Country of the Heart [2/3]

[ratherastory]

[Master Post]

[Part I]

Part II

It's harder than he thought, leaving the hospital. While he was still there, safe inside the dubious protection of its green walls, he could pretend that none of it was truly real. That any minute now Dean was going to come fetch him and bring him outside where Dad would be waiting for them in the Impala, impatient to be on the road again. Now, though, he's being pushed through the sliding glass doors in a wheelchair, wearing the faded pair of jeans and the white t-shirt Dean had pulled over his head before rushing him directly to the hospital. He doesn't even have socks, although Dean did apparently bring his sneakers at some point. Or one sneaker, anyway, since it's not like he can wear the other one.

He hoists himself gingerly into the passenger seat of Audrey's car, and lets her put his crutches in the back seat for him, hardly able to believe how tired he is after just this one simple thing. He doesn't know how he's going to manage the stairs up to the apartment, or carry his duffel bag out, without face-planting down the stairs again. He supposes he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.

Audrey somehow managed to get hold of a key to the apartment —maybe borrowed from Dean, or maybe she just got it from the landlord. She waits patiently while he struggles with his crutches, stumbling up one step at a time. He's hot and sweaty by the time they get to the front door, breathing hard and trying desperately not to cough, because he's pretty sure if he starts he'll never be able to stop. He's about ready to drop on the nearest horizontal surface and simply go to sleep, but he knows that's not on the books, not right now, anyway.

"Which is your room, Sam?"

There's only one bedroom, with the bed he shares with Dean, but he figures that if he doesn't point that out she might not notice that there's only one bedroom for a place where three people are supposed to be living. He leads the way, but steps aside at the last minute so she can go in ahead of him. At least the place is clean, he thinks. He and Dean have always kept their places tidy enough –Dad drilled it into them from a young age, and knowing where all your stuff is means that you don't lose anything or leave it behind accidentally when you have to bug out of town because the authorities are about to catch up with you for credit card fraud or expired insurance. So at the very least Audrey isn't going to think they live in squalor or something.

"Do you have a suitcase?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Duffel bag. It's in the closet." He moves to get it, but she waves him down and goes to fetch it herself. She pauses when she sees both bags there, and for a heart-stopping moment he thinks that maybe she's seen all the weapons they keep as well, even though he knows well enough that Dad and Dean would have made sure to pack all that up in the Impala before her visit.

"Is this it, or is it the other one?" She lifts his duffel, and he realizes that her hesitation was due to the fact that she couldn't tell his bag apart from Dean's.

"That's it."

It takes ten minutes to pack his clothes, school books and toiletries. They've always travelled light, and without having to make sure the weapons are safely packed, it takes even less time than usual. If Audrey's surprised by how few things he owns, she doesn't say a word, merely purses her lips and packs his belongings in silence. She smiles when he protests at her shouldering his bag.

"It's fine. It's not heavy, and you're going to need both hands and all your balance to go back down the stairs. You want something to drink before we go?"

He shakes his head. His wallet is on the nightstand next to the bed, so he pockets it, then pushes himself painfully to his feet. His head is already starting to ache again, and his chest hurts from the exertion. "Let's just go."

"All right."

They leave in silence, which lasts until she pulls up in front of a small white house with a well-kept lawn, and she turns to face him.

"I know how hard all this is, but I promise, it's not all as bad as it seems."

He shrugs, and she sighs.

"Okay, come on, and I'll introduce you."

A good-looking woman who looks about Dad's age answers the door. She's dressed in brown slacks and a beige t-shirt under one of those pale blue cardigan sweaters, with a necklace made of silver and turquoise hanging just past her collarbone. Her blond hair is loose but has obviously been recently trimmed into an attractive blunt cut, and her nails are short but well-cared-for. Well-put-together, is the expression that fits, he thinks, he heard one of his teachers use it once to describe someone's mother. He licks his lips nervously as she ushers them inside with a smile that's warm and entirely open. Audrey introduces her as Mrs. Mary Williams, and doesn't seem to notice when Sam flinches.

