my life's come off its tracks [spn][one]
one
“My dad said when moms forget how to be moms they disappear.”
It’s Stan talking. Sam’s only been at this school for a little while, but he still thinks Stan’s sort of stupid because he uses his fingers for the glue instead of a paintbrush and licks them afterwards. The teacher tells him not to every time, but he does it again and again and again. Sam guesses you have to be really stupid to not listen like that.
“Don’t lie,” says Amy. She’s coloring a tree orange. Max told her that trees weren’t orange, dumbhead, but Sam said that they were orange sometimes, like when it was fall, and then Max shut up.
Amy sounds a little scared, so Sam looks up from his ball of green Play-Doh.
“That’s what my dad said,” says Stan. He uncaps a blue marker and scribbles in a cloud. All the kids here do that - color the clouds blue and leave the sky white.
“Moms can’t forget how to be moms,” says Amy. “They - they - they have to be moms.”
“Yeah,” says Max. There’s a bird sitting on a rock in his picture, and a shield. Paper with words on it is coming out of the bird’s mouth.
Dad says Max in the kind of person who has an Opinion About Everything. Sam’s not sure what that means.
“It’s what my dad said,” Stan shrugs. He’s not looking at them, only at his paper. “It happened to my mom.”
“She disappeared?” asks Sam.
“Yeah,” Stan says. “She forgot how to be a mommy and then one day, she was just gone.”
Everyone’s quiet after that, even Max.
“My mommy wouldn’t forget,” Amy says softly.
“I never seen your mom, Sam,” says Max.
“She doesn’t like coming outside,” Sam says.
He squishes his Play-Doh between his fist and doesn’t say another word.
-
Sam asked Daddy once, why he and Dean didn’t have a mom. All the other kids that he’d met had one.
Daddy didn’t say anything at all for a long time, and then he finally said she went away, before getting up and getting a bottle out of the refrigerator. Dean took Sam away then, to play in the park behind the motel, and nobody said anything more about it.
Once after that though, Sam asked Dean if maybe their mom hadn’t liked him, and that’s why she was gone, but Dean had looked at him and said, “Don’t be stupid, Sam,” and sounded really angry, so Sam had stopped talking.
So he thinks, even though Stan is usually stupid, maybe Stan’s dad isn’t, and maybe Sam’s mom and Stan’s mom are the same.
Maybe Sam’s mom forgot how to be a mommy and disappeared and that’s why nobody talks about her anymore.
-
Sam made up a mommy once, when he was littler.
He did it a lot then - made things up. He used to have a friend named Mary too, because he liked that name and Dad was always saying it when he was sleeping.
Sam’s mom in his head was pretty. Really pretty. She had red hair and really green eyes, just like Dean’s. And she could sing and read stories and she would listen to Sam talking at night and not tell him to go to sleep, like Dean usually did. She liked the word “fascinating”. She would say it a lot.
Then once, Dean heard him. They had a big fight. Sam can remember crying a lot. He used to be a real crybaby then.
He told her to go away, after that.
She wasn’t as good as a real mommy, anyway.
-
It’s morning. It smells wet, because of the rain, and Sam takes a big huge breath when they step outside.
Dad’s holding two bags over his shoulder and Sam and Dean are carrying their backpacks. They’re walking to the car. It has rain drops all over it. The windows are foggy and Sam draws a circle on one while Dad stuffs the bags in the trunk and then goes around to unlock the car.
“Don’t do that Sammy,” Dean says, pulling Sam’s hand away from the window. Sam’s circle starts to cry, drops sliding down from it, to where the window meets the door. Sam leans closer, on his tiptoes, tries to see where the tears are going.
“C’mon boys,” Daddy says, and Dean pulls the backdoor open and gives Sam a push.
“Don’t,” Sam says, climbing in. Dean pushes Sam again.
“Dad!” says Sam.
“Dean,” comes Dad’s voice from the front.
Dean sighs as he slides into the car, mutters, “Twerp.”
That’s a new word Dean learned from Jackie, who was in the room next door at the motel. She’d messed up Sam’s hair when they first met and said, ‘Hey there, twerp,” and now Dean thinks it’s his word to use.
The car doors slam shut; the engine rumbles.
They’re moving again today.
Sam gets on his knees and turns around to watch the motel get farther and farther away in the back window, until Dean tugs at his pants and tells him to sit down.
-
“Echo, Minnesota,” Dad says.
“Echo, Minnesota,” Dean says, peering out the window.
“Echo, Minnesota!” Sam calls, trying to get a look out the window too, crawling all over Dean’s lap.
“Shut up, Sam,” says Dean, scowling at him. “And get off.” His hair’s standing up because he just woke up. He had a headache before; Dad made him take a nap. Sam scrambles to the other end of the seat and looks out that window instead.
There’s snow everywhere.
It’s only October. Minnesota is weird.
-
“We have a house?” Sam says, in awe.
“We have a house,” Dad agrees. He’s opening up the boot and pulling out their duffle bags. The car is ticking.
