Conversations With The Dead - Chapter 2
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Dean - June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
Dean trails his fingers along the cracks on the surface of the kitchen table and listens. He can hear Jim's voice, muffled and soft, coming from upstairs. It tightens his chest and lodges something in his throat, knowing that Jim is the one up there with Sam and Dean isn't.
Dean hasn't been there for Sam in a long time, he knows that. He knows it's his fault that things are like this between them. And that only makes it more painful.
Does Sam even want Dean around? If he did, he certainly won't now. Not after Dean just traumatised his already traumatised kid brother.
God. He needs coffee. And a little whiskey.
He needs to find his dad.
The floorboards creek overhead and Dean sits up straighter, watching the door until Jim comes around the corner. The pastor's lips are pressed into a thin line; his eyes are narrowed. Dean has always been impressed with how Jim manages to be angry in the quietest possible way.
"I think it's best we don't talk of that with Sam again," he says sharply. "I know you want to find John. I do, too, and I'll pray every day until he's found, but this is not something Sam can be involved in. Your best bet at finding your father is working with another hunter. I'm sure Caleb would be more than willing to help. Bobby, too, despite his current relationship with John."
Jim looks him sternly in the eye until Dean has to look away.
"I just need information from Sam," Dean says, looking at the counter Jim is leaning on. He sighs and looks up to meet the pastor's eyes. "Has he ever told you anything about what happened?"
Jim shakes his head slowly, his expression softens. "I had thought, once, that it would help Sam to talk about it. Of course, he wasn't talking so I gave him some paper and a pen. I tried for months and months, so did the therapist, but Sam wouldn't say a word. Not even on paper. Any time we tried to coax something from him, he would… break down. I think that's the best word for it."
Dean had seen plenty of Sam's breakdowns before they'd finally decided to leave him with Jim. There were countless motels rooms they would never get their deposits back from.
Dean glances down to the table where Sam's notebook lies closed.
"You never read this?" Dean asks. Jim moves away from the counter and takes a seat next to him.
"I was just pleased he was writing at all. He hadn't made any attempts to speak before… I thought it would be best to be patient and give him space."
Dean pushes the book over to Jim. "Either Sam is crazier than I thought, or he really does know something about Dad."
Jim frowns at him, then looks away, down to the notebook. He lifts the cover and scans the first page. His frown returns to his face and he glances briefly at Dean. Dean watches him flip through, faster as he goes. Finally, he closes the book and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I'd thought he was improving. He'd had fewer outbursts, he was working in the garden, he even came to church with me a few times. I should've known," he mutters, "that keeping those secrets to himself is hurting him."
Dean leans forward. "I know he's scared, but don't you get why I need him to tell me what happened? Something horrible happened to my little brother and I had no idea until it was too late. I still don't know what happened to him. I don't know what took him. I was supposed to look out for him, Jim."
Jim smiles softly and places a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."
"I was supposed to look out for him," Dean says again. He drops his head and stares at the bruises on his knuckles, the cracked nail on his left thumb.
"He's alive, Dean," Jims says. "That's because of you."
Dean snorts. "Me? The kid saved himself. I was just there."
Jim doesn't answer that. Instead, he says, "Sam knows what you need to know, but I don't think he'll tell you."
"But it's Dad. That has to mean something to Sam."
Jim says, "It means everything to him. Dean, have you considered that Sam wants to help, he just can't?"
Dean furrows his brow. "How do you mean?"
Jim folds his hands in front of him on the table. "Sam has been scarred deeply. He's wounded emotionally and psychologically. Believe it or not, those wounds are the same as physical ones. If you broke your leg, could you run on it?"
"No…" Dean answers hesitantly, confused.
"Exactly. Something is broken in Sam, do you expect him to run?"
Sam - 8th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
The Impala kicked up a storm of dust on its way down the driveway. Sam sat on the porch and watched the car turn around the corner and out of sight, taking his dad and brother with it. He sighed and fiddled with a loose screw on the porch railing, feeling the summer heat settle onto his skin.
The house seemed bigger with no one else around. He glanced back, through the open door and into the empty hallway, and pondered last night's dream.
Because it had to have been a dream.
He'd checked with his dad that morning and been assured that the whole house was safely warded. John had searched every inch of the place himself and it came up clean. No ghosts, ghouls, monsters or anything of the sort.
Still, Sam felt the skin on his arms prickle up despite the summer heat.
He looked away, over to a pasture to the right of the house. A short distance away, he could see the gleam of a lake. With so much time alone he might as well make use of it. Sam picked up his backpack from the step next to him and closed the front door behind him. He climbed over the fence into the field and set off.
The grass crunched beneath his sneakers, brown and dry from the heat. He could hear crickets making noise nearby, something whizzed by his ear with a loud buzz, the sun beat down on him. Sam trudged on, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
The pond was bigger than he'd expected, and it was clean enough that he could see the bottom of the pool. Tadpoles zipped around in the shallows and tickled his toes when he dipped his feet in. The water was perfectly cool. Sam pulled a towel from his bag and hung it over a nearby tree branch, then he stripped down and waded in.
He spied a tire swing on the opposite side and swam over to get a better look. The rope seemed intact, the branch it hung from seemed sturdy enough. He'd tell Dean about it later and maybe they could come back… if Dean wasn't busy, that is.
Sam paddled around a bit, enjoying the cool water, splashing about and inspecting fish that were brave enough to swim by. He paddled back to the shore to find his watch. Two hours had passed. His brother and dad said they'd be back for dinner which meant it was more likely they'd be back by midnight.
He towelled himself off and re-dressed before heading off again, this time in the direction of a house down the hill. Maybe he could introduce himself to the neighbours. Maybe he was just that bored.
He found an elderly woman in the garden. Despite the dry heat, her flowers were green and blooming. She looked up and smiled, dark skin crinkling around her mouth.
"Don't get many visitors up here," she said, placing a watering can down on the ground. "And who might you be?"
