Sam, Alone
Mysteryverse entry number two: for ithuriel788. We're filling in the timeline!
There’s a word for it, but Sam doesn’t learn the word until sophomore year.
His first semester is almost entirely language classes, which is a relief. He doesn’t know why he thought college would be easier than it is. His daydreams always took place in montage - out of body images of him raising his hand, walking across a grassy quad, setting down a tray of food in the middle of a table of friends who laughed and maybe socked him gently on the shoulder or tossed packets of chips at him. He eats in the cafeteria, and he doesn’t sit alone, but nobody socks him or tosses him things.
Maybe normal people don’t do that.
His classes were hard last year, and he struggled to keep up, but language classes are easy. Dad used to say he had an aptitude for languages, but he didn’t think that meant anything, really. Dean never studied his Latin, so why would he be any good at it? Why would he be able to remember exorcisms as well as Sam can? But here, in German 201 (he tested out of the intro levels just because it’s sort of like Latin and English, and that made him feel smarter than anything has in over a year) he’s getting an A without even trying.
He would tell Dean about his A - he’s never really had one before, never been in one place long enough, and it’s a silly thing to be proud of, but damn it, he is proud - if he and Dean still spoke.
He doesn’t wish Dean would call, though.
Being in German class is a relief, but the bigger relief is being back in the dorms, and he really does not want to explain to Dean what he did with his summer vacation. Maybe he’s afraid of an I told you so or a get your ass home now, or maybe it’s just that he wants Dean to think he’s got this all figured out. He wants his brother to see that same montage of him surrounded by friends on a beautiful campus, not burning his fingers every night on the hot oil in a funnel cake truck and crouching in doorways after work with leftover popcorn for dinner. And the rest of it -
It doesn’t matter. It’s September now and the dorms are open and he’s fine, he’s fine.
He doesn't pay attention in class sometimes. Doesn't need to, really. He likes to do all the reading, and he understood the patterns of pronunciation after the first week or so. He sits in the back of the lecture hall (and doesn't raise his hand) with his little German to English dictionary. It wasn't required for the class, but he bought it anyway, a little present for himself with what was left of his funnel cake money.
That's where he finds the word for the first time. Einsamkeit.
It's his name that catches his eye, of course, and he figures out ein pretty fast - one Sam - loneliness. Sam alone.
**
Sam alone has never meant anything good.
The irony is that he likes solitude, likes having space to think his thoughts or read a book. He always imagined this would be one of the things he'd like best about college. Sometimes in his montages he imagined himself in a quiet library, late at night, nobody knowing or even wondering where he was.
Somehow, he always imagined that would be reassuring.
Sam has a roommate, of course - single rooms cost twice as much as double rooms and his scholarship doesn't cover the extra - but his roommate has a girlfriend. The coupled-up students must have some kind of bulletin board or network where they sort out who's going to stay in whose room, because Sam's roommate has moved in with his girlfriend and Sam has no idea where the girlfriend's roommate is. Anyway, none of them are here. Sam's alone.
Nights like this, it's hard not to think about Dean.
Hunting with Dean was like two hands working together, driven by the same brain. There was a time he would have thought John was the brain, but he doesn't think that now. John was never the best part of them. He doesn't know what allowed him to know exactly where his brother was at all times when they were on a job, but he knows he never appreciated it as much as he should have. He tries not to think about the fact that Dean is out there tonight, probably hunting, probably alone.
He'd know if anything bad happened.
They'd tell him. They'd find him. They would.
He plugs in his hot pot, which he isn't allowed to have in the dorm, and starts cutting up vegetables on his desk top. He likes cooking for himself. He likes eating nutritious food, especially after a summer of stale popcorn and fried dough. This always makes him feel better.
He's watching the blood mingle with the strings of his celery for several seconds - it travels so unpredictably down the stalk - before he realizes the knife slipped.
Then the pain hits and he grabs a shirt and bunches it around his hand, squeezes, doubles over on it. It's not that bad. He's had worse. He checks the cut and it's deep, but it's just a finger. It'll heal up just fine.
He doesn't know why he's shaking.
It's not the pain. The pain was worse last summer when the oil would burn his hands.
The blood seeps through a layer of the fabric and he re-bunches the shirt and sits on the edge of his bed, lip between his teeth. He can't fall apart. He wanted to be on his own. It was his choice. This is part of it. He has to be able to do this.
The phone - a twenty-five dollar cordless thing that has never ever been used - rings.
Sam wonders if he's hallucinating.
He picks it up. "Hello?"
