Leaving for Ithaka
Title: Leaving for Ithaka
Author: annj_g80
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Nothing and nobody is mine except for the hard work and the English grammar atrocities.
Word Count: ~ 2.500
Author’s Note: Blueeyedliz did the awesome betaing. Remaining mistakes are still mine. The story is written for the Secret Sam-ta and for Cindy123. This is rather expressionistic. Don't expect it to make any sense, okay?
Summary: It's not the leaving that hurts the most but the being left behind.
Day 1
He had struggled, he had screamed, he had put up a fight, no question.
His fingernails hold the proof. Skin and blood not his own.
His head hurts when he regains consciousness, pounding in time with his beating heart. His throbbing skull makes it impossible for his thoughts to collect and make sense, his memories are all scrambled like they have been taken out and put back in wrong. Is he thinking in the right language?
Nothing makes sense. Neither his thoughts, nor his surroundings. He isn't even sure if all of this is maybe supposed to make sense.
The cell is small, not even big enough to let him stand upright. After his last growth spurt he already is as tall as his brother, who tends to think this is all Sam's fault. Now, the top of his head wishes he had some centimeters less.
In a crouching position he feels along the walls. By estimation, it's not bigger than 6x6 feet. His shoes are missing as are his socks. The unforgivable concrete feels rough and gritty beneath him. Carefully he taps his way around with his naked feet, making sure it's just concrete, not shards of glass which doesn't make any difference. Sharp edges are biting into his flesh and soon he is leaving red, foot sized imprints on the floor. Imprints he can't see because the darkness is so complete it swallows everything.
His voice.
His memories.
His life.
Time.
"Hello?"
His voice, small and croaky, sounds wrong in his own ears. The vibrations of his vocal chords being carried right to the borders of his cells, then swallowed by the clammy surface of the walls. It reminds him of a grave, his grave.
"Hello?" He repeats loudly, knocking against what he assumes could be a door.
After a while (it feels like ages) the hint of a light shimmers through a small gap where the door is but not enough to make him see anything but black. Just that small sliver of ... something. He squints his eyes, kneels down and lays his cheek on the floor, risking new scratches and bruises but he doesn't care. He wants answers. He wants to know what's going on. Knows, this is not where he is supposed to be.
He really would like to know who is responsible for this and who is crazy enough to risk the wrath of a mighty furious John and Dean Winchester, who will kick in that door any minute now.
Any minute... now.
Well, maybe his rescue is a little delayed. But only a little. Because Dean would make sure of that. Definitely. Would make sure of it.
His thoughts have collected, like marbles in a big breakfast bowl and now that they are quiet and unmoving and obviously translated in a language Sam can understand he begins to ponder.
He doesn't know the men who have caught him, swiftly and professionally. Sam hadn't even seen them coming, had just felt a tug at his collar, then hands around his upper arms and then, after an almost imperceptible prick in the sensitive skin of his bicep, nothing.
He hadn't had the chance to even call out for Dean or his Dad, who were paying for gas and, undoubtedly, a new family sized bag of M&Ms.
They had only arrived in town hours ago. Had only wanted to drive through, unseen. Unnoticed. Their aim was further north where the newspaper hinted at a poltergeist wreaking havoc in a small town’s city hall.
He wonders on a scale from 0 to 10: how angry will his father be when he finds out his youngest has let himself be taken. Blip! Just like that. His father is gonna rip him a new one. And then he’ll have to do extra training for at least a lifetime.
For a while, he feels sorry for himself. Then he's sorry for Dean who’ll probably have to suffer John Winchester's bad mood. After all, one of his sons had let himself be taken in the middle of the day.
But finally, he's just sorry. He can't even remember what for.
"Who is there? Helloooo!" He calls out again when he thinks he can hear footsteps but there aren't, really, and when he holds his breath and listens - ear pressed against the wooden yet undeniably stable door - he is greeted by the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.
"Helloooo?"