Sam stepped up to the gate and held out his hand for the woman to shake. She took it; her hand was warm and her fingers were covered in soil. "My name is Sam, Ma'am. Me and my family just moved into the house over there."
Sam pointed in the direction. From there, the house was the size of his thumb. The old woman stared at the house for a long moment, expressionless. She pasted on a smile and turned back to Sam.
"Would you like to come in, dear?"
A moment later Sam was sitting on her porch with an iced tea in hand. He sipped it appreciatively. The woman, Annette, sat beside him and fanned herself.
"Where did you move from?" she asked.
"We were staying at my uncle's up in South Dakota," Sam replied after another drink.
"This heat must be shock for you," Annette commented. "I've lived here all my life and I still think it's too damn hot."
Sam chuckled and Annette smiled. "Sam, how old are you?" she asked.
"Turned thirteen last month."
Annette nodded to herself, her expression falling. "Sam, I - "
She began to speak, but quickly halted herself. She turned a little in her seat and placed a wrinkled hand over Sam's.
"Watch out for yourself," she finally said. "I saw a car leave your drive this morning so I'm guessin' you're by yourself."
Sam shrugged. "It's okay. I know how to take care of myself."
Annette smiled a little. "I'm sure you can, sweetie. Just keep yourself safe, is what I'm saying. Things can be dangerous this far out into the country."
Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"
"How about when you're on your own at home, you come here to spend the day with me?" Annette quickly changed the subject. "That way, we can keep each other company 'til your family comes home. It would put my mind at ease to know you're not by yourself."
That sweet smile was still there on her face but the grip she had on Sam's hand was almost painfully tight. Her eyes were strained, unblinking.
Sam swallowed and tried to ease his hand away. "I'm not sure…" he hedged, looking away. "I'd have to ask my dad. Actually, I'll have to be heading home soon."
Sam slipped off the porch seat and scooped up his back pack. He handed the glass back to Annette and stepped back. "Thank you for the tea, ma'am," Sam said, already halfway through the garden. "Goodbye!"
He stepped through the gate and walked back across the field at a hurried pace.
"You be careful, Sam!" Annette called after him. "You watch yourself!"
Sam didn't bother looking back. He kept his eyes forward and ran.
Dean - June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
He spends the night at Jim's. The two of them sit through a silent dinner of vegetable soup and home-made bread. Despite Jim's kind words earlier, Dean can feel the irritation coming off him. Jim is quiet about his emotions, but those tired sighs and disapproving glares say a lot.
Thanks for fucking everything up. But Sam isn't Jim's responsibility. Sam is Dean's responsibility. But does Dean even have the right anymore?
Dean hasn't seen Sam since his little brother tackled him to the ground that afternoon. For someone so skinny, he sure can hold his own in a fight. But he won't come down to eat. He won't leave his room. Dean doesn't blame him when he'd acted like such an ass. He can't just turn up only once in a while and ask for something so big.
Dean rubs a hand against his eye. God, when did things become so screwed up? He was supposed to look out for Sam. He hasn't looked out for Sam in a long time. Not really.
Look out for Sammy.
"You're thinking very loudly," Jim comments. Dean startles and realises the kitchen table has been cleared. Jim is at the sink, washing dishes. He pauses and holds out a towel for Dean.
Jim washes, Dean dries. Neither of them talk.
An hour or so later finds Dean alone in the kitchen, sipping some cheap whiskey he'd picked up at a liquor store. Jim went to bed, and now the house is eerily quiet. There's a pillow and some blankets laid out on the couch for Dean, but he's not tired. Every time he tries to close his eyes he starts to think about his dad.
Dean takes another sip of alcohol and grabs Sam's notebook from where he left it by his duffel.
She'll be hungry again.
That tells him something. Whatever this monster is, it's apparently a she-bitch. Witch? Banshee? Vetala?
A witch is a possibility. Since they're human, they wouldn't be picked up by EMF. But what would a witch have wanted with a thirteen-year-old boy? How could a witch hide from two hunters in the same house?
Banshee. Not likely. Banshees don't take prey. They scream, they feed. End of. Sam would have been dead straight off the bat.
Vetala? Also unlikely. Vetala feed three times before the victim is killed. After a two months, Sam would have been dead. Besides, there were no bite marks to be found on Sam's skin.
Dean closes his eyes and tries to think back. At the time, he hadn't tried to catch all the details, he'd been too busy trying to calm down a seriously traumatised Sam. It's a good thing his dad never leaves a single stone unturned. There's about half of a page in John's journal documenting Sam's reappearance. Dean had found his dad's journal in the truck when he'd gone to Georgia to find him.
He flicks through it and finds the right page.
August 15th '97 - Sammy
Sam wandered out from the house four hours after Dean and I arrived. Both of us checked every inch of house on arrival and found nothing (creature's nest hidden?) He won't speak, showing signs of shock, malnourishment, dehydration. Collapses and is taken to Joshua for treatment.
August 16th
Sam is still unconscious. Josh found bruising around his wrists and ankles (likely bound) and bruising and scratches on other parts of body, mainly back and shoulders (claws?). No signs of bite marks. No severe blood loss. Missing patches of hair at front, likely pulled out.
August 17th
Sammy woke up. Still won't talk. Possibly catatonic.
October '97
Noticed hair re-growth at front of scalp. New hair is white. Checked with Josh - he says white hair caused by shock is a myth. Sam still won't talk.
That's it.
Dean thinks that John documented more but decided to store the information elsewhere. Dean blows out a breath. His dad's need-to-know basis is really beginning to piss him off.
There are only two people who can help him with this hunt. One of them is missing. The other won't talk. Dean sighs and pours another glass of whiskey, he's about to knock it back in one go when he notices Sam standing in the doorway.
"Uh, hey," Dean says. He places the glass back on the table. Sam is still as a statue, if you ignore the shaky hands. Dean's beginning to wonder if he should fetch Jim, but Sam takes a deep inhale and sits down opposite. He places a pen and a piece of paper on the table in front of him and looks Dean in the eye.
