Arms Wide Open. Part Two.
Part 2/13
Hide And Seek. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
Sometimes, if he tries hard enough, he can convince himself that he's playing hide and seek with his brother; that he's found the best of all hiding spots ever and he's going to win this game. Yes, he will win, and it'll be a good thing because even though he is victorious, it won’t mean that someone else will have lost. Although he has to admit that the finer points of the game escape him; he can’t be sure that everyone really wins in the end. His knowledge about hide and seek is restricted to what little Sara indicated once, and that is neither much to go by nor a particularly happy memory in and of itself.
It had been a day when snow covered the ground between Sara’s Box and the one reserved for showers and Pain. His feet left bloody tracks in the sheer layer of white, and beads of red drip-dropping away from his left hand kept them company. But he tried not to look down, was already on the verge of being sick, and kept his eyes on the wall surrounding the narrow concrete yard they were settled in during that time. It was still night, but the first faint shades of dawn helped him detect the difference between wall and sky. He tried to swallow away the nausea and for once he was thankful that his Box was flanked closely by the other two. Normally, he longed for them to be further apart so more light could reach him during the day. But the way they were set here resulted in only a short walk from the Box-for-Pain to the one that belonged to Sara and he was stumbling as it was.
The tall guard signed for him to wait at his side and he tried his best not to lose his feeble grip on consciousness while waiting for the door to be unlocked. He didn’t dare lean against the Boxes. The consequences for the last time he befouled something with bloody smudges were still vivid in his mind. He swayed a little with exhaustion and was thankful for the short stop. He used it to quickly bury his numb feet in the heaps of snow between the Boxes to clean off the red still clinging to them. Sara never punished him for getting things bloody, but the guards sure did.
Soon the tall man caught him by the elbow and silently led him through the door before he nudged him towards the exam table in the middle of Sara’s Office. Sitting on top of the cot was the usual black sheet, hanging over the edges of the narrow padded table down to the floor. At first the sheets had been white ones, but not long after the guards started educating him, they became black. It was easier to ignore the stains this way, for both of them.
The soft dark material crumpled under his uncoordinated attempts to heave his tired limbs up. By the time he scooted into a sitting position, shaky legs up and facing the bare white wall, his fingers clung so tightly to the cot he feared they might leave lasting marks in it. With a short “Don’t fall down,” the guard turned around and made for the door.
He tried his best to obey, but his awareness was fleeting and with each shallow pant the agonizing throbbing in his back, thigh and shoulder grew worse. He was lucky that the mean guard had grown weary of him rather quickly that day and the tall one didn’t participate at all, but the last few slices of the double bladed knife had bitten a little too deep nevertheless. He tried blinking the black spots away that crept into his vision and to deepen his breaths. Calm down. Don’t fall. Calm down. The ever-repeating litany did him no good. His nausea lurched from his stomach to his throat when he made the mistake of looking down - he felt way too high above the floor that seemed to reel in sync with his rapidly-beating heart. He slid forward to the edge of the cot again, grunting when the wound in his thigh complained about the renewed strain. And who knew that you used the muscles in your back for about every single movement there was? Another fun learning experience. Of course, sarcasm didn’t help with the pain.
Suddenly things happened too fast for him to even try and react. His already-dim field of vision was gone in an instant. Without any means of coordination he tried to at least get his toes down to steady his trembling legs, but he must have misjudged the distance. Where he expected to meet solid floor there was just an unpleasant sinking sensation. For a second there was nothing, no limbs to move, no eyes to open, no air to breathe. Then, even the nothing faded away.
The next thing he knew was that his world was tilted. He tried to comprehend where he was, when he was, and what he did to offend the guards this time but his mind came up empty. Snow. There was something with… snow? Huh. A keychain tingled and the familiar sound of Sara’s door being closed filtered through. His mind snapped half back to awareness. Sara. Thank the Lord for small mercies. She would help him untangle the slowly churning chaos in his head.
He heard her clear his throat and the smile in her voice was evident when she asked “Are we playing hide and seek today?” She chuckled. He was confused. Was he supposed to hide? Or to search for something? He tried to wave her over but all he saw was the black sheet hanging in front of him, one corner turning that particular shade of extra-dark where it soaked up the blood pooling underneath his back. Must be lying behind the cot. He was going to throw up any minute now.
“Ok then. Now, where could you be?” He really wanted to tell her that he was on the floor, but he couldn’t get the words to form. His lips felt strangely heavy and his tongue was numb and he was caught in some vicious loop of opening and closing his mouth while his brain tried to catch up to the idea of speech. But trying to breathe, talk and stay conscious all at the same time resulted in the edges of his vision to dim again so he prioritized. Breathing it was.
He wondered whether this was what fish experienced, out of their element, gasping for air shortly before being clobbered over the head. He had read about that not two books ago. He was actually glad that his body refrained from flapping around, but he felt like being clobbered wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now. On the other side of the room, Sara’s feet paused in front of the work surfaces at the far wall before they moved in his direction.
“I bet you found a really good hiding place.” Oh, right. Hide and seek. “Maybe if I loook… oover… here!” With that she stepped around the cot and all the smile was gone from her voice and her face looked oddly tense when she dove for him, as he was lying shivering and still fighting the urge to be sick, the cold tiles an uncomfortable presence at his lower back where his shirt had ridden up to expose a patch of bare skin. He gave his best impression of a boneless heap and closed his eyes.
