Sam I Am - Sammybigbang fic
Mar. 7th, 2016 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amberdreamsTitle: Sam I Am
Author: amberdreams
Artist:
quickreaver
Words: ~12k
Rating: NC17
Warnings: mental illness, hallucinations, a dash of incest, angst
Characters: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Meg, OCs
Summary: An alternative to the Born Again Identity. Here Castiel doesn’t immediately think of the idea of transferring Sam’s madness onto himself. As a result, Sam's brain is still fried. He escapes from the Westville asylum wing by himself, steals a car and drives until he runs out of road in Idaho. In the parking lot of a motel in a small town, Sam finds a kind of peace for a while.
Acknowledgements: All the thanks and love to my betas,ameliacareful and firesign10, they made this fic so much better! Many thanks also to the 
sammybigbang mods for creating and wrangling this challenge. You are awesome, chaps!
The art is byquickreaver so you know it's going to rock, right? Well, what are you waiting for - go and check out the ART MASTERPOST HERE.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
i carry your heart with me by E.E Cummings
Westville, North Indiana.
Sam’s face was too gaunt; cheekbones sharp enough to cut Dean’s finger if he dared to touch them (and he really wanted to, just to reassure himself Sam was still there, physically at least). Dean didn’t move away from the wall, though, just carried on leaning against it, all casual-like, pretending it wasn’t the only thing keeping him on his feet. He watched Castiel move around Sam’s bed, hoping that the confidence that was back in the angel’s stride would be backed up by results.
Because if Castiel couldn’t restore his little brother’s sanity, Dean didn’t know what he was going to do. Being helpless wasn’t new to Dean but it was something he was heart-sick of dealing with.
Castiel’s expression was serene as he placed two fingers on Sam’s knitted brow. Sam flinched away, muttering, but Cas persisted, talking quietly to Sam as if he was soothing a skittish horse. Dean’s breath shuddered out as if he’d been punched in the stomach when Cas’ face gradually crumpled into a pained frown. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it until that moment.
“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry,” the angel said. Castiel's shoulders slumped, as if the bloodied coat Dean had recently restored to him had turned from cloth into lead. Dean asked the question, though he already knew what the answer would be.
“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”
“I cannot rebuild Sam’s wall, Dean. I can’t even attempt repairs. There is nothing left of it but dust. I’m…”
Dean interrupted, couldn’t help himself. “Don’t say you’re sorry, Cas. Just don’t.” He was at Sam’s bedside now, though he didn’t remember moving. Sam’s eyes flickered, his unseeing gaze flitting from point to point. Dean could guess what Sam was seeing and hearing – Lucifer. It was always Lucifer. Dean reached out, took Sam’s hand, his own calloused fingers rubbing over the thick scar tissue in his brother’s palm. Sam’s wandering gaze landed on Dean and for a brief second, Dean’s treacherous heart leapt in hope.
“You’re not real, not real…” Sam whispered, pulling his hand out of Dean’s loose grasp and his head fell back on the pillow. Dean’s fragile hopes turned to ash in his mouth. He almost didn’t hear Castiel talking over the roaring of his despair.
“There is one thing I believe I can do. I think I can give Sam some rest, though I have no control over his dreams.”
Cas leaned forward and pressed the same two fingers to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s eyelids fell shut with such finality Dean almost expected an audible clunk. Dean watched as Sam’s breathing evened out. Hesitantly, he placed his palm on Sam’s broad chest. The heartbeat slowed down a little, even though Sam’s eyes still moved rapidly under his bruised lids.
“How long…?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face, as if looking away could wake him. Sam needed sleep more than anything after so long without any rest and Dean didn’t want to jeopardise this rare gift. Even if part of him raged silently that Cas couldn’t repair the damage he’d caused.
“Hard to say,” Cas frowned, looking up from Sam to Dean. “Usually this would knock a human out for days, but Sam isn’t …” Cas paused, clearly trying to find the words of one syllable Dean would understand; fucking angels. “…wired normally right now. For now while he sleeps some healing will take place – he needs the rest even more now, after that demon’s electric shock treatment.”
Dean was grateful Cas had arrived in time to pull Sam out of that amped-up frying pan, but it was hard to forgive the angel for having landed them in this mess in the first place. It didn’t seem right. It had been far too easy for Cas to destroy Sam’s wall and tumble his brother’s mind into who knew what kind of turmoil, yet the angel had nothing to offer by way of healing. Dean sighed heavily. It wasn’t like any of them was blameless these days. They were lurching from one catastrophe to another and he just wanted it to be over.
At least Sam looked peaceful for the first time in ages, even if lying on his back like this he reminded Dean of a stiff laid out for relatives to view. Bone weary and dispirited, Dean didn’t protest when Cas and Meg suggested they return to the motel for the night.
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It was dark outside the barred window when Sam woke in a strange bed in a strange room. The walls were shabby without even a hint of chic and there was a sickly yellow light shining in the corridor outside the wide-open door of his room. He thought he’d been dreaming; something to do with fire. The scent of ash lingered in the air, together with confused images of two different blonde women burning. The horror thankfully didn’t linger, sight and smell both immediately banished from his head, chased out by a familiar voice singing.
Fucking Oklahoma. Dean would… Dean? The name slipped out of Sam’s head. It floated down the same river as his dream, as clear and colourless as the water it mingled with and was lost.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day, I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way…”
Sam thought it was strange that Lucifer should have such a good singing voice, but then didn’t they say the Devil had all the best tunes?
He sat up, taking stock. He felt…surprisingly good. He was dressed in white hospital scrubs, though this room didn’t look much like the image that came to mind when he thought of a hospital. It smelled different, too. Less like antiseptic and more like dust and decay, now that the dream-scent of burning had dissipated. Had he been ill? He didn’t remember.
Lucifer stopped singing and perched on the edge of the bed. He smiled, shuffled up to nudge Sam’s shoulder and Sam couldn’t help shivering. He seemed to remember Lucifer telling him Hell was all about ice instead of fire and certainly cold was emanating off the Devil in waves.
“So, Sammy, what’s the plan?”
“It’s Sam,” was his automatic yet distracted response. Because Lucifer was right, he should have a plan, shouldn’t he?
Whatever he was going to do, there was nothing here to help him decide. Apart from the bed and a small rickety-looking table by the door, the room was empty. Even the strip-light fitting on the ceiling was empty, the room being lit from the corridor and when Sam blinked he had a flashback image of the fluorescent bulb exploding and a frightened girl’s face.
Marin. The girl’s name was Marin. Her brother had been a ghost and between them they’d put him to rest. So why was he still here? The job was done, so he should be moving on, finding the next monster to kill.
“Attaboy, Sammy,” Lucifer crowed with delight. “Let’s blow this popsicle joint!”
Sam didn’t bother correcting Lucifer about his name this time. He was too preoccupied with fighting off the dizziness that swept over him after he stood up. It was possible he wasn’t as well as he’d thought. But the feeling passed quickly and he wasn’t going to let a momentary weakness hold him back. Whatever this place was, Sam knew he didn’t want to be here a minute longer. The sense of urgency that gripped him was as inexplicable as his failure to remember anything about himself apart from his first name and his hunting occupation, so Sam didn’t waste any more time in wondering. It couldn’t be that crucial and besides, he had other concerns right now. He made his way into the corridors outside in search of his clothing and most importantly, footwear. No self-respecting hunter should be without a pair of sturdy boots.
