ten thousand miles [spn][two]
Jul. 5th, 2009 12:36 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mimblexwimble
The police send out a small search party on the morning of the 30th of December. It’s a kindness – going missing isn’t against the law, not when you’re of legal age. But the recent infant deaths have made the police department jittery. A sudden disappearance, though it doesn’t fit the pattern at all, is a little too suspicious for their liking.
They start with the road where Dean found the Impala, and the grassy hills surrounding it, because Dean and Bobby never told them about the hunters who had already scoured the area, and anyway, there are no crime scenes in missing people’s cases. There are just places they’ve been and places they might be. Dean still finds it stupid to be searching the road, considering that he found the car there days ago and there’s no chance that Sam didn’t move on, and doesn’t hesitate to tell Detective Mendel his opinion when the officer calls the next day.
Mendel sighs across the line and Dean can practically hear him rolling his eyes and thinking victims’ families – all the same.
Mr. Adams, says Mendel, the preliminary search hasn’t yielded any results, but we’d like you to come down to the station and fill out a missing person’s report anyway. We’ll start putting out posters and ads in the local papers, if you like. We’re also going to need more information about the last time you saw Sam, just in case.
Dean feels an ache in the pit of his stomach for no apparent reason, sets down the package of bread he’s examining. He’s been loafing around town all morning under the pretense of stocking up on the bare necessities. Bobby’s still at the motel and he’s not buying into Dean’s game. But Bobby wasn’t in that room in the early hours of December 28th, when Sam stepped out for coffee. Bobby doesn’t have to deal with that, with those final moments of knowing.
He walks towards the front of the puny market. It’s filled with old ladies. Two of them are standing near the talcum powder, chatting happily; one is watching Dean with curious eyes; an unfamiliar face is enough to stir up the rumor mill here. Dean feels the overwhelming urge to wave at her.
When should I come down? asks Dean, eyes falling on an inviting six-pack of beer.
Now, says Mendel, in a tone that implies that it’s not a suggestion.
-
After Dean fills out the report, he’s hustled into a smaller room in the police station. It doesn’t feel like an interrogation room, but it’s a close thing. All it really needs is an air of intimidation and a one-sided mirror. The former is supplied a few minutes later when Peter Mendel comes in, flanked by two cops Dean doesn’t recognize. They sit down across from Dean and set up a tape recorder. Mendel gives Dean a warm smile, introduces the other officers and thanks Dean for coming, as if this is nothing more than a lunch between friends. He tells Dean that he’s put himself if charge of Sam’s case and from now on, Dean will mostly be interacting with him.
Dean nods slowly, not knowing why he’s being told this. It takes a moment to realize that perhaps the rest of the department thinks the case is a wild goose chase and they’ve foisted it off on Mendel. He’s more annoyed than grateful.
One of the officers tells Dean that they’re going to go over the details Dean gave them the last time they met, ask him to confirm their reliability and to add anything extra he might remember.
You said that you and your brother didn’t have any arguments before he stepped out, is that correct? asks one of the new officers, a few minutes into the interrogation (because, honestly? It feels a whole lot like an interrogation). Dean replies in the affirmative, but there’s a longer-than-usual pause and Dean feels his insides writhing. He knows missing persons cases, knows that the immediate family always comes under suspicion, knows that the police think it’s strange that Sam went out for coffee so early in the morning. Hell, it is strange – for normal people.
Mr. Adams, says Mendel, speaking for the first time since the introductions, earlier. Did your brother have any… problems?
Problems? repeats Dean, blankly.
Yes, says Mendel. Did he ever show any signs of depression? Try to hurt himself, maybe?
It hits Dean like a ten ton bag of bricks hurled off the Empire State Building.
You think Sam killed himself?
We have to look into all the possibilities, says Mendel immediately. It’s not uncommon. Many of these cases turn out to be suicides.
Dean is shaking his head. Sure, Sam has problems. They both do. Hell, with the life they live and the things they see, even with their respective issues they’re pretty well-adjusted.
Sam was never – isn’t – Sam isn’t suicidal, says Dean, promptly regretting the stutter. He was absolutely fine when he left the room. I mean, he was… laughing. He didn’t go and off himself.
I’d know.
-
Dean returns to the motel room and ignores Bobby, who looks up when he bursts through the door and asks where he’s been. He goes over to Sam’s untouched duffel bag. It’s sitting next to the night table and Dean upends it on the bed. He rifles through everything that falls out: clothes, a couple of books, Sam’s gun, a box of bullets, a butterfly knife, a crucifix, a couple of rosaries, a few pages of scribbled notes (a new exorcism rite, as far as Dean can tell – Sam’s handwriting leaves a lot to be desired), a manila envelope stuffed to bursting with photocopies of books and notes and God knows what else, a number of newspaper cuttings (two freak deaths in Wisconsin and an odd murder-suicide thing in Florida) and a toiletry bag.
He wrenches the clothing out from underneath the pile, turns out pockets, pats down hems, turns up collars, and pulls socks inside out.
He grabs the manila envelope and shakes it empty, watches page after page flutter to the floor in a flurry, rifles through the books, empties the box of bullets all over the mattress. He gets to his knees and spreads the pages surrounding him, lifting and pushing and pulling, then stands up and grabs the blue and gray toiletry kit.
Dean unzips the small, soft bag; finds two razors, a tiny canister of shaving cream, travel-sized toothpaste, Sam’s toothbrush and a comb.
And that’s all.
Dean has no idea what he was hoping (not hoping) to find.
-
Peter Mendel goes door-to-door with a picture of Sam. He sticks to the homes near the edge of town, close to the highway. His throat goes dry and hoarse after endless hours of Excuse me, have you see this man? The answer is always the same, No, no, no, no, no. Sam Adams has not been to town. There’s not a single shred of evidence to prove otherwise.
When the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon, sending rays of deep orange across the roads and sidewalks, freckled with thick shadows, Peter slips the photo back into his wallet.
He rakes a hand through his hair, loosens his tie as he walks slowly through the town, only a vague notion of where he’s headed. Kids filter out of their homes to get in a couple more hours of fun under the warm evening light. The sounds of bike bells and bouncing balls and excited laughter fill the air. A few families are out on their porches too, catching up on small-town gossip.
Peter never really wanted to be a detective. He didn’t spend his childhood roaming the streets with a magnifying glass in hand, trying to catch Mr. Healy stealing apples off the neighbors’ trees, fancying himself Nate the Great. But he went to college and chose his majors and four years later found himself back in his home town, sending resumes to the police department.
It makes no sense to him sometimes, why he’d choose to do this. It’s not a dream.
But then, dreams are for sleeping. Dreams don’t put food on the table.