Oh, sweet Inari was the last thing he heard before everything went black again. Later when he came to on top of the cot, he was lying on his right side, IV already in his arm and thigh and shoulder covered by several layers of gauze. He blinked a couple of times but the fuzzy tinge to his view wouldn’t budge.
“Sara.” He was surprised by the small sound of his own voice.
“I am right here, little cub. Just lay still for a moment. I am almost done with your back.” He heard her ripping open another pack of sterile gauze but he didn’t feel a thing. Local anesthetic, his tired brain supplied and a few minutes later she gently patted his right shoulder. “That’s it for now. Try not to move yet; I still need to cover some of this. They worked you over bad this time.”
“Just the mean one.” He mumbled while Sara continued patching him up.
“Are you feeling better yet? Any nausea, dizziness, lightheadedness?”
“No, I’m good.” He refrained from shaking his head. “Uhm… better at least.” He added when her concerned face swam into view.
“Good. You will let me know as soon as that changes, yes?” She walked to the far wall and was busy cleaning up the work surfaces for a while. When she turned around and told him that there would be no reading for him that day he didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. What next? No food?
“Would you like me to read to you instead?”
He looked up at her in gratitude. With a small smile on his lips he let his eyes slip shut, exhaustion once again making itself known. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
She sat down beside him, and flipped the book open to the small leather bookmark shaped like a ginkgo leaf. “I will not do it at that lightning fast speed of yours, though. You will have to do with my tempo today.” He tried not to laugh at that. She always teased him about his reading, comparing his desire for the next page with the way people come up for air when drowning. Not expecting him to answer, she cleared her throat and continued where he had stopped.
“For a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out of his sight. From the moment he left the tent to when he entered it again, Buck would follow at his heels. His transient masters since he had come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master could be permanent.” Sara stopped abruptly and he opened his eyes again when she stayed quiet for a while. He couldn’t see her face because she was sitting at his back, but her distress seeped over him like a living thing, hanging heavy and bitter in the air. She laid a hand on his knee, just shy of the bulk of the gauze and gently tightened her grip.
“For a moment there, I thought I would lose you.” There was nothing he could have said to comfort her. He had thought so himself.
“No more playing hide and seek for you, young man!” He could tell that she was trying to lighten the mood. The least he could do was return the favor.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about," he said. "You found me, didn’t you?”
She softened the grip on his leg and the air lost a little of its stifling quality. “That I did. Rest now.” The pages rustled as she picked the book back up. He closed his eyes again and let himself be carried away by the gentle tone of her voice, the vast wilderness of 19th century Canada a much more desirable place to be than where he himself was.
“He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as Perrault and François and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in the night, in his dreams, he would shake off sleep...”
That particular experience with playing hide and seek may not make his list of favorite moments, but the imaginary game he plays with his brother is different. Nobody stays hidden in this one, and no one is bleeding and no one gets lost. And since his hiding spot just so happens to be the best of all hiding places the big triumph of the game will be his. Green eyes will look down at him and there will be murmured words of pride and comfort and a steady heartbeat he can lean against. In the end he will finally be able to close his eyes and to let go, to free himself from the darkness around him and the darkness within. Things will be good. He only has to keep still and hide a little bit longer; not moving, controlled shallow breaths not betraying his position. Be quiet. Hold still. Wait till he finds you.
But most times, no matter how hard he tries to think otherwise, he suspects that maybe he simply invented this brother of his so he could think that there's someone else out there who cares, someone who loved and held and maybe even prayed for him a long time ago. But as much as he likes the thought of not being completely alone, if he truly had a brother, wouldn’t they have met by now? Wouldn’t a brother have come visit him, damned and doomed as he is, because that’s what family is for?
He never told anyone about these things - not even Sara, and definitely not the guards. While he knows that Sara wouldn’t betray his trust, he still feels oddly protective of this brother of his, imaginary or not. When he thinks of him, flickers of kind eyes and freckles and a wide, warm smile flash in front of his eyes. His brother is big, much taller than he himself, and he is funny, no doubt about that. Sometimes he remembers dreams about him, too. Not in detail and never a name, but he knows that with his brother there is safety and enough food to not be hungry all the time. When he wakes up from those dreams, he feels like crying.
Not because he’s scared, though, because he isn’t. Not really. Sure, he wishes his life would be different. He dislikes the Pain that comes with his education and he isn’t fond of his solitary existence. Most of the time he’d like a little more light in his Box and, dear Lord, he hopes that his soul isn’t too far gone to be saved. The possibility of spending eternity with fiery punishment and torture is constantly looming over him and no one in his right mind wouldn’t worry about that. So he might wish for things to be different, but he’s not afraid of them; hasn’t been for a long time.
There is no place for fear in his heart since it is full to the brim with emptiness, as contradictory as that may sound. Even Sara, his one and only friend, or the ever-thinning hope that his brother might one day come for him, can’t fill that void inside him. He is alone in his fate. That much he knows. He is alone.
Something Like Home. [September 13th, 1998]
Dean.
The sky is the color of late summer’s cornflowers, the air breezing in through the open driver’s side window smells fresh and clean and thankfully the unbearable heat has released its grip on this corner of the world. The bright midday sun gives everything a pale shine and hard edges; turns the silhouettes of the salvage yard into something alien, faking shallowness where depth should be, and blurring the horizon in the distance.