It’s a nice house. White with a green roof. There are big clumps of snow on top of it, but Sam can still tell it’s green. There’s a tree too, naked and bony. There are other houses on either side, which means they have neighbors.
They walk up to the door. There’s a sign next to it.
“What’s that say?” Sam asks.
“The Bakers,” Dean reads. “316 Newman Road.”
Dad says, “You’ll be starting school next year. Thought it’d be a good idea to stick to one place, for that. For awhile. This family’s going to be away for a couple of years; they let us rent the place out.”
“I’m already in school,” Sam says.
“You’re in preschool, doofus.” Dean flicks Sam on the ear. “Dad means real school.”
“Dean, don’t call your brother a doofus,” Dad warns.
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. He pushes Dean’s hand away when it comes up to flick his ear again.
-
The house has a kitchen and a living room and two bedrooms: one for Dad and one for Sam and Dean.
There’s already furniture inside it - a sofa and a TV and beds. There are curtains on the windows - they’re thin and a little scratchy and see-through blue. Dean takes one look at them, mutters, “Girly,” and moves away.
Sam thinks they’re sort of nice, but he looks at them, sing-songs, “Gir-ly,” and follows Dean.
-
It’s cold at night, even with the blankets over their heads.
Dean’s shivering; Sam can feel it through the mattress. He rolls over, onto Dean, to make him stop.
“Jeez, you dork,” Dean hisses, trying to push him off, but Sam just grabs on. He tangles his legs with Dean’s and Dean huffs.
“You’re such a freak,” he mutters.
“Meanie,” Sam whispers.
“Freak, freak, Sammy-freak.”
Sam’s throat goes tight. He thinks about crying, but decides to poke a finger in Dean’s side instead.
Dean jerks, wriggles. Tries to heave Sam off.
Sam curls a hand in Dean’s t-shirt and pokes again and again. Dean takes a huge breath between laughs and says, “Stop or I’ll tell Dad!” so Sam stops, goes limp and heavy on Dean’s chest.
“I got a loser for a brother,” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear.
“Me too,” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t try to push Sam off after that. He stops shivering after a while too.
Sam falls asleep with his head on Dean’s shoulder and Dean’s arms all around him, like an octopus’s.
-
He dreams of monsters and fire.
When he wakes up, he’s crying, and the fire’s still there, underneath him. It sucks away his tears, burns them up.
He lifts his head off Dean’s chest. Dean’s shirt sticks to his ear a little; the cloth is wet. From crying, Sam thinks first, but Dean’s face is wet too, sweaty.
Sam sits up. The blanket falls off. The air is cold. Sam shakes his brother.
“Dean?” he says. “Dean?”
Dean mumbles something, but doesn’t wake. Tugs at the neck of his tee like it’s too tight.
Sam runs to get Daddy.
-
Dad’s not in his room.
He’s not in any of the other rooms either.
“Dad?” he yells, padding through the house in bare feet, feeling the cold against the bottoms of his toes.
There’s no answer. He ends up standing in the middle of the living room, feeling tiny, like an ant. Feeling like anyone’s shoe could just come - out of nowhere. Crush him.
“Daddy?” he whispers, and there’s still nothing.
Sam’s heart starts going so fast it hurts.
-
This happened once before. He thinks, at least. He thinks it happened.
They left him. At Uncle Bobby’s. Daddy and Dean. Went away somewhere, together, and left him at Uncle Bobby’s.
Sam thought they’d left him forever, gone away without him.
He ran away, ran outside, to try and catch them, but it was so far, too far.
He ran fast, faster than he ever had, like light-speed fast, but even that wasn’t enough. So he sat down against a car in Uncle Bobby’s yard and stared around. Uncle Bobby had a lot of cars. Sam didn’t know why someone needed all those cars. Maybe Uncle Bobby would give him one and then he could go - go and find Daddy and Dean.
He felt empty and scared and he thought maybe he’d feel like that forever and that made him even more scared, until he couldn’t even breathe. He tried to think of where he’d go if there was no one but him and then he couldn’t think at all.
He fell asleep and when he woke up, he heard Uncle Bobby yelling for him, sounding - sounding scary and mad. Sam stood up and Uncle Bobby was there, like magic, grabbing him, hauling him up and saying, “Christ, Jesus fucking Christ! Don’t you ever do that again, boy, you hear me? Don’t you ever do that again!” He was so mad. It went on and on, the shouting and shaking, until Sam started crying and then Uncle Bobby hugged Sam to his chest and they went inside to have a cup of coffee.
Sam wasn’t allowed to drink coffee, but Uncle Bobby said as long as he didn’t tell Daddy it was okay.
Dad and Dean came back the next day.
“You dope,” Dean said later on, under the tent of blankets on the couch, which was also their bed. “You dopey dope. Why would we leave you? Why would we ever leave you?”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno.” He was mumbling like Dad always told him not to.
Dean sighed and said, “Look. I promise we’re not going to leave. We just went to… the doctor.”
“Oh,” said Sam.
