Chapter Text
It's painful, watching Sam the next day. He stays well within arm's reach at all times, reduced to nods and head shakes and only ever looking at his lap or me--nowhere else. Afraid, I think, of catching the devil in the corner of his eye. I work one-handed on the computer; the other is constantly running through Sam's hair or holding his hand or resting on the back of his neck as he tries to watch TV, then read--until Sam finally succumbs to exhaustion around noon. He lays his head down in my lap, arms wrapped around my legs, his own curled close to himself. I spend the rest of my shift grateful for the use of ten whole fingers but constantly attuned to Sam's every breath. For the most part, he's still and quiet. A few times, he twitches, and each time, I stroke his hair once or twice, hushing.
He sleeps for another hour or so after my shift at the help desk is done, and I take the time to shut my eyes and drift, never quite falling asleep myself. It's more meditative--a quiet place apart from my guilt and constant vigilance where all that exists is the occasional whoosh of a car, a twittering sparrow or two, the smell of fresh cut grass...and Sam's weight against me. That part is the most relaxing and comforting; I've grown very used to this very quickly. And I missed it when he was gone for those couple days more than I'd like to admit.
Then, as the sun begins to touch the farthest rooftops, the smell of taco meat makes its way through our window. Luigi's brought his cart out just in time for dinner--if we could get over there. If we can't...I think about the groceries I have on hand (and how long they can last), what I can make without upsetting Sam (probably nothing that requires cutting or heating on the stove), and what that leaves me with that will be tempting enough for Sam to eat (as he often loses his appetite after bad episodes). Then I think about how much money I (don't) have to get something delivered.
Somewhere in these calculations, Sam stirs, stretching a little, then, hesitantly, looks out the window. I think he smells Luigi's too, and I feel rather than hear his stomach growl. He's had very, very little for a very long time now. He looks out for what feels like a long time, and then he looks up at me with eyes so tortured that mine sting.
"Hey, babe," I croak, and I touch his cheek. "You're hungry, huh?" (Nod, nod.) "And you can smell the tacos too, huh?" His eyes widen a little, and he doesn't answer this time.
And I think. Because I'm very, very tempted to order in, let him hide, let him take his time. The thing is, he was doing well just days ago. And I wonder if letting him hide is just going to make it harder in the long run. But I can't push. He never needs to be pushed--he's forever pushing himself too far, too fast. (And I just let him do it again.) Running my thumb along his cheekbone, I take in the anxious knit in his brow, the feel of his palms, pressed against my thighs. His breath is shallow, his body tight where minutes ago he'd been at peace.
"I know you're scared, but let's try to go get some tacos, okay? We'll just start with the front stoop," I tell him softly as his eyes widen more. "If we don't wanna go any farther, that's okay. We'll come back in and order something." Sam looks deeply unsure about this plan. I run my fingers gently through his long bangs. "'m not gonna make you. But I won't let anything happen to you. You're back in our neighborhood, back home. You went to South Dakota with Dean, had a rough time, and I found you with some of that protection magic. You're okay." With each statement, I stroke his hair, holding his eye. "I understand why you're shaken, babe, so we don't have to go out. But Luigi's smells good to me, too, and I could do all the talking when we get there."
He looks out the window again, though we can't see the food cart from here. His fingers search for mine, and I squeeze once they're tangled together. He still hasn't nodded, or made a move to sit up. I rub the back of his hand with my thumb and give him a solid two minutes to decide. But he only squirms a little, unable to meet my eye.
"Remember, we can start with just the front stoop. We don't have to go any further than that."
When he gives a reluctant nod and starts to sit up, I move with him, certain he has every intention of keeping in physical contact with me from this moment on. I take his hand, letting him fairly drag his feet to the door. And as promised, we don't go any further than the top step. We stand there and let Sam adjust. He draws closer to me, eyes down for a minute, then out across the roof tops, into the street--little dips into the world, then back to me, or his shoes. When his shoulders come down ever so slightly from his ears, I offer the bottom step as the next goal.
Another minute there, his fingers tight in mine, his other hand ghosting over my shirt hem, ready to grab on. He begins to tremble a little as a motorcycle starts up somewhere nearby.
"Do you remember when we met?"
The question startles him. Sam looks at me, and his grip relaxes somewhat as I see the flash of memory pass in his eyes. His lip turns up for a moment. He nods. I step off the stairs, turning back and taking his other hand.
"What do you remember best?" I ask, and gently, I pull Sam forward. He doesn't seem to notice, but I give him a beat anyway as his second foot meets the pavement.
"The look on your face. When you came around the corner."
-- -- --
"I wasn't ASKING, Lose-chester." Harris stalks after Sam, away from the empty Math Hall. "I'm not getting kicked off the football team because some scrawny nobody won't let me copy tests. YOU cheat, anyway!"