Dean is sitting in the Impala, relaxing back into the warm leather after hours on the road and closes his eyes; just for a moment. It’s almost peaceful - one lonely bird is bickering with a car somewhere in the rusted vastness of Singer’s Salvage and if he squints exactly right, little Sammy is playing with two toy cars in the passenger seat, racing them up and down the upholstery.
“Wanna hunt down Bobby’s newest additions later? Maybe he finally got a Shelby 350.” Sammy’s all-time favorite. Which has got nothing on the Impala, mind you, but is still a pretty solid choice. Kid always knew his classics; how could he not, with Dean as a role model. At the name of the car two hazel eyes beam at him from under an unruly mop of hair and Dean wishes, not for the first time today, that the kid were truly there. Oh well. Same hell, different day.
He doesn’t expect Bobby to have any news yet, not on Dad and of course not on Sammy, so there’s no reason to hurry. Dean sighs and closes his eyes again, giving in to the illusion of a happy life just a little while longer. He imagines it’s early summer and they’re all here together, Dad and Sammy and Dean. The Winchester family, making a pit stop at an old friend’s in-between hunts, for the sake of good company and for the feeling of belonging somewhere else other than the endless back roads of the US, just for a week or two.
Dean knows that as soon as he opens his eyes his little illusion will shatter: no Sammy, no Dad. It always catches him a little by surprise how much the first fact still feels like a punch to the gut while he can just shrug at the second one, because that’s just how things are.
Dean knows that the thrill of hunting the things they do can be overwhelming, it can quickly turn into an all-encompassing need to get the monster and get it quick, because there are always, always lives at stake. Dad's always felt that rush more strongly than anyone else Dean knows, and by now the older Winchester has a sad track record of doing just that: losing himself to the rhythm of one hunt after another, going wherever clues and obituaries or strange newspaper articles lead him.
It happens every now and then, that Dad becomes John Winchester, badass hunter extraordinaire, and stops being a father - or even a distant relative, for that matter - and all communication goes bye-bye. For weeks or months at a time there’ll be no phone call, no checking in, no sign of life until the thrill lets go of John the hunter and Dean’s Dad remembers that he was supposed to have met his son halfway across the country quite some time ago.
If they're lucky, Bobby can help pinpoint where Dad is during those silent periods and that has turned out to be of use before; helped them to get to John when he was in over his head or already unconscious in some hospital or to organize some quick backup when Dad miraculously found the common sense to call because a particular hunt was too big for even the mighty John Winchester.
So teaming up with Bobby is a no brainer, even more so since Dean has always liked the seasoned hunter and thought of him as a surrogate father, although no one ever says that, of course. Sometimes it surprises Dean that this thought doesn’t seem sadder, but it’s like they just accepted the fact for what it is, all three of them, and Bobby sure as hell didn’t mind getting with the program, providing Dean with food or advice or first aid whenever needed.
Naturally, Bobby drives Dean crazy, what with being a stickler for rules where all his precious books are concerned and Dean is a total pain, being the obnoxious smartass that he is. Nevertheless the smell of freshly baked pie increases exponentially when Dean visits and Bobby will, weeks later, find that some of the odd jobs in and around the house have been miraculously taken care of. Also, no matter the amount of bickering, when it’s time to part ways, there’s always a hug waiting and a grumbled “don’t let anything eat you”. Which, if you are fluent in Singertongue, means “take care of yourself, boy, and don’t be a stranger, you’re always welcome here”. Dean in return has to blast the stereo full force before he even hits the I-90 to create an audible counterweight to the set of his stomach.
Right now Dean’s not leaving, though. He just arrived at the salvage yard a few minutes ago and although he is not ready to open his eyes and face reality quite yet, he is looking forward to the stay, own bed and bathroom and all. And what a luxury it is to know that the stains in the towels originate from no bodily fluids other than blood, most probably his own, and that the blotches on the carpet are in all likelihood blood, too, either Dean’s or Bobby’s or some long dead preternatural nasty’s.
Dean knows that because he’s been there for most of it - nothing weird there, as Bobby likes to remind him, because for the shit to really hit the fan the presence of at least one of the Winchesters seems to be required. But then again, even if the older hunter curses their name under his breath for making his life so much harder than it should be, there’s always enough beer in the fridge, always the occasional pat to the back and always burnt toast in the morning, specialty of Singer lodging, no matter how long Dean is staying.
A rattle on his window has Dean flinching and he hits his head ungracefully on the driver’s side window. Bobby is standing next to the car, knuckles still resting against the window and he’s entirely unimpressed by the glare Dean shoots him.
“Get your stuff inside already. Steak’s done and if you wallow any longer it ain't gonna have nothing on that toast you’re always complaining about.”
Dean shoots him his best shit-eating grin as he crosses to the trunk to get his duffel out. “Is it dinnertime already, old man? Sorry for disrupting your precious meal schedule. Let’s get you inside then, shall we?”
But Bobby has already turned back to the house, not wasting a second look on the younger man. Dean could swear a muttered “Old man my ass” reaches his ears just before he slams shut the trunk of his baby.
Bobby.