The sun has almost disappeared when Peter stops, finding himself in front of his own house. The lights are all off. Allie’s staying at her friend’s house and Beth’s gone to bed early again. Peter drags a hand down his face, wonders what they’re fighting about this time. He’s not in the mood to go to a cold home and a dinner alone, so he steps inside for a moment to pick up the car keys (Beth had taken it that morning, saying she couldn’t walk all the way to the hospital) and then steps out again.
His drive takes him to the next town. Sam’s cell phone service doesn’t have an outlet closer to home, but it’s not like Peter’s got anywhere better to be. The drive is comforting. He rolls the windows all the way down, despite the icy breeze, enjoys the feel of the wind cutting at his cheeks. It’s refreshing, exhilarating. He turns up the radio, pretends like he’s not an officer of the law and enjoys the feel of the road streaming under his wheels.
There’s a guy cracking gum at the front desk. He’s dressed in a suit and filling out some papers. He looks like a college student, probably saving up for something. Peter shows him his badge and hands him a scrap of paper with Sam’s cell phone number, tells him he needs the records.
Okey dokey, mister, says the kid languidly, and he walks into the back. Peter wonders what his superiors think of him. The suit and the gum make a lovely picture.
The kid returns surprisingly quickly with a sheet of paper in his hand.
Peter scans the list. He recognizes Dean Adams’s number, and a couple others; friends of the family, if Peter recalls correctly. Dean wrote down their numbers for him.
There are two numbers on the list that Peter doesn’t have written down. One ends the list and was made on December 30th. There are a few calls above that from Dean’s number, and then one made in the earlier hours on December 28th. Sam’s final phone call.
Peter returns to the police station and spends all night at his desk. All that he learns is that the phone call was made from five miles out of town, not far from the highway Sam disappeared on, that the SIM is unregistered and that no calls have gone out from the phone since.
It’s a dead end.
-
It turns out the hunt Sam and Dean had been following wasn’t a hunt after all. A bereaved mother confesses to killing all of the children found dead on December 31st. She insists that it was best for them to be where her baby was and that God would take care of their children better than they could ever hope to.
It’s a long shot, but the police question her about Sam’s disappearance anyway.
She swears she’s never met him.
The police can find nothing to prove her wrong.
-
Bobby shakes out the local newspaper with a flick of his wrists and slides it across the table to Dean.
They’re in the town’s diner, and like everything else here, it’s small, but homey. The pleasant buzz of chatter fills the place, mingling with the smells of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. Everyone seems to know everyone else. They all skirt past Dean and Bobby, eyeing them knowingly, whispering to each other once they’re out of earshot.
Dean pushes aside his uneaten pancakes and takes the paper. There’s a small column on the second page which lists Sam’s name, age and description, his last known whereabouts and an 800 number. There’s a picture too, one of the many passport-sized ones Dean has lying around, ready to use for fake IDs or badges. Sam’s gazing up at him through the grains, looking like any other face on the back of a milk carton. Have You Seen This Person?
Dean doesn’t think anyone ever finds milk-carton-people.
He folds the paper back up and tosses it onto the seat next to him. Bobby glances at him over the rim of his steaming cup of coffee.
Maybe we could go into the next town, he says, after setting his cup down and brushing a napkin over his mustache. I hear there’s a spirit terrorizing folks down there. We could go get rid of it for them.
No, says Dean flatly. He pulls his plate of pancakes back towards him, curls his fingers around his fork. It’s snowing again, harder than last time, and Dean can feel the icy coldness through the huge, plate glass window they’re sitting next to.
Well, you gotta do something, Bobby points out.
There’s a couple sitting at the table behind them, arguing loudly in what Dean thinks is Arabic. The waitress bustles past with a platter raised high on one hand, trailing a scent of flowery perfume and eggs. The cash register up front dings as the cash drawer slides open.
It’s all giving Dean a pulsing headache.
You’re right, says Dean, standing up suddenly and pulling out his wallet. He tosses a few wrinkly bills onto the table.
I’m going to go pay for another week at the motel. Meet you back there.
He walks out of the diner, can feel Bobby’s gaze on his back all the way to the Impala.
-
The receptionist is all too gleeful about having Dean around for another week. He stands up immediately when Dean comes in, looking expectant. It’s a change. When Dean and Sam checked in to the place, it seemed to take all of the guy’s willpower to tear his eyes away from the football reruns on his black-and-white set.
You’re the guy with the missing brother, right? he asks, as Dean hands over a wad of cash.
Yeah, Dean says warily.
The receptionist nods as he straightens the bills, counts them out. The reception hall is designed as crazily as the rooms: the owner definitely has a thing for the occult. Chalices and wands decorate the wall, topping the red wallpaper. A glass case behind the desk showcases a handful of talismans. Dean’s not close enough to tell if they’re well-done fakes or the real deal.
The commentator of the football game running on the television set behind the desk is shouting ecstatically. A brief pause and the TV crowd roars appreciatively, sounding muffled and out-of-place in the practically silent room.
The receptionist hands Dean back his change, tells him to stay as long as he likes. Good publicity, he says cheerfully, giving Dean a toothy grin.
Dean’s phone rings just as the urge to deck the idiot becomes overpowering. He pulls it out of his pocket, unable to quash the hope that he might see a familiar name flashing on the display. His heart sinks and he presses the little green answer button.
Yeah? he says.
Mr. Adams, comes Detective Mendel’s voice over the line. We need you to come down to the morgue.
-
They found the body three miles from the road the Impala had been abandoned on, buried haphazardly under a pile of leaves. A quick search revealed Sam’s wallet, containing a driver’s license, three old gas station receipts, thirty five dollars in cash and a credit card.
The body is mutilated, but not so much so that someone familiar with the person wouldn’t recognize them; or at least, that’s what the police are hoping. They’ve tried their best to identify the corpse using the pictures Dean has given them, but no one is absolutely sure that it’s Sam. The build is right, and so are most of the discernable features, but they need an immediate family member to confirm the possibility.
Mendel cuts Dean off outside the morgue door to tell him all of this.
It’s brutal, he says, hands hovering near Dean’s shoulder because Dean is ready to barrel right over him. You need to be prepared.
I’m prepared, says Dean. I’m fucking prepared.
He’s not. He never will be.
He wants someone to burst through the double doors and shout that it’s a mistake and it’s not Sam. He wants someone to burst through the double doors and shout that it’s not a mistake and that they’ve confirmed it’s Sam and don’t need Dean anymore.
He wants someone to wake him the fuck up.
Mendel gives him a long look and then says, All right – follow me.