"Sammy?"
"Dean?"
There’s a word for it, but Sam doesn’t learn the word until sophomore year.
His first semester is almost entirely language classes, which is a relief. He doesn’t know why he thought college would be easier than it is. His daydreams always took place in montage - out of body images of him raising his hand, walking across a grassy quad, setting down a tray of food in the middle of a table of friends who laughed and maybe socked him gently on the shoulder or tossed packets of chips at him. He eats in the cafeteria, and he doesn’t sit alone, but nobody socks him or tosses him things.
Maybe normal people don’t do that.
His classes were hard last year, and he struggled to keep up, but language classes are easy. Dad used to say he had an aptitude for languages, but he didn’t think that meant anything, really. Dean never studied his Latin, so why would he be any good at it? Why would he be able to remember exorcisms as well as Sam can? But here, in German 201 (he tested out of the intro levels just because it’s sort of like Latin and English, and that made him feel smarter than anything has in over a year) he’s getting an A without even trying.
He would tell Dean about his A - he’s never really had one before, never been in one place long enough, and it’s a silly thing to be proud of, but damn it, he is proud - if he and Dean still spoke.
He doesn’t wish Dean would call, though.
Being in German class is a relief, but the bigger relief is being back in the dorms, and he really does not want to explain to Dean what he did with his summer vacation. Maybe he’s afraid of an I told you so or a get your ass home now, or maybe it’s just that he wants Dean to think he’s got this all figured out. He wants his brother to see that same montage of him surrounded by friends on a beautiful campus, not burning his fingers every night on the hot oil in a funnel cake truck and crouching in doorways after work with leftover popcorn for dinner. And the rest of it -
It doesn’t matter. It’s September now and the dorms are open and he’s fine, he’s fine.
He doesn't pay attention in class sometimes. Doesn't need to, really. He likes to do all the reading, and he understood the patterns of pronunciation after the first week or so. He sits in the back of the lecture hall (and doesn't raise his hand) with his little German to English dictionary. It wasn't required for the class, but he bought it anyway, a little present for himself with what was left of his funnel cake money.
That's where he finds the word for the first time. Einsamkeit.
It's his name that catches his eye, of course, and he figures out ein pretty fast - one Sam - loneliness. Sam alone.
**
Sam alone has never meant anything good.
The irony is that he likes solitude, likes having space to think his thoughts or read a book. He always imagined this would be one of the things he'd like best about college. Sometimes in his montages he imagined himself in a quiet library, late at night, nobody knowing or even wondering where he was.
Somehow, he always imagined that would be reassuring.
Sam has a roommate, of course - single rooms cost twice as much as double rooms and his scholarship doesn't cover the extra - but his roommate has a girlfriend. The coupled-up students must have some kind of bulletin board or network where they sort out who's going to stay in whose room, because Sam's roommate has moved in with his girlfriend and Sam has no idea where the girlfriend's roommate is. Anyway, none of them are here. Sam's alone.
Nights like this, it's hard not to think about Dean.
Hunting with Dean was like two hands working together, driven by the same brain. There was a time he would have thought John was the brain, but he doesn't think that now. John was never the best part of them. He doesn't know what allowed him to know exactly where his brother was at all times when they were on a job, but he knows he never appreciated it as much as he should have. He tries not to think about the fact that Dean is out there tonight, probably hunting, probably alone.
He'd know if anything bad happened.
They'd tell him. They'd find him. They would.
He plugs in his hot pot, which he isn't allowed to have in the dorm, and starts cutting up vegetables on his desk top. He likes cooking for himself. He likes eating nutritious food, especially after a summer of stale popcorn and fried dough. This always makes him feel better.
He's watching the blood mingle with the strings of his celery for several seconds - it travels so unpredictably down the stalk - before he realizes the knife slipped.
Then the pain hits and he grabs a shirt and bunches it around his hand, squeezes, doubles over on it. It's not that bad. He's had worse. He checks the cut and it's deep, but it's just a finger. It'll heal up just fine.
He doesn't know why he's shaking.
It's not the pain. The pain was worse last summer when the oil would burn his hands.
The blood seeps through a layer of the fabric and he re-bunches the shirt and sits on the edge of his bed, lip between his teeth. He can't fall apart. He wanted to be on his own. It was his choice. This is part of it. He has to be able to do this.
The phone - a twenty-five dollar cordless thing that has never ever been used - rings.
Sam wonders if he's hallucinating.
He picks it up. "Hello?"
"Sammy?"
"Dean?"