Over dinner, Bobby keeps their banter up and the mood light and if by the end of the day they haven’t mentioned John once and some of the tension has finally eased out of the kid, Bobby isn't one to complain. They are still sitting at the kitchen table, Dean with his legs outstretched and sighing contentedly at the comfortable mix of being fed, warm and a little drunk, which makes it easier for Bobby to sneak the occasional glance at the boy. Dean looks like crap, but Bobby knows that a couple of days of more than the bare minimum of sleep will take care of the worst. His ribs might take a little longer to fully heal, but even though Dean fails at hiding his discomfort and slightly grimaces when he shifts in his seat, it doesn’t look as if anything’s broken. Bruised for sure, maybe a little cracked, but nothing they can’t handle.
Bobby will keep an eye on that and keep the kid from doing anything stupid - well, stupider than usual, at least. Of course, if Bobby were to ask, he’d get nothing more than the usual Winchester =crap in some form of “I’m fine,” so he doesn’t even bother with that anymore unless John or Dean are gushing arterial blood. But he wasn't born yesterday, and it takes more than that little charade Dean always keeps up to fool Bobby. Thankfully, the later it gets the more the kid relaxes and by now a lazy smile has smoothed away a good deal of the worry lines on Dean’s face. The boy’s eyes are lit with a warmth that not many people get to witness, something that’s reserved for those closest to him. John. Bobby. And before, Sam.
The older hunter can’t shake the bitter mix of sorrow and guilt that still grips him whenever he thinks of the boy they lost, but for now Dean looks almost happy and that’s really all Bobby can hope for, what with John taking off on the kid again. But they'll tackle that clusterfuck in the morning. Right now, Bobby's only goal is getting two more beers out of the fridge. He nudges Dean’s shoulder with one of them before nodding in the general direction of the living room.
“Move it, kid. Game’s on tonight.”
Three Scars. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
There is always some form of darkness in his Box. It's either the semi-gray of the day or the pitch-black of the night and he tries not to be bothered by whichever keeps him in twilight. He doesn’t need much to find his way around, anyway. No one knows his Box as well as he does. The lack of light only has him worried when the periods of utter darkness last longer than the usual length of night, which - as he knows by now - means that they are changing places.
This doesn’t happen all that often anymore, though. The last time it felt as if the never-ending darkness would enter his every pore and slowly suffocate him was months ago; he couldn’t even say when exactly. Every time they settle in a new location he hopes that they will stay, no matter where they are, just so he won’t be deprived of daylight again.
They have stayed at their current location far longer than anywhere else, and nothing would make him happier than never having to face his fear of that absolute Black again, but he knows that being fearful leads to sin, just like every other negative emotion, so he tries not to think about it at all. And if he happens to check the unbudgeables next to his door every time he returns to his Box, no one has called him on it so far.
When he feels the small holes under his palm he always breathes a short sigh of relief and sends a quick prayer of thanks, because that is how the terrible, endless Black starts: with something hard and unyielding covering all 24 of the precious holes from the inside. He has never seen the covers. When they are in place there isn't enough light to look at them, and when he returns from his next visit to Sara they are gone again. All he knows is that they smell of metal and he has tracked their outlines with trembling hands, all four of them, more often than he cares to count. They always extend from floor to ceiling and no more than his index finger fits between the covers and the unbudgeables. His thumb got stuck once.
The one positive thing is that whenever those periods of prolonged darkness hit, he doesn’t have to worry about oxygen deprivation. His walls are shaped in a unique way; if he traces their surfaces with his fingers there are pockets that go out-in-out-in-out-in and so on, each ‘in’ or ‘out’ maybe as long as three of his fingers are wide and two fingers deep. Such a thing can’t be completely covered by any even surface such as the plates. So while air doesn't circulate as freely as when there is nothing in front of the unbudgeables, it still finds its way inside.
The first few times he tried to remove the plates. He pulled and tore at them until his hands were scraped raw and his fingers too stiff and swollen to be of use. He might have lost a nail or two in the process, but the metal wouldn’t budge, the holes refusing to reappear. Instead the darkness lingered, completely unimpressed by bleeding palms and panicky sobs. It felt as if the lack of light became tangible with the way it would thicken and slowly intensify, breath by breath, until it evolved into an abyss too vast to comprehend.
With nothing else to do he usually concentrates on the sounds that accompany the darkness. Mostly he hears steady buzzing or muted growls and sometimes sounds so loud and long he thinks his walls must shake right along with him. There are loud screeching noises too, but not knowing where this little cacophony originates from is hardly as bad as the movement it comes with.
It’s always worst right in the beginning and towards the end, but there are unpleasant parts in between as well. His floor slants this way and that to throw him into the walls. Grabbing at the air for support doesn’t help, unsurprisingly, and it’s almost as if his Box has come to life to try and get him off his feet with every unexpected move it can think of.
It’s best then to crouch into one of the corners holding on to his knees and make himself as small of a target as possible. He is lucky if he can wrap himself in his blankets for protective padding before he is jostled around, even one of them will do. There are two scars on his face and one at his left elbow that taught him that valuable lesson. He doesn’t trace them very often, but those are the only three marks on his body that almost feel kind of nice to him. They were self-inflicted, however unintended, and therefore he likes them most of all.
go back (part one) || Masterpost || continue (part three)
Hide And Seek. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
Sometimes, if he tries hard enough, he can convince himself that he's playing hide and seek with his brother; that he's found the best of all hiding spots ever and he's going to win this game. Yes, he will win, and it'll be a good thing because even though he is victorious, it won’t mean that someone else will have lost. Although he has to admit that the finer points of the game escape him; he can’t be sure that everyone really wins in the end. His knowledge about hide and seek is restricted to what little Sara indicated once, and that is neither much to go by nor a particularly happy memory in and of itself.