Dean does, slowly, because he can’t feel his footfalls anymore. Everything is too sharp, stands out too much. The other officers who’ve come along with Mendel are talking softly but to Dean, their voices sound loud and seem to echo off the inside of his head. Their words don’t make sense.
Mendel leads Dean to one of the unmarked drawers. It’s already been pulled open. The first thing Dean sees is that the zippered bag is the right length for someone as tall as Sam.
Mendel seems to pause slightly before unzipping the bag, and a part of Dean wants to grab the opportunity, say, Stop – I can’t do this, I won’t, don’t make me, but the thought doesn’t get far before the bag is open.
For a moment, the world straightens on its axis and everything just halts and all Dean can hear is the blood pumping through his body.
It’s not Sam.
It’s obvious at first glance: the hair is too short, too coarse and different shade of brown. Dean’s eyes travel down the face and throat, both sickeningly slashed to pieces, and the chest, much the same, to the hands: shorter fingers, thicker knuckles. The skin is slightly darker.
Time rushes back again, leaves Dean feeling wobbly and washed-out.
It’s not him, says Mendel, and it’s not a question.
Dean just shakes his head.
-
On January 3rd, Peter Mendel finally manages to identify the body found near where Sam Adams disappeared.
The body is Dennis Randall, 24 years old, 6’4” and a resident of a city 300 miles south of Bridgewater, Iowa, the town Mendel calls home. He was reported missing three months prior to the discovery of his body by his girlfriend who said that he’d gone to work one morning and never come back.
The autopsy makes it clear that Randall has been murdered. He’d been dead for about two days before the police found him. His body is lacerated from head to toe, almost artistically, a full-body tattoo, but it’s the seventeen stabs wounds to the chest and abdominal area that are deemed the cause of death.
There are two possible scenarios: either Randall was killed first and then dumped here, or he was transported here and then murdered. Either way, Peter has to look into extending the search for Sam further into the surrounding counties. It’s starting to sound like serial killer material to Peter, though he’s only ever studied about such cases.
Peter gets one of the lieutenants to find out if any other folks have been reported missing recently who fit the probable pattern and how many of them, if any, have been found.
He sits at his desks and ponders the ID found in Randall’s pockets and wonders if it was the murderer thumbing his nose at them, telling them who his next victim was going to be.
-
It’s after the body is identified, on that cold January 3rd, that Dean has the first of a number of recurring dreams.
The dream starts in the Impala. She’s parked outside a diner, and Dean’s having a look-see under her hood, making sure everything’s in running order. When he’s satisfied, he closes her hood, checks that the doors are all locked and walks into the diner.
It feels familiar, not like a home or like a motel room they’ve been in one too many times, but like a place he’s been to before but doesn’t quite remember – like déjà vu. The curly-haired waitress gives him a pleasant smile as he walks in. Her nametag reads Ethel.
Dean looks around and a part of him thinks he’s looking for an empty table, but then he spots Sam, and realizes he was looking for him the entire time.
Sam catches his eye and motions him over, looking normal and happy and… like Sam, but not. Relaxed. Untroubled. Something shifts in Dean and for a moment, everything feels wrong, but then Sam says, Hey, and looks expectantly up at Dean and things just fall into place.
Dean slides into the bench seat across from Sam and looks over at the menu tacked above the counter. He reads what it says under Tuesday and though he can always remember that it’s Tuesday when he dreams this, he can never seem to recall what the menu actually says. Whatever it is, though, he orders it (Sam doesn’t order anything except a coffee) and it smells delicious when it arrives.
He’s halfway through the meal and Sam’s chattering pleasantly about the hunt that they’ve just finished, like he always does, channeling his school-time habit of going over every single exam question after the exam was over, when Dean realizes that he’s missing something. He wipes his mouth on his napkin and stands up and tells Sam he’ll be right back, but Sam grabs Dean’s wrist as he passes, looks at him worriedly.
Where are you going? he asks.
Ethel forgot part of my order, Dean tells him, but Sam doesn’t loosen his grip.
You’re not going to make a deal, right? he asks.
Dean shakes his head. What?
Don’t make a deal, Dean, says Sam urgently, pleading with his eyes. Please, please, don’t.
I already did, Sammy, says Dean, trying to laugh. I already made the deal. I can’t take it back now.
And then, suddenly, Sam’s hand isn’t around Dean’s wrist anymore, and he’s not sitting on the squeaky bench chair, staring up at Dean with big eyes, and there’s no Ethel and no customers.
There’s just an empty diner and Dean.
Then he wakes up.
-
Dean is at the town diner for breakfast. Denise, one of the regular waitresses, has been over to ask how things are with him and what he’d like to eat (fried eggs, side of bacon) and he’s waiting for his order now, eyes flicking from one customer to another.
Dean’s been in this town for a month now, and everything is starting to feel too familiar, too comfortable.
He can name everyone in the diner, and can tell you a little bit about half of them, and a lot about a quarter, things he’s picked up almost by default, not because he’s been making house calls. Things he knows from what he’s heard and seen and been witness to, because he’s trained to pick up these kinds of details.
He knows for a fact that every single one of them knows who he is, why he’s here and who should be sitting across the table from him. He knows he’s the topic of the majority of the rumors swimming around town these days. He knows about thirty percent of the population thinks he killed Sam, another thirty percent thinks Sam killed himself and the rest all believe the police and the missing person’s report and the posters calling for information, taped to the grocer’s advertisement board.
Denise comes by with his breakfast plate and a smile. You just holler if you need anything else, honey, she says before bustling off.
Dean’s in the middle of his eggs, watching yellow yolk seep over white, when his phone rings. He sets down his fork and digs the cell out of his pocket, expecting to see Detective Mendel flashing on the screen, but it’s an unfamiliar number. He stares at it for a moment, trying to recognize it: 1-555-766-8726.
Hello? he says into the phone, looking up from his plate for the first time since his food arrived. Joe, the convenience store guy, is ordering a grilled cheese sandwich nearby.
The line is silent.
Hello? Hello?
Nothing.
Dean pulls the phone away from his ear – the call hasn’t been disconnected.
This is a sucky attempt at a prank call, he tries. Still no reply, but Dean catches sight of the date, and his heart jackhammers.
January 24th.
Dean’s birthday.
He swallows hard, turns his head towards the window, away from the other patrons.
Sam? he whispers. His fingers find the cool metal of a spoon, curl around it.
Sam? Is – is that you?
There’s nothing but silence.
Dean hangs up, hits star-69, trying to breathe.
The line rings and rings and rings.
Coffee? says Denise, ambling up. Honey?
Dean starts, shakes his head like always. No. No, thanks.
Wrong number? she asks.
Guess so, he replies slowly, stowing the phone away.
