Hamartia (2 of 2)
Hamartia
A Story in Six Sections of Unequal Length
iv.
..passion..
Roger has his first moment of sleep-deprived frenzy at three, in Half Moon Bay, Jess at seven in San Mateo. Becky’s not talking unless she’s just had coffee and the floor of Jess’ car is covered in Starbuck’s cups and empty cans of energy drinks. Sam’s tried telling them that caffeine only makes it worse, but he almost got thrown out of a moving car on the 280 last time so he’s learned to keep his mouth shut. After the sun’s risen and they’re driving to South San Francisco along with a million other people, Sam’s the only one even vaguely awake, and the other passengers have taken to glaring daggers at him. For the first time since the Game began, he thinks he’s lucky to have lived with his father, because Roger’s yawning look of disapproval could never live up the look his father gave Sam not even three months ago, and Becky’s red-rimmed eyes are no match for Dean’s. The thought starts a mental derailment of ‘Things Dad and Dean Taught Me,’ that travels through AC/DC to Pascal to navigating mazes in the dark, and even if he hated the lifestyle, he can’t deny it’s come in handy more than once over the past twenty-seven hours.
The trick, he’s learning, is being able to hide what he’s doing. Becky’s caught him searching the internet for local Bay Area legends more than once, just as Roger’s asked if Sam needed to see a chiropractor after one too many checks of the knife tucked in his jeans. Still, he’s managed to find two possibilities: either an unhappy miner from the ’49 gold rush who dislikes kids trampling all over his former home or one of the old SRI International scientists, who committed suicide in the fifties after his work in the Manhattan project, unhappy because Roger’s actually hoping to go into nuclear physics. The latter would explain why the ghost has only come after their group, but Sam knows he can’t exactly contact the other teams to see if they’ve spotted orbs or smelt cold lightning. He’s prepared for when the ghost makes a move, like they always do, carrying small restaurant-sized packets of salt in his back pocket and a lighter in the other, but he doesn’t know about bones or burial places or other weaknesses, which worries him.
As Jess merges on to the 380, Sam opens up his email provider, types in Dean’s address this time and not his father’s, and then tabs down to the main textbox. He doesn’t know what to say, and by the time he’s tossed out, ‘Your AC/DC fetish came in handy yesterday,’ ‘Been tracking a ghost-you heard anything about one here?’ and ‘Try not to get in the way of a pissed-off poltergeist this Hallowe’en,’ Roger’s had Jess pull into a parking space and the rest of Sam’s friends are getting out of the car. He exits Internet Explorer and closes the laptop’s lid, message not written and not sent, and follows the other three in a dual attempt to keep them from exploding and to help puzzle out the next clue, pointedly not thinking about the spirit.
--
They’re in downtown San Francisco, in Union Square, walking to the V.C. Morris Gift shop where the answer of their current clue awaits along with the next puzzle. Sam hurries to catch up with the others, keeping track of them by focusing on Jess’ hair, falling out of a loose, two-hour old ponytail, and he bumps into someone heading north. “Excuse me,” he says immediately, and looks at the woman. She’s staring at him, open-mouthed, and he’s not sure if she understood him, so he says, “Sorry about that,” and makes to move around her. “Lanmò-mennen,” she breathes, and Sam thinks he recognises the Creole but he doesn’t understand the words. He gives her a puzzled look and asks, “Excuse me?” but she finally shakes her head and smiles at him. “Remember me, someday,” she says and disappears into the crowded sidewalk, waving at him and giving him a brief glimpse of a rune-covered palm as she goes. Sam stares after her for a moment, tries to pick her out in the crowd, but he can’t, so he shakes his head and goes after his team.
Later, when they’re back in the car and heading down the 280 for Lake Lag, he looks up the words and feels a momentary stab of pleasure for having correctly identified the language as Creole, but the words make no sense to him, just some derivatives of ‘fire’ and ‘cleanse,’ and as he lays back in his seat and stares at the car’s roof, he wonders why she said them, what they mean. His eyes close and he’s almost asleep when Becky says, “You’ve cracked,” and pokes his shoulder, and Sam laughs a little too loudly as Roger shakes his head and Jess just keeps on driving.