Dean swallows, hope bubbling in his gut. "Sammy…"
Sam shakes his head, ignoring him, and picks up the pen. He leans over and spends a minute or so trying to write and keep his head steady at the same time. Dean can't see what's being written; Sam's bent so far over that his hair blocks the view.
Without looking up, Sam slides the paper over. Dean looks down and reads.
Dad won't be dead yet.
Dean reads and re-reads, then he looks back to Sam with surprise. "What has him, Sammy?"
Still looking down at the table top, Sam reaches out and pulls the paper back towards him. He scribbles something else out and shows it to Dean.
Something bad.
Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He knows pushing Sam won't help either of them, but he's growing impatient. "Could you be more specific?"
Sam shoots him a glare and writes something else.
I don't know what She is.
"How do you know it's a she?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs. He leans forwards and writes something else.
She doesn't want dad. Dad is bait.
"For who?" But Dean has a feeling he already knows. Sam's face is sagging miserably; he looks on the verge of tears as he gestures to himself. He writes again.
She doesn't like us getting away. She likes to keep us.
Dean stares at the paper for a long moment. When he looks back up, Sam is crying. Sam hastily wipes at his eyes, his face turning pink. He grabs the paper out of Dean's hand again and writes one last time. He holds it up for Dean to see.
You won't find dad without me. She'll only come out if I'm there.
"Sammy, you want to come?" Dean asks, confused.
Sam shakes his head.
Dean understands. "You have to come," he says. He watches Sam for a moment. He sees his brother's pale skin crinkling around his eyes like paper as he sobs quietly to himself. Dean watches Sam and feels miles away from him.
He pushes out of his seat and rounds the table, kneeling by Sam's side. Sam gulps back another sob and looks at Dean, brow furrowed curiously. Dean reaches out and pulls Sam into his arms, gently pushing his head to rest on his shoulder. Sam is stiff for a moment and Dean wonders if he'll pull away, but Sam sinks into it and lets his tears fall.
Sam - 8th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
He was panting, breaths heaving in and out painfully, by the time he made it back to the house. He could still feel Annette's strong grip still lingering on his hand. Sweat slicked his skin, gluing his shirt to his back, clinging onto his hair.
He ran straight up the porch steps and into the hall. He locked the door behind him and dropped onto the carpet tiredly. It made no sense to be so afraid of an old woman, but Sam had always prided himself on his near-perfect intuition. Something about Annette had chilled his spine worse than the empty house did.
Glancing up at the empty hall, up the deserted stairs, he felt the weight of loneliness on him like a ton of bricks. And he felt fear in his belly like fire tickling at his insides, ready to rise and swallow him up. He needed his dad. He needed Dean. He needed to be anywhere but there.
There was a huge feeling of badwrongdangerous blaring in his mind. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't put his finger on what precisely frightened him. Was is really Annette? Or was it the way she'd looked at the house once he'd told her that was where he lived?
Either way, he was feeling skittish as a trapped animal and he couldn't tell exactly why.
He managed to peel himself from the carpet and make his way into the kitchen. He turned on the tap and filled up a glass of water. He swallowed it in one go and went back to fill it again. He paused, noticing the reflection in the window above the sink.
There was someone behind him. A child. A twisted face, mouth stretched open, eyes blank and empty…
He spun around, glass slipping from his grip and smashing on the tile floor. There was no one there. Nothing but the drip drip drip of the broken tap behind him. Sam made a dash for the cupboard and grabbed a box of salt. He held it close to his chest and made a run for the stairs.
He made it to his father's room and closed the door behind himself. An EMF meter was lying on the bedside table, it lit up faintly. Sam didn't know if he should be relieved or afraid. There was a ghost in the house, he knew that for sure now, but he had never put a spirit to rest on his own before.
Ghosts could get nasty, especially if they were vengeful. Sam remembered the horrific expression on the spirit's face and decided that, yes, the ghost was definitely vengeful. He kept the salt in one hand and used the other to look through his dad's drawers. In a jacket pocket he found exactly what he needed.
Sam flipped open the spare cell and dialled his dad's number by heart. He was greeted by voicemail. The same happened with Dean.
Terrible thoughts flooded his mind. Why aren't they answering? Are they hurt? Are they dead?
Who will help me?
Sam could shoot a werewolf straight through the heart on a good day, he could probably salt and burn bones no problem by himself for the first time right now. But he'd never get used to it. He'd never not be afraid of this.
He turned back to the door, deciding that he'd take his chances walking the two hours it took to get into town. Anywhere would be better than being alone with a ghost in a crooked old house.
She was in the doorway. If it weren't for the pigtails and the skirt, Sam wouldn't have known if she was a girl. Her face was white, too white. Her mouth was open, too wide like her jaw was snapped. But her eyes. They were just empty sockets. Black voids.
She shrieked and came forwards, limbs clicking and twisting like they were broken. She half-crawled towards him and Sam was so afraid he momentarily forgot about the salt in his hand. Then she was on him, her mouth right over his face, screaming. She gripped his arms and he felt his skin go ice cold. His fingers were stiff as he tried to reach for the box of salt.
There was a sharp bang and the ghost girl was gone. Sam was showered with shards of salt and he sat up, trembling. His brother and father stood in the doorway; John held a shotgun, Dean was behind, wide-eyed.
Sam gulped and pushed himself to his feet. "Dean, can I sleep in your room tonight?"
Dean paced the kitchen floor. Sam watched him, eyes moving back and forth. It was dark outside the window. The moon shone at its fullest, hanging in the sky, watching. Dean paused in his pacing, swinging his shotgun at his side.
"Shouldn't Dad be back by now?" he asked.
Sam shrugged. "I dunno. How long does it take to dig up a grave on your own?" he wondered. The question was a serious one but Dean scowled at Sam like he was being sarcastic. He went back to pacing.
Sam sighed. "Dean, would you quit it?" he said. Dean stopped and dropped into a kitchen chair, gun resting on the table in front of him. "What's up with you?" Sam asked.