The building had that dead of night hush and Sam was grateful that for once Lucifer was matching the quiet whisper of Sam’s bare feet on the surprisingly shiny-clean floors. After the derelict state of his room, Sam had expected the whole place to be similarly run-down, but it became lighter and more standardly clinical as he moved farther away from the corridor where he’d awoken. He found a locker room full of wooden cupboards that looked promising, and sure enough, after he’d made short work of their flimsy locks, he found bags full of personal belongings, presumably belonging to patients. The first two held nothing of use, but in the third cupboard he struck lucky. He pulled out a canvas duffel which looked familiar and held clothing that fit him. He dressed quickly, then shouldered the bag. He’d check the rest of its contents for clues about himself later.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
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Castiel shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Dean didn’t suffer from the same problem finding the words to express his ire and worry. Dean shouted and waved his arms at the discomfited bald doctor, who had just delivered the news that Sam had disappeared sometime during the night.
“What do you mean, he’s gone? What happened to your security? He’s fucking sick – you were supposed to be taking care of him. What kind of hospital just lets its patients wander out into the night, alone and unprotected? There are de-- dangers out there for someone in Sam’s state of mind!”
Castiel winced over Dean’s stutter and recovery, because he knew Dean had been about to yell about demons, which was likely to get him onto the doctor’s inmate list in Sam’s place. Castiel watched Dean’s face redden to a dangerous shade of puce. He wondered whether he ought to step in and put Dean to sleep like he had Sam, to prevent Dean expiring from apoplexy. There was a touch of self-interest in that thought, as he feared it was unlikely Dean had forgotten that he’d only left Sam unattended because he’d thought Sam was safely asleep, touched by an angel. Touched by Castiel. It was only a short step for Dean to move from blaming the hapless doctor to his default position of blaming himself, and by extension, Castiel.
He sighed. Atonement was difficult. Winchesters were difficult.
“He’s your pet human, Clarence,” came a nasal voice at his shoulder, laced with dark amusement. “Haven’t you got a leash for him?”
Castiel closed his eyes. Demons were also very difficult, especially this one. Castiel missed the days when smiting demons was not a matter for consideration, one just did it. An unequivocal right action. In fact Castiel missed righteousness in all its glorious certainty.
“You are thinking very loudly,” Meg said. “I can hear the guilt and regret, even over our Deano’s little tantrum.”
Dean gave both Castiel and Meg a scowl that only served to increase Castiel’s guilt and Meg’s amusement.
The atmosphere was somewhat tense when the unlikely trio eventually set out in their latest stolen car to find Sam. Castiel had learned that silence was the best policy, after receiving a death glare from Dean for asking how he knew which direction to head, when they didn’t know where Sam had gone. Castiel missed the Impala, not least because when driving her Dean found a measure of peace. He hated the Leviathans that little bit more, on his own and Dean’s behalf.
Castiel stared out of the dusty window and hoped that Sam had not gone far. It was a hope that was to be dashed.
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This car was wrong. It bothered Sam that it only had two doors and the dull beige of the paintwork was somehow more offensive to Sam’s eye than the rust patches round the base panels. The sound of the engine was too shrill; the stained coverings of the bench seat made a rough rasping sound as he slid in; the steering wheel was plastic-smooth under his grip. He didn’t know why all these minor details about an old rust-bucket he’d stolen from the hospital parking lot made him so uncomfortable. He didn’t even like cars. He didn’t think so anyhow.
And it was hard to think. When Sam tried to remember whatever it was he’d forgotten, his head started to ache something fierce, so he stopped trying and concentrated on driving. Lucifer lounged in the shotgun seat, resting his dirty sneakers on the dash and randomly stopping the radio tuner on songs he liked so he could bellow out the choruses. For once Sam welcomed the irritation. It helped him stay awake long enough to put many miles between him and the Northern Indiana State Hospital. He had no idea where he was headed – just away from Westville was enough, so he set his back to the rising sun and drove.
He stopped for gas a couple of times; once in Iowa and once in Wyoming. This old Buick he’d jacked was a real gas-guzzler and for some reason he liked that, even though it was illogical and was bad for the environment. He used cash Lucifer found stuffed in the glove box, crumpled bills mixed in with handfuls of receipts, greasy food wrappers, and a packet of gummi bears so ancient they were a single, sticky congealed mass. Didn’t stop Sam eating them though, and the sugar rush was a heady thing. Dawn lit the sky at his back and he drove until the sun lowered ahead of him in a glorious bank of purple clouds, the sky painted red and gold. He drove through the gathering darkness and beyond, and probably would have kept going until the nose of the Buick touched the Pacific Ocean, except for two things. First, he’d somehow turned north in the night, as if he had some unconscious aversion to crossing the Idaho border into Oregon. And second, the big old Buick went and died on him in the middle of Cambridge, Idaho.
“Come on, Sam,” urged Lucifer, his expression petulant in the pink and blue light from the sign for Dusty’s Diner and Motel. “Can’t you fix it? I bet your brother could’ve fixed it.”
Sam stopped pushing the heavy chunk of steel that used to be a car off the highway towards the Diner parking lot and glared at Lucifer. Sweat dripped down his forehead and splashed, unnoticed, onto the dusty paintwork.
“A, fuck off, no I can’t fix it,” he said, shrugging to shift the kinks in his shoulders. “ And B, I don’t have a brother. You’re the one with brothers, remember? Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.”
Lucifer cocked his head on one side in a gesture that almost reminded Sam of someone else.
“Hold up there, padre…so you know about my family, yet you can’t remember your own? Fascinating.”
Sam frowned. He didn’t have a family. He couldn’t have; there’s no way he’d have forgotten something as important as that, surely? The night breeze from the mountains to the east lifted his hair and let it drop again, bringing with it the scent of pine and a hint of distant snow. Sam relaxed, allowing the thought float away on the wind. He flexed his arms and pressed one hand against the cool metal of the Buick’s roof, before placing it back onto the steering wheel. He braced his other hand on the open door, ready to resume pushing.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful instead of yammering,” he suggested to Lucifer, as he tensed and strained. His muscles engaged and the heavy car rolled forwards.
Lucifer ignored him, of course, keeping up an unhelpful commentary instead of pitching in with some muscle power. Typical. Sam steered the Buick into the motel parking lot, then aimed her towards the far end where the lights from the motel windows didn’t reach, under some trees and near what looked like an abandoned woodshed. Sweat was running down his back and face by the time she rolled to a halt, cooling him too rapidly in the fresh air off the mountains. He shivered and looked longingly towards the warm yellow glow that promised hot showers, clean sheets and cable TV.
“Not enough money for a room, Sam? Ain’t that a shame,” Lucifer said, creasing his face into his best impression of sympathy. Sam wasn’t fooled, but the Devil was right, their meagre stash of cash was too depleted to stretch to a night indoors, and though he’d found two different credit cards with the bundle of fake IDs in his duffel, Sam was strangely reluctant to use them. The same wariness had caused him to toss his cell phone only a couple of miles outside of Westville. Too easily tracked, and besides, what did he need a phone for? He had nobody to call. Now Lucifer’s throwaway comment about family had Sam wishing he’d thought to check through his contacts before ditching the phone. Too late now.
