming to notice or care when a couple of the wires slip over the edge of the table.

"That'll be fifty dollars in all," he says, tapping his finger on the desk. Dean sighs and places the boxes down so he can fish out his wallet. He hands over the cash, all of which he hustled of some Jackass in Illinois a while ago, and the old guy counts it twice.

"Is there anywhere I can get more of these?" Dean asks.

The shopkeeper shrugs again. "Not in this town," he answers rather unhelpfully.

Dean sighs and collects the boxes. He nods his thanks and leaves, not wanting to leave Sam on his own for too long. Sam doesn't seem like he's moved an inch from where Dean left him, and Dean isn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Still, he dumps the lights onto the back seat next to Annette's book of research and hops behind the wheel.

"We'll grab some food, okay?" Dean suggests, but it's more of a statement than a question since he knows he won't get any kind of answer from Sam.

Sam doesn't even look up.

Dean starts the car, and he's about to pull onto the road when he notices what Sam has in his hands.

Sam's eyes are closed and his mouth is moving silently, moving too fast for Dean to even try to figure out what Sam might be saying, or not saying. And in Sam's hands is something small and gold.

Jesus Christ spread out on a crucifix, trembling in Sam's hands.

Dean - 18th July 1997. On the road.

Dean was under a Chevy when the call came. It had been ten months since Sam's lights had flicked back on. Dean had been so tired of looking into those vacant eyes, so tired of easing food into Sam's mouth, and then one day Sam had looked at him. And Dean had been so overjoyed that it took him longer than it should have to realise that Sam wasn't talking.

But Sam was better now, that's what their dad had said. John Winchester never could sit still for too long, not that he was around much even when Sam was zombied out. Sam being better meant they could all get back to hunting. Not that Sam had been on many hunts since…

John was clearly getting frustrated with Sammy's no-talking deal, and even more frustrated at the fact that Sam wasn't going to tell them what took him in the first place.

Sam was okay. Dean told himself that. Sam was still in one piece; the scratches on his skin had healed long ago, and the plucked hair at the front of his scalp was coming back through. It was white, but Dean thought it looked kind of cool, kind of like Rogue from the X-men.

Sam didn't seem all that bothered, he hadn't even complained when Dean chopped all of his hair down to one length. Sam was fine. He was. He was getting better. So what if he didn't talk?

But then Dean's boss, Jerry, called him into the office in the garage.

"It's the local high school," Jerry said, holding out the phone. "You got a brother there, right?"

Dean nodded mutely and took the receiver. Sam had been back in school for a couple of months, in fact, this was the second school he'd been to since he'd come back from… wherever he went last summer.

The thing is, Sam's a good kid, the school doesn't ring home about Sam, that's not how it is.

The last school said they thought Sam ought to speak to a psychiatrist, but what the hell did they know? They were just a bunch of quacks with nothing better to do than pick on some kid for being quiet. John and Dean had pulled Sam out and moved on before the end of the week.

Dean sighed and brought the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Mr Winchester?" a woman's voice asked.

"Um. That's my dad," Dean said. "Is this about Sammy?"

"Could you give me your father's number, please?"

"He's away right now. You can talk to me," Dean told her squarely.

She sighed, clearly not pleased. "There's no way of contacting your father?"

"Look, I'm legally an adult. If something's wrong with Sam, you can tell me about it."

There was a moment's pause. "Alright. I need you to come down to the school to collect Sam."

Dean frowned. "Why? What's happened?"

"There was a fight, but I'd really rather speak to you about it in person."

Dean clenched his hand out the receiver and huffed out a breath. "Alright," he relented, "I'm coming now."

He hung up without another word and turned to his boss.

"It's okay, Dean," Jerry said, waving a hand dismissively. "Do what you gotta do."

Dean gave a short nod and hurried out the door, climbing into the Impala still dressed in his overalls. The town was a small one and it only took him ten minutes to get to the high school, he could have made it there on foot if he wasn't in such a hurry. The school itself was as small as the town it was in, with only one floor and about one hundred students. Sam had been there for almost two weeks and there hadn't been any problems before.

Although, it had been a nightmare trying to explain to the teachers that Sam was effectively a mute.

They seemed to be waiting for him because the receptionist pointed him in the right direction before he even had a chance to open his mouth. He walked past the nurse's office where some kid was crying and groaning in pain.

Dean wasn't there for that kid. Whatever.

He found Sam sitting outside the principal's office, knees tucked up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

"What happened?" Dean asked, crouching down to get a better look. Sam flinched away from his prying hands but Dean managed the hold him still. His upper lip and the side of his mouth were tinged orange where blood had been cleaned away.

"Aw, fuck. Sam?" Dean said, rubbing a thumb over Sam's cheek, trying to get him to look at him. Sam's eyes were set hard on the floor, his jaw was clenched tight, his hands trembled where they clutched onto his knees.

"Mr Winchester?" A woman appeared in the doorway of the principal's office and Dean knew right away that she was the woman he'd spoken to on the phone.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean said, standing up. "What the hell happened?"