Dean glanced at Sam, brow furrowed worriedly. "Sammy, I'm so sorry."
Sam blinked. "What? Why?"
"I'm supposed to look out for you," Dean said. "And I left you with a freaking ghost. If me and Dad had been back a second later…"
"But you were back," Sam interrupted. "And now Dad's going to burn the bones. The whole thing will be over by midnight. Then we can move on to somewhere else."
"Not until we finish the hunt."
Sam frowned. "The ghost girl wasn't the hunt?"
"Nope. She was just a bonus," Dean replied. He grinned a little. "Count on us to move into a haunted house, huh?"
Sam wasn't listening, his mind was further back in the conversation. "Wait. So this ghost isn't to do with the hunt?"
"Nope," Dean answers as he checks the gun's barrel.
"How did she die?"
"Dad looked up the house records real quick. Some girl fell down the stairs here like a hundred years ago. Just a regular kind of death that turned into a vengeful spirit."
"So…" Sam ventured. "What are you and Dad hunting?"
"Top secret info, Sammy," Dean replied.
Sam groaned. "Is it seriously that bad?"
Dean shrugged. "No worse than what we normally do. The job is just harder. It's gonna take longer. Maybe Dad just doesn't think you're ready for such a big case."
"But that's not fair, you can't - "
But Dean wasn't listening. He was up on his feet, quick as a flash, aiming the gun into the hallway. Sam just turned around in time to catch a glimpse of the ghost girl before she evaporated in a shower of rock salt.
Dean dropped back into his seat. "She's kinda slow," he said. "She doesn't turn up that often, or come at us too fast, if at all." He shrugged and kicked his feet up onto the table. I guess Dad's not done with the bones yet."
The two of them waited for another hour. The ghost didn't show up again. By the time their Dad came through the door he was covered in dirt. He nodded at them when he entered the kitchen and dropped a greasy paper bag onto the table.
"Ghost should be gone by now," he announced. He sat by Sam and reached out to ruffled his hair softly. Sam wasn't even bothered about getting grave dirt in his hair.
John pointed to the bag. "Picked up some dinner on the way back. I think we should eat up, then head to bed."
Sam mostly picked at his food. His stomach felt queasy and the thought of consuming a burger that size only made him want to gag. Dean, however, was more than happy to take Sam's leftovers. He even drank both cups of soda fast enough to make Sam dizzy.
Sam followed Dean up to bed and lingered in the doorway. Dean paused in changing his clothes and looked at Sam. He sighed.
"You can stay in here tonight," he answered Sam's unasked question. Sam tried to not run too fast up to the attic room to change into his pyjamas. The great big emptiness of the room made him feel uneasy and he was back in Dean's room in under a minute.
Sam curled up tight under Dean's blanket, despite the heat. Dean was flopped out beside him, drifting off on top of the covers, bare-chested and already sweating. Sam kept his eyes wide open, watching the end of the hall where he'd seen the ghost the night before.
The ghost is gone.
Go to sleep and stop being a wuss.
At some point Sam must have slipped away into sleep. He didn't know he'd been sleeping at all until he felt the weight disappear on the mattress beside him, and he opened his eyes to find the clock displaying that it was 2am. Dean sat at the edge of the bed, slumped forward tiredly. He got to his feet, a little unsteady in the dark, and felt his way over to the door.
"Dean?" Sam whispered. Dean paused and turned. Sam could just about see the slight whites of his sleepy eyes in the moonlight.
"Just going to take a leak," Dean told him groggily. And he stumbled off down the hall, no doubt more asleep than awake.
Sam settled back into the pillows. Despite the almost unbearable heat under the covers, Sam remained, heart pounding. He couldn't for the life of him put his finger on what frightened him. He hadn't been afraid of the dark since he was ten years old. He'd been hunting monsters since he was nine. Why on earth was he shaking like he was some regular kid, afraid of the monster under his bed?
He felt a chill on his skin and let out a frigid breath. The room was icy. He could see cold fog climbing the glass of the windows, clouding the moonlit darkness outside. Sam sat up, keeping the covers wrapped around his shoulders. He flitted his gaze around the dark room, hands reaching out for any of the weapons Dean usually kept close at night.
"Dean!" he yelled, as loud as he could.
She was there. It was the same ghost, standing at the foot of the bed. Sam stared at her grotesquely twisted mouth and her dark, empty eyes, unable to look away. He almost slipped as he scrambled desperately off the bed and into the corner.
He stayed there, back pressed to the wall, and yelled again, "DEAN!"
She wasn't moving. She was just staring at him, Sam realised. The ghost wasn't coming for him, instead she pointed. Sam followed the direction of her finger. She pointed under the bed.
"What do you want?" Sam asked, shivering in the cold. His teeth were beginning to chatter, rattling his skull.
The ghost kept pointing. Then she stopped and she raised her white hands to her face and buried herself in them. Sam frowned as he realised she was crying.
"Sam!" he could hear Dean running down the hall. He could see him coming for him. The bedroom door slammed shut and the room went dark, the hallway light was shut out. The door rattled frantically, Dean's voice bellowing Sam's name on the other side. He could hear his dad, too.
Something shifted in the shadows under the bed and Sam pressed himself further into the wall, as if he hoped he might sink through it. There was a scratching sound, a clicking, the huff of hot breath.
Then he saw it. He saw the barest hint of its skin under the moonlight as it came crawling out from under the bed. In the dark, Sam could hardly make out more than the shape of it where it was crouched by the bed, hunched and shifting. It seemed no bigger than Sam himself, but then it stood on thin legs and rose up and up.
And Sam looked into its face.
"Oh God," he whispered, he barely heard his own voice over the rushing in his ears. And he couldn't move, he couldn't make another sound, gripped too tightly with fear.
He felt cold flesh on the skin of his ankle and he was falling, smacking his head on the hardwood. He felt his body scrape along the floor as he was pulled under the bed, his fingers scrambled to find something to hold onto.
Then, there was nothing but the Dark.