He considered his options for resting up, and the car seemed to be it. Luckily there wasn’t much of this night left to worry about. Already to the east the jagged silhouette of Snowbank Mountain was starting to emerge against the lightening sky.
Sam shivered. This was a good time to dig round in his bag for some extra layers before climbing into the back seat. Bundled up in as much clothing as he could manage, Sam hunkered down. Neither the cold, nor the nasty plastic smell of the vinyl seats that should have been leather, nor Lucifer’s deliberately out-of-tune singing could keep him awake, and he was out within seconds of putting his head down on his makeshift duffel-pillow.
In his dreams, he was safe and warm, cocooned inside a purring black monster, on the road to nowhere in particular with his non-existent brother by his side, one arm draped over the back of a leather-covered car seat.
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Stella Miller worked long hours, and damn hard too, so it wasn’t until she was coming out of Room 28, right down the far end of the block, that she noticed the ugly lump of scrap metal lurking under the trees out back. Oh great. Dusty was going to flip if he had to fork out for a tow again. Fucking kids and their junkers. She knew Cambridge wasn’t chock full of entertainment for teens, but even when she’d been one herself she’d never seen the attraction of racing old wrecks down the highway. She shrugged. It was an eternal boy thing, she supposed.
She waited until she’d finished off the rooms and put all the cleaning stuff away before walking out back to check over the new, unwelcome rust heap. She didn’t know much about cars, didn’t care much either, but she noted that this one was big as well as ugly, the paintwork only a shade away from yellow dog shit and all spotted with rust, while the tires looked nearly bald. The windows were filthy with dust on the outside, and further obscured by a thick layer of condensation on the inside.
“What a heap of crap,” she muttered, and gave the nearside tire a kick. The last thing she expected was for the rear door to spring open and a huge shaggy-haired guy to tumble out. He stumbled and almost ended up on his hands and knees. He looked weak and disorientated as a new-born puppy; there was nothing threatening about him apart from his size when he eventually unfolded, but Stella couldn’t help emitting a little shriek of surprise all the same.
The guy – a stranger, not one of the local good-for-nothing kids – held out a large placating hand, the other pressed to his head like he was trying to stop his brains leaking out of his ear. Stella recognised that gesture. Hung-over, she reckoned. Though he didn’t smell as drunk as the unsteadiness of those long legs might indicate.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smiling and ducking his head in a self-depreciating way. His voice was a surprisingly pleasant tenor where she’d been prepared for whiskey-rough. The first of many assumptions, she supposed. That’s what you get when you sleep in cars when there’s a perfectly decent motel next door. She stood up straighter, to compensate for the stranger’s stoop, and instead of apologising for kicking his car and apparently waking him from a drunken slumber, she launched straight into what Dusty called her attack-mode.
“We’ve got a 24/7 reception desk, you know. You could’ve checked in last night, whatever time you arrived.”
The stranger looked even more sheepish at that, brushing the too-long hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture. The sun was out of the shadow of the mountains and struck his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the unshaven jaw and bruised shadows under his eyes. Aw fuck. He had no money, clearly. He was younger than she’d first thought, and was a few meals short of the good looks and well-muscled body a bone structure like that deserved. He opened his mouth, no doubt to spin a few lies, but Stella silenced him with an impatient gesture.
Dusty was going to freak but…
“Follow me, boy,” Stella commanded, and strode over to the diner, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if the kid was following.
Half an hour later, Stella felt satisfied. She had put some colour in those pale cheeks and hot food in his belly, and she had gotten a name – Sam. She hadn’t managed to glean much else from him, though. He was charming enough, but she thought evasion might be his super-power, he was so good at it. She didn’t sit with him. Of course not, too busy for that. She just ordered the food on his behalf, and made sure Sweet Sal served it up without bugging the stranger with his usual chatter. The diner was busy, which meant Dusty stayed in the kitchen, which in turn saved Stella from having to explain why she was giving free food to some young man who had no legitimate reason to be there.
It wasn’t until she brought Sam a coffee after Sweet Sal had cleared away his dirty plates that things changed. Sam looked up at her, all wide-eyed startled like a deer that’d just caught sight of the hunter’s rifle. She went to set the mug down cautiously, then realised Sam wasn’t actually looking at her at all; rather his frightened gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder, eyes tracking, frantic-like. She spared a glance in that direction, but couldn’t see anyone close enough to be bothering him like this. In fact, the lunch-time rush had died down, and Stella didn’t think the sight of Old Marge nursing her mug of sweet tea, or Henry Adams and his gang of high school kids messing with the antiquated jukebox in the corner, were the stuff of nightmares. Though perhaps the latters’ teachers at school might say different, if asked.
“Sam?” she tried, but the boy didn’t seem to hear her. Then to her horror, his face crumpled, and those eyes she still hadn’t fixed the colour of filled with sudden tears.
“Jess,” he said, his voice full of such heartbreak she felt her own heart lurch in sympathy. Then with more resolve, a touch of steel even, “You’re not real.”
Before Stella could react, Sam was sliding out of the booth and striding out of the door, leaving her with one hand still clutching the handle of his untouched coffee, protecting it from spillage because that was the only thing she could do.
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Being reminded of Jess like that unsettled Sam, sent his thoughts rattling round his head like pinballs, bouncing off the things he knew and the things he didn’t: Jessica had been his girlfriend but she was dead; he’d loved her; something to do with fire, and malevolent eyes that glowed yellower than a lion’s and were ten times more dangerous. He knew he was pining for more than Jess, but there were so many pieces missing from his jigsaw mind, there weren’t enough there to even make a start. He couldn’t make the picture whole because he didn’t know what he was looking for – there were no straight edges or even a corner piece.
He crawled back into the car that now smelled of himself more than anything else, but it wasn’t right, nothing was right, so he curled up as snug as he could round the emptiness inside. He pulled his thin coat tighter still and rocked to and fro while Lucifer sang lullabies.
Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's death-light
Dark angels beside my Sammy abide
They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast…
Sam didn’t find it comforting; the lyrics were perverse, naturally, since they were sung by the Devil. Yet somehow he fell asleep to the crooning, in spite of Lucifer’s best efforts. He got the feeling the Devil was put out by his ability to doze off anywhere, anytime, and he wondered whether it was sleep deprivation on top of grieving that had landed him in the psychiatric ward in Westville.
Whatever, it didn’t matter now.
He wasn’t surprised when his dreams were full of death and fire and indefinable longing.
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Dusty didn’t have Sam’s car towed (apparently it was a ’71 Buick Electra, like that mattered), even though he blustered about and threatened it a couple of times in the next couple of weeks. Dusty got extra vocal after that couple of weekend hikers from New York complained about the crazy homeless giant having an argument with himself outside their room one rainy evening. Stella found it hard to take her husband’s threats seriously though, not after it was Dusty who had gently steered Sam away from the out-of-towners and seen him safely back to the big old Buick, and when she’d caught him an hour later taking the boy some leftover pie.