--
Six o’clock on Hallowe’en night and they’re at Palo Alto Airport, two hours to go and this clue and the theme clue left. Sam’s the only consistently conscious one, so he’s taken over the driving and calls Game Control to check in, running just fine on five hours of sleep for going on forty hours. Becky’s sleeping in the car every chance she can get, having given up on the coffee during their lunchtime stop for food, when she looked at her drive-through cup of Starbuck’s and solemnly proclaimed that it tasted like piss-water. No one really believed her, because it had six extra shots of espresso in it, as well as half of Brazil’s gross exports in sugarcane, but Jess and Roger haven’t had any more since then either, and they’re sleeping at every given opportunity as well. Apart from five minutes here and there, Sam’s still going, still hunting both the Game’s conclusion and their ghost, and while one’s going well, the other’s not. He hasn’t been able to find out anything and no one he’s asked or mentioned it to, both his teammates and other people associated with the Game, can offer any answers.
It’s all colliding in his head, the Game, the ghost, the words the woman in San Francisco said, this urgent clawing need to swallow his pride and talk to his father, if not his brother, and so when he looks at the clue and the words run together, blurring in his vision, Sam growls and stalks away from the others, taking the computer with him. He slams the laptop down on a chair, then collapses onto the chair next to it, sitting bent over, head in hands for a few achingly long minutes. It’s quiet and calm, and he can feel his breathing even out, turn from quick and shallow to low and full, and feels the descent into focus as if he’s holding it, tangible, in his hands. It’s the focus he’s come to associate with breathing before exams, or when he needs to concentrate, and it comes fast now, a fast and steady slide where it used to take a battle of willpower, and he’s wondered before if this is where his father and Dean live, in this mode, this place of silence and stillness. Instead of thinking about it again, he breathes and gets himself under control, feels the weight of the knife at his back and knows his teammates can crack under the pressure of no sleep and no rest and no break from the constant need to keep going, but he can’t, because he knows the consequences would be so much worse.
When he looks up again, Becky and Roger are huddled over the clue sheet and Jess is pointing at arrival and departure boards, talking to her teammates or the boards themselves, Sam isn’t sure which, or why, or what she’s saying. He picks the computer up from the seat next to him and opens it, waiting for the now-familiar click of circuits firing and programs opening. Out of habit, he double-clicks on the internet application and then types in the address of his email provider, followed by his username and password, and when he sees a message from an unknown sender with the subject line ‘hunting 101 for idiots,’ he almost drops the laptop. It takes him a second or eight of looking, as if the message might disappear when he blinks, like a mirage, before he opens it, and when he reads the email, he wants to laugh and cry at the same time, so he settles for reading it again and then closing the laptop and rejoining the other three, who have figured out the clue and are ready to go.
--
Sammy, on the way. I’ll bring the shovel, you bring the salt.
--
As he’s in the backseat of the car, on the road back to Stanford and Tressider, Sam thinks that maybe he should have emailed back, asked Dean what the specifics are, told his brother not to come because Sam’s got everything under control and the ghost’s been haunting his friends, he can salt and burn the stupid bones himself, thank you very much. He doesn’t, though, doesn’t even touch the laptop except to hold it, keep it from falling. To see Dean, to see his brother, to have Dean see him, here, like this, with friends and a place in a world beyond hunting, living for more than the day-to-day kill, far outweighs the need to assert his independence again and the fear he feels at letting Dean into this world. He wants to see Dean, and yet he doesn’t, for more reasons than the hunt and Stanford, because seeing his brother will make everything real, including the fact that he left and Dean stayed behind with eyes that spoke volumes when the mouth stayed silent.