Then Dean said, “No one else would want you anyway,” and wiggled his fingers under Sam’s arms until Daddy’s voice came from above them somewhere and told them to settle down and go to sleep.
-
He twists the bottom of his shirt in his hands. Cold air hits his tummy.
He sucks on his lips. Maybe Dad’s outside? He runs to the window and peers out, but it’s white, white all over.
He sucks in a breath and yells, as loud as he can, “DAD!”
He yells it until all the air is gone out of him.
Dean comes tripping out of their room, into the hallway, feet thumping on the carpet. He’s got something in his hand. His hair’s standing up and his eyes are red where they’re supposed to be white.
“What’s wrong with you, you idiot?!” he says, when he’s done looking all around the room with wide, wide eyes. He lets go of what he’s holding, drops it behind the couch, but Sam’s seen it already, knows what it is. A gun. Sam asked Dean why he had it once, and Dean said it was for protection. He’s not allowed to touch Dean’s gun though, only the BB gun Daddy gave him for his last birthday and only when Daddy is around to watch him.
“Dad’s gone,” Sam says.
Dean sighs then, loud. “Dad went to work last night. He told us, remember?”
Sam does remember, then. Also realizes suddenly, that he could have kept poking Dean last night, because Dad was already gone. He frowns, and then Dean says, “Oh.”
Sam looks up, just as Dean leans over, one hand on the couch and throws up all over the carpet.
-
Dean throws up again, right there, and Sam doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to get close.
But Dad will be angry if there’s a mess, so Sam moves. Goes and takes Dean’s hand. Dean tightens his fingers on the couch and groans, bends over a little again. He’s white, really white.
Sam tugs. “Dean. We have to go to the bathroom.”
This time, when he pulls on Dean’s hand, Dean stumbles forward, and Sam hurries as fast as he can to the bathroom.
He lifts up the toilet lid. Dean falls to his knees, grabs the edges of the toilet bowl. Shakes and throws up some more. Shakes and shakes. His arms are rattling like they’re loose and might fall out. Sam puts his hand on one of them, to make sure it doesn’t. There are little bumps all up and down the skin there, and on the back of Dean’s neck too, and he’s still sweating.
Dean gasps. Makes a choking sound once more and then gasps again. Rests his head on one of his hands.
“Dean?” Sam says.
“Need some water,” Dean mumbles, so Sam goes to the sink. It’s almost too tall, but he pushes himself up as far as he can go on his toes, manages to turn the tap and fill a glass. He almost drops it as he’s handing it over to Dean. Almost, but doesn’t.
“I didn’t drop it,” he says. Dean sucks at the glass and doesn’t reply to that. Swills some water in his mouth and spits.
“Are you done puking?” Sam asks.
Dean thinks about it. “Yes,” he says. He stands up, shakily, and fills the glass at the sink again.
“What do we do now?” says Sam.
Dean just sets the glass back down with a clunk and walks out of the bathroom.
Sam follows him.
-
Dean falls back into bed, under the blankets. Rolls up into a ball.
Sam climbs up and sits next to the Dean-mountain. Watches it move up and down, up and down.
There’s a chair sitting next to the window. Dean’s jacket is hanging off of it. Sam jumps off the bed, gets the jacket and drapes it over the Dean-mountain.
Crawls under the blankets himself to make a Sam-mountain, because even mountains need brothers.
-
“Are you sick?” Sam whispers.
“Mmm,” Dean murmurs, but it doesn’t sound like a “yes” mmm.
Sam stays quiet after that. Puts a hand in front of his mouth and feels his breath. It’s hot. The air under the blanket is all hot. Sam’s pajama-bottoms are sticking to the backs of his knees, where his legs are bent. He looks at Dean, Dean’s closed eyes.
Dean was sick before too. Before they moved here. He skipped two days of school.
Sam doesn’t know what you do when people are sick. It scares him, like the monsters in his dreams.
-
Sam’s growling stomach wakes him up. He pokes his head out of the nest of blankets. The room’s brighter than it was before, sun streaming right through the window. He pulls his head back in.
“Dean?”
He nudges Dean’s side with his knee. “Dean? Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean-” More nudging.
“Uh,” says Dean. His eyes peel open slowly and he glares at Sam. “Fuck,” he says.
Sam feels his eyes pop. “You said the f-word! Dad’s gonna be maaaaad.”
That seems to wake Dean up more. “Is Dad back?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn’t matter,” Dean replies, closing his eyes again. “Fuck.”
“You said it again!” Sam shrieks. Then he goes quiet. Forgets his hungry tummy. Dean looks... tired. Really tired.
“Do you need medicine?” Sam asks.
Eyes open again. “Maybe.”
Sam twists the bed sheet between his fingers, waiting for something more. Rolls onto his back and watches Dean. “Should I get it?”
Dean’s lips twitch, like he’s thinking about it. His forehead wrinkles a little. Sam pokes at it, and Dean bats his finger away. “Stop that. Okay. Go get the first aid kit.”
“Okay,” says Sam, and throws the blanket off, jumps off the bed and lands with a thump. He runs to Dad’s room. Run’s back to his room.