When Sam was having a good day, she’d find him doing odd jobs round town. He was competent with those large hands of his, seemed to be able to put them to good use on all sorts of tasks ranging from tinkering with her broken garbage disposal unit to carpentry. Sam fixed Old Marge’s wonky shutters, getting her house ready for winter, then dug over Mrs Zimmers’ vegetable plot and built a wooden cage for her compost heap. When he’d finished with the two town matriarchs, Stella found Sam some more repair jobs round the motel and diner that Dusty was always saying he was too busy to get round to. Somehow, three weeks went by, and it looked like Sam was becoming accepted as a resident of Cambridge.
He flat out refused to move out of the car, though.
Stella tried. She offered him use of the rear room with the small window that guests complained about, and even Dusty backed her offer up. Eddie Pincher told her he’d offered Sam his dead son’s empty apartment over his Guns & Tackle store, after he and Sam had spent a couple of hours arguing over the merits of various hunting paraphernalia. Eddie wanted to tell her all the details but Stella had no interest in killing things. Hell, she wouldn’t even let Dusty bring his old handgun into their living quarters, and he was ex-military, so unlikely to do anything stupid with it. Dusty often asked her if she was a Canadian in disguise, risking the whack around the back of the head that was her customary response.
Eventually the Millers compromised with Sam, persuading him to accept the key to the outside washroom, unused since the diner renovation three years ago, when they’d had a shiny new facility installed inside for customers. Sam’s acceptance of the key at least meant he didn’t smell too bad when he ventured into the diner, though he routinely scared out-of-towners with his random talking to the air.
It was strange how quickly the locals had taken him into their midst, as if this quiet young man with his strange ways had always been there. As if Cambridge, Idaho was his home.
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If Stella had told Sam her thoughts, he’d have laughed. He knew better than to call any place home.
The cold emptiness never left him. It was a persistent absence lodged inside Sam’s core, in the same way that Lucifer was a persistent unpleasant presence by his side. It didn’t matter. He was too weary to care.
He slept a lot. He had the feeling that much sleeping was unusual, and certainly Lucifer didn’t like it, was always trying stupid stuff to keep Sam awake. Tried but didn’t succeed, not with the chattering, or the loud singing, or the random banging on hard surfaces. Sam was just too tired all the time for any of that to work.
He didn’t want to waste his life asleep though, however weird his existence was, so he tried to keep busy. People here were being kind to him and he wanted to repay that as best he could.
“They think you’re crazy,” Lucifer said; smiling, always fucking smiling. “You’ll never be one of them, no matter how many sinks you unblock, or air con units you repair.”
“Shut up,” Sam said, refusing to be deflected. He tightened a screw and tugged at the wiring to make sure nothing was loose before replacing the back onto the air conditioning unit he was fixing for old Mrs Zimmers. He put his screwdriver back into the tool bag Eddie Pincher had given him. Everything in its place, nice and tidy.
“What was that, dear?” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Nothing, Mrs Zimmers, nothing at all.” He stood and placed the unit back onto its shelf and flipped the switch. It sprang to life with a low hum, and Sam nodded, satisfied. He followed the alluring smell of baking into the kitchen, and discovered that while he’d been deep in the innards of the broken air conditioner, the irascible widow had been busy making pie.
“Sit down, boy. You’re giving me neck ache.” She gestured and Sam, obedient, sat at the table and ate two huge slices of cherry pie. It was delicious, so why did each juicy mouthful taste like homesickness and loss?
“Do you really not remember anything about your life before you ended up in Cambridge, Sam?”
Sam blinked, dragged back from his reverie by the question.
“Not much, no, ma’am.”
“Aren’t you curious? There might be someone who misses you, some family who are looking for you.”
Sam shook his head. He was sure. Ninety nine per cent sure.
“I had a girlfriend, Jessica. She…” flames, blood, a flash of yellow – his breath shuddered to a stop for a second, restarted. “She died. I don’t think… I don’t have anyone else.”
Mrs Zimmers’ tiny gnarled hand covered his fingers, her pale blue eyes brimming with aggressive sympathy. Sam didn’t know what to do with it, or with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something, something vital.
What if he was wrong about being alone?
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Sam walked down to the Weiser River after he left Mrs Zimmers’ place, his belly full of strong coffee and cherry pie. He was jittery, restless; too much caffeine and sugar. Maybe watching the smooth flow of the brown waters might calm him.
Lucifer had other ideas.
“You threw away your cell phone when you ran away from that North Indiana hospital – that was foolish, Sam. You should have known better,” Lucifer danced away as Sam whirled round, his fists clenched. “Threw away your medication, too. Didn’t you consider that it might have stopped you hallucinating? Might have helped you remember everything you’ve forgotten?”
“What, are you telling me you aren’t real then?” Sam glared at Lucifer, wishing just once he could wipe that smug sneer off his face. Lucifer put a hand over his heart and staggered as if he’d been shot. Fucking drama queen.
“Oh, Samuel, you wound me. I’m as real as that family of yours that you can’t remember.”
“What do you know about them? Tell me!”
Sam lurched forwards, reaching out, but Lucifer sidestepped, nimble as a mountain goat. Briefly, Sam thought he saw cloven hooves where feet should be, and horns peeking out of that blond spiked hair, then his vision cleared and Lucifer was back in his normal jeans and boots. If there could be anything normal about a hallucination of the Devil, that is.
A twig snapped behind him, and someone snickered. Sam spun round faster than the owner of the laugh expected, and snagged a collar. He dragged the spy out from behind some bushes. It was just a kid, maybe fifteen, snub-nosed and tow-haired, a round face full of freckles and meanness. Sam remembered him from the diner – Darren or Darryl or some such name. Always hanging around with those other, older kids who thought they were tough. Even as the thought formed, pain blossomed in his ribs from a blow with something hard – a piece of timber, maybe. Darren (or Darryl) took the opportunity to kick Sam’s shins and break free of his grip.
Slow, Sam, you’ve gotten slow…
“Yeah, come on you fucking spaz, who’re you talking to anyway? Fucking psycho.”
Sam turned slowly to face his attackers. As he’d suspected, it was the three others, the older kids in the little gang. They were all high school dropouts led by Henry Adams, with the younger kid tagging along, who was dangerous because he was so eager to prove he was worthy. It was Adams who had hit Sam, evidenced by the fact the boy was wielding a baseball bat and an evil grin. Great. The little fuckers had obviously followed him, planning this. Sam’s eyes flickered, quickly assessing his situation. One weapon – the bat – between them; three boys who were almost men, and the kid. The desperate, stupid kid.
None of them were trained fighters by any stretch of the imagination – though that wouldn’t stop them from turning into killers, because petty meanness can do that to people, Sam had seen it happen. It wasn’t right that Sam could remember that, yet not remember his own surname, or the people he loved. Sam drew himself up to his full height for the first time in a very long time, and flexed his shoulders.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said to the boys, keeping his tone even and reasonable. Lucifer danced in the background, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
“So not fucking helpful, Lucifer,” Sam said, as the stupid kids came at him, the tall one swinging the baseball bat menacingly.