He doesn’t reply to the email and he doesn’t say anything to Becky, who’s driving down Embarcadero like a madwoman possessed, one hour and one clue to go, no idea if the other teams are already done or right behind them. When they pull in the parking lot, Becky leaves the car running as she jumps out and hightails it inside, back to the conference room where this whole thing began yesterday morning, Roger hot on her heels. Jess leans over from the front passenger seat and turns the engine off, pulls her keys out of the ignition and looks back at Sam, who’s holding the closed laptop in his hands, on his knees, as if he’s physically unable to let it go. She raises an eyebrow, jingles the keys in one hand and says, “Coming?” Sam, startled out of his thoughts, laughs, gets out of the car, and brings the computer with him, hoping Game Control has either a plug for it or another extra battery.
He and Jess get to the conference room to see that Becky’s already commandeered a section of one table, loaded it with coffee and candy, and Roger’s sitting in one chair watching as his team captain moves a printer from one side of their room to their apparent command post. “Print the file, four copies,” she orders Sam, who carries the laptop over, plugs it in, and does as directed. All four of them have a copy of their Game-play notes in three minutes and the history professor comes in, writes one word on the dry-erase board, and leaves again. They all say the word at the same time, hours of sleep-deprived and space-deficient companionship making them think and react like one person saying, “Phoenix” in four different intonations. “Phoenix,” Roger says again, and the next five minutes are spent shuffling paper, mixing up letters and numbers, studying place names, consulting their references.
“All of the clues are from the 1800s until today,” Roger finally says, “but putting them in chronological order doesn’t help.” Jess nods, says, “Neither does turning letters into numbers and then back again.” Becky growls under breath and says, “None of the places we’ve been seem to have anything to do with each other,” and Sam looks at the word on the board again, mouthing it before he pauses, frowns, and pulls out their Game Control-given collection of maps. With the others looking on, Sam plots each place they’ve been to and connects the dots, forming a vague eight-sided shape. Jess pulls her notes back out and assigns each corner a number to represent alphabetic order and Roger adds a comma and another number for chronological order. When each place has two numbers and there are sixteen in all, Becky writes those down on another piece of paper and says, “I don’t know if this is going to work,” just like she’s said at every clue-site, but this time Sam bites his lower lip and nods. “The numbers don’t make sense,” he says, “and we’ve already had the cipher clues to puzzle out. I don’t think they’d repeat solving systems.”
Then he remembers the curious wording of the professor yesterday morning, urging them to think sideways from Hallowe’en and he looks at the sheet of numbers. Assigning each number a letter’s become second nature after the past two days, and by shifting and rearranging dates to fit the pattern, Sam can actually spell ‘Hallowe’en.’ “Think sideways,” he reminds them, and the next twenty minutes sees them tangle with variations on the code Sam’s used, other teams starting to come in and hover, whisper, in their own corners. Becky starts shaking her head, says in a low voice, “Sam, it isn’t working,” and lays her head down on her arms, on the table.
He sees the moment when it hits her, asks, “Becky ?” and watches as her eyes widen. “Sideways,” she murmurs, and looks at the three others. “Not the cipher, the image.” She reaches out and turns the drawn-on map, and Sam sees the eight-sided shape coalesce into an arrow, with the tip pointing southeast. The numbers take on a different significance then and Roger whirls through calculations at a speed Sam didn’t think was possible, as tired as Roger’s been looking. When Roger’s done, he writes the answer on a piece of scrap paper and pushes that to the middle of their little huddle, just as the professor enters the room and says, “Half an hour left.” Becky studies the scrap, the one word written there in sloppy, over-tired letters, looks at Sam and Jess, who both nod, and goes up to the front of the room, whispering the word in his ear. “We have a winner,” he says, the other teams watching, and Becky shrieks, running for her team, all of whom look shocked. Sam finds himself in a group hug and not even the sight of the laptop on the table, visible over the curve of Jess’ shoulder, and what it represents, can take away the feeling of accomplishment, of pride, of sheer relief that this is over.