It had been a day when snow covered the ground between Sara’s Box and the one reserved for showers and Pain. His feet left bloody tracks in the sheer layer of white, and beads of red drip-dropping away from his left hand kept them company. But he tried not to look down, was already on the verge of being sick, and kept his eyes on the wall surrounding the narrow concrete yard they were settled in during that time. It was still night, but the first faint shades of dawn helped him detect the difference between wall and sky. He tried to swallow away the nausea and for once he was thankful that his Box was flanked closely by the other two. Normally, he longed for them to be further apart so more light could reach him during the day. But the way they were set here resulted in only a short walk from the Box-for-Pain to the one that belonged to Sara and he was stumbling as it was.
The tall guard signed for him to wait at his side and he tried his best not to lose his feeble grip on consciousness while waiting for the door to be unlocked. He didn’t dare lean against the Boxes. The consequences for the last time he befouled something with bloody smudges were still vivid in his mind. He swayed a little with exhaustion and was thankful for the short stop. He used it to quickly bury his numb feet in the heaps of snow between the Boxes to clean off the red still clinging to them. Sara never punished him for getting things bloody, but the guards sure did.
Soon the tall man caught him by the elbow and silently led him through the door before he nudged him towards the exam table in the middle of Sara’s Office. Sitting on top of the cot was the usual black sheet, hanging over the edges of the narrow padded table down to the floor. At first the sheets had been white ones, but not long after the guards started educating him, they became black. It was easier to ignore the stains this way, for both of them.
The soft dark material crumpled under his uncoordinated attempts to heave his tired limbs up. By the time he scooted into a sitting position, shaky legs up and facing the bare white wall, his fingers clung so tightly to the cot he feared they might leave lasting marks in it. With a short “Don’t fall down,” the guard turned around and made for the door.
He tried his best to obey, but his awareness was fleeting and with each shallow pant the agonizing throbbing in his back, thigh and shoulder grew worse. He was lucky that the mean guard had grown weary of him rather quickly that day and the tall one didn’t participate at all, but the last few slices of the double bladed knife had bitten a little too deep nevertheless. He tried blinking the black spots away that crept into his vision and to deepen his breaths. Calm down. Don’t fall. Calm down. The ever-repeating litany did him no good. His nausea lurched from his stomach to his throat when he made the mistake of looking down - he felt way too high above the floor that seemed to reel in sync with his rapidly-beating heart. He slid forward to the edge of the cot again, grunting when the wound in his thigh complained about the renewed strain. And who knew that you used the muscles in your back for about every single movement there was? Another fun learning experience. Of course, sarcasm didn’t help with the pain.
Suddenly things happened too fast for him to even try and react. His already-dim field of vision was gone in an instant. Without any means of coordination he tried to at least get his toes down to steady his trembling legs, but he must have misjudged the distance. Where he expected to meet solid floor there was just an unpleasant sinking sensation. For a second there was nothing, no limbs to move, no eyes to open, no air to breathe. Then, even the nothing faded away.
The next thing he knew was that his world was tilted. He tried to comprehend where he was, when he was, and what he did to offend the guards this time but his mind came up empty. Snow. There was something with… snow? Huh. A keychain tingled and the familiar sound of Sara’s door being closed filtered through. His mind snapped half back to awareness. Sara. Thank the Lord for small mercies. She would help him untangle the slowly churning chaos in his head.
He heard her clear his throat and the smile in her voice was evident when she asked “Are we playing hide and seek today?” She chuckled. He was confused. Was he supposed to hide? Or to search for something? He tried to wave her over but all he saw was the black sheet hanging in front of him, one corner turning that particular shade of extra-dark where it soaked up the blood pooling underneath his back. Must be lying behind the cot. He was going to throw up any minute now.
“Ok then. Now, where could you be?” He really wanted to tell her that he was on the floor, but he couldn’t get the words to form. His lips felt strangely heavy and his tongue was numb and he was caught in some vicious loop of opening and closing his mouth while his brain tried to catch up to the idea of speech. But trying to breathe, talk and stay conscious all at the same time resulted in the edges of his vision to dim again so he prioritized. Breathing it was.
He wondered whether this was what fish experienced, out of their element, gasping for air shortly before being clobbered over the head. He had read about that not two books ago. He was actually glad that his body refrained from flapping around, but he felt like being clobbered wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world right now. On the other side of the room, Sara’s feet paused in front of the work surfaces at the far wall before they moved in his direction.
“I bet you found a really good hiding place.” Oh, right. Hide and seek. “Maybe if I loook… oover… here!” With that she stepped around the cot and all the smile was gone from her voice and her face looked oddly tense when she dove for him, as he was lying shivering and still fighting the urge to be sick, the cold tiles an uncomfortable presence at his lower back where his shirt had ridden up to expose a patch of bare skin. He gave his best impression of a boneless heap and closed his eyes.