Next
Dean - June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
Dean trails his fingers along the cracks on the surface of the kitchen table and listens. He can hear Jim's voice, muffled and soft, coming from upstairs. It tightens his chest and lodges something in his throat, knowing that Jim is the one up there with Sam and Dean isn't.
Dean hasn't been there for Sam in a long time, he knows that. He knows it's his fault that things are like this between them. And that only makes it more painful.
Does Sam even want Dean around? If he did, he certainly won't now. Not after Dean just traumatised his already traumatised kid brother.
God. He needs coffee. And a little whiskey.
He needs to find his dad.
The floorboards creek overhead and Dean sits up straighter, watching the door until Jim comes around the corner. The pastor's lips are pressed into a thin line; his eyes are narrowed. Dean has always been impressed with how Jim manages to be angry in the quietest possible way.
"I think it's best we don't talk of that with Sam again," he says sharply. "I know you want to find John. I do, too, and I'll pray every day until he's found, but this is not something Sam can be involved in. Your best bet at finding your father is working with another hunter. I'm sure Caleb would be more than willing to help. Bobby, too, despite his current relationship with John."
Jim looks him sternly in the eye until Dean has to look away.
"I just need information from Sam," Dean says, looking at the counter Jim is leaning on. He sighs and looks up to meet the pastor's eyes. "Has he ever told you anything about what happened?"
Jim shakes his head slowly, his expression softens. "I had thought, once, that it would help Sam to talk about it. Of course, he wasn't talking so I gave him some paper and a pen. I tried for months and months, so did the therapist, but Sam wouldn't say a word. Not even on paper. Any time we tried to coax something from him, he would… break down. I think that's the best word for it."
Dean had seen plenty of Sam's breakdowns before they'd finally decided to leave him with Jim. There were countless motels rooms they would never get their deposits back from.
Dean glances down to the table where Sam's notebook lies closed.
"You never read this?" Dean asks. Jim moves away from the counter and takes a seat next to him.
"I was just pleased he was writing at all. He hadn't made any attempts to speak before… I thought it would be best to be patient and give him space."
Dean pushes the book over to Jim. "Either Sam is crazier than I thought, or he really does know something about Dad."
Jim frowns at him, then looks away, down to the notebook. He lifts the cover and scans the first page. His frown returns to his face and he glances briefly at Dean. Dean watches him flip through, faster as he goes. Finally, he closes the book and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I'd thought he was improving. He'd had fewer outbursts, he was working in the garden, he even came to church with me a few times. I should've known," he mutters, "that keeping those secrets to himself is hurting him."
Dean leans forward. "I know he's scared, but don't you get why I need him to tell me what happened? Something horrible happened to my little brother and I had no idea until it was too late. I still don't know what happened to him. I don't know what took him. I was supposed to look out for him, Jim."
Jim smiles softly and places a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."
"I was supposed to look out for him," Dean says again. He drops his head and stares at the bruises on his knuckles, the cracked nail on his left thumb.
"He's alive, Dean," Jims says. "That's because of you."
Dean snorts. "Me? The kid saved himself. I was just there."
Jim doesn't answer that. Instead, he says, "Sam knows what you need to know, but I don't think he'll tell you."
"But it's Dad. That has to mean something to Sam."
Jim says, "It means everything to him. Dean, have you considered that Sam wants to help, he just can't?"
Dean furrows his brow. "How do you mean?"
Jim folds his hands in front of him on the table. "Sam has been scarred deeply. He's wounded emotionally and psychologically. Believe it or not, those wounds are the same as physical ones. If you broke your leg, could you run on it?"
"No…" Dean answers hesitantly, confused.
"Exactly. Something is broken in Sam, do you expect him to run?"
Sam - 8th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
The Impala kicked up a storm of dust on its way down the driveway. Sam sat on the porch and watched the car turn around the corner and out of sight, taking his dad and brother with it. He sighed and fiddled with a loose screw on the porch railing, feeling the summer heat settle onto his skin.
The house seemed bigger with no one else around. He glanced back, through the open door and into the empty hallway, and pondered last night's dream.
Because it had to have been a dream.
He'd checked with his dad that morning and been assured that the whole house was safely warded. John had searched every inch of the place himself and it came up clean. No ghosts, ghouls, monsters or anything of the sort.
Still, Sam felt the skin on his arms prickle up despite the summer heat.
He looked away, over to a pasture to the right of the house. A short distance away, he could see the gleam of a lake. With so much time alone he might as well make use of it. Sam picked up his backpack from the step next to him and closed the front door behind him. He climbed over the fence into the field and set off.
The grass crunched beneath his sneakers, brown and dry from the heat. He could hear crickets making noise nearby, something whizzed by his ear with a loud buzz, the sun beat down on him. Sam trudged on, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun.
The pond was bigger than he'd expected, and it was clean enough that he could see the bottom of the pool. Tadpoles zipped around in the shallows and tickled his toes when he dipped his feet in. The water was perfectly cool. Sam pulled a towel from his bag and hung it over a nearby tree branch, then he stripped down and waded in.
He spied a tire swing on the opposite side and swam over to get a better look. The rope seemed intact, the branch it hung from seemed sturdy enough. He'd tell Dean about it later and maybe they could come back… if Dean wasn't busy, that is.
Sam paddled around a bit, enjoying the cool water, splashing about and inspecting fish that were brave enough to swim by. He paddled back to the shore to find his watch. Two hours had passed. His brother and dad said they'd be back for dinner which meant it was more likely they'd be back by midnight.
He towelled himself off and re-dressed before heading off again, this time in the direction of a house down the hill. Maybe he could introduce himself to the neighbours. Maybe he was just that bored.
He found an elderly woman in the garden. Despite the dry heat, her flowers were green and blooming. She looked up and smiled, dark skin crinkling around her mouth.
"Don't get many visitors up here," she said, placing a watering can down on the ground. "And who might you be?"
Sam stepped up to the gate and held out his hand for the woman to shake. She took it; her hand was warm and her fingers were covered in soil. "My name is Sam, Ma'am. Me and my family just moved into the house over there."