The only times Sam has ever found himself in a living room that looked like the one he's currently in were either when he was helping his father on a case, watching him interviewing witnesses because Dad thought it was important he learn the techniques as soon as possible, or on the rare occasions that they stayed in one place long enough for him to make a friend or two who would invite him over to their houses. Otherwise, living rooms furnished with matching furniture and with curtains that weren't ripped or completely missing, with picture frames and art on the walls and more pictures on the mantelpiece, feel a bit like a foreign country.

"Please call me Mary," Mrs. Williams smiles at Sam, and he feels something twist painfully in his chest. She doesn't appear to have noticed, though, and keeps talking. "Otherwise I'll feel positively ancient, or at the very least like a schoolteacher. Come on in, and have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink, Audrey?" She looks at Sam too, a moment later, but he thinks his tongue may have actually cleaved to the roof of his mouth. He doesn't move. When Audrey accepts, she gives a cheerful nod. "I've got lemonade. Hang on just a moment," she says, and disappears, presumably into the kitchen.

Sam shifts uncomfortably on his crutches, and still doesn't move even when Audrey takes a seat in an armchair.

"Sit down, Sam," Audrey tells him, not unkindly. "No one's going to punish you for sitting."

"Her name's Mary?"

"Yes, that's right. I forgot I didn't tell you the names of your foster parents. Why do you ask?"

He's saved from having to answer when Mary returns with a tray and three glasses of lemonade. She pauses briefly when she sees Sam still standing, leaning heavily on his crutches, but she puts down the tray and takes a seat on the sofa after handing a glass to Audrey and taking one for herself.

"You can sit anywhere you'd like, sweetie," she says. "No need to stand on ceremony here."

He's just attracting attention like this, and that's the last thing he should be doing. He shuffles awkwardly to the nearest chair, a straight-backed wooden one that looks like he won't have too much trouble getting up from again later, even if it's not as comfortable as the armchairs or the sofa. Mary waits until he's carefully laid his crutches down by his feet, trying to tuck them out of the way, then hands him the last glass of lemonade.

"Audrey's probably already told you most of how this works, right Sam?"

He nods. "Yes, ma'am," he manages, remembering his manners at last, and she smiles. She's pretty, he thinks, and for a traitorous moment he wonders what it would be like to live here, in this nice house, with her. The lemonade is delicious and cool, not overly sweet, and goes a long way to helping his headache and to quelling the cough that keeps trying to bubble its way out of his chest.

"We've got two other kids living here right now, although they're much younger than you," she continues. "There are a few rules while you're here, but nothing you won't be able to handle. We'll go over all of that when you're settled in. My husband Alan is going to be home from work later this evening, and you'll be able to meet him then. He's looking forward to meeting you," she adds. "It's been a while since we had a young man your age in the house. Our youngest son is in college now," she explains, and he mentally readjusts her age to slightly older than Dad.

She's looking at him, and he thinks maybe she expects him to say something now, and he drops his gaze, twists his hands in his lap, and wishes he was anywhere but here.
"Sam..." He looks up quickly to find her still looking at him. "I know you feel put on the spot, but I promise that's not what I'm trying to do. Do you want to go put your bag in your room while I talk to Audrey for a few minutes?"

"Room?" he repeats stupidly.

"Yes, your room. You get the ground floor bedroom at the back of the house, so you don't have to go up and down the stairs while you've still got your cast on. There's a bathroom, too. You can think of it sort of like your own little private suite, except for the fact that my husband uses that bathroom in the morning because the other one gets pretty crowded sometimes," she says with a wink that he thinks is meant to put him at ease. It doesn't work. "Just go down the hall and through the kitchen, and the room's just back there. Can you manage?"