“Dean?”
The Dean-mountain grunts.
“What’s it look like?”
“Red cross. Red - like an X. White box, red X, okay?”
Sam runs back to Dad’s room. There’s a bag sitting there and he plops down next to it, unzips it. Digs around for a moment. There’s a gun in there; Sam makes sure not to even put a finger on it. Dad said that he’d know if Sam did and Sam would be in Big Trouble - which Dean said meant Dad would cut all his fingers off. Sam likes his fingers, so he stays away from the gun.
He sees the white box with the red cross on it. Spots the small green pack where Dad keeps his compass. Dad never said Sam couldn’t touch his compass. It’s a really cool compass too. He reaches for the bag-
“SAM!”
Oh, right. Sam grabs the first aid kit and hurries back to Dean.
“Here,” he says, climbing back on the bed, and Dean rises from inside the blankets like a wave. He pulls the box towards him, flips it open and rifles around in it. Sam scoots forward. Scoots forward some more, until his knees are pressed against Dean’s thigh.
“Can I look?” he asks.
“No,” Dean says. He pulls out a red box with big yellow letters on it. Pulls out a folded up piece of paper from it. The paper crinkles as it unwraps. Dean squints, starts to read, in his heart like a grown-up.
Quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet.
“What does it say?” Sam whispers.
“Shh,” Dean snaps. His eyes are all red. They look heavy too, like it’s hard to keep them open.
Sam chews on his cheeks and then slowly reaches for a box in the kit, keeping an eye on Dean. Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t stop him, so he pulls the box out, unfolds a similar piece of paper. Narrows his eyes at the letters.
After awhile, Dean sighs and sets his paper down. Glances at Sam. Sam can see it, out of the corner of his eye. He stares harder at his paper.
“What does yours say?” Dean asks conversationally.
Sam brings a finger up to the page, scrunches up his nose. “Sam. Winchester. Is. The. Bestest.”
Dean snorts. “Does not!”
“Yeah, yeah, it does!” Sam says, standing up on the mattress, bouncing out of Dean’s reach when he tries to swipe the paper away. “See?” He waves the page in Dean’s face. “Sam Winchester is the most bestest amazing brother EVER. That’s what it says!”
“Does not!”
“Does too!”
“Not!”
“Too!”
Dean grabs Sam around the waist, brings him tumbling down with a shriek and wrenches the paper out of his grasp. Smoothes it out on his pants’ leg and wrinkles his brow.
“Hmm,” he says.
Sam sits up, pushes his hair out of his eyes. “What?”
“Hmm,” Dean says again.
“What?” says Sam. “What? What?”
“Crap.”
“WHAT?”
“I’m sorry Sam. It - it-” Dean swallows hard. Sam brings his knees up to his chest. “It says - you’re a loser!”
“Liar!” Sam yells. “You’re a liar, Dean.”
“No, no, it does,” Dean laughs, rolling away when Sam tries to pounce on him. “It says, Sammy Winchester is a loser and must obey his almighty brother Dean forever and ever!”
He makes his voice deep like Dad’s when he says ‘almighty brother Dean’.
“It doesn’t!”
“I swear!” Dean says, wide-eyed. Shrugs. “Says you’re a loser. It’s official now. Sorry.”
Sam stares at Dean. Feels his lips wobble. His eyes start pinching. His skin is too small, suddenly. “I - I’m gonna tell Dad.”
“Dad’s not here, Sammy,” Dean says, going back to his reading.
“I - when he gets back - I-”
Dean looks up then, and his face changes.
“I was just kidding, jeez! Look, wait-” He tugs Sam down and Sam goes toppling to his rear. The mattress springs squeak. “I’ll make it better,” says Dean. “I can make it un-official, okay, ‘cause I’m the Almighty Dean.”
“Okay,” Sam says warily. His throat is still aching.
Dean roots around in the first aid kit. Brings out the thermometer and says, “This is the Almighty Dean’s scepter. It’s like magic.”
He touches it to both Sam’s shoulders and says, “Sammy Winchester is no longer a loser.”
“Ever?”
Dean sighs. “Ever.”
Sam thinks about that for a minute, then nods. “Okay. I want a kiss too. To make it all better.”
“You want a-” Dean looks revolted. “C’mon Sam-”
Sam sucks in a breath, screeches Dean’s name, long and drawn out and sounding like an ambulance siren.
“FINE.” Dean leans in, presses his lips to Sam’s cheek. Leans back again. “Happy, dork?”
Sam hums. Then says, “Your lips are hot.” He reaches forward, claps his palms against Dean’s cheeks. “Your face is hot too.”
“Leggo of me, you leech,” Dean mutters, pulling out of Sam’s grasp and looking at his paper again. “I’m sick.”
“I know.” He does. He asked Dean before. He’s the one who figured it out. “Like 911 sick?” he asks, anyway, just to make sure.
“No, like cough-cough, I’m sick, sick.”
“Can I make it better?”