Sam pointed in the direction. From there, the house was the size of his thumb. The old woman stared at the house for a long moment, expressionless. She pasted on a smile and turned back to Sam.
"Would you like to come in, dear?"
A moment later Sam was sitting on her porch with an iced tea in hand. He sipped it appreciatively. The woman, Annette, sat beside him and fanned herself.
"Where did you move from?" she asked.
"We were staying at my uncle's up in South Dakota," Sam replied after another drink.
"This heat must be shock for you," Annette commented. "I've lived here all my life and I still think it's too damn hot."
Sam chuckled and Annette smiled. "Sam, how old are you?" she asked.
"Turned thirteen last month."
Annette nodded to herself, her expression falling. "Sam, I - "
She began to speak, but quickly halted herself. She turned a little in her seat and placed a wrinkled hand over Sam's.
"Watch out for yourself," she finally said. "I saw a car leave your drive this morning so I'm guessin' you're by yourself."
Sam shrugged. "It's okay. I know how to take care of myself."
Annette smiled a little. "I'm sure you can, sweetie. Just keep yourself safe, is what I'm saying. Things can be dangerous this far out into the country."
Sam frowned. "What do you mean?"
"How about when you're on your own at home, you come here to spend the day with me?" Annette quickly changed the subject. "That way, we can keep each other company 'til your family comes home. It would put my mind at ease to know you're not by yourself."
That sweet smile was still there on her face but the grip she had on Sam's hand was almost painfully tight. Her eyes were strained, unblinking.
Sam swallowed and tried to ease his hand away. "I'm not sure…" he hedged, looking away. "I'd have to ask my dad. Actually, I'll have to be heading home soon."
Sam slipped off the porch seat and scooped up his back pack. He handed the glass back to Annette and stepped back. "Thank you for the tea, ma'am," Sam said, already halfway through the garden. "Goodbye!"
He stepped through the gate and walked back across the field at a hurried pace.
"You be careful, Sam!" Annette called after him. "You watch yourself!"
Sam didn't bother looking back. He kept his eyes forward and ran.
Dean - June 2000, Blue Earth, Minnesota
He spends the night at Jim's. The two of them sit through a silent dinner of vegetable soup and home-made bread. Despite Jim's kind words earlier, Dean can feel the irritation coming off him. Jim is quiet about his emotions, but those tired sighs and disapproving glares say a lot.
Thanks for fucking everything up. But Sam isn't Jim's responsibility. Sam is Dean's responsibility. But does Dean even have the right anymore?
Dean hasn't seen Sam since his little brother tackled him to the ground that afternoon. For someone so skinny, he sure can hold his own in a fight. But he won't come down to eat. He won't leave his room. Dean doesn't blame him when he'd acted like such an ass. He can't just turn up only once in a while and ask for something so big.
Dean rubs a hand against his eye. God, when did things become so screwed up? He was supposed to look out for Sam. He hasn't looked out for Sam in a long time. Not really.
Look out for Sammy.
"You're thinking very loudly," Jim comments. Dean startles and realises the kitchen table has been cleared. Jim is at the sink, washing dishes. He pauses and holds out a towel for Dean.
Jim washes, Dean dries. Neither of them talk.
An hour or so later finds Dean alone in the kitchen, sipping some cheap whiskey he'd picked up at a liquor store. Jim went to bed, and now the house is eerily quiet. There's a pillow and some blankets laid out on the couch for Dean, but he's not tired. Every time he tries to close his eyes he starts to think about his dad.
Dean takes another sip of alcohol and grabs Sam's notebook from where he left it by his duffel.
She'll be hungry again.
That tells him something. Whatever this monster is, it's apparently a she-bitch. Witch? Banshee? Vetala?
A witch is a possibility. Since they're human, they wouldn't be picked up by EMF. But what would a witch have wanted with a thirteen-year-old boy? How could a witch hide from two hunters in the same house?
Banshee. Not likely. Banshees don't take prey. They scream, they feed. End of. Sam would have been dead straight off the bat.
Vetala? Also unlikely. Vetala feed three times before the victim is killed. After a two months, Sam would have been dead. Besides, there were no bite marks to be found on Sam's skin.
Dean closes his eyes and tries to think back. At the time, he hadn't tried to catch all the details, he'd been too busy trying to calm down a seriously traumatised Sam. It's a good thing his dad never leaves a single stone unturned. There's about half of a page in John's journal documenting Sam's reappearance. Dean had found his dad's journal in the truck when he'd gone to Georgia to find him.
He flicks through it and finds the right page.
August 15th '97 - Sammy
Sam wandered out from the house four hours after Dean and I arrived. Both of us checked every inch of house on arrival and found nothing (creature's nest hidden?) He won't speak, showing signs of shock, malnourishment, dehydration. Collapses and is taken to Joshua for treatment.
August 16th
Sam is still unconscious. Josh found bruising around his wrists and ankles (likely bound) and bruising and scratches on other parts of body, mainly back and shoulders (claws?). No signs of bite marks. No severe blood loss. Missing patches of hair at front, likely pulled out.
August 17th
Sammy woke up. Still won't talk. Possibly catatonic.
October '97
Noticed hair re-growth at front of scalp. New hair is white. Checked with Josh - he says white hair caused by shock is a myth. Sam still won't talk.
That's it.
Dean thinks that John documented more but decided to store the information elsewhere. Dean blows out a breath. His dad's need-to-know basis is really beginning to piss him off.
There are only two people who can help him with this hunt. One of them is missing. The other won't talk. Dean sighs and pours another glass of whiskey, he's about to knock it back in one go when he notices Sam standing in the doorway.
"Uh, hey," Dean says. He places the glass back on the table. Sam is still as a statue, if you ignore the shaky hands. Dean's beginning to wonder if he should fetch Jim, but Sam takes a deep inhale and sits down opposite. He places a pen and a piece of paper on the table in front of him and looks Dean in the eye.