Oh, sweet Inari was the last thing he heard before everything went black again. Later when he came to on top of the cot, he was lying on his right side, IV already in his arm and thigh and shoulder covered by several layers of gauze. He blinked a couple of times but the fuzzy tinge to his view wouldn’t budge.
“Sara.” He was surprised by the small sound of his own voice.
“I am right here, little cub. Just lay still for a moment. I am almost done with your back.” He heard her ripping open another pack of sterile gauze but he didn’t feel a thing. Local anesthetic, his tired brain supplied and a few minutes later she gently patted his right shoulder. “That’s it for now. Try not to move yet; I still need to cover some of this. They worked you over bad this time.”
“Just the mean one.” He mumbled while Sara continued patching him up.
“Are you feeling better yet? Any nausea, dizziness, lightheadedness?”
“No, I’m good.” He refrained from shaking his head. “Uhm… better at least.” He added when her concerned face swam into view.
“Good. You will let me know as soon as that changes, yes?” She walked to the far wall and was busy cleaning up the work surfaces for a while. When she turned around and told him that there would be no reading for him that day he didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. What next? No food?
“Would you like me to read to you instead?”
He looked up at her in gratitude. With a small smile on his lips he let his eyes slip shut, exhaustion once again making itself known. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
She sat down beside him, and flipped the book open to the small leather bookmark shaped like a ginkgo leaf. “I will not do it at that lightning fast speed of yours, though. You will have to do with my tempo today.” He tried not to laugh at that. She always teased him about his reading, comparing his desire for the next page with the way people come up for air when drowning. Not expecting him to answer, she cleared her throat and continued where he had stopped.
“For a long time after his rescue, Buck did not like Thornton to get out of his sight. From the moment he left the tent to when he entered it again, Buck would follow at his heels. His transient masters since he had come into the Northland had bred in him a fear that no master could be permanent.” Sara stopped abruptly and he opened his eyes again when she stayed quiet for a while. He couldn’t see her face because she was sitting at his back, but her distress seeped over him like a living thing, hanging heavy and bitter in the air. She laid a hand on his knee, just shy of the bulk of the gauze and gently tightened her grip.
“For a moment there, I thought I would lose you.” There was nothing he could have said to comfort her. He had thought so himself.
“No more playing hide and seek for you, young man!” He could tell that she was trying to lighten the mood. The least he could do was return the favor.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about," he said. "You found me, didn’t you?”
She softened the grip on his leg and the air lost a little of its stifling quality. “That I did. Rest now.” The pages rustled as she picked the book back up. He closed his eyes again and let himself be carried away by the gentle tone of her voice, the vast wilderness of 19th century Canada a much more desirable place to be than where he himself was.
“He was afraid that Thornton would pass out of his life as Perrault and François and the Scotch half-breed had passed out. Even in the night, in his dreams, he would shake off sleep...”
That particular experience with playing hide and seek may not make his list of favorite moments, but the imaginary game he plays with his brother is different. Nobody stays hidden in this one, and no one is bleeding and no one gets lost. And since his hiding spot just so happens to be the best of all hiding places the big triumph of the game will be his. Green eyes will look down at him and there will be murmured words of pride and comfort and a steady heartbeat he can lean against. In the end he will finally be able to close his eyes and to let go, to free himself from the darkness around him and the darkness within. Things will be good. He only has to keep still and hide a little bit longer; not moving, controlled shallow breaths not betraying his position. Be quiet. Hold still. Wait till he finds you.
But most times, no matter how hard he tries to think otherwise, he suspects that maybe he simply invented this brother of his so he could think that there's someone else out there who cares, someone who loved and held and maybe even prayed for him a long time ago. But as much as he likes the thought of not being completely alone, if he truly had a brother, wouldn’t they have met by now? Wouldn’t a brother have come visit him, damned and doomed as he is, because that’s what family is for?
He never told anyone about these things - not even Sara, and definitely not the guards. While he knows that Sara wouldn’t betray his trust, he still feels oddly protective of this brother of his, imaginary or not. When he thinks of him, flickers of kind eyes and freckles and a wide, warm smile flash in front of his eyes. His brother is big, much taller than he himself, and he is funny, no doubt about that. Sometimes he remembers dreams about him, too. Not in detail and never a name, but he knows that with his brother there is safety and enough food to not be hungry all the time. When he wakes up from those dreams, he feels like crying.
Not because he’s scared, though, because he isn’t. Not really. Sure, he wishes his life would be different. He dislikes the Pain that comes with his education and he isn’t fond of his solitary existence. Most of the time he’d like a little more light in his Box and, dear Lord, he hopes that his soul isn’t too far gone to be saved. The possibility of spending eternity with fiery punishment and torture is constantly looming over him and no one in his right mind wouldn’t worry about that. So he might wish for things to be different, but he’s not afraid of them; hasn’t been for a long time.
There is no place for fear in his heart since it is full to the brim with emptiness, as contradictory as that may sound. Even Sara, his one and only friend, or the ever-thinning hope that his brother might one day come for him, can’t fill that void inside him. He is alone in his fate. That much he knows. He is alone.
Something Like Home. [September 13th, 1998]
Dean.