His tongue feels swollen, too big for his mouth and he becomes dizzy, sits down with his back against the door since the wood is not as freezing as the concrete the walls are made of. Wrapping his arms around his bent legs he makes himself as small as possible. Wants to keep the warmth inside his body.
When his stomach starts to grumble, he ignores it but it's the thirst that gets him later. Much later.
Bright dots, like snowflakes, start to dance in front of his eyes and he gets the impression of being able to see. But when he grabs for the moving particle, his fingers only meet emptiness.
At one point, he starts to vomit and wonders what it was that had still filled his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything that particular day. At least, he couldn't remember.
After the stomach content rushes back into freedom Sam scrambles back to the door, makes himself even smaller and waits. If he had been able to see, the room would be moving. But being blind, the only thing that makes his dizziness real is the nausea.
Then the muscle cramps.
Then the tiredness.
He calls out for someone.
There has to be a reason. Some explanation of why he is being held by faceless attackers. He asks them, over and over Why? What do you want? Why me?
He calls out until his voice turns into pebbles raking against his throat.
"Please, say something. Anyone."
He calls out until his tongue denies service.
"Dean!"
He stops calling out after Dean doesn't answer.
He really wishes Dean would find him now.
Now...
Or now...
Day 2
Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can see something. It doesn't even strike him as weird anymore. That he can see Dean when he closes his eyes whereas he can only see black when he tries to look really hard with his eyes open.
At first, the darkness had been impenetrable except for the small slit between door and floor. Like he had gotten blind all of a sudden, not just locked away.
It's the second day, or at least that's what he decides, when he wakes up and accidentally knocks over a bowl of water that had appeared mysteriously inside his cell. Mysteriously because he is sure he'd have heard if someone had entered his little cell to put a bowl of water next to him.
Well a half-empty bowl of water. The rest of the liquid has been spilled and now forms a little puddle of muddy water that looks like a pool of blood. Of course, that could be his imagination.
His imagination is playing tricks on him anyway but he's glad he can see at all. His eyes have gotten used to the darkness and now when he opens his eyes, it almost too bright. The outlines of the cell are sharp and biting. He can even see the imprints his feet make in the dirty ground. From the corner of his eyes he catches movement. To his right, then to his left. Then directly in front of him. At one point he catches himself grasping for the movement. Maybe it's the hope of something present. Or the fear of it, he's not sure. But no matter how he looks at it, it drives away the boredom.
Yes, being kidnapped and held in a cell smaller than your own body height is boring. There's so much he could do right now.
He loves to be productive. Loves to do something just for the reason of doing it.
Next Friday there's this paper due about the French Revolution and Sam wishes he had his books here. At least, he'd have something productive to do. He could take notes, scribble away the apathy that starts to take his body prison. At first, it's just the itchy nose that tortures him but his hands feel too heavy. Mastering his finger to scratch the right spot? Unthinkable. His body feels heavy, weak. Like when he wakes up in the middle of the night from a bad dream but still too tired to get up and shush away the remaining rags of memories haunting his mind.
So he lets himself fall back into the lulling darkness that has nothing to do with the missing of the light.
But while his body decides to give in his head starts to to working.
At first he starts counting his own breathing. When he reaches seven thousand thirty one he miscounts and starts from the beginning. At one point, he doesn't even remember which number he had reached he starts to write the paper about the French Revolution in his head. Problem is, is doesn't exactly remember the names and dates. He just leaves them blank to fill them in later when Dean brings his books.
Really, the paper is pretty important and Sam doesn't want to miss his chance to get a good mark.
"Stop worrying about that stupid paper, moron!" Hearing the voice of your older brother when you’ve been locked in a small cell for what feels like decades? No, not weird at all.
"Honestly Sam, if that's your only concern then Dad and I should save ourselves the trouble of getting your skinny ass out of here." A huffing follows and it sounds so much like Dean that Sam's heart starts to cramp in his chest. Could have been his stomach, too, though. He is getting a little hungry after all.
The bowl of water is still standing next to the door and, to his utter surprise, full again. He is pretty sure the last time he had glanced at it, it was only half full. Yes, half full not half empty. Positive thinking, right?