Dean swallows, hope bubbling in his gut. "Sammy…"
Sam shakes his head, ignoring him, and picks up the pen. He leans over and spends a minute or so trying to write and keep his head steady at the same time. Dean can't see what's being written; Sam's bent so far over that his hair blocks the view.
Without looking up, Sam slides the paper over. Dean looks down and reads.
Dad won't be dead yet.
Dean reads and re-reads, then he looks back to Sam with surprise. "What has him, Sammy?"
Still looking down at the table top, Sam reaches out and pulls the paper back towards him. He scribbles something else out and shows it to Dean.
Something bad.
Dean bites the inside of his cheek. He knows pushing Sam won't help either of them, but he's growing impatient. "Could you be more specific?"
Sam shoots him a glare and writes something else.
I don't know what She is.
"How do you know it's a she?" Dean asks. Sam shrugs. He leans forwards and writes something else.
She doesn't want dad. Dad is bait.
"For who?" But Dean has a feeling he already knows. Sam's face is sagging miserably; he looks on the verge of tears as he gestures to himself. He writes again.
She doesn't like us getting away. She likes to keep us.
Dean stares at the paper for a long moment. When he looks back up, Sam is crying. Sam hastily wipes at his eyes, his face turning pink. He grabs the paper out of Dean's hand again and writes one last time. He holds it up for Dean to see.
You won't find dad without me. She'll only come out if I'm there.
"Sammy, you want to come?" Dean asks, confused.
Sam shakes his head.
Dean understands. "You have to come," he says. He watches Sam for a moment. He sees his brother's pale skin crinkling around his eyes like paper as he sobs quietly to himself. Dean watches Sam and feels miles away from him.
He pushes out of his seat and rounds the table, kneeling by Sam's side. Sam gulps back another sob and looks at Dean, brow furrowed curiously. Dean reaches out and pulls Sam into his arms, gently pushing his head to rest on his shoulder. Sam is stiff for a moment and Dean wonders if he'll pull away, but Sam sinks into it and lets his tears fall.
Sam - 8th June 1996, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.
He was panting, breaths heaving in and out painfully, by the time he made it back to the house. He could still feel Annette's strong grip still lingering on his hand. Sweat slicked his skin, gluing his shirt to his back, clinging onto his hair.
He ran straight up the porch steps and into the hall. He locked the door behind him and dropped onto the carpet tiredly. It made no sense to be so afraid of an old woman, but Sam had always prided himself on his near-perfect intuition. Something about Annette had chilled his spine worse than the empty house did.
Glancing up at the empty hall, up the deserted stairs, he felt the weight of loneliness on him like a ton of bricks. And he felt fear in his belly like fire tickling at his insides, ready to rise and swallow him up. He needed his dad. He needed Dean. He needed to be anywhere but there.
There was a huge feeling of badwrongdangerous blaring in his mind. But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't put his finger on what precisely frightened him. Was is really Annette? Or was it the way she'd looked at the house once he'd told her that was where he lived?
Either way, he was feeling skittish as a trapped animal and he couldn't tell exactly why.
He managed to peel himself from the carpet and make his way into the kitchen. He turned on the tap and filled up a glass of water. He swallowed it in one go and went back to fill it again. He paused, noticing the reflection in the window above the sink.
There was someone behind him. A child. A twisted face, mouth stretched open, eyes blank and empty…
He spun around, glass slipping from his grip and smashing on the tile floor. There was no one there. Nothing but the drip drip drip of the broken tap behind him. Sam made a dash for the cupboard and grabbed a box of salt. He held it close to his chest and made a run for the stairs.
He made it to his father's room and closed the door behind himself. An EMF meter was lying on the bedside table, it lit up faintly. Sam didn't know if he should be relieved or afraid. There was a ghost in the house, he knew that for sure now, but he had never put a spirit to rest on his own before.
Ghosts could get nasty, especially if they were vengeful. Sam remembered the horrific expression on the spirit's face and decided that, yes, the ghost was definitely vengeful. He kept the salt in one hand and used the other to look through his dad's drawers. In a jacket pocket he found exactly what he needed.
Sam flipped open the spare cell and dialled his dad's number by heart. He was greeted by voicemail. The same happened with Dean.
Terrible thoughts flooded his mind. Why aren't they answering? Are they hurt? Are they dead?
Who will help me?
Sam could shoot a werewolf straight through the heart on a good day, he could probably salt and burn bones no problem by himself for the first time right now. But he'd never get used to it. He'd never not be afraid of this.
He turned back to the door, deciding that he'd take his chances walking the two hours it took to get into town. Anywhere would be better than being alone with a ghost in a crooked old house.
She was in the doorway. If it weren't for the pigtails and the skirt, Sam wouldn't have known if she was a girl. Her face was white, too white. Her mouth was open, too wide like her jaw was snapped. But her eyes. They were just empty sockets. Black voids.
She shrieked and came forwards, limbs clicking and twisting like they were broken. She half-crawled towards him and Sam was so afraid he momentarily forgot about the salt in his hand. Then she was on him, her mouth right over his face, screaming. She gripped his arms and he felt his skin go ice cold. His fingers were stiff as he tried to reach for the box of salt.
There was a sharp bang and the ghost girl was gone. Sam was showered with shards of salt and he sat up, trembling. His brother and father stood in the doorway; John held a shotgun, Dean was behind, wide-eyed.
Sam gulped and pushed himself to his feet. "Dean, can I sleep in your room tonight?"
Dean paced the kitchen floor. Sam watched him, eyes moving back and forth. It was dark outside the window. The moon shone at its fullest, hanging in the sky, watching. Dean paused in his pacing, swinging his shotgun at his side.
"Shouldn't Dad be back by now?" he asked.
Sam shrugged. "I dunno. How long does it take to dig up a grave on your own?" he wondered. The question was a serious one but Dean scowled at Sam like he was being sarcastic. He went back to pacing.
Sam sighed. "Dean, would you quit it?" he said. Dean stopped and dropped into a kitchen chair, gun resting on the table in front of him. "What's up with you?" Sam asked.