He nods, and hurriedly picks up his crutches, glancing at Audrey, who nods encouragingly. It's a little harder to navigate with his duffel slung over one shoulder, but he does manage, going through a brightly-lit, clean kitchen and through to what does, in fact, look like a neatly kept guest area. The room is small but neat, with a twin bed up against one wall, a dresser with three drawers that doubles as a night table, and a desk with a lamp screwed to its side. The window looks onto the house next door and a small patch of lawn covered in small white flowers.

Sam pulls open the bottom drawer and quickly unpacks his duffel before shoving it under the bed, then sits for a moment, wondering if he's supposed to go back into the living room or wait here for someone to come get him. He rubs his forehead, the throbbing returning in full force, and wishes he had some Advil or something. This is just the result of being overtired, he thinks, but it still feels shitty. He should go back out there, and try to be polite, but his head is pounding, his chest feels tight, and his cast feels like it weighs three tons. He'll just close his eyes for a minute or two, he tells himself, lying down on the bed. Just until the worst is past. Then he'll go and talk to the woman with the same name as his mother and find out what her rules are, figure out just how he's going to manage all this until Dad and Dean come up with a way to fix this mess. Just a minute or two, and he'll be ready.

~*~

"Hey, wake up!"

Sam is jolted out of a dream that vanishes almost instantly by the sound of a small, slightly shrill voice right next to his ear. He opens his eyes to find himself staring at a little boy of about nine or ten with a shock of tangled brown hair and a slight scowl on his face.

"Wha'?" is the best he can manage, before his lungs spasm and he folds over on himself coughing.

"Mary says you have to wake up and come to dinner," the boy says when he's got himself under control.

He glances down, and realizes that at some point someone must have come in, because a blanket has been laid over him and pulled up over his shoulders. The clock radio on the dresser tells him it's a few minutes before six o'clock. The boy huffs impatiently.

"Are you coming, or what? Dinner's in five minutes."

"I'm coming," he mumbles, fighting to extricate himself from the blanket while still not quite fully awake. His mouth feels like it's coated in something unpleasant, and his head is fuzzy, but it doesn't hurt, and even his chest doesn't feel all that tight anymore, which he figures is a plus. He wonders if he has time to brush his teeth, or maybe at least his hair, and then realizes he has no idea who this kid is.

"What's your name?"

"Donnie."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Sam."

"I know that. So should I tell Mary you're coming?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks."

Donnie doesn't bother to acknowledge the thanks, just trots back toward the kitchen, hollering at the top of his lungs that Sam's awake and that he's coming. Sam winces, and wonders if he and Dean were that loud at Donnie's age. He uses the dresser to pull himself to his feet, rescues his toiletry bag and fumbles with it a bit until he figures out a way to carry it while both hands are busy with the crutches, and slips into the small bathroom across the narrow hallway. He looks kind of terrible, he thinks, when he sees himself in the mirror: sallow-skinned and puffy-eyed, and his hair is plastered to his face on one side and sticking out on the other.

He brushes his teeth first, getting rid of the nasty taste in his mouth, then does a passable job of making his hair behave. There's not much he can do about how he looks otherwise, but he suspects that probably no one else really cares about that. Dean would care, of course, and maybe force him to go back to bed for a while, but Dean isn't here. He has to swallow a sudden lump in his throat, blinking hard. He's not going to cry in front of these people.

There's a little girl sitting at the kitchen table with Donnie when he gets there, and an older man that he guesses must be Mary's husband standing near the counter, rummaging through one of the kitchen cabinets. Mary herself is at the stove, and she turns to him with another smile.

"Hi Sam. Did you sleep well?"

He stops in his tracks, uncertain of how this is meant to work. He doesn't remember the last time he ate a meal with both Dad and Dean at the same time and at the table. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you."

"You really can call me Mary, Sam."

He shakes his head. "I, uh... I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you. Please."

She seems perplexed and maybe a little hurt. "Okay, if that's what you want."

Not five minutes in and he's already screwed this up. He takes a breath, swallows. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I just... my mother's name was Mary. It's just... it's weird," he says lamely.