The surface of the liquid is dark and carefully Sam dips a finger inside and licks the clear water from his fingers. Another finger and another finger. It feels as if the water doesn't even reach his stomach. His throat seems to have turned into a sponge, absorbing the liquid before it can take the route down his esophagus.
Still he keeps drinking because he knows it's important. Almost as important as the stupid paper.
"Sam, what did I tell you about the stupid paper?"
"Sorry," Sam answers and is surprised about his own voice. It sounds as if he hadn't used it in ages. Scratchy and a little high pitched. He harrumphs but the movement only makes him nauseous and his stomach cramps again.
"Don't be sorry. Be strong!"
It's as if he's here. Dean. Here in this cell and Sam shivers at the thought. Having Dean here would make things a lot easier. But at the same time it would make things much, much worse.
But he can't stay here forever, now can he?
The thought frightens him. Frightens him so much that he can't breathe anymore. All the air seems to have been sucked out of his little chamber and with all the power he can muster, he hits against the door. Again and again until it feels like his hand is shattering under the unforgiving material but nothing happens and nothing ever will happen again, ever.
That's when he stops thinking about getting out of there but thinks about where to go next.
Day 3
Football.
He hates football.
Seriously.
But he would like to play it now.
M&Ms.
Shampoo.
Warm socks.
A good book. Ah, forget the good. Just make it a book.
He remembers it but had forgotten what it feels like to experience it. Like a pain that has gone numb.
It's the only thing left. Memories, as blurred as surreal nightmares that are happening far out of his reach in someone else's dreams.
Dean.
He remembers Dean. Wonders what he's doing right now. Probably sitting in that stupid car of his. The black one with the leather seats that heat up like marshmallows in a bonfire under the warm caress of the sun.
Wonders whether he's now teaching someone else about moves, fighting and how to keep your hand steady when the weapon in it feels heavy enough to pull your whole body over the edge with a wrong move.
"I'm looking for you, you idiot!"
Sam snorts and wishes Dean good luck with that. He doesn't even know himself where he is. How could Dean possibly find him when Sam maybe isn't even on the planet anymore, huh?
"You're doing a great job with that, Dean. Congratulations!"
"Give me a break here, would ya? I'm in the company of an erupting volcano here."
Sam would like to see that until it sinks in that Dean is talking about their father.
"Sorry!" Sam says and Dean answers. "Don't be sorry. Be strong!"
"I promise."
The small slit under the door-like thing is bright. Shines merrily like a candle on a Christmas tree and it's like Sam can hear little angels singing. Or maybe it's Dean singing. Either way it's music in his ears and he feels attracted by it like a moth buzzing around a naked bulb.
He's lying on the floor, his left cheek pressed against the dirt and he feels asleep already even though his eyes are wide open and are taking in every single illuminated molecule dancing in his eye sight. A symphony of life, of things that are there, only existent in his small little universe. Compressed between four walls and a door, a dirty floor and a ceiling that is too low for his body to stand upright.
And when the light gets brighter and brighter he thinks he finally did it. Had reached heaven and God was opening his shiny pearly golden gates for him but heaven is really loud and uncomfortable, now that he thinks about it. It hurts his eyes and he closes them quickly, presses his shaking hands against his ears to fight of the booming noise threatening to burst his eardrums.
"He's here! I got him..."
It's an awful sound and Sam only wishes to turn it off. Wants silence in his little universe. Quiet and calm and everlasting darkness that lulls him into nothingness.
An unshaped figure puts himself between Sam and the bright light and he's thankful because it eases the stabbing pain behind his eyes.
"I got you, Sammy. I told you, I would find you. Sorry it took me so long," the voice, breathless and oh so familiar whispers in his ears. "Oh God, I'm so sorry it took me so long."
'It's okay, Dean. It was only three days, right?' And when he can taste warm and salty wetness on his face that isn't his own he replies 'I promised I'd be strong.'
"I know you did, Sammy. I know."
Turns out, time flies so much faster in the outside world.