“How’re you gonna-?” Dean looks up and his eyes turn into saucers. Sam throws his arms around Dean’s neck and plants a big, wet, smacking kiss on his cheek.
“Aw, gross!” Dean shouts, scrubbing at his cheek with the hem of his shirt.
“You did it to me!” Sam says hotly, folding his arms over his chest.
“That’s different. I don’t have cooties.”
“I don’t have cooties!”
“Yes, you do. Big, fat, honking cooties. Now shut up and let me read.”
Sam shuts up. Thinks sullenly that he so does not have cooties because there’s no such thing. Bounces up and down a little on his butt to make the mattress squeak.
Does it harder when Dean doesn’t look up.
Dean yawns, big. Rubs his face with the back of a hand and says, “Go see if there’s a weighing machine in the bathroom.” He flops down backwards on the bed and closes his eyes.
“No.”
Dean blinks. “Sam. Go.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Go. Get. The. Weighing. Machine.”
“No.”
Dean throws his hands in the air. Lets them fall back down quickly. “Fine, I’ll go, you twerp.”
“Fine,” Sam says.
“FINE,” Dean replies, and gets off the bed slowly. Walks to the door slowly. Sam sits on the bed, waits for him to come back. His stomach growls again, louder.
He jumps off the bed to go after Dean.
-
Dean’s in the bathroom, standing on the weighing machine.
Sam wants to too. He can wait though. He stay in the doorway and watches as Dean stares at the little needle.
“Does it say you’re fat?” he whispers after a moment. It echoes all around the white, white bathroom.
“Yes,” Dean says. He doesn’t look at Sam. “It says I’m fat. It says I’m so fat, I’m going to explode.” There’s a thin line between his eyebrows. He sounds mad.
“Are you mad?” Sam asks quietly.
“No,” Dean says shortly. Still doesn’t look up. He gets off the weighing machine and walks out past Sam.
-
Dean’s facedown on the bed when Sam gets back from jumping up and down on the weighing machine. The needle was swinging back and forth. It was really cool. But then Sam fell and it hurt so he stopped.
Sam gets on the bed. “Did you take the medicine?”
“No,” Dean says, voice hard. “Now leave me alone.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so!”
“I don’t have to do what you say!”
“You do, because you’re just a dumb kid. It’s the rules.”
Oh. Right. It is the rules. But not because Sam’s dumb or a kid. It’s just ‘cause Dad said so.
“Where did Daddy go?” Sam asks.
“Work. How many times are you gonna ask, jeez?”
“Where does he work?”
“Traveling salesman,” Dean mumbles. His face is pressed into the pillow now and it’s hard to hear. “He doesn’t work anywhere, now shut up.”
“What’s a traveling salesman do?”
Dean groans. Then says, “He finds people who want to buy kids no one wants anymore because they’re so dumb.”
A bird twitters outside. “Like me?” Sam asks quietly.
“Yes. Now will you shut - up?”
“You’re just saying that to be mean!”
“Whatever Sam, just shut up, you’re hurting my head!”
“I’ll tell Dad on you,” Sam threatens.
“Fine. If he ever comes back. Maybe he decided he just doesn’t like your stupid face anymore.”
“Stop it!”
Dean sits up, glares at Sam. “Then leave - me - alone!” he yells.
“NO!” Sam shouts. “I’m hungry and I’m gonna tell Dad you were being mean and not taking care of me!”
Dean’s nose is flaring and his chest heaves up and down and he looks down at his hand. Red, red face; white, white fingertips. He takes a breath in through his mouth. It’s shaky. His jaw clenches tight. Something falls from his eyes and Sam watches it, stares at the small, damp spot on the white-gray sheets and feels cold all over.
It happens again. And again. Dean doesn’t look up once, and Sam doesn’t-
He doesn’t-
“Fine,” Dean says. “Fine.” He gets up, grabbing Sam’s hand and dragging him off the bed. Sam stumbles, trips on the carpet, but Dean keeps pulling.
It hurts.
“Dean-” says Sam, but Dean tugs him out of their room, through the hallway and the living room, into the kitchen. He yanks a chair out from the table and pushes Sam on it, and Sam just goes with it, goes where he’s pulled and thrown, too scared to do anything else.
Dean’s face is wet and hard, and he’s making small noises that Sam’s never heard him make before. He pulls open the fridge. Slams a jar of jelly onto the shelf, opens and closes cupboards until he finds peanut butter. Wipes the back of his hand over his eyes. Spoons and knives clink together as he drags a drawer open. The bread box slides open - slides closed - clunk, clunk.
Dean sniffs hard and slathers jelly and peanut butter on two pieces of bread. Slaps them together and sets them on a plate. The plate lands in front of Sam on the table.
“Are you happy now?” Dean snarls, loudly.
And then he’s gone, running.
A door slams.
There’s a scream. Just one long scream. And then cries. Loud, loud cries, louder than even Sam makes now.
Sam’s heart closes up like a fist, pushes up his throat. He stares at his sandwich but doesn’t eat.