"It's okay, Sam," Mary says softly. "You really don't have to explain yourself to me."

Sam ducks his head, not wanting to see what sort of expression he's put on her face, finds himself wishing Dean was here for the second time in fifteen minutes. Dean's always been better with people than him.

"Okay, let's have some formal introductions," Mary says briskly, and the tension drains from the room. "This is my husband Alan, I think you've already met Donnie, and that little imp pretending to be an angel sitting at the table is Lorraine."

"Hi!" the girl says brightly, just as Alan steps forward, extending a hand, which Sam shakes firmly after shifting his crutches around a bit.

"Good to meet you, Sam." Alan looks older than his wife, with neatly trimmed silver hair, dressed in business attire that makes him look like he's probably an accounts' manager in some medium-sized firm. Maybe insurance, Sam thinks, by the looks of him. Sometimes looks can be deceiving, though, so he figures he'll ask about it later.

"Thank you, sir. Likewise."

Alan looks amused. “Rare that someone your age has such good manners.”

Sam shrugs, drops his gaze to the floor. "Never thought about it, sir."

"Why don't you take a seat," Mary motions to the table. "We've got spaghetti and meat sauce and broccoli."

Donnie makes a face. "Broccoli. Yuck."

Sam spares him a glance, remembering Dean telling him not to whine because there weren't any vegetables. Broccoli's a luxury in their household, mostly because they're never in one place long enough to buy it, or because it goes bad too quickly. Dean tends to focus on grains and starches when he buys groceries, and loads Sam up with apples so he can get some vitamins in him. Broccoli's a waste, as far as Dean is concerned, not because he doesn't like it, but because it's an impractical vegetable. Canned peas make more sense, are cheaper, last longer, and can be taken with you if you haven't opened the can before you leave.

Mary hands him a plate of spaghetti, then passes him a steaming dish of broccoli. "Help yourself, Sam. Is that enough spaghetti for you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He gauges the number of people at the table, tries to take only enough broccoli for himself to leave some for the others.

"There's plenty for seconds if you want."

He nods, ducks his head, and wonders if this is the kind of family that says grace before dinner, like at that really awkward Thanksgiving a couple of years ago. Luckily, they don't seem the type, though he notices Alan is waiting for his wife to start eating before picking up his own fork, so Sam follows suit, feeling awkward and out of place. He has to think about his table manners —hold your fork properly, don't slouch, elbows off the table. Dad taught him when he was young, and reminded him periodically, but Dean doesn't care as long as neither of them is starving.

Around him the conversation picks up, Mary asking the kids about their day, and both Donnie and Lorraine turn out to be talkative. Donnie complains about his math teacher, and Lorraine recounts something about an art project in kindergarten that's sounds about as complex as it is incomprehensible, but Mary seems to follow along well enough. Then again, she's had plenty of practice, Sam thinks.

"What grade are you in?" Donnie asks him abruptly, and Lorraine rolls her eyes.

"He's too old for school, Donnie," she says, as though Sam is a hundred years old. He remembers being that age and thinking that anyone over ten years old was huge and ancient, and bites the inside of his lip in order not to smile and hurt her feelings. Donnie, however, has no such qualms.

"He is not, dummy. He has to go to high school."

"I'm not a dummy! You take that back!"

Mary hushes them. "Donnie, you know the rule about name-calling in this house. Besides, Sam's in the ninth grade, isn't that right Sam?"

"That's right."

"How do you like it?" she prompts, and he wishes the floor would open up and swallow him, right now, please and thank you. He doesn't want to talk about school or anything else.

"It's fine."

Alan snorts. "I forgot what having teenagers was like," he comments, and Sam stiffens. He's being rude, and that's going to draw attention, and then he'll never get to go back to Dad and Dean.