He gets two more calls from the same number before calling Peter Mendel.
The number is unregistered. The caller doesn’t try to reach Dean again. Mendel says he’s going to send someone out to where the call was made from, but he doesn’t expect any results.
Later that night, with the burning taste of alcohol in his mouth, Dean tries to imagine what he would have done if, instead of silence, Sam’s voice had come over that line. He tries to imagine what he would have said.
If Sam had shown up at his doorstep, Dean would have given him a respectable nosebleed. But over the phone? Would he have shouted? Laughed? Burst out crying?
He comes up with nothing, and wonders what that means.
It takes him hours to fall asleep, even with half a bottle of whiskey rushing through his veins.
-
Peter Mendel returns home exhausted. The call Dean rang him about was another dead end to add to the list.
Allie jumps up as soon as he’s through the door, eager to show off the necklace she’s made to celebrate the hundredth day of school. 100 pieces of macaroni on a string, and she’s learnt a new song for the occasion. Peter does his best to smile at her. Beth just gazes at him mildly, as is the norm these days and asks if he wants dinner.
They eat to the sounds of Allie’s almost oblivious chatter.
Any luck? asks Beth later, as they’re getting ready for bed. A smile ghosts across her face. Peter reads it as a smirk first and looks away, only to wonder if maybe he’d misinterpreted it.
No, he replies, trying to make his tone light and warm, in case Beth wants to keep talking.
But she doesn’t press, uninterested as always.
Don’t know why you’re sticking with the case, she mumbles as Peter turns off the light.
Sometimes, Peter doesn’t know either.
-
Dean wants to go out and hunt something down. He wants to kill and murder and leave a path of destruction just to show the world that this, this, is what happens when you tear a family apart.
He wants to be and do and have a part in bringing Sam back.
He wants to movemovemove because only when he’s moving does it feel like he can’t be sucked away into the whirlpool that is his life now.
More than anything, Dean wants to know where Sam is.
He thinks he’ll take just that, if it’s all that God’s willing to give.
Just the knowledge.
Whatever it may be.
-
Peter Mendel is the laughing stock of the police department for sticking with the case of Sam Adams. The murder of Dennis Randall is an investigation for Randall’s town of residence. The infant deaths case, from the next town, has been solved. Sam Adams was an adult when he vanished. He had every right to get up and leave.
So his brother has abandonment issues – there are more fucked-up people in the world and it’s not their job to search for every other crackhead’s crackhead.
But Peter can’t shake the feeling that Sam Adams didn’t just go off on his own. Dennis Randall had Sam’s ID in his pocket. Peter doesn’t know what that means but it has to mean something because early in the morning on December 28th, something happened. Something on a highway a few miles out of town.
Peter wants to find out what. Peter wants to be the small town cop to solve the big time case. Peter wants that glory, though it feels like it’ll never come. He wants to know that he’s living this life for some reason, that some greater power is behind all of… everything.
It’s as good a reason as any to search.
-
Mendel unzips the bag, not slowly or dramatically, but quickly, as if the quicker it’s over, the easier it’ll be.
Sam’s naked from the torso up, stab wounds stitched up raggedly, making him look like a bad horror movie character. They’re zigzagging, red, cross-stitched all over his chest, through his neck, on his face. His eyes are closed, and the skin around them is tinged yellow from the bruises. His neck and cheeks are gray and blue, patches of death that remind Dean of last time and Sam on an old mattress in a rickety old cabin, not breathing, not moving, just not.
Mendel says something but Dean doesn’t hear because suddenly, Sam’s eyes open and they’re gray-blue like his dead skin and he looks straight at Dean and opens his mouth and all that comes out is blood, dripping, leaking, pouring like it should never be able to, slip-sliding from the corners and then out his nose too, and Dean’s screaming without even knowing it, not words, just mindless, inhuman shrieking, but no sound is coming from his mouth even when it feels like his throat will rip to pieces and his head will burst and his heart will simply stop, only a rushing in his ears that blocks out everything else, and without warning, Sam reaches up one shaking, blood-soaked hand, a plea (I need you, I needed you) in his (dead, gone, murdered) eyes and Dean thinks, This is the end, this is the end, this is how I die and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—
And then he’s awake.
-
The next day is overcast: thick gray clouds clump around the sun, threaten to block it out completely. The air carries the damp, dewy smell of rain that reminds Dean of long drives on the road and Sam unrolling the window all the way and letting the rain destroy the upholstery while he got his face wet. The memory should be happy, but it isn’t. It fills Dean with nausea that acts like a black hole, sucking everything else into it so that all he feels like doing is curling up under the sheets and never coming out.
But sleeping would bring back the dreams, so instead, he calls Missouri.
She picks up on the first ring, and Dean wonders if she knew it was him and if maybe she’s been looking for Sam or heard from him and maybe he’ll say something absolutely normal like, Hello and she’ll say something absolutely extraordinary like, Dean, I found Sam.
It happens a little differently in real life. Missouri wastes no time with how are you’s.
Boy, she says, after Dean finishes telling her what happened and asks if she knows anything, I can tell you where he’s not, but there ain’t no way of knowing where he is unless I’m standing ten feet away from him.
Dean says something into the phone, though he’s not sure what. It must be something like, But you can, you have to, there has to be a way because Missouri adds, in a soft voice:
I’m a psychic, honey – not God.
And that’s the end of that.
-
But not really, because Dean can’t just sit around while the police search or “search” or whatever they’re doing. His entire life has revolved around the supernatural and what it can and can’t do and if it can bring someone back from the dead, then why can’t it help him find someone who’s lost?
He has to try. Hiding under the covers and waiting for everything to get better because it almost always does isn’t going to help. There’s nothing mystical or miraculous about hope. You have it or you don’t; either way, bad things happen.
They start with the road where Dean found the Impala, and the grassy hills surrounding it, because Dean and Bobby never told them about the hunters who had already scoured the area, and anyway, there are no crime scenes in missing people’s cases. There are just places they’ve been and places they might be. Dean still finds it stupid to be searching the road, considering that he found the car there days ago and there’s no chance that Sam didn’t move on, and doesn’t hesitate to tell Detective Mendel his opinion when the officer calls the next day.
Mendel sighs across the line and Dean can practically hear him rolling his eyes and thinking victims’ families – all the same.
Mr. Adams, says Mendel, the preliminary search hasn’t yielded any results, but we’d like you to come down to the station and fill out a missing person’s report anyway. We’ll start putting out posters and ads in the local papers, if you like. We’re also going to need more information about the last time you saw Sam, just in case.