Dean glanced at Sam, brow furrowed worriedly. "Sammy, I'm so sorry."
Sam blinked. "What? Why?"
"I'm supposed to look out for you," Dean said. "And I left you with a freaking ghost. If me and Dad had been back a second later…"
"But you were back," Sam interrupted. "And now Dad's going to burn the bones. The whole thing will be over by midnight. Then we can move on to somewhere else."
"Not until we finish the hunt."
Sam frowned. "The ghost girl wasn't the hunt?"
"Nope. She was just a bonus," Dean replied. He grinned a little. "Count on us to move into a haunted house, huh?"
Sam wasn't listening, his mind was further back in the conversation. "Wait. So this ghost isn't to do with the hunt?"
"Nope," Dean answers as he checks the gun's barrel.
"How did she die?"
"Dad looked up the house records real quick. Some girl fell down the stairs here like a hundred years ago. Just a regular kind of death that turned into a vengeful spirit."
"So…" Sam ventured. "What are you and Dad hunting?"
"Top secret info, Sammy," Dean replied.
Sam groaned. "Is it seriously that bad?"
Dean shrugged. "No worse than what we normally do. The job is just harder. It's gonna take longer. Maybe Dad just doesn't think you're ready for such a big case."
"But that's not fair, you can't - "
But Dean wasn't listening. He was up on his feet, quick as a flash, aiming the gun into the hallway. Sam just turned around in time to catch a glimpse of the ghost girl before she evaporated in a shower of rock salt.
Dean dropped back into his seat. "She's kinda slow," he said. "She doesn't turn up that often, or come at us too fast, if at all." He shrugged and kicked his feet up onto the table. I guess Dad's not done with the bones yet."
The two of them waited for another hour. The ghost didn't show up again. By the time their Dad came through the door he was covered in dirt. He nodded at them when he entered the kitchen and dropped a greasy paper bag onto the table.
"Ghost should be gone by now," he announced. He sat by Sam and reached out to ruffled his hair softly. Sam wasn't even bothered about getting grave dirt in his hair.
John pointed to the bag. "Picked up some dinner on the way back. I think we should eat up, then head to bed."
Sam mostly picked at his food. His stomach felt queasy and the thought of consuming a burger that size only made him want to gag. Dean, however, was more than happy to take Sam's leftovers. He even drank both cups of soda fast enough to make Sam dizzy.
Sam followed Dean up to bed and lingered in the doorway. Dean paused in changing his clothes and looked at Sam. He sighed.
"You can stay in here tonight," he answered Sam's unasked question. Sam tried to not run too fast up to the attic room to change into his pyjamas. The great big emptiness of the room made him feel uneasy and he was back in Dean's room in under a minute.
Sam curled up tight under Dean's blanket, despite the heat. Dean was flopped out beside him, drifting off on top of the covers, bare-chested and already sweating. Sam kept his eyes wide open, watching the end of the hall where he'd seen the ghost the night before.
The ghost is gone.
Go to sleep and stop being a wuss.
At some point Sam must have slipped away into sleep. He didn't know he'd been sleeping at all until he felt the weight disappear on the mattress beside him, and he opened his eyes to find the clock displaying that it was 2am. Dean sat at the edge of the bed, slumped forward tiredly. He got to his feet, a little unsteady in the dark, and felt his way over to the door.
"Dean?" Sam whispered. Dean paused and turned. Sam could just about see the slight whites of his sleepy eyes in the moonlight.
"Just going to take a leak," Dean told him groggily. And he stumbled off down the hall, no doubt more asleep than awake.
Sam settled back into the pillows. Despite the almost unbearable heat under the covers, Sam remained, heart pounding. He couldn't for the life of him put his finger on what frightened him. He hadn't been afraid of the dark since he was ten years old. He'd been hunting monsters since he was nine. Why on earth was he shaking like he was some regular kid, afraid of the monster under his bed?
He felt a chill on his skin and let out a frigid breath. The room was icy. He could see cold fog climbing the glass of the windows, clouding the moonlit darkness outside. Sam sat up, keeping the covers wrapped around his shoulders. He flitted his gaze around the dark room, hands reaching out for any of the weapons Dean usually kept close at night.
"Dean!" he yelled, as loud as he could.
She was there. It was the same ghost, standing at the foot of the bed. Sam stared at her grotesquely twisted mouth and her dark, empty eyes, unable to look away. He almost slipped as he scrambled desperately off the bed and into the corner.
He stayed there, back pressed to the wall, and yelled again, "DEAN!"
She wasn't moving. She was just staring at him, Sam realised. The ghost wasn't coming for him, instead she pointed. Sam followed the direction of her finger. She pointed under the bed.
"What do you want?" Sam asked, shivering in the cold. His teeth were beginning to chatter, rattling his skull.
The ghost kept pointing. Then she stopped and she raised her white hands to her face and buried herself in them. Sam frowned as he realised she was crying.
"Sam!" he could hear Dean running down the hall. He could see him coming for him. The bedroom door slammed shut and the room went dark, the hallway light was shut out. The door rattled frantically, Dean's voice bellowing Sam's name on the other side. He could hear his dad, too.
Something shifted in the shadows under the bed and Sam pressed himself further into the wall, as if he hoped he might sink through it. There was a scratching sound, a clicking, the huff of hot breath.
Then he saw it. He saw the barest hint of its skin under the moonlight as it came crawling out from under the bed. In the dark, Sam could hardly make out more than the shape of it where it was crouched by the bed, hunched and shifting. It seemed no bigger than Sam himself, but then it stood on thin legs and rose up and up.
And Sam looked into its face.
"Oh God," he whispered, he barely heard his own voice over the rushing in his ears. And he couldn't move, he couldn't make another sound, gripped too tightly with fear.
He felt cold flesh on the skin of his ankle and he was falling, smacking his head on the hardwood. He felt his body scrape along the floor as he was pulled under the bed, his fingers scrambled to find something to hold onto.
Then, there was nothing but the Dark.
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