-
Sam stands outside the bedroom door. He stands there forever. Ages and ages. Years.
He stands there but doesn’t go in.
-
He walks around the house until his feet get cold.
There’s something almost-dried on the carpet.
Oh, right. Dean threw up.
There’s a closet in the hall. It has towels. Sam takes one out, spreads it out over the stain.
Looks at it approvingly. Job well done, sir.
He curls up on the couch. He turns the TV on, finds cartoons, but it feels too loud, so he switches it off again. Peers out the window, then; it’s white outside, white on the ground and white in the air and the sky’s hidden. Sam puts his hand up to the glass and leaves a print. Writes his name underneath it with shaky fingers. Pretends he sees Daddy coming home through the cleared glass, pretends that he runs to the door and jumps into Daddy’s arms when he walks in and holds on tight. Pretends to tell him Dean’s sad and pretends that Dad makes it all better.
Just like that.
There’s a carpet on the carpet in the living room. Sam stands in the middle of it, digs his toes into the threads. Spins around, once - twice. Says, quietly, “Dean, come spin with me.” Too quietly. Dean will never hear. Dean will never stop crying. Dean will never be okay.
Sam doesn’t know how to make it better.
-
Mommy comes.
She’s standing there when Sam turns around, red hair and green eyes.
Sam knows she’s not real. He does, he really does. But it would be nice if she was.
“You should talk to Dean,” Sam says.
She doesn’t say anything. Not even “fascinating”.
“He’s really sad.”
She watches him. Smiles a little.
“What should I do?” Sam asks.
When she doesn’t say anything again, Sam wants to hit her. Wants to hit her hard.
“You’re not my mom, so go away!” he spits, instead.
He turns around and when he looks over his shoulder again, she’s not there.
She’s not THERE.
He yells into the air. No words first, and then:
“You weren’t supposed to go away!” Again. “YOU WEREN”T SUPPOSED TO GO AWAY!”
He hates her. She’s not a real mom; real moms don’t go away.
The clock ticks. A car horn beeps outside.
It’s getting dark. He goes around and turns all the lights on.
-
This happened once: Dean took Sam’s arm and twisted, twisted, twisted, until Sam’s skin was red, until he was crying.
This happened too: Dad wasn’t home. Sam kept crying. Dean kissed his arm, over and over, until it wasn’t red anymore. Not one bit.
-
It’s quiet inside the room.
Dark too. Sam’s chest hurts. He doesn’t want to go inside.
He pushes the door open wider, until light spills all over the carpet. Walks to the nightstand and puts the plate with the sandwich Dean made down on it.
He brings his hand up to his mouth. “Dean?” he whispers.
The blanket on the bed moves. Sam almost runs out of the room, but then Dean’s voice comes. “What?” he says.
“Are you better?” He climbs onto the bed. Pulls the covers away from Dean’s face. There are rivers on Dean’s cheeks; Sam can see them glistening orange in the light from the living room. He thinks about kissing them. Kissing them all until they’re not wet anymore. Not one bit.
“I don’t feel good,” mumbles Dean.
“Okay,” says Sam. “Should I - should I call Dad?”
“Is Dad here?”
“No.”
“We can’t call Dad. We don’t have a number.”
“Should I call 911?” He’s already getting off the bed.
“No,” Dean says vehemently. “Not 911.”
“Why not?”
“They’ll take us away. They’ll take us away from Dad.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They just will.”
Sam swallows. Sits back down. Closer, this time, close as he can get to Dean. “What do I do then?”
Dean closes his eyes. “Dunno.”
He shuffles around in the blanket. Shadows dance on the wall. Sam watches them. Curls his fingers around the blanket.
“I don’t want you to go away,” he says.
Dean’s eyes open again. “What?”
“I don’t want you to go away,” Sam repeats. The blanket is scratchy under his fingers, but warm too. “Mommy went away.”
Dean looks away. “I’m not going away.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Did Mommy know?”
Dean’s mouth opens, but no words come out. Then he says, “No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I don’t,” says Dean. His voice is very quiet. Tiny. Like an ant. His lips wobble. More rivers on his face.
This time, Sam does kiss them. Kisses them a hundred times. A thousand. A million.
“Ugh,” says Dean, trying to push Sam away, hands on Sam’s face. “You’re like a dog.”
“Dogs are nice,” Sam says. He stops kissing to do it, though. “Like Rumsfeld.” He has to say it carefully, so that his tongue doesn’t trip.
“Slobbery dogs aren’t nice.”
“Hey,” says Sam then. He has an idea. He thinks it’s a good idea.
“What?” says Dean.
“We can call Uncle Bobby. Does Uncle Bobby have a number?”
“Yeah-”
“Yeah!” says Sam. Bounces in place, like a pogo stick. “Yeah! We could call Uncle Bobby! Maybe he could bring Rumsfeld! Maybe he could make you better!”
Then, he has an even better idea. “Or we could call Pastor Jim! Huh, Dean, could we? We could call Uncle Bobby and Pastor Jim!” He stands up on the bed, jumps up and down - but carefully, so he doesn’t jump on Dean. “It could be like a party! Could we?”