"I don't cheat!" Sam shot back over his shoulder, his brain doing frantic calculations completely unrelated to the geometry they were arguing about. This math was more about how best to avoid getting flatted by a senior six times his weight.
"Yeah right. You're not even in class half the time, you can't tell me you just know geometry."
Despite the fact that Harris is catching up--and despite the fact that the math is solidly in Harris's favor--Sam retorts, "It's not that hard as long as you've got an IQ higher than the average temperature in winter."
"What was that?!"
And suddenly Sam's yanked backwards by his shirt, lifted off his feet momentarily, then the wind's half knocked out of him as he bounces off the lockers. His hands are already in fists, his guard up and his stance shifting, ready to throw as many punches at Harris's ribs as he can before he's knocked unconscious. (Maybe Dean would spare his dad the shame and tell him there was a Wendigo loose in the basement)
"Sass me again, Lose-chester, and there won't be enough of you left to--"
"BACK OFF."
A girl strides around the corner Sam had been trying to get to, the one that leads to the commons. Her expression somehow takes the rest of Sam's breath away, yet grounds him at the same time. It's blazing, furious, and utterly unafraid as she steps in between Sam and Harris. And, distantly, Sam is sure he recognizes her from somewhere.
"Get the fuck out of the way, you little bitch!" Harris yells, and swipes at her with a giant paw.
And then, before Sam can do anything, in an eye blink, Harris is sailing into the lockers on the opposite side of the hallway just as Sam realizes two things at the same time. First, her name is Hayden. He'd heard her laughing to herself in the library--had gone out of his way to find the source of that sound. He'd had to steal her hall pass (just for a second), too chickenshit to talk to her. And second, Hayden's hand was on his shoulder. She'd been bracing him--keeping him out of Harris's reach. There was a weird tingling where she made contact--or did it always feel like this when a girl actually touched you?
"You okay?" She asks, and he's about to answer, but--
"You stupid little--" Harris lunges.
And again, Sam means to act, makes to defend her, but Hayden's got that look again. She throws her hand like she's tossing change at the ground, but gold sparks erupt and then blossom into a wall of light that divides the hallway. On one side is Harris, looking beyond dumbfounded as the wall seals him off. On the other are Sam and Hayden--Hayden's looking Harris dead in the face, acting like what she'd done is completely normal.
"Do. not. touch me," she snarls, and points to Sam. "OR him."
"What the fuck is wrong with you??"
She doesn't seem to hear him. "GO HOME, Harris!"
Harris gapes at her, then the wall, which hasn't changed or faded. He reaches out and touches it--then pushes. Nothing happens. He can't get through--and it obviously freaks him out.
"You're...you're a fuckin' WITCH!" And he goes sprinting off in the opposite direction without looking back.
For a second, it's like Hayden forgot Sam was even there. She stares after Harris, then seems to take in the wall properly for the first time. She gasps, reaches out, hesitant. When she lays her palm on the wall, it reverses, seeming to soak into her skin. Then she looks up at Sam...and now she looks a little scared.
"Are...um...are you..okay?"
Sam realizes they've been moving this whole time. In fact, they've just finished crossing--not Ashton, but Klive! They're on the same street as the food cart now! He squeezes Hayden's hand reflexively, but as he does an automatic sweep, he finds the sidewalks Lucifer-free. The sky is blue, not red, and there are regular swings hanging from the tree in that backyard, not nooses. The only sound besides Hayden's voice is the sound of a mower one or two streets up.
Hayden's watching him figure out what happened, but she doesn't comment on it. She's still holding his hand. "Yeah, I thought you were really cute, and I was afraid I'd blown it by being a freak. I was freaked out, anyway. Glad to have gotten rid of Harris, but freaked out."
He's still taking in the fact that he walked this far without melting down, so it takes an extra beat for him to hear the sentence properly. "You--you thought I was cute?"
And Hayden actually blushes when she nods.
"But that was freshman year! I was still--I mean--I was still short and--"
He can't tell if he's thrilled or flabbergasted, but it doesn't matter, he's got Hayden laughing. The way her nose wrinkles when she laughs this way (she's got a lot of different laughs) makes his heart sing.
"You had great hair, even then, and I've always liked the way you smile."
His stomach flipflops with pleasure, and for a very confusing moment, Sam wants to kiss her very badly. He turns to her and smiles, looks at her mouth, and imagines taking it...but as soon as he imagines the pressure on his own lips, his stomach flops in a very different, bad way. He pulls up short, managing to keep ahold of her (NEVER BREAK THE CONNECTION) but stumbling away a little just the same. As his head spins, he realizes they're coming close to the end of the line, and suddenly he can't stand the thought of standing too close to strangers. He starts shaking his head at her, a cold and sour taste in his mouth.