As they start packing their things away, the other teams are working like crazy people, fuelled by a final rush of endorphins and adrenaline to finish this, a matter of pride now and not bragging rights. Sam emails Dean, just his cell number and a Call me when you get here before he cleans everything off of the laptop, Game notes and internet histories, as Roger clears the phone and Jess is separating Game resources from their hodge-podge of notes. Becky’s still jumping up and down, going over to each of her team members at odd times and giving them hugs, telling them, “You were awesome,” and “I knew we could do it.” Sam smiles back, silent and thinking of the ghost and what seeing Dean will be like, whether his father will be coming as well or if dad’s still upset. Don’t come back, and he’s not going to, but he never expected that would mean his family would come here, to Stanford, to this life.
Time runs out and four of the other teams managed to figure out the theme in the allowed thirty-eight hours. Only two out of the seven didn’t finish, and Sam thinks that anyone could walk into this room, even his brother, and know which groups made it and which didn’t, which team won and secured themselves a label that will, Sam’s been assured by Becky, follow them through their years at Stanford and perhaps even beyond. The All-Frosh Game winners are congratulated by the history professor who shakes their hands in turn and tells Sam to stop by his office next week, before the professor tells all twenty-eight competitors where the faculty-sponsored Game Hallowe’en party’s at and that they need to make a token appearance, costumes optional. Sam’s ready to put this all behind him and catch a few hours of sleep before Dean arrives, but Jess and Becky won’t let him go. They drag him to the official party, where everyone who helped plan, who role-played, and who participated talk about the clues and laugh about the answers. Sam has a drink in one hand and the other on his phone, leaning against a wall and waiting for Dean to call.
After an hour of mingling, Jess comes over to where Sam is standing and talking to one of the people from team two, another freshman in the SLE program, about the first clue. Sam’s saying, “And of course it didn’t make sense for it to be that section until after the theme clue, so it really came full-circle,” as Jess slides a hand up his arm and says, “A bunch of us are going over to Liz’s place. She’s having a party and we’ve all been invited. Wanna come along?” Sam shakes his head, but Jess says, “Wasn’t asking you, crazy genius; you’re coming,” and Sam doesn’t know whether to scowl at the nickname or the assumption that he’d go, the order that reminded him of his father and that is just not a comparison he wants to make when Jess is standing there, biting her lower lip and giving him the puppy-dog eyes. “Jess, I’m tired,” he begins, but the other Game player laughs and says, “C’mon, Sam. We’re all exhausted. When are we leaving?”
--
Liz is a friend of theirs, another freshman who lives off-campus in a Palo Alto house her rich daddy bought for her when she started school. Actually, it might be more truthful, Sam thinks as they try and find a place to park, to say that Liz is everyone’s friend, thanks to the generosity her father’s money allows her and the good-nature her stepmother’s strictness gave her. She has money but never flaunts the fact and Sam’s always had a soft spot for Liz because of that, that and the way her smile seems to hold an edge of sad awareness that he can almost understand.
People are coming and going, some in costumes, some from the Game, and when Sam and Jess walk in, Liz’s face brightens up from across the noisy and dark room, right before she excuses her way over to them. “Sam!” she shouts, and he sees that Liz’s been drinking, the arch underneath her eyebrows is as flushed as her cheeks, and he hugs her tight, holding her a second too long in order to help her catch her breath and balance. “Hey, you,” he says, soft, and Jess says, “Great party, Liz,” in a flatter tone than Sam’s heard over the past two days. He looks at Jess, question in his eyes, but Liz giggles drunkenly and hugs Jess as well, saying something about ‘all yours’ and ‘no competition’ and ‘cuddly brother’ that Sam doesn’t quite hear and can’t quite put together. It makes Jess relax, though, and when Liz wanders off in the direction of the kitchen, Jess turns to Sam and smiles, all teeth and cheekbones, and Sam feels completely over his head in a way that striking out on his own never did.
“Drink?” she asks him, and ignores Sam as he tries to say no, that complete over-exhaustion and alcohol is not a good combination, in favour of finding the kegs. Strangely enough, when he’s on his second plastic cup half an hour later, laughing with friends and his arm around Jess’ shoulders, he doesn’t really mind.
v.
..intimacy..