Dean doesn’t say anything and Sam stops jumping. Thinks maybe it’s not a good idea.
But then Dean smiles. Smiles big, right at Sam, and Sam knows.
It’s a good idea.
-
The phone rings sixteen times.
Sam counts.
There’s a click. Lots of grumbling, growling, like Rumsfeld picked up the phone instead of Uncle Bobby. Or maybe a monster.
“Hello?” says Sam.
The grumbling stops. “Who is this?”
That’s Uncle Bobby’s voice.
“Sam,” Sam says.
There’s silence. Sam thinks maybe Uncle Bobby forgot what to say. It happens sometimes. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
“You’re supposed to say ‘hi’,” Sam whispers.
“’Course,” says Uncle Bobby then. “’Course, right. Hi Sam. How you doin’?”
“I’m good.”
“Good, good. And Dean?”
“Dean’s sick.”
“Sick? Like how sick?”
“Bad sick. He said he doesn’t feel good. I asked if I should call 911, but he said no, because people would take us away.”
“Did he tell you to call me, Sam?”
“It was my idea,” Sam says. “But he said it was a good idea.”
“It was a good idea,” Bobby reassures. “Where’s your daddy Sam?”
“He’s at work. He’s a traveling salesman.”
“Uh… okay. When did he go to work?”
“Um. Last night. I was asleep.”
“Right, right, right.”
There are more sounds, rustling and jingling, and Uncle Bobby’s saying stuff Sam can’t hear, under his breath.
“Okay, Sam, I need you to tell me where you are. Can you do that?”
“We’re in, uh. Echo, Minnesota.”
“Echo, Minnesota. Are you staying in a motel?”
“No, a house. Dad said it was good to have a house. ‘Cause I’m going to school soon. Real school.”
“Do you have the address, Sam?” asks Uncle Bobby.
Sam doesn’t. “I’ll go ask Dean, okay?” he says. Dean will know; Dean knows everything. “Wait here.”
“Okay, I’m waiting,” Uncle Bobby says, so Sam sets the phone down, on the table, and hurries back to Dean’s room. “Hey, Dean. Dean, what’s the address?”
He jumps on the bed, like a cat. Pounces. Dean doesn’t move.
“Hey, Dean? Dean?” says Sam. He pulls the covers away. Shakes Dean. Dean’s eyes are closed. Sam shakes him harder, hands on Dean’s chest.
He sits back a little, when it doesn’t work. Dean’s chest moves under his hands. It’s warm. “Are you awake?” says Sam. Quietly. Quieter. “Wake up.”
Dean doesn’t listen. Dean never listens to Sam, anyway. He doesn’t have to. But it would be nice, if he did, at least this time.
Sam runs back to the phone.
“Uncle Bobby?”
“Sammy?”
“Dean won’t wake up.”
“Shit,” says Bobby. “Shit, shit, fucking shit. Jesus Christ.” He’s huffing and puffing.
“That’s a bad word,” Sam says.
“Yes it is,” Uncle Bobby agrees. Just like that. Like it doesn’t matter.
“It can be our secret,” Sam assures.
“That’s a good idea, Sam. Listen kiddo. I need to know where you are. Did you see any signs when you were driving up? Anything you remember?”
Sam does remember. “There’s a sign. Next to the door.”
“Good, that’s good. Do you remember what it says?”
“The Bakers,” Sam says promptly. “And some numbers. And more words.”
“Is your porch light on?”
“Yes. I turned it on when it got dark.”
“Do you think you could go outside, very carefully, and check what that sign says?”
“I don’t - I can’t read.”
“Just go check the numbers for me, then, okay? Be very careful. And hurry. Make sure to lock the door when you’re done.”
Sam goes.
-
It’s cold outside. Really cold. It sucks away Sam’s breath, takes it right out of him. His feet are bare.
The sign is right under the light. Sam checks the numbers. Checks some letters on the words he doesn’t know, too and then goes back inside.
The wind whistles. The lock clicks.
-
“316,” Sam says. He’s still cold. His teeth click together. “Um, and. N - E - W - M - A - N.”
“316,” Bobby repeats. “Newman. Echo, Minnesota. Okay, okay, that’s real good Sam. You’re a smart kid. I’m coming, all right? I’ll be there in um - I’ll be there in three hours. Right now it’s nine o’clock, so that means, I’ll be there at twelve o’clock, okay? Is there a clock in the house?”
Sam looks around. There is. Above the TV.
“I’ll be there when both hands are on the twelve, okay Sam? You just keep an eye on that clock. I’ll be there before you know.”
“Okay,” says Sam. “I got that.” He remembers something. “Should I call Pastor Jim? That was my other idea.”
“I’ll do that. I’ll call Jim. You just watch the clock. And sit with Dean. See if he’ll wake up. Give him water.”
“Right,” says Sam. Feels grown-up.
“Is he hot? Do you know?”
“Yeah, he’s hot. I could feel it.”