"Hayden, w-wait--"
She holds him steady as his knees turn to jelly and guides him back a few feet, holding his eye as she murmurs, "I gotcha. I gotcha. It's okay. You're okay. Everything's okay." Sam whines, afraid he's going to throw up on her. He's such a fool. Such a stupid-- "Look at me. Right here." Her tone is so patient. So warm. "I'm right here. Right here with you. Do you remember Harris's last name?"
"W-w-w--"
"The story we were just talking about, with Harris in the hallway. Do you remember his last name? Harris..."
She cups his cheek as Sam begins to shake, and the gold flecks in her eyes captivate him, freeing him from the harsh voice in his head. He searches for a moment. "Han--Hanster."
"Yeah. Harris Hanster in the hallway. And, somewhere in there, Smiley Thoast. Our high school had surprisingly good names." She rubs her thumb across his skin, smiling a little. "Breathe a little slower for me. You got this. You're doing so well. Just keep looking at me and catch your breath."
His eyes flick between hers, and he feels the knots in his stomach untwisting. He's made it this far. He can't hear screaming, no stench of blood or shit....he's not in pain. Hayden hasn't vanished. She brushes hair away from his sweaty face and forehead, her legs right up against his. They haven't broken contact since they were on the couch. It's really her. He's really safe. Sam relaxes slightly, and Hayden praises him, saying,
"Good. You're doing good. Just keep holding my hand. You wanna watch Robocop when we get home? Or Top Gun again?"
"Top G-Gun," Sam stammers.
"Okay. You're doing good. I'm not gonna let go of you. I gotcha....you ready to get in line?"
No!!
"Okay. Let's give it another minute." She rests her forehead to his. "I'm here. I'm here. Close your eyes for me, take one deep breath.....good."
When he indicates he's ready, they step back in line, and Luigi gives them a big wave (along with the other couple of customers who were stepping up at the same time). And when Luigi turns to rotate some chicken on the grill behind him, Hayden's already holding tight to Sam when the sizzle nearly makes him jump out of his skin. Hayden slips her fingers under the hem of his shirt and spreads them low across his back. He turns his head to her, buries his nose in his hair and doesn't care of he looks stupid or pathetic. He breathes in, the vanilla scent of her grounding him.
"I gotcha. 'm right here. We'll watch Top Gun, we'll eat tacos and nachos, and then maybe we'll just watch Antique Roadshow until we fall asleep. Whatever we want." Gently, she moves him forward--only one customer between them and Luigi now--and her fingers move back and forth against his skin as Sam tries to breathe calmly. "Hang on a second, babe. I'm gonna keep hold of you while I get you something to drink. "
The fingers against his spine vanish (the others remain interlocked with his) as Hayden reaches to the end of Luigi's cart and picks up a Sprite, holding it for Luigi (who nods) to see. Then Hayden shifts back into his side, their legs flush once more, and opens the can. She slips it into Sam's hand and steadies it.
"Drink a little of that, sweetheart. You're doing great. This will help."
It does. Immediately. And it gives Sam something to do when they step up to Luigi, who could so easily reach out and grab/hit/drag Sam over the little counter. Between the fizzy bubbles wetting his tongue and throat and the feel of Hayden's palm gliding along his back, Sam holds it together as Hayden orders their usuals, getting Sam's details just right without his having to say a word.
-- -- --
He's doing well, though he's stressed--the people and the sounds of the grill were a lot for him. (And then there was that second just before he realized we were coming upon strangers...something bothered him there, too.) As we walk home, our prize swinging at the end of Sam's free arm, I ask him about other easy memories we share, sticking to things he can nod or shake in answer to. But he starts to use a few words when we're on my block. He's recovering, though certainly not back to his (new) "old" self. How long until he's back to his old self? If ever?! By the time we get to my drive, we're back to holding hands rather than glued at the hip. He's done really, really well, and I'm half patting myself on the back for making the right call. I demonstrated a small part of Sam's safety, building him up again, without incident. We might be back at square one(ish), but we don't have to stay here as long the second time.
So close.
So. Close.
We're almost to the top step when it happens.
At first, I only see it out of the corner of my eye: a red truck pulls up sedately to a stop sign, and a black car comes up behind it, rather more aggressively. And then a loud, harsh, mechanical bleat stabs fills the air before either vehicle has been still longer than three seconds. My instincts are so honed when it comes to Sam that my hands catch him by the elbows before I've even fully turned my head back around. He crumples, throwing his hands over his ears, his eyes clenched shut and his teeth grinding, groaning deep in his throat. I gather him into my arms, jamming my feet against two different stairs to brace us both as he doubles over, starting to wail. Words stream out of my mouth, even though I doubt he can hear them.