Dean feels an ache in the pit of his stomach for no apparent reason, sets down the package of bread he’s examining. He’s been loafing around town all morning under the pretense of stocking up on the bare necessities. Bobby’s still at the motel and he’s not buying into Dean’s game. But Bobby wasn’t in that room in the early hours of December 28th, when Sam stepped out for coffee. Bobby doesn’t have to deal with that, with those final moments of knowing.
He walks towards the front of the puny market. It’s filled with old ladies. Two of them are standing near the talcum powder, chatting happily; one is watching Dean with curious eyes; an unfamiliar face is enough to stir up the rumor mill here. Dean feels the overwhelming urge to wave at her.
When should I come down? asks Dean, eyes falling on an inviting six-pack of beer.
Now, says Mendel, in a tone that implies that it’s not a suggestion.
After Dean fills out the report, he’s hustled into a smaller room in the police station. It doesn’t feel like an interrogation room, but it’s a close thing. All it really needs is an air of intimidation and a one-sided mirror. The former is supplied a few minutes later when Peter Mendel comes in, flanked by two cops Dean doesn’t recognize. They sit down across from Dean and set up a tape recorder. Mendel gives Dean a warm smile, introduces the other officers and thanks Dean for coming, as if this is nothing more than a lunch between friends. He tells Dean that he’s put himself if charge of Sam’s case and from now on, Dean will mostly be interacting with him.
Dean nods slowly, not knowing why he’s being told this. It takes a moment to realize that perhaps the rest of the department thinks the case is a wild goose chase and they’ve foisted it off on Mendel. He’s more annoyed than grateful.
One of the officers tells Dean that they’re going to go over the details Dean gave them the last time they met, ask him to confirm their reliability and to add anything extra he might remember.
You said that you and your brother didn’t have any arguments before he stepped out, is that correct? asks one of the new officers, a few minutes into the interrogation (because, honestly? It feels a whole lot like an interrogation). Dean replies in the affirmative, but there’s a longer-than-usual pause and Dean feels his insides writhing. He knows missing persons cases, knows that the immediate family always comes under suspicion, knows that the police think it’s strange that Sam went out for coffee so early in the morning. Hell, it is strange – for normal people.
Mr. Adams, says Mendel, speaking for the first time since the introductions, earlier. Did your brother have any… problems?
Problems? repeats Dean, blankly.
Yes, says Mendel. Did he ever show any signs of depression? Try to hurt himself, maybe?
It hits Dean like a ten ton bag of bricks hurled off the Empire State Building.
You think Sam killed himself?
We have to look into all the possibilities, says Mendel immediately. It’s not uncommon. Many of these cases turn out to be suicides.
Dean is shaking his head. Sure, Sam has problems. They both do. Hell, with the life they live and the things they see, even with their respective issues they’re pretty well-adjusted.
Sam was never – isn’t – Sam isn’t suicidal, says Dean, promptly regretting the stutter. He was absolutely fine when he left the room. I mean, he was… laughing. He didn’t go and off himself.
I’d know.
Dean returns to the motel room and ignores Bobby, who looks up when he bursts through the door and asks where he’s been. He goes over to Sam’s untouched duffel bag. It’s sitting next to the night table and Dean upends it on the bed. He rifles through everything that falls out: clothes, a couple of books, Sam’s gun, a box of bullets, a butterfly knife, a crucifix, a couple of rosaries, a few pages of scribbled notes (a new exorcism rite, as far as Dean can tell – Sam’s handwriting leaves a lot to be desired), a manila envelope stuffed to bursting with photocopies of books and notes and God knows what else, a number of newspaper cuttings (two freak deaths in Wisconsin and an odd murder-suicide thing in Florida) and a toiletry bag.
He wrenches the clothing out from underneath the pile, turns out pockets, pats down hems, turns up collars, and pulls socks inside out.
He grabs the manila envelope and shakes it empty, watches page after page flutter to the floor in a flurry, rifles through the books, empties the box of bullets all over the mattress. He gets to his knees and spreads the pages surrounding him, lifting and pushing and pulling, then stands up and grabs the blue and gray toiletry kit.
Dean unzips the small, soft bag; finds two razors, a tiny canister of shaving cream, travel-sized toothpaste, Sam’s toothbrush and a comb.
And that’s all.
Dean has no idea what he was hoping (not hoping) to find.
Peter Mendel goes door-to-door with a picture of Sam. He sticks to the homes near the edge of town, close to the highway. His throat goes dry and hoarse after endless hours of Excuse me, have you see this man? The answer is always the same, No, no, no, no, no. Sam Adams has not been to town. There’s not a single shred of evidence to prove otherwise.
When the sun finally begins to dip below the horizon, sending rays of deep orange across the roads and sidewalks, freckled with thick shadows, Peter slips the photo back into his wallet.
He rakes a hand through his hair, loosens his tie as he walks slowly through the town, only a vague notion of where he’s headed. Kids filter out of their homes to get in a couple more hours of fun under the warm evening light. The sounds of bike bells and bouncing balls and excited laughter fill the air. A few families are out on their porches too, catching up on small-town gossip.
Peter never really wanted to be a detective. He didn’t spend his childhood roaming the streets with a magnifying glass in hand, trying to catch Mr. Healy stealing apples off the neighbors’ trees, fancying himself Nate the Great. But he went to college and chose his majors and four years later found himself back in his home town, sending resumes to the police department.
It makes no sense to him sometimes, why he’d choose to do this. It’s not a dream.
But then, dreams are for sleeping. Dreams don’t put food on the table.
The sun has almost disappeared when Peter stops, finding himself in front of his own house. The lights are all off. Allie’s staying at her friend’s house and Beth’s gone to bed early again. Peter drags a hand down his face, wonders what they’re fighting about this time. He’s not in the mood to go to a cold home and a dinner alone, so he steps inside for a moment to pick up the car keys (Beth had taken it that morning, saying she couldn’t walk all the way to the hospital) and then steps out again.
His drive takes him to the next town. Sam’s cell phone service doesn’t have an outlet closer to home, but it’s not like Peter’s got anywhere better to be. The drive is comforting. He rolls the windows all the way down, despite the icy breeze, enjoys the feel of the wind cutting at his cheeks. It’s refreshing, exhilarating. He turns up the radio, pretends like he’s not an officer of the law and enjoys the feel of the road streaming under his wheels.
There’s a guy cracking gum at the front desk. He’s dressed in a suit and filling out some papers. He looks like a college student, probably saving up for something. Peter shows him his badge and hands him a scrap of paper with Sam’s cell phone number, tells him he needs the records.
Okey dokey, mister, says the kid languidly, and he walks into the back. Peter wonders what his superiors think of him. The suit and the gum make a lovely picture.
The kid returns surprisingly quickly with a sheet of paper in his hand.