She motioned inside the office. "Come in, please."

Dean felt reluctant to leave Sam on his own. The kid looked seriously spooked, pale white and shaking hard. Dean patted him gently on the shoulder, Sam jerked. Dean sighed and followed the principal. He dropped down into one of the two seats in front of the desk.

"I'm Mrs Jones-Whitely," the principal said, taking her seat.

"Why the hell is Sam just sitting out there alone when he's been hurt?" Dean demanded. "Where's the nurse?"

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "The school nurse is busy with the other boy involved in the fight. The ambulance is on its way as we speak."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Ambulance? No way Sammy hurt someone that bad. He's - he's fragile. A stiff wind would knock him over."

"I don't know what caused the fight," Mrs Jones-Whitely said, "but Sam bit one of our students so hard on the arm that stitches are required."

Dean shrugged. "The kid probably had it coming."

The principal raised her eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe the other student did say something offensive, but violence is never the answer. If Sam had trouble, he should have informed a teacher."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, because Sam's so chatty."

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "I understand that Sam has… difficulties, but I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour."

"I get it. It won't happen again," Dean agreed.

"I'm not sure you understand," the principal said. "Mr Winchester, your father has informed me that Sam has been to see a psychiatrist in the past, correct?"

Dean nodded, lying through his teeth. Already, he could feel the ground vanishing beneath him. He knew where this was going.

"Well, I'd suggest you seek psychiatric help for your brother again. Sam is a rather disturbed individual."

That was enough. Dean snapped. "Look, lady," he hissed, knocking his chair as he stood up. "I know Sam is different, alright? You have no idea what he's been through so don't get all high and mighty on me about what's in Sam's interest. Sam is fine, got it? He's just… adjusting."

If the principal was surprised by his outburst, she didn't show it. She simply folded her hands neatly on the desk and peered up at him over her glasses.

"Sam needs help," she said. Her voice didn't hold the abrupt, authoritative tone it did before. It was gentle, her eyes clouded with sympathy. "His behaviour is not that of a normal fourteen-year-old boy. I can understand finding it hard to talk, being shy, I can understand the anxiety, but… he doesn't look anyone in the eye, and if he does it always seems threatening. When I found him today, biting into that boy's arm, there was blood everywhere, all over Sam's mouth. And when I told him to stop, he let go and barred his teeth at me like a wild animal."

Dean shook his head. "No, that's not Sam. Sam isn't like that. He's just… hurt by what happened to him."

"Be honest with me, is Sam like this at home?"

Dean was about to protest, no already sitting on his tongue. But then he thought of the times where Sam would scratch and hit if Dean or John tried to get close, the way he threw food across the room if he decided he didn't want it, the fact that the first thing he did when they arrived at a new motel was try to pull the curtains down.

Dean could have told the principal all of this. Instead, he said, "Sam is fine."

There hadn't been much to do or say after that. Dean was allowed to take Sam home; his brother wasn't allowed back at school for the last week before the summer holidays since he was temporarily suspended. Back at the motel, Sam just sat on the bed and stared at the carpet. Dean turned on the TV just because he couldn't stand the silence.

He made them ramen noodles out of a packet that night, which Sam inspected for a solid ten minutes before he was assured it was meat-free. They ate in silence because Sam didn't like talking and didn't seem to be planning on starting anytime soon.

Still, Dean needed to know.

"Sammy," he said. The slight flinch in Sam's shoulders was the only indication he'd heard. "That kid, the one you got into a fight with, did he - did he say something to you?"

Sam finally glanced up. He just stared at Dean dully, chewing slowly.

"Did he say something to upset you?" Dean clarified. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to understand, alright?"

Sam blinked and Dean wondered if it meant anything.

"He did?" Dean ventured. "What did he say?"

Sam looked away again, glancing down at the table top. Dean sighed hopelessly and watched as Sam placed his fork down, then reach up a hand to his hair.

"He said something about it?" Dean guessed. Sam fingered the patchy white strands between his fingers. Then, Sam yanked, pulling a tuft from his scalp hard enough to make his eyes water. Dean was up and out of his seat, leaning across the table to grab a hold of Sam's arms.

Sam wasn't so keen on being pinned down and he wriggled under Dean, managing to slip out of the seat and across the carpet. He was heading for the bathroom, the room with a door that could lock. Nope. Not happening. Dean lunged after Sam, landing as gently as he could over his brother's body and pinning him down.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean grunted, his little brother kicking and struggling beneath him. Sam leaned over, mouth open, teeth bared, aiming for Dean's arm. Dean knew the damage the kid could do with his teeth now; he wasn't planning on getting stitches any time soon. Out of reflex, he jolted back, accidentally giving Sam the room he needed to make a run for it.

Sam didn't go for the bathroom, he made a turn right back to the kitchen table. By the time Dean was on his feet again, Sam was across the room, his fork in hand, the prongs pressing into the soft skin under his chin.