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Part 2 this way
Author: amberdreams
Artist:
quickreaverWords: ~12k
Rating: NC17
Warnings: mental illness, hallucinations, a dash of incest, angst
Characters: Sam/Dean, Castiel, Meg, OCs
Summary: An alternative to the Born Again Identity. Here Castiel doesn’t immediately think of the idea of transferring Sam’s madness onto himself. As a result, Sam's brain is still fried. He escapes from the Westville asylum wing by himself, steals a car and drives until he runs out of road in Idaho. In the parking lot of a motel in a small town, Sam finds a kind of peace for a while.
Acknowledgements: All the thanks and love to my betas,
ameliacareful and firesign10, they made this fic so much better! Many thanks also to the sammybigbang mods for creating and wrangling this challenge. You are awesome, chaps!The art is by
quickreaver so you know it's going to rock, right? Well, what are you waiting for - go and check out the ART MASTERPOST HERE.Sam I Am - Part 1
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
i carry your heart with me by E.E Cummings
Westville, North Indiana.
Sam’s face was too gaunt; cheekbones sharp enough to cut Dean’s finger if he dared to touch them (and he really wanted to, just to reassure himself Sam was still there, physically at least). Dean didn’t move away from the wall, though, just carried on leaning against it, all casual-like, pretending it wasn’t the only thing keeping him on his feet. He watched Castiel move around Sam’s bed, hoping that the confidence that was back in the angel’s stride would be backed up by results.
Because if Castiel couldn’t restore his little brother’s sanity, Dean didn’t know what he was going to do. Being helpless wasn’t new to Dean but it was something he was heart-sick of dealing with.
Castiel’s expression was serene as he placed two fingers on Sam’s knitted brow. Sam flinched away, muttering, but Cas persisted, talking quietly to Sam as if he was soothing a skittish horse. Dean’s breath shuddered out as if he’d been punched in the stomach when Cas’ face gradually crumpled into a pained frown. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it until that moment.
“Oh Sam, I’m so sorry,” the angel said. Castiel's shoulders slumped, as if the bloodied coat Dean had recently restored to him had turned from cloth into lead. Dean asked the question, though he already knew what the answer would be.
“What happened? Why didn’t it work?”
“I cannot rebuild Sam’s wall, Dean. I can’t even attempt repairs. There is nothing left of it but dust. I’m…”
Dean interrupted, couldn’t help himself. “Don’t say you’re sorry, Cas. Just don’t.” He was at Sam’s bedside now, though he didn’t remember moving. Sam’s eyes flickered, his unseeing gaze flitting from point to point. Dean could guess what Sam was seeing and hearing – Lucifer. It was always Lucifer. Dean reached out, took Sam’s hand, his own calloused fingers rubbing over the thick scar tissue in his brother’s palm. Sam’s wandering gaze landed on Dean and for a brief second, Dean’s treacherous heart leapt in hope.
“You’re not real, not real…” Sam whispered, pulling his hand out of Dean’s loose grasp and his head fell back on the pillow. Dean’s fragile hopes turned to ash in his mouth. He almost didn’t hear Castiel talking over the roaring of his despair.
“There is one thing I believe I can do. I think I can give Sam some rest, though I have no control over his dreams.”
Cas leaned forward and pressed the same two fingers to Sam’s forehead. Sam’s eyelids fell shut with such finality Dean almost expected an audible clunk. Dean watched as Sam’s breathing evened out. Hesitantly, he placed his palm on Sam’s broad chest. The heartbeat slowed down a little, even though Sam’s eyes still moved rapidly under his bruised lids.
“How long…?” Dean didn’t take his eyes off Sam’s face, as if looking away could wake him. Sam needed sleep more than anything after so long without any rest and Dean didn’t want to jeopardise this rare gift. Even if part of him raged silently that Cas couldn’t repair the damage he’d caused.
“Hard to say,” Cas frowned, looking up from Sam to Dean. “Usually this would knock a human out for days, but Sam isn’t …” Cas paused, clearly trying to find the words of one syllable Dean would understand; fucking angels. “…wired normally right now. For now while he sleeps some healing will take place – he needs the rest even more now, after that demon’s electric shock treatment.”
Dean was grateful Cas had arrived in time to pull Sam out of that amped-up frying pan, but it was hard to forgive the angel for having landed them in this mess in the first place. It didn’t seem right. It had been far too easy for Cas to destroy Sam’s wall and tumble his brother’s mind into who knew what kind of turmoil, yet the angel had nothing to offer by way of healing. Dean sighed heavily. It wasn’t like any of them was blameless these days. They were lurching from one catastrophe to another and he just wanted it to be over.
At least Sam looked peaceful for the first time in ages, even if lying on his back like this he reminded Dean of a stiff laid out for relatives to view. Bone weary and dispirited, Dean didn’t protest when Cas and Meg suggested they return to the motel for the night.
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It was dark outside the barred window when Sam woke in a strange bed in a strange room. The walls were shabby without even a hint of chic and there was a sickly yellow light shining in the corridor outside the wide-open door of his room. He thought he’d been dreaming; something to do with fire. The scent of ash lingered in the air, together with confused images of two different blonde women burning. The horror thankfully didn’t linger, sight and smell both immediately banished from his head, chased out by a familiar voice singing.
Fucking Oklahoma. Dean would… Dean? The name slipped out of Sam’s head. It floated down the same river as his dream, as clear and colourless as the water it mingled with and was lost.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning, oh, what a beautiful day, I’ve got a wonderful feeling, everything’s going my way…”
Sam thought it was strange that Lucifer should have such a good singing voice, but then didn’t they say the Devil had all the best tunes?
He sat up, taking stock. He felt…surprisingly good. He was dressed in white hospital scrubs, though this room didn’t look much like the image that came to mind when he thought of a hospital. It smelled different, too. Less like antiseptic and more like dust and decay, now that the dream-scent of burning had dissipated. Had he been ill? He didn’t remember.
Lucifer stopped singing and perched on the edge of the bed. He smiled, shuffled up to nudge Sam’s shoulder and Sam couldn’t help shivering. He seemed to remember Lucifer telling him Hell was all about ice instead of fire and certainly cold was emanating off the Devil in waves.
“So, Sammy, what’s the plan?”
“It’s Sam,” was his automatic yet distracted response. Because Lucifer was right, he should have a plan, shouldn’t he?
Whatever he was going to do, there was nothing here to help him decide. Apart from the bed and a small rickety-looking table by the door, the room was empty. Even the strip-light fitting on the ceiling was empty, the room being lit from the corridor and when Sam blinked he had a flashback image of the fluorescent bulb exploding and a frightened girl’s face.
Marin. The girl’s name was Marin. Her brother had been a ghost and between them they’d put him to rest. So why was he still here? The job was done, so he should be moving on, finding the next monster to kill.
“Attaboy, Sammy,” Lucifer crowed with delight. “Let’s blow this popsicle joint!”
Sam didn’t bother correcting Lucifer about his name this time. He was too preoccupied with fighting off the dizziness that swept over him after he stood up. It was possible he wasn’t as well as he’d thought. But the feeling passed quickly and he wasn’t going to let a momentary weakness hold him back. Whatever this place was, Sam knew he didn’t want to be here a minute longer. The sense of urgency that gripped him was as inexplicable as his failure to remember anything about himself apart from his first name and his hunting occupation, so Sam didn’t waste any more time in wondering. It couldn’t be that crucial and besides, he had other concerns right now. He made his way into the corridors outside in search of his clothing and most importantly, footwear. No self-respecting hunter should be without a pair of sturdy boots.