His phone goes off just after midnight, a sound he would have missed if he hadn’t been in the bathroom, ears ringing from the noise downstairs. Without thinking, he finishes drying his hands off and pulls the phone out of his pocket, and it’s only when he sees the caller that it all comes back to him and his heart skips a beat. He’d managed to forget about the ghost, about the hunt, about Dean in the company of friends, the sounds of conversation and laughter, the smell of spilt beer and Jess’ hair and skin clinging to his nostrils, and for a split-second he feels white-hot resentment, quickly followed by shame and guilt. “Dean,” he says when he finally pushes the ‘talk’ button. “Where are you?” There’s silence for a moment, and Sam says, “Dean?” There’s a noise that Sam can’t identify on the other end, but then he hears his brother’s voice for the first time in months and something inside of him slots home. “Sam, this city’s roads are fucked up. Tell me where you and how to get there before I leave tire-tracks in these lawns.” Sam laughs, a knot inside of his chest loosening, and says, “Where are you?”
Dean’s close to Stanford, so Sam gives him directions to Liz’s house and then goes back downstairs to try and leave. Jess isn’t too happy and insists on driving him back to FloMo, but Sam turns on the charm and his own set of sweetly innocent eyes and has her convinced that it’s just his superstition, that he’s already called a cab, that he’d feel guilty if she went home before she wanted to because of him. She settles back into the sofa and he goes to find Liz, thank her for everything, and when he finally walks outside to the street, he can hear the rumble of a familiar engine turning at the corner. The Impala stops in front of him and Sam bends down to look through the passenger side window. Only Dean, and his chest aches, Don’t come back, but Dean’s giving him this look that says, Don’t make me wait all night-get in already, and if he sees that Dean’s hands are clenching the steering wheel a little too tightly, he doesn’t say anything, and neither does he try to hide the tense hold of his own body as he opens the door, slides in. Dean starts driving down the street even before Sam can close the door and says, “Jesus, Sammy, how does anyone get anywhere around this place?” Sam half-smiles and says, “It’s Sam, Dean, and we manage it just fine.”
“What’re you doing out on Hallowe’en, anyway?” Dean asks next, followed by, “What type of weapons are you carrying?” and Sam looks out of the window. Ignore everything, the Dean Winchester way of life, Sam thinks, and says, “I’m out because I’ve been hunting a ghost,” half-lie, “and I have five knives, salt packets, and a handful of crosses and blessed rosaries, as well as a priest’s blessing,” all true. Dean looks at him, says, “Salt packets?” and then, “How do we get to Union Cemetery?”
--
At this time of night, there are some other cars on the road but not many, and they reach the cemetery in good time, even if they haven’t talked about more than how to get there. “So who is this ghost?” Sam finally asks as they get out of the Impala and Dean looks at him from over the trunk, incredulous expression on his face. “What d’you mean, Sam?” he says, gruff, before reaching for the shovels, salt, and gasoline. “I thought you said you’d been hunting it, but you don’t even know who it is?” Sam opens his mouth to defend himself, explain about the Game, but closes it in time to stop himself from stirring up more trouble. Instead, he says, “Well, I know it’s one of the old nuclear scientists, and I know it was a suicide, which explains why we’re here and not a church cemetery, but I don’t know who it was or why it’s come back now.” Dean thrusts a shovel at Sam’s chest and starts trudging away. “Paul Robertssohn,” Dean calls out over his shoulder, searching the headstones by flashlight. “And it’s Hallowe’en and fifty years since he shot himself. Does a ghost need any more reason than that?” Sam thinks that over, shrugs, mutters, “Guess not.” Dean snorts and asks, “How did you even come across this ghost?” but before Sam can answer, Dean stops, holding up a hand for Sam to wait and be quiet, and as they both fall into a hunter’s stillness, Sam sees other flashlights up ahead and hears voices.