The sky is the color of late summer’s cornflowers, the air breezing in through the open driver’s side window smells fresh and clean and thankfully the unbearable heat has released its grip on this corner of the world. The bright midday sun gives everything a pale shine and hard edges; turns the silhouettes of the salvage yard into something alien, faking shallowness where depth should be, and blurring the horizon in the distance.
Dean is sitting in the Impala, relaxing back into the warm leather after hours on the road and closes his eyes; just for a moment. It’s almost peaceful - one lonely bird is bickering with a car somewhere in the rusted vastness of Singer’s Salvage and if he squints exactly right, little Sammy is playing with two toy cars in the passenger seat, racing them up and down the upholstery.
“Wanna hunt down Bobby’s newest additions later? Maybe he finally got a Shelby 350.” Sammy’s all-time favorite. Which has got nothing on the Impala, mind you, but is still a pretty solid choice. Kid always knew his classics; how could he not, with Dean as a role model. At the name of the car two hazel eyes beam at him from under an unruly mop of hair and Dean wishes, not for the first time today, that the kid were truly there. Oh well. Same hell, different day.
He doesn’t expect Bobby to have any news yet, not on Dad and of course not on Sammy, so there’s no reason to hurry. Dean sighs and closes his eyes again, giving in to the illusion of a happy life just a little while longer. He imagines it’s early summer and they’re all here together, Dad and Sammy and Dean. The Winchester family, making a pit stop at an old friend’s in-between hunts, for the sake of good company and for the feeling of belonging somewhere else other than the endless back roads of the US, just for a week or two.
Dean knows that as soon as he opens his eyes his little illusion will shatter: no Sammy, no Dad. It always catches him a little by surprise how much the first fact still feels like a punch to the gut while he can just shrug at the second one, because that’s just how things are.
Dean knows that the thrill of hunting the things they do can be overwhelming, it can quickly turn into an all-encompassing need to get the monster and get it quick, because there are always, always lives at stake. Dad's always felt that rush more strongly than anyone else Dean knows, and by now the older Winchester has a sad track record of doing just that: losing himself to the rhythm of one hunt after another, going wherever clues and obituaries or strange newspaper articles lead him.
It happens every now and then, that Dad becomes John Winchester, badass hunter extraordinaire, and stops being a father - or even a distant relative, for that matter - and all communication goes bye-bye. For weeks or months at a time there’ll be no phone call, no checking in, no sign of life until the thrill lets go of John the hunter and Dean’s Dad remembers that he was supposed to have met his son halfway across the country quite some time ago.
If they're lucky, Bobby can help pinpoint where Dad is during those silent periods and that has turned out to be of use before; helped them to get to John when he was in over his head or already unconscious in some hospital or to organize some quick backup when Dad miraculously found the common sense to call because a particular hunt was too big for even the mighty John Winchester.
So teaming up with Bobby is a no brainer, even more so since Dean has always liked the seasoned hunter and thought of him as a surrogate father, although no one ever says that, of course. Sometimes it surprises Dean that this thought doesn’t seem sadder, but it’s like they just accepted the fact for what it is, all three of them, and Bobby sure as hell didn’t mind getting with the program, providing Dean with food or advice or first aid whenever needed.
Naturally, Bobby drives Dean crazy, what with being a stickler for rules where all his precious books are concerned and Dean is a total pain, being the obnoxious smartass that he is. Nevertheless the smell of freshly baked pie increases exponentially when Dean visits and Bobby will, weeks later, find that some of the odd jobs in and around the house have been miraculously taken care of. Also, no matter the amount of bickering, when it’s time to part ways, there’s always a hug waiting and a grumbled “don’t let anything eat you”. Which, if you are fluent in Singertongue, means “take care of yourself, boy, and don’t be a stranger, you’re always welcome here”. Dean in return has to blast the stereo full force before he even hits the I-90 to create an audible counterweight to the set of his stomach.
Right now Dean’s not leaving, though. He just arrived at the salvage yard a few minutes ago and although he is not ready to open his eyes and face reality quite yet, he is looking forward to the stay, own bed and bathroom and all. And what a luxury it is to know that the stains in the towels originate from no bodily fluids other than blood, most probably his own, and that the blotches on the carpet are in all likelihood blood, too, either Dean’s or Bobby’s or some long dead preternatural nasty’s.
Dean knows that because he’s been there for most of it - nothing weird there, as Bobby likes to remind him, because for the shit to really hit the fan the presence of at least one of the Winchesters seems to be required. But then again, even if the older hunter curses their name under his breath for making his life so much harder than it should be, there’s always enough beer in the fridge, always the occasional pat to the back and always burnt toast in the morning, specialty of Singer lodging, no matter how long Dean is staying.
A rattle on his window has Dean flinching and he hits his head ungracefully on the driver’s side window. Bobby is standing next to the car, knuckles still resting against the window and he’s entirely unimpressed by the glare Dean shoots him.
“Get your stuff inside already. Steak’s done and if you wallow any longer it ain't gonna have nothing on that toast you’re always complaining about.”
Dean shoots him his best shit-eating grin as he crosses to the trunk to get his duffel out. “Is it dinnertime already, old man? Sorry for disrupting your precious meal schedule. Let’s get you inside then, shall we?”
But Bobby has already turned back to the house, not wasting a second look on the younger man. Dean could swear a muttered “Old man my ass” reaches his ears just before he slams shut the trunk of his baby.