The building had that dead of night hush and Sam was grateful that for once Lucifer was matching the quiet whisper of Sam’s bare feet on the surprisingly shiny-clean floors. After the derelict state of his room, Sam had expected the whole place to be similarly run-down, but it became lighter and more standardly clinical as he moved farther away from the corridor where he’d awoken. He found a locker room full of wooden cupboards that looked promising, and sure enough, after he’d made short work of their flimsy locks, he found bags full of personal belongings, presumably belonging to patients. The first two held nothing of use, but in the third cupboard he struck lucky. He pulled out a canvas duffel which looked familiar and held clothing that fit him. He dressed quickly, then shouldered the bag. He’d check the rest of its contents for clues about himself later.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
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Castiel shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to say. Dean didn’t suffer from the same problem finding the words to express his ire and worry. Dean shouted and waved his arms at the discomfited bald doctor, who had just delivered the news that Sam had disappeared sometime during the night.
“What do you mean, he’s gone? What happened to your security? He’s fucking sick – you were supposed to be taking care of him. What kind of hospital just lets its patients wander out into the night, alone and unprotected? There are de-- dangers out there for someone in Sam’s state of mind!”
Castiel winced over Dean’s stutter and recovery, because he knew Dean had been about to yell about demons, which was likely to get him onto the doctor’s inmate list in Sam’s place. Castiel watched Dean’s face redden to a dangerous shade of puce. He wondered whether he ought to step in and put Dean to sleep like he had Sam, to prevent Dean expiring from apoplexy. There was a touch of self-interest in that thought, as he feared it was unlikely Dean had forgotten that he’d only left Sam unattended because he’d thought Sam was safely asleep, touched by an angel. Touched by Castiel. It was only a short step for Dean to move from blaming the hapless doctor to his default position of blaming himself, and by extension, Castiel.
He sighed. Atonement was difficult. Winchesters were difficult.
“He’s your pet human, Clarence,” came a nasal voice at his shoulder, laced with dark amusement. “Haven’t you got a leash for him?”
Castiel closed his eyes. Demons were also very difficult, especially this one. Castiel missed the days when smiting demons was not a matter for consideration, one just did it. An unequivocal right action. In fact Castiel missed righteousness in all its glorious certainty.
“You are thinking very loudly,” Meg said. “I can hear the guilt and regret, even over our Deano’s little tantrum.”
Dean gave both Castiel and Meg a scowl that only served to increase Castiel’s guilt and Meg’s amusement.
The atmosphere was somewhat tense when the unlikely trio eventually set out in their latest stolen car to find Sam. Castiel had learned that silence was the best policy, after receiving a death glare from Dean for asking how he knew which direction to head, when they didn’t know where Sam had gone. Castiel missed the Impala, not least because when driving her Dean found a measure of peace. He hated the Leviathans that little bit more, on his own and Dean’s behalf.
Castiel stared out of the dusty window and hoped that Sam had not gone far. It was a hope that was to be dashed.
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This car was wrong. It bothered Sam that it only had two doors and the dull beige of the paintwork was somehow more offensive to Sam’s eye than the rust patches round the base panels. The sound of the engine was too shrill; the stained coverings of the bench seat made a rough rasping sound as he slid in; the steering wheel was plastic-smooth under his grip. He didn’t know why all these minor details about an old rust-bucket he’d stolen from the hospital parking lot made him so uncomfortable. He didn’t even like cars. He didn’t think so anyhow.
And it was hard to think. When Sam tried to remember whatever it was he’d forgotten, his head started to ache something fierce, so he stopped trying and concentrated on driving. Lucifer lounged in the shotgun seat, resting his dirty sneakers on the dash and randomly stopping the radio tuner on songs he liked so he could bellow out the choruses. For once Sam welcomed the irritation. It helped him stay awake long enough to put many miles between him and the Northern Indiana State Hospital. He had no idea where he was headed – just away from Westville was enough, so he set his back to the rising sun and drove.
He stopped for gas a couple of times; once in Iowa and once in Wyoming. This old Buick he’d jacked was a real gas-guzzler and for some reason he liked that, even though it was illogical and was bad for the environment. He used cash Lucifer found stuffed in the glove box, crumpled bills mixed in with handfuls of receipts, greasy food wrappers, and a packet of gummi bears so ancient they were a single, sticky congealed mass. Didn’t stop Sam eating them though, and the sugar rush was a heady thing. Dawn lit the sky at his back and he drove until the sun lowered ahead of him in a glorious bank of purple clouds, the sky painted red and gold. He drove through the gathering darkness and beyond, and probably would have kept going until the nose of the Buick touched the Pacific Ocean, except for two things. First, he’d somehow turned north in the night, as if he had some unconscious aversion to crossing the Idaho border into Oregon. And second, the big old Buick went and died on him in the middle of Cambridge, Idaho.
“Come on, Sam,” urged Lucifer, his expression petulant in the pink and blue light from the sign for Dusty’s Diner and Motel. “Can’t you fix it? I bet your brother could’ve fixed it.”
Sam stopped pushing the heavy chunk of steel that used to be a car off the highway towards the Diner parking lot and glared at Lucifer. Sweat dripped down his forehead and splashed, unnoticed, onto the dusty paintwork.
“A, fuck off, no I can’t fix it,” he said, shrugging to shift the kinks in his shoulders. “ And B, I don’t have a brother. You’re the one with brothers, remember? Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.”
Lucifer cocked his head on one side in a gesture that almost reminded Sam of someone else.
“Hold up there, padre…so you know about my family, yet you can’t remember your own? Fascinating.”
Sam frowned. He didn’t have a family. He couldn’t have; there’s no way he’d have forgotten something as important as that, surely? The night breeze from the mountains to the east lifted his hair and let it drop again, bringing with it the scent of pine and a hint of distant snow. Sam relaxed, allowing the thought float away on the wind. He flexed his arms and pressed one hand against the cool metal of the Buick’s roof, before placing it back onto the steering wheel. He braced his other hand on the open door, ready to resume pushing.
“Why don’t you make yourself useful instead of yammering,” he suggested to Lucifer, as he tensed and strained. His muscles engaged and the heavy car rolled forwards.
Lucifer ignored him, of course, keeping up an unhelpful commentary instead of pitching in with some muscle power. Typical. Sam steered the Buick into the motel parking lot, then aimed her towards the far end where the lights from the motel windows didn’t reach, under some trees and near what looked like an abandoned woodshed. Sweat was running down his back and face by the time she rolled to a halt, cooling him too rapidly in the fresh air off the mountains. He shivered and looked longingly towards the warm yellow glow that promised hot showers, clean sheets and cable TV.
“Not enough money for a room, Sam? Ain’t that a shame,” Lucifer said, creasing his face into his best impression of sympathy. Sam wasn’t fooled, but the Devil was right, their meagre stash of cash was too depleted to stretch to a night indoors, and though he’d found two different credit cards with the bundle of fake IDs in his duffel, Sam was strangely reluctant to use them. The same wariness had caused him to toss his cell phone only a couple of miles outside of Westville. Too easily tracked, and besides, what did he need a phone for? He had nobody to call. Now Lucifer’s throwaway comment about family had Sam wishing he’d thought to check through his contacts before ditching the phone. Too late now.