"It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. I gotcha. It's okay. It's a car horn. Just a car horn--"
"P-please, I can't! I can't!"
"I gotcha, Sam, you're okay--"
"Hayden, I can't! I can't--please don't let them take me back--"
And finally the asshole lays off. Sam rasps like he's been underwater for ages, and he yelps when he registers the weight of the bag on the back of his arm. I catch his fingers as they scramble for it.
"It's okay! Just the taco bag. It's okay. It's okay. I got it." And I toss it up the stairs as Sam bruises my arms in his desperation to hold on. He could not look more freaked out than if someone had just set my face on fire.
"Sh shhhh--"
"H--Hay-d-en--I w-w-wanna g-go h-h-home now!"
"I know, babe. We're right here, we're home. We just got back."
"I wanna go home!! Please, I don't want tacos anymore, please, I just wanna go home!"
Oh crap. "We're home, sweetheart. We're home. We're right there. Just hold on to me." And I half help, half lift Sam off the stairs, his legs barely able to support him as he keeps gasping for air, head buried in my shoulder. "It's okay. It's okay, I've got you. I'll get you inside."
"Don't let go, please, Hayden--"
"I won't. I gotcha. I'm here. 'm just gonna open the door, okay? I won't let go, I'm just gonna get us inside now." And I let him keep a death grip on the arm of the hand that turns the knob. "It's okay. It's okay. I gotcha. We're home. We're here."
Awkwardly, using some toes, I pull the to-go bag inside, wishing a fiery death on the driver of the black car as Sam struggles so hard for air that he's choking. We wobble over to the couch, where Sam keeps his face hidden in the crook of my shoulder, tears starting to fall down my chest. He keeps his arms pressed against my chest, legs almost shoved under mine.
"Shhhhh shhhhhh, it's okay. You did great. You're safe, you just got scared right at the end. But we're back home. It's over, and now we get to eat."
"I don't wanna eat!"
"Shhh," I rock him a little, rubbing between his shoulders as he sobs a little. "You don't wanna eat?"
"Feels like 'm g-g-onna puke."
"Okay. Okay. That's stress. That's--shhhhhh--"
"It was a car horn!! I'm--I'm--"
I pull back and scoop his cheek up. "But it didn't sound like a car horn, did it? ...Yeah," I nod as Sam shakes his head miserably. "It sounded like something much worse." At this, he begins nodding, his breath choppy, harsh. "Look at me. Stay with me. I know. I know, it's alright," I assure him as his face screws up in clear apology. "Shhhhhhhhh, you did good. You did so good. Everything's okay. I'm gonna help you now. Sshhhhhhhh." I cup his face in both hands now. "I'm gonna get another soda so we can slow your breathing down a little bit." That tempers the flinch as the can zckt's open. I bring the Sprite to Sam's lips and give him just a swallow, ignoring the bit that splashes onto me. "Good. You're good. Everything is okay. Breaaaathe. Just let yourself catch up" I tip the can again, giving him two long swallows this time, then I rub between his shoulders again. "You're okay. You're alright."
Another couple of swallows, and he's calming, but shivers start to wrack his body. I put the can down and gently mop his face with some napkins, hushing softly. "I gotcha. I gotcha. It's gonna be okay, babe....I'm gonna give you a really small taste of nachos, okay? Okay." I break off a quarter of a chip, my arm around Sam's shoulders as I bring it to his lips. "Small taste. The salt will help."
He bites it tentatively, taking only half of the small piece. But he quickly comes back for the other half.
"Good? Bigger one?" I feed him another, then one with some cheese. He's breathing heavily, but the tears have stopped. I coax the Sprite into his hands and unwrap a taco as he takes several deep swallows.
Then, rubbing his back, I take the remote and start up Top Gun. By Goose's first line, Sam's had half his first taco and calmed down enough to feel ashamed. Hhe glances sideways at me. But I shake my head, carding a bit of his hair.
"You did good."
We watch the movie, then Antique Roadhouse, just like I'd suggested. The rest of the night is by and large, a normal night, save for the need to stand in the doorway when he uses the bathroom. And, like he often does, Sam falls asleep early--the effects of a big dinner and an adrenaline crash. I layer him in blankets as his lashes flutter, his body curled around mine.
Somewhere between the second and third Roadhouse, just as I'm starting to feel properly sleepy, I finally get a text from Dean.
I'd sent him one much earlier to let him know Sam was alright, and heard nothing. Then, after picturing him unable to answer because both hands were on wheel as Dean drove here in record time, I sent another (more frantic) text saying it would be a TERRIBLE idea to come storming back here without at least announcing himself first.
Nothing. Until now.
He's all yours.