"Sorry, sir, I didn't mean it like that. I like school," he adds. It's true, he does like school, but he also figures it'll look better if he says so. He racks his brain for something to say. "Um, I'm pretty good at math," he adds.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Sam. No need to feel put on the spot." Alan reaches over and claps him on the shoulder, and Sam tries not to flinch too hard at the uninvited contact. He sees Mary narrow her eyes at her husband and shake her head slightly, and Alan withdraws his hand, his expression a little contrite, Sam thinks. It's because they think Dad beats him, he realizes, and suddenly his stomach performs a flip-flop. No touching the abused kid without his permission. He stares down at his plate and concentrates on finishing his food, ignoring the pitying looks he’s getting from two people who don’t know what the hell they're talking about, anyway.

When dinner is over, an excruciating twenty minutes later, he moves awkwardly to help clear the table, using only one crutch to help him move around the kitchen. Mary gives him an approving look.

"We generally let the kids take turns with the dishes. This week is Donnie's week, and Lorraine will help to dry, and next week I think you’ll probably be up to the task, don't you?"

He nods, and ignores the baleful glare he gets from Donnie, who clearly views dishes as the world’s worst form of punishment. Once the table is clear and wiped down he retrieves his crutch gratefully, his arms shaking from the strain, and fishes around in his mind until he comes up with a polite request to be excused.

"Of course. I bet you're exhausted, it's been a long day. You just yell if you need anything, all right?"

"Sure. Thanks," he mumbles, already halfway through the door.

He manages not to stumble on his way to the bedroom, shucks his clothes as soon as the door is safely shut behind him, and does a half-hearted job of folding them and dropping them on the wooden chair by the desk before crawling under the bedclothes in only his boxers, letting his crutches fall to the floor with a muffled clatter. Seconds after his head has hit the pillow, he's asleep.

~*~

It's surprisingly easy to settle into the Williams' household. Sam thinks there might be some sort of class or something, Dealing With Traumatized Teens 101, because Alan and Mary are warm and supportive and mostly non-invasive with him. He's still unable to get through even a single morning without feeling exhausted, but no one objects to his taking naps or just lying quietly on his bed with a book, trying to catch up on the schoolwork he's missed. Most of the time he just ends up falling asleep over his books, and invariably when he wakes up the book has been taken away and put aside, complete with bookmark, and a blanket spread over his legs. If he didn't know better, he'd find it creepy.

They still won't let him see or even talk to his dad, but Dean calls a few times, although there's painfully little news on either side.

"So the family's nice?" Dean wants to know.

"Sure. They're okay. Almost too good to be true."

"What do you mean?" Dean asks sharply, and Sam realizes that he's just said the wrong thing. "Something up with them? Like, our kind of something?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shifts the telephone a bit so it's resting more comfortably between his shoulder and ear, then puts his hand over the mouthpiece to cough without deafening his brother. "No, not like that. It's just... they're really normal."

"You sure? Because I can check them out, ask around...”

Sam sighs. "I don't think so. Look, if I think there's something really wrong, I promise I'll tell you, okay?"

Dean isn't mollified. "Fine," he says grudgingly. "But the minute you think something's up, I want to be the first to know, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

"You're feeling okay, too? No headaches?”

He shrugs, even though he knows Dean can't see him, then glances around to make sure Mary isn't around, eavesdropping or something. He should have checked before, he thinks. "Nothing bad. I'm just tired a lot. At least I've stopped coughing all the damned time. They think I might be able to go back to school as soon as next week, if I'm feeling up to it. There's only a few weeks left before the end of the school year."

"Don't rush it, Sammy." He can practically see Dean pacing in their tiny kitchen, rubbing a hand over his mouth, pacing with the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. "No one's going to mind if you miss a bit more school. You just make sure you get better, okay?"

"It's Sam, and I'm not rushing it," he says, maybe a little more shortly than he intended. "I've already missed so much school I'll probably end up having to take this whole year over again. If I'm lucky maybe they'll let me take my finals."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, your four-point-oh GPA is a testament to how badly you're failing all your classes. Look, Sammy –Sam," he amends, in an obvious attempt to keep the peace. "I'm sure your teachers can give you some make-up work to do at home until you're recovered enough to go back. Although why you'd want to do that when you can lie on the couch and watch soaps all day long is beyond me–"

"Dude, not everyone is obsessed with General Hospital, okay?"