Dean's hands went up, shaking like Sam's. "Sam, drop it!" he snapped. Sam stared at him then, truly looked at him, eyes watering, mouth trembling. Dean shuffled forward a step, voice softening, "Please, Sammy."

Sam's face dropped, eyes scrunching closed. Slowly, he pulled the fork away from his skin, then he threw it hard enough to the ground to bend the head. Perhaps the most surprising thing to happen was Sam throwing himself into Dean's arms, holding on for dear life, crying wetly into Dean's shirt.

Sam had barely let anyone touch him for months. Dean slowly bent down until he could pull Sam's head gently onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him and pressed his nose to the top of his head.

The two of them jolted when Dean's phone rang in his back pocket. Carefully, he freed one hand to fish it out. He answered.

"Dean, get Sam packed and ready. We're moving out tonight, I'm on my way back now," came John Winchester's voice.

Dean breathed out deeply. "Um, dad. I'm not sure if… Sam's not doing so well."

"We're going to take him up to Jim's, okay?" John said. "He'll be safe there, I promise."

"Dad," Dean cleared his throat, "I really don't think - "

"I'll be back in a couple hours."

The line broke off and Dean felt his heart plummet to the centre of the earth.

He hadn't gotten all of Sam back, he knew that. Part of Sam was lost when he vanished in Georgia. It was like living with a ghost. A ghost intent on destroying itself. Dean had been looking after Sam his whole life and he never once complained, now he felt like he was drowning and his father was barely around enough to help keep his head above water.

Dean couldn't do this alone.

He glanced down, the hairs on top of Sam's head kissed his lips. He felt his brother shake and sob soundlessly in his arms. Dean dropped the phone and curled his arms tighter around Sam's body, rocking him gently, whispering words that weren't enough.

He felt his brother's warm body in his arms and wondered where he'd been all this time. Even now, Sam was lost.

Where did Sam go?

Sam - Unknown. The Dark.

Wait for Her to leave, the ghost girl said, and follow Her through the door. The door only opens for Her. You need Her to escape. You're still alive, boy. She can't keep you here like she keeps us.

He wished he could tell her it was hopeless. He would never leave. He knew how this story ended.

We can try to distract Her, another spirit said, and you run!

In the dark, Sam lost track and the spirit's voices faded away. Even in his dreams, it was dark.

He was shaken awake by ice cold fingers, touching him, pulling him.

Wake up, boy! She's coming back!

Let Her come, Sam thought.

The door will open, ghost girl said. You'll only have a moment to get away.

Sam was too stiff with chills, trembling in the Dark, limbs frozen solid. He'd never make it.

Run!

Something in him came alive. Sam was on his feet, stumbling, losing his balance in the darkness. Looking down, he couldn't even see his own hands, but he could feel them shaking.

Sam began to run.

He tripped, not being able to see if he put one foot in front of the other, but each time he got back up and kept going. He didn't know where he was supposed to go, he couldn't see where he was going.

This way!

A light flickered in the corner of his eye and he skidded, turning in its direction. The ghost girl was there, hanging in the hair, waiting for him. She reached out a white, faded hand and Sam took it. The feel of her was like ice on his skin, burning him. He let her pull him along.

Boy! Sweet and salty boy! It was Her. She was coming.

Run, boy! Ghost girl cried.

He ran faster. He heard Her behind him, sniffing, clawing. The sound of Her grew louder.

You will not leave me! She cried.

Sam felt Her swipe at him, he felt the rush of air of Her claws near his back.

And then he saw it.

Light.

Barely a pinprick. The door, the way out. It was closing. He ran for it.

All he remembered was running, running, running. Then something pushed him, icy hands on his back, and he was tumbling from the dark, crashing to his knees onto a hardwood floor.

The room was dark and empty.

Dean's room.

He glanced around. The room was empty; Dean's things were gone. His family was gone. The moon lingered outside, offering its glow through the window, the first real light he'd seen in… how long was he gone?

He scrunched his eyes shut, shying away as the moonlight stung him.

Sam scrambled away from the shadows in the corner, barely managing to scrape himself from the floor to make it down the stairs. Each clunk of his heavy bare feet against the wooden steps sent vibrations from his toes to the tip of his head, dizzying him.

The front door was closed. It seemed so much bigger than he remembered, stretching thin and high to the ceiling. Everything was distorted in Sam's eye, not the right size, too dark, too bright.

He scrambled at the door handle, his icy fingers slipping, numb. Taking too long, too long, too long. She would be coming. He was so tired… but he yanked the door open and pushed himself, all but fell, out into the open air.

And there was a light, brighter than anything he'd ever seen, brighter than anything he remembered. He forced his eyes closed and hid behind his hands.

The light parted to a long shadow. It was Her, She'd found him, She was going to take him back…

The hands on his face were warm and dry. Sam, for the first time for a long time, felt safe. He could rest… he could…

"Oh my God. Sammy."

… let go.

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