Peter scans the list. He recognizes Dean Adams’s number, and a couple others; friends of the family, if Peter recalls correctly. Dean wrote down their numbers for him.
There are two numbers on the list that Peter doesn’t have written down. One ends the list and was made on December 30th. There are a few calls above that from Dean’s number, and then one made in the earlier hours on December 28th. Sam’s final phone call.
Peter returns to the police station and spends all night at his desk. All that he learns is that the phone call was made from five miles out of town, not far from the highway Sam disappeared on, that the SIM is unregistered and that no calls have gone out from the phone since.
It’s a dead end.
It turns out the hunt Sam and Dean had been following wasn’t a hunt after all. A bereaved mother confesses to killing all of the children found dead on December 31st. She insists that it was best for them to be where her baby was and that God would take care of their children better than they could ever hope to.
It’s a long shot, but the police question her about Sam’s disappearance anyway.
She swears she’s never met him.
The police can find nothing to prove her wrong.
Bobby shakes out the local newspaper with a flick of his wrists and slides it across the table to Dean.
They’re in the town’s diner, and like everything else here, it’s small, but homey. The pleasant buzz of chatter fills the place, mingling with the smells of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. Everyone seems to know everyone else. They all skirt past Dean and Bobby, eyeing them knowingly, whispering to each other once they’re out of earshot.
Dean pushes aside his uneaten pancakes and takes the paper. There’s a small column on the second page which lists Sam’s name, age and description, his last known whereabouts and an 800 number. There’s a picture too, one of the many passport-sized ones Dean has lying around, ready to use for fake IDs or badges. Sam’s gazing up at him through the grains, looking like any other face on the back of a milk carton. Have You Seen This Person?
Dean doesn’t think anyone ever finds milk-carton-people.
He folds the paper back up and tosses it onto the seat next to him. Bobby glances at him over the rim of his steaming cup of coffee.
Maybe we could go into the next town, he says, after setting his cup down and brushing a napkin over his mustache. I hear there’s a spirit terrorizing folks down there. We could go get rid of it for them.
No, says Dean flatly. He pulls his plate of pancakes back towards him, curls his fingers around his fork. It’s snowing again, harder than last time, and Dean can feel the icy coldness through the huge, plate glass window they’re sitting next to.
Well, you gotta do something, Bobby points out.
There’s a couple sitting at the table behind them, arguing loudly in what Dean thinks is Arabic. The waitress bustles past with a platter raised high on one hand, trailing a scent of flowery perfume and eggs. The cash register up front dings as the cash drawer slides open.
It’s all giving Dean a pulsing headache.
You’re right, says Dean, standing up suddenly and pulling out his wallet. He tosses a few wrinkly bills onto the table.
I’m going to go pay for another week at the motel. Meet you back there.
He walks out of the diner, can feel Bobby’s gaze on his back all the way to the Impala.
The receptionist is all too gleeful about having Dean around for another week. He stands up immediately when Dean comes in, looking expectant. It’s a change. When Dean and Sam checked in to the place, it seemed to take all of the guy’s willpower to tear his eyes away from the football reruns on his black-and-white set.
You’re the guy with the missing brother, right? he asks, as Dean hands over a wad of cash.
Yeah, Dean says warily.
The receptionist nods as he straightens the bills, counts them out. The reception hall is designed as crazily as the rooms: the owner definitely has a thing for the occult. Chalices and wands decorate the wall, topping the red wallpaper. A glass case behind the desk showcases a handful of talismans. Dean’s not close enough to tell if they’re well-done fakes or the real deal.
The commentator of the football game running on the television set behind the desk is shouting ecstatically. A brief pause and the TV crowd roars appreciatively, sounding muffled and out-of-place in the practically silent room.
The receptionist hands Dean back his change, tells him to stay as long as he likes. Good publicity, he says cheerfully, giving Dean a toothy grin.
Dean’s phone rings just as the urge to deck the idiot becomes overpowering. He pulls it out of his pocket, unable to quash the hope that he might see a familiar name flashing on the display. His heart sinks and he presses the little green answer button.
Yeah? he says.
Mr. Adams, comes Detective Mendel’s voice over the line. We need you to come down to the morgue.
They found the body three miles from the road the Impala had been abandoned on, buried haphazardly under a pile of leaves. A quick search revealed Sam’s wallet, containing a driver’s license, three old gas station receipts, thirty five dollars in cash and a credit card.
The body is mutilated, but not so much so that someone familiar with the person wouldn’t recognize them; or at least, that’s what the police are hoping. They’ve tried their best to identify the corpse using the pictures Dean has given them, but no one is absolutely sure that it’s Sam. The build is right, and so are most of the discernable features, but they need an immediate family member to confirm the possibility.
Mendel cuts Dean off outside the morgue door to tell him all of this.
It’s brutal, he says, hands hovering near Dean’s shoulder because Dean is ready to barrel right over him. You need to be prepared.
I’m prepared, says Dean. I’m fucking prepared.
He’s not. He never will be.
He wants someone to burst through the double doors and shout that it’s a mistake and it’s not Sam. He wants someone to burst through the double doors and shout that it’s not a mistake and that they’ve confirmed it’s Sam and don’t need Dean anymore.
He wants someone to wake him the fuck up.
Mendel gives him a long look and then says, All right – follow me.
Dean does, slowly, because he can’t feel his footfalls anymore. Everything is too sharp, stands out too much. The other officers who’ve come along with Mendel are talking softly but to Dean, their voices sound loud and seem to echo off the inside of his head. Their words don’t make sense.
Mendel leads Dean to one of the unmarked drawers. It’s already been pulled open. The first thing Dean sees is that the zippered bag is the right length for someone as tall as Sam.
Mendel seems to pause slightly before unzipping the bag, and a part of Dean wants to grab the opportunity, say, Stop – I can’t do this, I won’t, don’t make me, but the thought doesn’t get far before the bag is open.
For a moment, the world straightens on its axis and everything just halts and all Dean can hear is the blood pumping through his body.
It’s not Sam.
It’s obvious at first glance: the hair is too short, too coarse and different shade of brown. Dean’s eyes travel down the face and throat, both sickeningly slashed to pieces, and the chest, much the same, to the hands: shorter fingers, thicker knuckles. The skin is slightly darker.
Time rushes back again, leaves Dean feeling wobbly and washed-out.
It’s not him, says Mendel, and it’s not a question.
Dean just shakes his head.
On January 3rd, Peter Mendel finally manages to identify the body found near where Sam Adams disappeared.
The body is Dennis Randall, 24 years old, 6’4” and a resident of a city 300 miles south of Bridgewater, Iowa, the town Mendel calls home. He was reported missing three months prior to the discovery of his body by his girlfriend who said that he’d gone to work one morning and never come back.