He considered his options for resting up, and the car seemed to be it. Luckily there wasn’t much of this night left to worry about. Already to the east the jagged silhouette of Snowbank Mountain was starting to emerge against the lightening sky.
Sam shivered. This was a good time to dig round in his bag for some extra layers before climbing into the back seat. Bundled up in as much clothing as he could manage, Sam hunkered down. Neither the cold, nor the nasty plastic smell of the vinyl seats that should have been leather, nor Lucifer’s deliberately out-of-tune singing could keep him awake, and he was out within seconds of putting his head down on his makeshift duffel-pillow.
In his dreams, he was safe and warm, cocooned inside a purring black monster, on the road to nowhere in particular with his non-existent brother by his side, one arm draped over the back of a leather-covered car seat.
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Stella Miller worked long hours, and damn hard too, so it wasn’t until she was coming out of Room 28, right down the far end of the block, that she noticed the ugly lump of scrap metal lurking under the trees out back. Oh great. Dusty was going to flip if he had to fork out for a tow again. Fucking kids and their junkers. She knew Cambridge wasn’t chock full of entertainment for teens, but even when she’d been one herself she’d never seen the attraction of racing old wrecks down the highway. She shrugged. It was an eternal boy thing, she supposed.
She waited until she’d finished off the rooms and put all the cleaning stuff away before walking out back to check over the new, unwelcome rust heap. She didn’t know much about cars, didn’t care much either, but she noted that this one was big as well as ugly, the paintwork only a shade away from yellow dog shit and all spotted with rust, while the tires looked nearly bald. The windows were filthy with dust on the outside, and further obscured by a thick layer of condensation on the inside.
“What a heap of crap,” she muttered, and gave the nearside tire a kick. The last thing she expected was for the rear door to spring open and a huge shaggy-haired guy to tumble out. He stumbled and almost ended up on his hands and knees. He looked weak and disorientated as a new-born puppy; there was nothing threatening about him apart from his size when he eventually unfolded, but Stella couldn’t help emitting a little shriek of surprise all the same.
The guy – a stranger, not one of the local good-for-nothing kids – held out a large placating hand, the other pressed to his head like he was trying to stop his brains leaking out of his ear. Stella recognised that gesture. Hung-over, she reckoned. Though he didn’t smell as drunk as the unsteadiness of those long legs might indicate.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, smiling and ducking his head in a self-depreciating way. His voice was a surprisingly pleasant tenor where she’d been prepared for whiskey-rough. The first of many assumptions, she supposed. That’s what you get when you sleep in cars when there’s a perfectly decent motel next door. She stood up straighter, to compensate for the stranger’s stoop, and instead of apologising for kicking his car and apparently waking him from a drunken slumber, she launched straight into what Dusty called her attack-mode.
“We’ve got a 24/7 reception desk, you know. You could’ve checked in last night, whatever time you arrived.”
The stranger looked even more sheepish at that, brushing the too-long hair out of his eyes in a nervous gesture. The sun was out of the shadow of the mountains and struck his face, highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones, the unshaven jaw and bruised shadows under his eyes. Aw fuck. He had no money, clearly. He was younger than she’d first thought, and was a few meals short of the good looks and well-muscled body a bone structure like that deserved. He opened his mouth, no doubt to spin a few lies, but Stella silenced him with an impatient gesture.
Dusty was going to freak but…
“Follow me, boy,” Stella commanded, and strode over to the diner, not bothering to look over her shoulder to see if the kid was following.
Half an hour later, Stella felt satisfied. She had put some colour in those pale cheeks and hot food in his belly, and she had gotten a name – Sam. She hadn’t managed to glean much else from him, though. He was charming enough, but she thought evasion might be his super-power, he was so good at it. She didn’t sit with him. Of course not, too busy for that. She just ordered the food on his behalf, and made sure Sweet Sal served it up without bugging the stranger with his usual chatter. The diner was busy, which meant Dusty stayed in the kitchen, which in turn saved Stella from having to explain why she was giving free food to some young man who had no legitimate reason to be there.
It wasn’t until she brought Sam a coffee after Sweet Sal had cleared away his dirty plates that things changed. Sam looked up at her, all wide-eyed startled like a deer that’d just caught sight of the hunter’s rifle. She went to set the mug down cautiously, then realised Sam wasn’t actually looking at her at all; rather his frightened gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder, eyes tracking, frantic-like. She spared a glance in that direction, but couldn’t see anyone close enough to be bothering him like this. In fact, the lunch-time rush had died down, and Stella didn’t think the sight of Old Marge nursing her mug of sweet tea, or Henry Adams and his gang of high school kids messing with the antiquated jukebox in the corner, were the stuff of nightmares. Though perhaps the latters’ teachers at school might say different, if asked.
“Sam?” she tried, but the boy didn’t seem to hear her. Then to her horror, his face crumpled, and those eyes she still hadn’t fixed the colour of filled with sudden tears.
“Jess,” he said, his voice full of such heartbreak she felt her own heart lurch in sympathy. Then with more resolve, a touch of steel even, “You’re not real.”
Before Stella could react, Sam was sliding out of the booth and striding out of the door, leaving her with one hand still clutching the handle of his untouched coffee, protecting it from spillage because that was the only thing she could do.
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Being reminded of Jess like that unsettled Sam, sent his thoughts rattling round his head like pinballs, bouncing off the things he knew and the things he didn’t: Jessica had been his girlfriend but she was dead; he’d loved her; something to do with fire, and malevolent eyes that glowed yellower than a lion’s and were ten times more dangerous. He knew he was pining for more than Jess, but there were so many pieces missing from his jigsaw mind, there weren’t enough there to even make a start. He couldn’t make the picture whole because he didn’t know what he was looking for – there were no straight edges or even a corner piece.
He crawled back into the car that now smelled of himself more than anything else, but it wasn’t right, nothing was right, so he curled up as snug as he could round the emptiness inside. He pulled his thin coat tighter still and rocked to and fro while Lucifer sang lullabies.
Lullaby and goodnight, thy mother's death-light
Dark angels beside my Sammy abide
They will guard thee at rest, thou shalt wake on my breast…
Sam didn’t find it comforting; the lyrics were perverse, naturally, since they were sung by the Devil. Yet somehow he fell asleep to the crooning, in spite of Lucifer’s best efforts. He got the feeling the Devil was put out by his ability to doze off anywhere, anytime, and he wondered whether it was sleep deprivation on top of grieving that had landed him in the psychiatric ward in Westville.
Whatever, it didn’t matter now.
He wasn’t surprised when his dreams were full of death and fire and indefinable longing.
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Dusty didn’t have Sam’s car towed (apparently it was a ’71 Buick Electra, like that mattered), even though he blustered about and threatened it a couple of times in the next couple of weeks. Dusty got extra vocal after that couple of weekend hikers from New York complained about the crazy homeless giant having an argument with himself outside their room one rainy evening. Stella found it hard to take her husband’s threats seriously though, not after it was Dusty who had gently steered Sam away from the out-of-towners and seen him safely back to the big old Buick, and when she’d caught him an hour later taking the boy some leftover pie.