"Come on, the nurses are hot!"

"Deeeeean..." Sam groans.

"They are. Anyway, I mean it. You want me to go to your school and talk to your teachers?"

"Why can't Dad do it?" He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, and it's only confirmed when Dean stays silent. "He left, didn't he? He found a hunt!"

"It's just a quick hunt," Dean says after a moment's hesitation, as though he doesn't believe his own words. "A few days, tops, and he's got his cell phone with him, just in case of an emergency. It'll be fine, I promise."

"You always say that," Sam blinks hard, trying not to feel as though he's being stabbed through the chest. His voice breaks in spite of himself, and he angrily cuffs tears from his eyes with the back of his wrist. He's not going to cry over this like a baby. "Why didn't you go with him, anyway?" he asks, and he knows he's being deliberately cruel, and he doesn't care.

"Well, someone's got to watch out for you, dork-face."

"The State appointed someone for that," Sam says nastily. "You could have gone with him on his hunt, since I'm not in the way anymore, slowing you down."

"Don't be a brat, Sammy."

"I'm not! I don't see why I'm a brat because I want Dad to give a damn about me. Why is that so bad, huh?"

"What do you want from me?" Dean sounds tired, suddenly. "You want assurances that you're the prettiest princess in the family? I'm not Mr. Rogers, Sam. Dad's work is important, you know that. There are people dying out there."

"Great. So it matters when other people are dying. Funny how it didn't seem to matter when I was the one in the hospital," he says bitterly.

"Dad came back as soon as I called him. You weren't there."

"No, I wasn't. I was busy being in a coma. And he couldn't wait to get away again. Couldn't move fast enough, could he?" He scrubs at his eyes some more, but the tears are coming hot and fast and thick, and he swallows a hiccup, because apparently even if he doesn't want to cry like a baby, his body has other ideas on the subject. "You know what? Never mind. It doesn't matter. I gotta go, anyway. Mrs. Williams needs to use the phone," he lies.

"Sam, wait–"

"Bye, Dean. If Dad asks, tell him I said hi."
He hangs up, forces himself to take deep breaths, because if any of the Williamses catches him crying, or one of the kids, he's never going to hear the end of it. After a couple of minutes he gets it under control, wipes his eyes with his fingers again to make sure all traces of tears are gone, and hoists himself back onto his crutches. He's just going to go lie down, he thinks, get rid of the stupid headache that's trying to build behind his eyes again.

"Sam?"

He pauses mid-way through the kitchen, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's Mrs. Williams. Mary, he reminds himself.

"Are you all right?" she asks, and he nods briefly, not meeting her eyes.

"Fine. I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you sure? I thought you were talking with your brother."

He closes his eyes briefly. "He had to go. I'll talk to him some other time."

"Did he say anything to upset you?"

Warning bells go off in Sam's mind. This is another trick question. If he says yes, they might not let him talk to Dean ever again, and he doesn't think he can handle that, even if Dean only thinks of him as a useless, whiny pain in the ass. He hates needing his family when they obviously don't need him, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"No, I'm fine. I'm just a little tired. Maybe I overdid it a little," he offers diffidently. "Is it okay if I go lie down for a while?"

"Of course, sweetie." She hesitates, though. "You know, Sam, it's all right if you're upset. I have a brother too, and sometimes we all say things we don't mean and hurt each other's feelings. It doesn't mean we love each other any less."

"I know that." He's sick and tired of crying, doesn't want to break down in front of her. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek.

"All right. I just wanted to make sure."

"Yeah, thanks."