Uncle Bobby sighs, loudly. It’s like a storm in the phone. A tornado. Whooooosh. In his head, it takes the house away. All the trees too, just flying in the sky. Bobby’s voice breaks into his thoughts. “Sam, I’m going to hang up now. I’ll be there soon. Take care of your brother.”
“I can do that. Bye Uncle Bobby.”
The phone clicks. Sam hangs up.
-
There’s a bottle of water in the fridge. Sam spots a cup.
A police car siren, outside. Far away. Sam makes the sound with it.
Water spills, sloshes over the edge of the cup. Sam stops pouring.
The cup’s too full, so he stands on his tiptoes, puts his lips to the edge. Slurps up some water. Slurps some more. It’s good, really good. The cup’s empty enough to lift, so he does. Drinks some more.
This time when he pours the water, he stops in time and nothing spills.
He takes it to Dean’s room. Watches it the whole way, to make sure not a drop falls out.
-
Dean wakes up a little. Drinks some water. Spills some too, on his shirt.
Says, “Daddy?”
Says it again, even when Sam says, “No, it’s Sam.”
“Head hurts,” says Dean. “Daddy?”
Sam remembers something. He forgot to ask Bobby to bring Rumsfeld.
-
He dreams.
He’s made of straw.
He’s made of sticks, he’s made of bricks.
Nothing breaks him. Nothing blows him down.
-
The door’s rattling. It wakes Sam up. He’s on the couch, because Dean kept kicking him in the bed.
He sits up. The door rattles some more. There are voices on the other side. Then knocking. Sam gets off the couch. Tries to hide behind it.
“Sam?” the voices say.
They know his name. His heart almost comes out of his chest. For real.
“Sam? It’s Bobby and Pastor Jim. Can you open the door?” More knocking.
Sam looks at the clock then. Both hands aren’t on the twelve yet. Almost, though.
He goes to the door. “Uncle Bobby?”
“Yeah, kiddo. Could you open the door?”
Sam tries. It takes a while. His fingers are tired; they didn’t want to wake up yet.
-
“Okay, Sam, you need to let go now,” says Bobby.
Sam doesn’t want to let go though. He holds on tighter. Breathes in deep. Loves the smell of Uncle Bobby, loves that he came. Loves him, loves him, loves him.
“Right then,” says Bobby, and then Sam’s moving up. Bear hug. Big bear hug.
“I think Pastor Jim wants a hug too,” Bobby says and hands Sam off.
Sam leans back a little. Looks at Pastor Jim’s face. He does look like he wants a hug.
Sam holds on tight. Pastor Jim does too. Sam thinks maybe Pastor Jim is a little scared as well. That’s okay though. It’s not bad to be scared.
Sam puts his head on Pastor Jim’s shoulder. He smells like the cold and coffee beans. They’re walking now, to the bedroom.
“Dean?” says Uncle Bobby. Sam lifts his head. Bobby’s sitting on the bed. He pulls the blanket away from Dean. Runs a hand over his face. Through his hair.
“Kiddo?”
“Fever?” asks Jim.
“Yeah, shit. Hot as hell. Christ.” Bobby takes his cap off. Sam stares. He looks funny without it.
Bobby looks up at Sam. “Did he take any medicine, Sam?”
“No. I don’t think.”
Bobby’s eyes move to Pastor Jim’s. “Kid looks dead on his feet,” he says. “Let’s get him to bed.”
“I’ll do that,” says Jim. Nods his head. “The first aid kit’s there. Did John say when he’d be back?”
“Not to me,” says Bobby, reaching for the white-red box. “Fuck.”
“Ready for bed, Sammy?” Pastor Jim asks.
Sam nods. His head’s back on Jim’s shoulder. It’s warm there. He closes his eyes, lets the rocking movement of walking wrap him up.
He wakes up a little later. He’s in Daddy’s bed. There are voices in the living room, and light. Warm voices, low voices.
He goes back to sleep.
-
“JIM!”
Sam shoots up in bed. Uncle Bobby’s yelling, deep and loud. Footsteps, thumping around. Pastor Jim runs past Sam’s door and Sam pulls the blankets over his head. He can hear his own breathing.
More footsteps. The door slams closed.
Sam swallows. Heart goes THUMP-THUMP.
Door opens. “Bobby!” Pastor Jim calls. Then, quieter, “Car’s started, get him in. I’ll get Sam.”
THUMP-THUMP.
The blankets are yanked out of his hands. It’s Jim.
“Sammy,” he says. He’s huffing, out of breath. Wide-eyed. Red-faced. Looks scared. “We’ve gotta go, Sammy.” He grabs Sam under the arms, lifts.
“Where?” asks Sam. His voice shakes. Eyes pinch.
THUMP-THUMP.
“Dean’s really sick, we’re going to the hospital.”
Sam wants to say he’s still in his PJs. Wants to say he doesn’t have shoes.
Wants to cry.
But Jim’s running out the door then, and Sam’s in the car, and everything’s happening too fast. All Sam can do is watch and breathe.
-
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