When Sam was having a good day, she’d find him doing odd jobs round town. He was competent with those large hands of his, seemed to be able to put them to good use on all sorts of tasks ranging from tinkering with her broken garbage disposal unit to carpentry. Sam fixed Old Marge’s wonky shutters, getting her house ready for winter, then dug over Mrs Zimmers’ vegetable plot and built a wooden cage for her compost heap. When he’d finished with the two town matriarchs, Stella found Sam some more repair jobs round the motel and diner that Dusty was always saying he was too busy to get round to. Somehow, three weeks went by, and it looked like Sam was becoming accepted as a resident of Cambridge.
He flat out refused to move out of the car, though.
Stella tried. She offered him use of the rear room with the small window that guests complained about, and even Dusty backed her offer up. Eddie Pincher told her he’d offered Sam his dead son’s empty apartment over his Guns & Tackle store, after he and Sam had spent a couple of hours arguing over the merits of various hunting paraphernalia. Eddie wanted to tell her all the details but Stella had no interest in killing things. Hell, she wouldn’t even let Dusty bring his old handgun into their living quarters, and he was ex-military, so unlikely to do anything stupid with it. Dusty often asked her if she was a Canadian in disguise, risking the whack around the back of the head that was her customary response.
Eventually the Millers compromised with Sam, persuading him to accept the key to the outside washroom, unused since the diner renovation three years ago, when they’d had a shiny new facility installed inside for customers. Sam’s acceptance of the key at least meant he didn’t smell too bad when he ventured into the diner, though he routinely scared out-of-towners with his random talking to the air.
It was strange how quickly the locals had taken him into their midst, as if this quiet young man with his strange ways had always been there. As if Cambridge, Idaho was his home.
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If Stella had told Sam her thoughts, he’d have laughed. He knew better than to call any place home.
The cold emptiness never left him. It was a persistent absence lodged inside Sam’s core, in the same way that Lucifer was a persistent unpleasant presence by his side. It didn’t matter. He was too weary to care.
He slept a lot. He had the feeling that much sleeping was unusual, and certainly Lucifer didn’t like it, was always trying stupid stuff to keep Sam awake. Tried but didn’t succeed, not with the chattering, or the loud singing, or the random banging on hard surfaces. Sam was just too tired all the time for any of that to work.
He didn’t want to waste his life asleep though, however weird his existence was, so he tried to keep busy. People here were being kind to him and he wanted to repay that as best he could.
“They think you’re crazy,” Lucifer said; smiling, always fucking smiling. “You’ll never be one of them, no matter how many sinks you unblock, or air con units you repair.”
“Shut up,” Sam said, refusing to be deflected. He tightened a screw and tugged at the wiring to make sure nothing was loose before replacing the back onto the air conditioning unit he was fixing for old Mrs Zimmers. He put his screwdriver back into the tool bag Eddie Pincher had given him. Everything in its place, nice and tidy.
“What was that, dear?” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Nothing, Mrs Zimmers, nothing at all.” He stood and placed the unit back onto its shelf and flipped the switch. It sprang to life with a low hum, and Sam nodded, satisfied. He followed the alluring smell of baking into the kitchen, and discovered that while he’d been deep in the innards of the broken air conditioner, the irascible widow had been busy making pie.
“Sit down, boy. You’re giving me neck ache.” She gestured and Sam, obedient, sat at the table and ate two huge slices of cherry pie. It was delicious, so why did each juicy mouthful taste like homesickness and loss?
“Do you really not remember anything about your life before you ended up in Cambridge, Sam?”
Sam blinked, dragged back from his reverie by the question.
“Not much, no, ma’am.”
“Aren’t you curious? There might be someone who misses you, some family who are looking for you.”
Sam shook his head. He was sure. Ninety nine per cent sure.
“I had a girlfriend, Jessica. She…” flames, blood, a flash of yellow – his breath shuddered to a stop for a second, restarted. “She died. I don’t think… I don’t have anyone else.”
Mrs Zimmers’ tiny gnarled hand covered his fingers, her pale blue eyes brimming with aggressive sympathy. Sam didn’t know what to do with it, or with the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something, something vital.
What if he was wrong about being alone?
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Sam walked down to the Weiser River after he left Mrs Zimmers’ place, his belly full of strong coffee and cherry pie. He was jittery, restless; too much caffeine and sugar. Maybe watching the smooth flow of the brown waters might calm him.
Lucifer had other ideas.
“You threw away your cell phone when you ran away from that North Indiana hospital – that was foolish, Sam. You should have known better,” Lucifer danced away as Sam whirled round, his fists clenched. “Threw away your medication, too. Didn’t you consider that it might have stopped you hallucinating? Might have helped you remember everything you’ve forgotten?”
“What, are you telling me you aren’t real then?” Sam glared at Lucifer, wishing just once he could wipe that smug sneer off his face. Lucifer put a hand over his heart and staggered as if he’d been shot. Fucking drama queen.
“Oh, Samuel, you wound me. I’m as real as that family of yours that you can’t remember.”
“What do you know about them? Tell me!”
Sam lurched forwards, reaching out, but Lucifer sidestepped, nimble as a mountain goat. Briefly, Sam thought he saw cloven hooves where feet should be, and horns peeking out of that blond spiked hair, then his vision cleared and Lucifer was back in his normal jeans and boots. If there could be anything normal about a hallucination of the Devil, that is.
A twig snapped behind him, and someone snickered. Sam spun round faster than the owner of the laugh expected, and snagged a collar. He dragged the spy out from behind some bushes. It was just a kid, maybe fifteen, snub-nosed and tow-haired, a round face full of freckles and meanness. Sam remembered him from the diner – Darren or Darryl or some such name. Always hanging around with those other, older kids who thought they were tough. Even as the thought formed, pain blossomed in his ribs from a blow with something hard – a piece of timber, maybe. Darren (or Darryl) took the opportunity to kick Sam’s shins and break free of his grip.
Slow, Sam, you’ve gotten slow…
“Yeah, come on you fucking spaz, who’re you talking to anyway? Fucking psycho.”
Sam turned slowly to face his attackers. As he’d suspected, it was the three others, the older kids in the little gang. They were all high school dropouts led by Henry Adams, with the younger kid tagging along, who was dangerous because he was so eager to prove he was worthy. It was Adams who had hit Sam, evidenced by the fact the boy was wielding a baseball bat and an evil grin. Great. The little fuckers had obviously followed him, planning this. Sam’s eyes flickered, quickly assessing his situation. One weapon – the bat – between them; three boys who were almost men, and the kid. The desperate, stupid kid.
None of them were trained fighters by any stretch of the imagination – though that wouldn’t stop them from turning into killers, because petty meanness can do that to people, Sam had seen it happen. It wasn’t right that Sam could remember that, yet not remember his own surname, or the people he loved. Sam drew himself up to his full height for the first time in a very long time, and flexed his shoulders.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said to the boys, keeping his tone even and reasonable. Lucifer danced in the background, waving his arms like he was conducting an orchestra, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
“So not fucking helpful, Lucifer,” Sam said, as the stupid kids came at him, the tall one swinging the baseball bat menacingly.
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Part 2 this way