~*~

Lying down doesn't help. He buries his face in his pillow and just barely manages not to cry, pressing his fingers so hard against his eyes that he sees coloured spots like residual retinal imprints behind his eyelids. His nose is stuffed up, which makes sleeping impossible, and he keeps replaying his conversation with Dean over and over in his mind, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. It's not Dean's fault if Dad left, after all. Even if Dad doesn't care what happens to him, Dean does, and the idea of spending the next three years in the homes of strangers isn't something Sam wants to contemplate. After three years, Dad and Dean will be long gone, maybe impossible to track down, and there's no guarantee they'd take him back even if he did find them. Of course, the nagging voice at the back of his mind says, it's possible Dad is only too happy to offload him now. He's been going on for years now about how Sam should be more like his brother, get his nose out of his books and get his head in the game. Maybe, the little voice suggests slyly, Dad would be happier just to keep going with his good son, and leave the screw-up son behind to become someone else's problem.

Sam's almost grateful to have his thoughts interrupted when Donnie barges into his room and pokes him sharply in the shoulder. He starts violently, making his head throb, then sits up gingerly.

"What?"

Donnie is looking at him hopefully. "School's out, and I did all my homework, and there's nothing to do. Wanna play a game?"

There are very few things Sam wants to do less than play a game with a kid five years his junior, but this isn't his house, and he figures it's probably the least he can do to keep Donnie out of mischief for a while. Besides, maybe it's karma, he reasons. Dean had to look out for him for years, so maybe it's his turn now. Look out for a little kid for a while, return the favour to the universe or something.

"What did you have in mind?"

"I have a Lego set," Donnie offers, and it doesn't sound half-bad. Playing with Lego is quiet. He and Dean had a mismatched set that they played with and kept with them right up until Sam turned thirteen. That's when Dad declared that he was too old for toys, that the small box took up valuable room in the Impala's trunk, and insisted they leave it at a Salvation Army store back in Indiana in spite of Sam's protests. It

"Yeah, okay. Where is it?"

"Mary said we could use the living room if we clean up the Legos when we're done."

The living room feels like it's five miles away, but Sam nods, pushes himself to his feet, and makes his way slowly through the kitchen, past the telephone —resolutely not looking at it— and sees that Donnie has already dumped all his Legos onto the floor, presumably for the purposes of easier access. The kid drops onto all fours.

"My dad and me once built a whole city with cars and skyscrapers and stuff," he tells Sam. "It was really cool and some of the buildings were so tall you couldn't even see over them. You had to be, like, Superman, and be able to leap over them with superpowers and stuff."

Sam lowers himself to the floor, stretching out his broken leg and tucking the other one under him. "Is that so?"

Little kids need to be humoured, is about the only thing he knows. Sam's always been a lousy babysitter. It's just Dean who had the magic touch with little ones, even when they were younger. When he wasn't helping Dad on his hunts or trying to be extra cool or whatever it is Dean did when he was cutting class, Dean sometimes got babysitting gigs after school. Sam never figured out how he charmed his way past all those parents, but the fact remained that even the most recalcitrant, sullen kids became putty in Dean's hands. He never had arguments about bedtimes or whether or not vegetables were going to get eaten, and kids always begged to have him come back. Of course, they were usually about to leave town by then, but then Dean was probably accustomed to leaving heartbreak in his wake.

Donnie doesn't seem to mind Sam's lack of babysitting skills, though, and he prattles on about the city he and his dad built, and what he and Sam should be doing now. Sam is perfectly content to take instructions about what he's meant to be doing. His head still hurts, worse than before, and he doesn't really feel like trying to come up with ideas of his own. There's still a piece of his old Lego set jammed into one of the Impala's vents. Sometimes they can still hear it rattling around, much to his Dad's annoyance. He sits quietly, fitting piece after piece together.

"So you play Legos with your father, huh?" he says when Donnie pauses to take a breath.

"I used to. He threw most of them out because I was bad."

Sam looks up, startled. "He what?"

Donnie shrugs, starts assembling a car, fitting wheels to the base. "He was mad, because I left them out and he stepped on them. He told me if I left them out he'd throw them out."