They crouch behind an oversized gravestone and put down the shovels, salt, and gas, and Dean takes out a gun as Sam finally draws the knife from the small of his back, feeling the weight settle like comfort in his hands. A sudden burst of laughter makes Sam groan and he gets close enough to his brother to whisper in Dean’s ear, “Because it’s been haunting at least one of those kids pretty consistently for the past two days.” Dean exhales, drops his head into his hands, and Sam notices for the first time the deep, healing gouges on Dean’s neck. “What happened?” he asks, resisting the urge to skitter his fingers across those wounds and see how well the stitches are holding up, and Dean says, “What? Oh, those. Just a werewolf,” and Sam says, “He got that close to you?” Dean snickers, turns to Sam, and meets Sam’s eyes for the first time that night, saying, “She did, Sammy, but don’t worry. She’s dead. Dad got her with a round of silver-shot.” Sam nearly flinches at the mention of their father and turns away, looking at the group in front of them. He sees Dean do the same a heartbeat later, and then Dean asks, back to business, “Know anything about why they’re here?” Sam shakes his head, “Roger didn’t say anything about this,” and shoves his brother when Dean says, “Roger? Wow. Poor kid.”
He and Dean sit and watch for half an hour or so as the EMF steadily picks up more and more activity, and Dean finally says, “How much longer will they be here?” Sam shrugs, stands up, says, “I’ll find out. Keep an eye out for Paul,” as he tucks his knife back under his hoodie. Dean tries to tell him to sit back down, but Sam walks straight up to the group and says, surprise in his voice, “Roger? What’s going on? And how are you even awake?”
Roger gives Sam a lopsided grin and stands up too fast, swaying on his feet. “Sam! Awesome! We’re just,” he says, before hiccupping and falling back down onto the ground with a giggle. “Every year,” one of the other’s says, and Sam shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, in question. “Dr. Robertssohn’s grave,” the student says, gesturing at the headstone that Roger’s draped over. “Some of us nuke kids come out every year on Hallowe’en. Rog found out and begged to come along, and since, y’know, the Game and all,” and Sam’s once again absolutely and sincerely amazed that Becky was right and the Game really is that important around Stanford.
“Hey,” the same student says, “Rog said you’re Sam? His teammate Sam?” and Sam can feel Dean’s eyes on him, burning even from this far away. “Crazy genius Sam,” Roger says with all the drunken solemnity he can muster. “Couldn’t’ve done it without him. He knows Pascal and Latin and AC/DC,” and Sam just about winces as he imagines the look on Dean’s face as Roger adds, “Bastard hasn’t slept for two days, and look how he can stand up even after the Game and the Game parties.” The others all eye him approvingly and one says, “Sit down, Sam, and have a beer,” and Sam shakes his head, says, “Thanks, but I was just here on a dare and have to get back. Can I give any of you a ride?” finding out what he wanted to know when Roger hiccups and slurs, “We’ll be here ‘til sunrise, man. Not leaving before that!”
Sam gets back to Dean, who whispers, “What the hell were they talking about? You’ve been playing a game? I thought you were hunting.” Sam sighs, settles on his knees, and replies, “Not a game, the Game. Look, it doesn’t matter. Let’s just find a way to get rid of them and then we can put this ghost to rest.” Dean frowns but lets it go and Sam’s trying to figure out how things can shake so much that he’d lie to his big brother, because he’s realised that the Game is important, not because of the clues or the prestige of winning, but because it’s part of his definition now, his and Jess’ and Becky’s and Roger’s, and he’s closer to them because of that, he’s like them now, like a normal, safe student who wouldn’t think twice about being in a graveyard on All Hallow’s Eve, knowing that ghosts and demons and things that go bump in the night aren’t real.
With Dean here, though, feeling Dean breathe next to him, seeing twin puffs of air cloud in the cool night breeze, Sam can’t be ‘Sam Winchester, freshman, Game winner,’ because that Sam wouldn’t be out here with knives and silver and salt. Just when he’s finally coming to terms with being on his own, with beginning to acknowledge parts of his life, Dean comes and tilts everything 180 degrees and now Sam doesn’t know whether to join Roger and the other physics kids or wait here with his brother, but not moving is easier than leaving Dean again, so Sam sits on his knees behind the headstone and tries to find that place of silent immobility he had in the airport.