The autopsy makes it clear that Randall has been murdered. He’d been dead for about two days before the police found him. His body is lacerated from head to toe, almost artistically, a full-body tattoo, but it’s the seventeen stabs wounds to the chest and abdominal area that are deemed the cause of death.
There are two possible scenarios: either Randall was killed first and then dumped here, or he was transported here and then murdered. Either way, Peter has to look into extending the search for Sam further into the surrounding counties. It’s starting to sound like serial killer material to Peter, though he’s only ever studied about such cases.
Peter gets one of the lieutenants to find out if any other folks have been reported missing recently who fit the probable pattern and how many of them, if any, have been found.
He sits at his desks and ponders the ID found in Randall’s pockets and wonders if it was the murderer thumbing his nose at them, telling them who his next victim was going to be.
It’s after the body is identified, on that cold January 3rd, that Dean has the first of a number of recurring dreams.
The dream starts in the Impala. She’s parked outside a diner, and Dean’s having a look-see under her hood, making sure everything’s in running order. When he’s satisfied, he closes her hood, checks that the doors are all locked and walks into the diner.
It feels familiar, not like a home or like a motel room they’ve been in one too many times, but like a place he’s been to before but doesn’t quite remember – like déjà vu. The curly-haired waitress gives him a pleasant smile as he walks in. Her nametag reads Ethel.
Dean looks around and a part of him thinks he’s looking for an empty table, but then he spots Sam, and realizes he was looking for him the entire time.
Sam catches his eye and motions him over, looking normal and happy and… like Sam, but not. Relaxed. Untroubled. Something shifts in Dean and for a moment, everything feels wrong, but then Sam says, Hey, and looks expectantly up at Dean and things just fall into place.
Dean slides into the bench seat across from Sam and looks over at the menu tacked above the counter. He reads what it says under Tuesday and though he can always remember that it’s Tuesday when he dreams this, he can never seem to recall what the menu actually says. Whatever it is, though, he orders it (Sam doesn’t order anything except a coffee) and it smells delicious when it arrives.
He’s halfway through the meal and Sam’s chattering pleasantly about the hunt that they’ve just finished, like he always does, channeling his school-time habit of going over every single exam question after the exam was over, when Dean realizes that he’s missing something. He wipes his mouth on his napkin and stands up and tells Sam he’ll be right back, but Sam grabs Dean’s wrist as he passes, looks at him worriedly.
Where are you going? he asks.
Ethel forgot part of my order, Dean tells him, but Sam doesn’t loosen his grip.
You’re not going to make a deal, right? he asks.
Dean shakes his head. What?
Don’t make a deal, Dean, says Sam urgently, pleading with his eyes. Please, please, don’t.
I already did, Sammy, says Dean, trying to laugh. I already made the deal. I can’t take it back now.
And then, suddenly, Sam’s hand isn’t around Dean’s wrist anymore, and he’s not sitting on the squeaky bench chair, staring up at Dean with big eyes, and there’s no Ethel and no customers.
There’s just an empty diner and Dean.
Then he wakes up.
Dean is at the town diner for breakfast. Denise, one of the regular waitresses, has been over to ask how things are with him and what he’d like to eat (fried eggs, side of bacon) and he’s waiting for his order now, eyes flicking from one customer to another.
Dean’s been in this town for a month now, and everything is starting to feel too familiar, too comfortable.
He can name everyone in the diner, and can tell you a little bit about half of them, and a lot about a quarter, things he’s picked up almost by default, not because he’s been making house calls. Things he knows from what he’s heard and seen and been witness to, because he’s trained to pick up these kinds of details.
He knows for a fact that every single one of them knows who he is, why he’s here and who should be sitting across the table from him. He knows he’s the topic of the majority of the rumors swimming around town these days. He knows about thirty percent of the population thinks he killed Sam, another thirty percent thinks Sam killed himself and the rest all believe the police and the missing person’s report and the posters calling for information, taped to the grocer’s advertisement board.
Denise comes by with his breakfast plate and a smile. You just holler if you need anything else, honey, she says before bustling off.
Dean’s in the middle of his eggs, watching yellow yolk seep over white, when his phone rings. He sets down his fork and digs the cell out of his pocket, expecting to see Detective Mendel flashing on the screen, but it’s an unfamiliar number. He stares at it for a moment, trying to recognize it: 1-555-766-8726.
Hello? he says into the phone, looking up from his plate for the first time since his food arrived. Joe, the convenience store guy, is ordering a grilled cheese sandwich nearby.
The line is silent.
Hello? Hello?
Nothing.
Dean pulls the phone away from his ear – the call hasn’t been disconnected.
This is a sucky attempt at a prank call, he tries. Still no reply, but Dean catches sight of the date, and his heart jackhammers.
January 24th.
Dean’s birthday.
He swallows hard, turns his head towards the window, away from the other patrons.
Sam? he whispers. His fingers find the cool metal of a spoon, curl around it.
Sam? Is – is that you?
There’s nothing but silence.
Dean hangs up, hits star-69, trying to breathe.
The line rings and rings and rings.
Coffee? says Denise, ambling up. Honey?
Dean starts, shakes his head like always. No. No, thanks.
Wrong number? she asks.
Guess so, he replies slowly, stowing the phone away.
He gets two more calls from the same number before calling Peter Mendel.
The number is unregistered. The caller doesn’t try to reach Dean again. Mendel says he’s going to send someone out to where the call was made from, but he doesn’t expect any results.
Later that night, with the burning taste of alcohol in his mouth, Dean tries to imagine what he would have done if, instead of silence, Sam’s voice had come over that line. He tries to imagine what he would have said.
If Sam had shown up at his doorstep, Dean would have given him a respectable nosebleed. But over the phone? Would he have shouted? Laughed? Burst out crying?
He comes up with nothing, and wonders what that means.
It takes him hours to fall asleep, even with half a bottle of whiskey rushing through his veins.
Peter Mendel returns home exhausted. The call Dean rang him about was another dead end to add to the list.
Allie jumps up as soon as he’s through the door, eager to show off the necklace she’s made to celebrate the hundredth day of school. 100 pieces of macaroni on a string, and she’s learnt a new song for the occasion. Peter does his best to smile at her. Beth just gazes at him mildly, as is the norm these days and asks if he wants dinner.
They eat to the sounds of Allie’s almost oblivious chatter.
Any luck? asks Beth later, as they’re getting ready for bed. A smile ghosts across her face. Peter reads it as a smirk first and looks away, only to wonder if maybe he’d misinterpreted it.