Bobby.
Over dinner, Bobby keeps their banter up and the mood light and if by the end of the day they haven’t mentioned John once and some of the tension has finally eased out of the kid, Bobby isn't one to complain. They are still sitting at the kitchen table, Dean with his legs outstretched and sighing contentedly at the comfortable mix of being fed, warm and a little drunk, which makes it easier for Bobby to sneak the occasional glance at the boy. Dean looks like crap, but Bobby knows that a couple of days of more than the bare minimum of sleep will take care of the worst. His ribs might take a little longer to fully heal, but even though Dean fails at hiding his discomfort and slightly grimaces when he shifts in his seat, it doesn’t look as if anything’s broken. Bruised for sure, maybe a little cracked, but nothing they can’t handle.
Bobby will keep an eye on that and keep the kid from doing anything stupid - well, stupider than usual, at least. Of course, if Bobby were to ask, he’d get nothing more than the usual Winchester =crap in some form of “I’m fine,” so he doesn’t even bother with that anymore unless John or Dean are gushing arterial blood. But he wasn't born yesterday, and it takes more than that little charade Dean always keeps up to fool Bobby. Thankfully, the later it gets the more the kid relaxes and by now a lazy smile has smoothed away a good deal of the worry lines on Dean’s face. The boy’s eyes are lit with a warmth that not many people get to witness, something that’s reserved for those closest to him. John. Bobby. And before, Sam.
The older hunter can’t shake the bitter mix of sorrow and guilt that still grips him whenever he thinks of the boy they lost, but for now Dean looks almost happy and that’s really all Bobby can hope for, what with John taking off on the kid again. But they'll tackle that clusterfuck in the morning. Right now, Bobby's only goal is getting two more beers out of the fridge. He nudges Dean’s shoulder with one of them before nodding in the general direction of the living room.
“Move it, kid. Game’s on tonight.”
Three Scars. [The Lost Years]
Sam.
There is always some form of darkness in his Box. It's either the semi-gray of the day or the pitch-black of the night and he tries not to be bothered by whichever keeps him in twilight. He doesn’t need much to find his way around, anyway. No one knows his Box as well as he does. The lack of light only has him worried when the periods of utter darkness last longer than the usual length of night, which - as he knows by now - means that they are changing places.
This doesn’t happen all that often anymore, though. The last time it felt as if the never-ending darkness would enter his every pore and slowly suffocate him was months ago; he couldn’t even say when exactly. Every time they settle in a new location he hopes that they will stay, no matter where they are, just so he won’t be deprived of daylight again.
They have stayed at their current location far longer than anywhere else, and nothing would make him happier than never having to face his fear of that absolute Black again, but he knows that being fearful leads to sin, just like every other negative emotion, so he tries not to think about it at all. And if he happens to check the unbudgeables next to his door every time he returns to his Box, no one has called him on it so far.
When he feels the small holes under his palm he always breathes a short sigh of relief and sends a quick prayer of thanks, because that is how the terrible, endless Black starts: with something hard and unyielding covering all 24 of the precious holes from the inside. He has never seen the covers. When they are in place there isn't enough light to look at them, and when he returns from his next visit to Sara they are gone again. All he knows is that they smell of metal and he has tracked their outlines with trembling hands, all four of them, more often than he cares to count. They always extend from floor to ceiling and no more than his index finger fits between the covers and the unbudgeables. His thumb got stuck once.
The one positive thing is that whenever those periods of prolonged darkness hit, he doesn’t have to worry about oxygen deprivation. His walls are shaped in a unique way; if he traces their surfaces with his fingers there are pockets that go out-in-out-in-out-in and so on, each ‘in’ or ‘out’ maybe as long as three of his fingers are wide and two fingers deep. Such a thing can’t be completely covered by any even surface such as the plates. So while air doesn't circulate as freely as when there is nothing in front of the unbudgeables, it still finds its way inside.
The first few times he tried to remove the plates. He pulled and tore at them until his hands were scraped raw and his fingers too stiff and swollen to be of use. He might have lost a nail or two in the process, but the metal wouldn’t budge, the holes refusing to reappear. Instead the darkness lingered, completely unimpressed by bleeding palms and panicky sobs. It felt as if the lack of light became tangible with the way it would thicken and slowly intensify, breath by breath, until it evolved into an abyss too vast to comprehend.
With nothing else to do he usually concentrates on the sounds that accompany the darkness. Mostly he hears steady buzzing or muted growls and sometimes sounds so loud and long he thinks his walls must shake right along with him. There are loud screeching noises too, but not knowing where this little cacophony originates from is hardly as bad as the movement it comes with.
It’s always worst right in the beginning and towards the end, but there are unpleasant parts in between as well. His floor slants this way and that to throw him into the walls. Grabbing at the air for support doesn’t help, unsurprisingly, and it’s almost as if his Box has come to life to try and get him off his feet with every unexpected move it can think of.
It’s best then to crouch into one of the corners holding on to his knees and make himself as small of a target as possible. He is lucky if he can wrap himself in his blankets for protective padding before he is jostled around, even one of them will do. There are two scars on his face and one at his left elbow that taught him that valuable lesson. He doesn’t trace them very often, but those are the only three marks on his body that almost feel kind of nice to him. They were self-inflicted, however unintended, and therefore he likes them most of all.
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