--
It eludes him, no matter how hard he tries or how long he’s at it, and so he listens to the students laugh and wonders if Jess will notice he’s not back at FloMo hours after he said he was going home, smells Dean’s soap mingle with grave-rot and death. He sees quicksilver at the edges of his vision and rolls, pulling a knife and throwing it, an instinctive action, and this is why he doesn’t carry knives anymore or let himself go, because when he does, ghosts end up pinned by consecrated silver blades to trees, hissing and cursing, and it could be people next time, people like Jess, so there won’t be a next time. “Good to know you’re still sharp,” Dean murmurs, going over and studying the ghost of Paul Robertssohn. “But Sam, how? And why?” Sam walks over, glares at the ghost because, really, all of this is Paul’s fault and there’s no one else to glare at, and says, “Blessed silver in a cemetery, and this way he can’t cause trouble while we wait for them,” gesturing at the cheerfully oblivious group of students, “to clear out and then burn his,” gesturing at the ghost, who’s still trying to get away from the knife, “bones.” Dean turns away from the ghost to look at Sam, says, joking, “Maybe we should’ve let Pauly here go after those kids; given them something real to think about,” and Sam just feels tired, heart-deep tired.
--
It’s sunrise when the group of students leaves; each one of them stumbles on the uneven ground, heading back to cars with boxes of empty cans, blankets carried haphazardly over arms and shoulders and wrapped toga-style around bodies smelling of dirt and beer. “Finally,” Dean says, and Sam grunts his agreement. They’d drawn a ward around the ghost to keep Paul Robertssohn’s incessant cursing silent about two hours ago, but babysitting spirits is never fun and always boring. They pick up shovels and make quick work of digging up the old pine box and salting and burning the bones inside, and when they go back to the tree, Sam’s knife is sticking out of the trunk, no ghost. “Don’t know whether I like these quiet Hallowe’ens,” Dean says, and Sam carefully tucks his knife back where it goes, rolling his eyes. “Better than getting ripped apart by a werewolf, wasn’t it?” he asks, waving his hand in the general direction of Dean’s neck and the painful-looking gashes it carries. Dean looks at Sam, one of those deep, searching looks that makes Sam want to curl into a ball and hide, and says, quietly, “Yeah, it was,” and when Dean turns away, Sam doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t think he really wants to hear the reason, because he’s relatively sure it’ll end up in another three months of silence between both of them and these past few hours have been simultaneously some of the most horrific and some of the most wonderful since Sam arrived in Palo Alto.
vi.
..committment..
His phone vibrates, then, as Dean’s carrying things back to the Impala, and when he sees it’s Jess, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before answering. “Hey, Jess,” he says, and he can hear her and Becky giggling. “Open your door, Sam!” Becky yells, and Jess echoes that, says, “Since you’re awake and sober, wanna take us out for breakfast?” Sam says, “You haven’t slept in two days. Go to bed,” and hangs up, aware that he’s being abrupt but reasonably sure that neither of them will remember it once they actually do fall asleep. He looks at the phone, then turns it off, and picks up the extra shovel to follow Dean.
When everything’s packed away, Dean puts his hands in his pockets and says, “So, d’you want breakfast or something? You’re looking awfully skinny these days. College food suck?” and Sam laughs, says, “Thank you, Granny Dean, but I’m fine. I should, I dunno, get back.” He shrugs, adds, “I’ve got classes this afternoon.” Dean nods, looks at something over Sam’s shoulders, and says, “Yeah, all right. Get in, I’ll take you back.”