No, he replies, trying to make his tone light and warm, in case Beth wants to keep talking.
But she doesn’t press, uninterested as always.
Don’t know why you’re sticking with the case, she mumbles as Peter turns off the light.
Sometimes, Peter doesn’t know either.
Dean wants to go out and hunt something down. He wants to kill and murder and leave a path of destruction just to show the world that this, this, is what happens when you tear a family apart.
He wants to be and do and have a part in bringing Sam back.
He wants to movemovemove because only when he’s moving does it feel like he can’t be sucked away into the whirlpool that is his life now.
More than anything, Dean wants to know where Sam is.
He thinks he’ll take just that, if it’s all that God’s willing to give.
Just the knowledge.
Whatever it may be.
Peter Mendel is the laughing stock of the police department for sticking with the case of Sam Adams. The murder of Dennis Randall is an investigation for Randall’s town of residence. The infant deaths case, from the next town, has been solved. Sam Adams was an adult when he vanished. He had every right to get up and leave.
So his brother has abandonment issues – there are more fucked-up people in the world and it’s not their job to search for every other crackhead’s crackhead.
But Peter can’t shake the feeling that Sam Adams didn’t just go off on his own. Dennis Randall had Sam’s ID in his pocket. Peter doesn’t know what that means but it has to mean something because early in the morning on December 28th, something happened. Something on a highway a few miles out of town.
Peter wants to find out what. Peter wants to be the small town cop to solve the big time case. Peter wants that glory, though it feels like it’ll never come. He wants to know that he’s living this life for some reason, that some greater power is behind all of… everything.
It’s as good a reason as any to search.
Mendel unzips the bag, not slowly or dramatically, but quickly, as if the quicker it’s over, the easier it’ll be.
Sam’s naked from the torso up, stab wounds stitched up raggedly, making him look like a bad horror movie character. They’re zigzagging, red, cross-stitched all over his chest, through his neck, on his face. His eyes are closed, and the skin around them is tinged yellow from the bruises. His neck and cheeks are gray and blue, patches of death that remind Dean of last time and Sam on an old mattress in a rickety old cabin, not breathing, not moving, just not.
Mendel says something but Dean doesn’t hear because suddenly, Sam’s eyes open and they’re gray-blue like his dead skin and he looks straight at Dean and opens his mouth and all that comes out is blood, dripping, leaking, pouring like it should never be able to, slip-sliding from the corners and then out his nose too, and Dean’s screaming without even knowing it, not words, just mindless, inhuman shrieking, but no sound is coming from his mouth even when it feels like his throat will rip to pieces and his head will burst and his heart will simply stop, only a rushing in his ears that blocks out everything else, and without warning, Sam reaches up one shaking, blood-soaked hand, a plea (I need you, I needed you) in his (dead, gone, murdered) eyes and Dean thinks, This is the end, this is the end, this is how I die and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know—
And then he’s awake.
The next day is overcast: thick gray clouds clump around the sun, threaten to block it out completely. The air carries the damp, dewy smell of rain that reminds Dean of long drives on the road and Sam unrolling the window all the way and letting the rain destroy the upholstery while he got his face wet. The memory should be happy, but it isn’t. It fills Dean with nausea that acts like a black hole, sucking everything else into it so that all he feels like doing is curling up under the sheets and never coming out.
But sleeping would bring back the dreams, so instead, he calls Missouri.
She picks up on the first ring, and Dean wonders if she knew it was him and if maybe she’s been looking for Sam or heard from him and maybe he’ll say something absolutely normal like, Hello and she’ll say something absolutely extraordinary like, Dean, I found Sam.
It happens a little differently in real life. Missouri wastes no time with how are you’s.
Boy, she says, after Dean finishes telling her what happened and asks if she knows anything, I can tell you where he’s not, but there ain’t no way of knowing where he is unless I’m standing ten feet away from him.
Dean says something into the phone, though he’s not sure what. It must be something like, But you can, you have to, there has to be a way because Missouri adds, in a soft voice:
I’m a psychic, honey – not God.
And that’s the end of that.
But not really, because Dean can’t just sit around while the police search or “search” or whatever they’re doing. His entire life has revolved around the supernatural and what it can and can’t do and if it can bring someone back from the dead, then why can’t it help him find someone who’s lost?
He has to try. Hiding under the covers and waiting for everything to get better because it almost always does isn’t going to help. There’s nothing mystical or miraculous about hope. You have it or you don’t; either way, bad things happen.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-07-06 08:33 am (UTC)I have this exam in 90 minutes and I should be pouring over my last minute notes (which I'll do right now). But I made the mistake and started reading.
Painful! Painful! Painful! I'm not sure how else to describe this story. It's just ... ouch!
Awesome, but ouch!
Will read on AFTER my exam!
no subject
Date: 2009-07-31 07:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-26 12:31 pm (UTC)I do like Peter, I think he knows that there isn't anything to find, maybe, but he's determined to keep searcing.
This fic is brilliant, must keep reading.
no subject
Date: 2009-07-31 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-18 03:12 am (UTC)I love Peter for not giving up, I love the hotel guy for being an asshole, I love how this just feels like time is stretching out FOREVER when, actually if I was honest with myself, I'm reading it really fast. ;)
WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SAM!?! OMG FIX IT!!!! *goes to next part*
no subject
Date: 2010-01-05 11:13 am (UTC)And then he’s awake."
FU*K THAT DREAM PART MADE ME SHIVER! And the dream about the deal gave me great idea...When fiction makes you thinking...then it must be fantastic! I'm glad no one told me what happens,'cause now i can have my own suspicions...like,maybe Sam got Dean out of his deal...and that takes away his life...good details,i think Kripke couldn't make as half as good thing like this...They honestly need to hire you,'cause this is MAGNIFICENT!
no subject
Date: 2010-01-05 07:09 pm (UTC)Yay for inspiration! \o/
no subject
Date: 2010-01-05 07:11 pm (UTC)I envy you,you're so talented :)
no subject
Date: 2010-03-08 04:20 am (UTC)Ahem. That is me, trying to deal with the creepiness. There's a big hole in this story that keeps sucking at all the words, and it's because Sam's gone--and I wonder why the words don't all fall apart, and it's because Dean's there.
And it's nearly midnight and I should be working on this stupid paper that's been taking me forever, but I needed to find out what's happening to Sam, so I came here instead. :P
P.S. The artwork for this is brilliant. It's everyday and it has Sam in it, but you can't ever see him clearly, which is PERFECT because this fic is about Sam, but he's not there. Gah, the brilliance is spinning my head. And the late hour. 'Kay, shutting up now.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-08 02:41 pm (UTC)I lucked out with the art,
So glad you're enjoying this! ♥