Neither of them says much on the way to Stanford; Sam takes them the back ways to avoid as much of the morning rush as is possible and Dean asks stupid questions. “How’s class?” is one of them, and Sam doesn’t think it’d be a good idea to start rambling about his professor’s take on Greek city-state republicanism or certifiable graduate instructors, so he says, “They’re good, I guess,” and then tells Dean to turn right. “How’s your roommate?” is another, and Sam doesn’t want to mention anything about how much he envies Ben at times, about how generally awesome Ben is at making Sam feel at ease and welcome, so he says, “His name’s Ben. He’s all right. Doesn’t snore as much as you do,” even if the last one’s a lie that Dean waves off. “Got any protection around your room?” is Dean’s next question, and the tone reminds him of dad, of Don’t come back, so he snaps, “Salt and runes, Dean. I’m not an idiot,” and then curses internally when Dean takes his hands off of the steering wheel as if to say, Hey, don’t shoot. This is why Sam needs to sleep, so he can stop from saying stupid shit like that to his brother, the brother he hasn’t seen in months and has missed like nobody’s business. Dean doesn’t say anything about it, just turns when Sam tells him and lets his thumb caress the steering wheel, as if he’s telling the Impala to not listen to Sam, who somehow finds that action the funniest thing ever and starts laughing. He can’t seem to catch his breath, the past two days settling on him the only way he’ll let them, in hysterics, so he points and Dean follows his directions back to FloMo.
He steps out of the car, right onto the curb, and Dean gets out as well, leaving the Impala’s engine on, idling. They both stand on their side of the car, more than the Impala separating Sam from his brother. Dean nods at the building behind Sam, says, “That where you live now?” and Sam shrugs, “Other side of the hall, but yeah.” Dean nods again, makes a noise that could mean anything from, ‘Well, how ‘bout that,’ to ‘You’re shitting me, right? This is what you threw dad and me over for?’ and, Sam thinks, is probably meant to encompass the gamut. Dean gets this expression in his face, then, as Sam’s praying no one he knows is pulling an all-nighter in the lounge because he wouldn’t even begin to know how to explain Dean being here, and Dean says, “You gonna invite me up?” like he’s spoiling for a fight or maybe just any response that shows Sam cares.
Sam’s just tired enough and angry enough and hysterical enough and not thinking at all enough to say, “Dean,” and trail off, not sure how to put everything he’s feeling into words. Dean steps back and yet Sam can still see the way his brother’s pupils dilate, the way his brother’s lips flatten in a line almost impossible to make out. “Dean,” he says again, tone of voice as torn as he feels, but Dean shakes his head and opens the door. “No, Sammy, I get it, I do. I’m not good enough for this, and you’re too ashamed of me to even think about introducing me to your roommate and friends. Fine. I get it, all right? Next time, you can hunt by yourself, because I know where I’m not wanted,” and all Sam can do is whisper, “Ben’s probably sleeping.”
Dean glares at him, gets in the Impala and nearly slams the door, almost but not quite, too careful of the car even in his anger. Sam feels helpless to stop this, he’s been awake too long and everything’s moving past him too fast for him to keep up, and then Dean leans over and says through the open window, “Y’know, Sammy, I thought dad was wrong, but you are a selfish bastard,” before gunning the engine and driving off, tires squealing.
Sam stands there, he doesn’t know how long, and when he finally goes inside, he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling.
--
The rest of All Hallow’s, the first day of November, passes in a blur, everything mixed together and painfully violent in his senses, smelling San Francisco as he sits in his class and takes an exam he hasn’t prepared diligently for, hearing Jess’ laughter in his ears when he’s eating dinner alone and trying to read, seeing slippery silver spirits and Dean everywhere, no matter which way he turns. He falls asleep in a haze, pale skin and bloodshot eyes, around eight, and wakes up six hours later, shivering after dreams of a hungry fire desperate to burn and devour, and he doesn’t need to get dressed before he leaves, just slips on a pair of sneakers and grabs his keys.
His feet stop at the threshold of the church an hour of wandering later, and he hesitates, then shuffles in, dips his fingers in cool, clear water, and feels it scald his skin when he crosses himself. Sam walks straight to the confessional and enters, and when he hears the priest’s soft breathing, Sam thinks of his family, Don’t come back, selfish bastard, and the feel of Jess nestled close to him, safe.
“Forgive me, father,” Sam says, then stops, and when the priest asks, gentle and soothing, “What do you wish to confess, my son?” Sam’s body folds in on itself and he starts to cry.