Sam crinkles his nose. "My Dad gave mine away when I was thirteen," he says, and Donnie gives him a commiserating nod. "Your dad gets mad a lot, huh?"

"Only when he drinks. He doesn't mean it."

Sam feels a little sick, wonders what else Donnie's dad has done that he 'didn't mean.' "What kind of car are you going to make?"

"A Mazzerati. A red one, and then we can have drag races."

Sam snorts softly. "Drag races. Right."

"They're fun!"

"Only until someone crashes their car and dies in a fireball."

Donnie looks perplexed. "What?"

"Never mind. It's not important, anyway."

Sam rubs at his forehead. The headache that's been threatening all day is flaring up now, throbbing behind his eyes, and even the pale light streaming in through the window is making him blink painfully. Donnie seems content to play without Sam's input, though, apparently wanting him there mostly so he doesn't have to play all by himself. Sam supposes he can understand that. Playing by yourself is the worst feeling in the world, and Lorraine isn't a great playmate for a boy Donnie's age. He just has enough time to wonder where the little girl has got to when she trails into the living room, her middle and ring fingers stuck firmly in her mouth. She's wearing a faded red dress with pink socks, and her braids have come undone. She flops next to Donnie on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Donnie informs her sternly.

"Nuh-uh, you're playing. I want to play too!"

"Well, you can't. Me and Sam are doing stuff that's too complicated for babies."

"I'm not a baby! You take that back!" Lorraine shrieks, and Sam cringes, stomach churning as the sound pierces right through his brain.

"Lorraine," he says sharply, "don't scream inside the house. Didn't Mary tell you about using your inside voice?"

"I'm not a baby!" she says hotly, but mercifully more quietly than before. Dean was always better at dealing with screeching little girls, always knew the right thing to say to make them be quiet and cooperate. Sam remembers seeing him break up squabbles and redistribute dolls as necessary, and even coordinate a tea party on one notable occasion.

"Okay, no, you're not a baby. You're obviously a big girl, and only babies scream inside the house, because they don't know any better," Sam swallows a mouthful of saliva, rubs at his eyes. "Donnie, Lorraine can, uh..." he racks his brain, trying to remember how Dean used to sort out these disputes. "Lorraine can be your assistant. How about that? Lorraine, you think you can help?"

"I can help."

"But–"

"Donnie, let her help. Give her a house to build, or something."

"Fine." The victory comes in the form of sulking, but Sam will take what he can get. He wishes Dean was here.

"Can there be a family in my house? There should be a mommy and a daddy and a dog."

Sam forces a smile. "That sounds nice." He hands her a little green platform. "Why don't you start with this? It can be the lawn around the house."

She takes it from him without hesitation, and he looks down at the pile of blocks in his lap, can't remember for the life of him what he was trying to build. He closes his eyes, tries to block out the light, but it's coming right through his eyelids, right through his fingers when he puts a hand over his eyes.

"Sam?"

He should say something to reassure Donnie, but he can't. He swallows thickly, fumbles for his crutches. "I, uh. Bathroom," he manages, pushes himself to his feet and nearly falls over from a sudden wave of dizziness. "I'll be right back."

Sam doesn't hear anything Donnie says after that. All he can think, all he can do is just concentrate on making his way to the tiny bathroom across the hall from his bedroom before he throws up. He can't be sick in Mary Williams' living room, not all over the nice carpet. He can't. His crutches almost slide out from under him in the kitchen, but he catches himself on a counter, rights himself, and manages to stagger the last few feet into the bathroom. He drops the crutches, just lets himself slide down against the wall next to the toilet and retches painfully, his still-tender ribs protesting the treatment, and tears sting in his eyes.

"Sam, you sick?" Donnie's voice is distorted, like Sam is underwater. "You want me to get Mary?"

He shakes his head, then whimpers when that simple movement ratchets the pain up another notch, brings up another mouthful of bile. He doesn't have anything left to vomit, but it doesn't prevent him from dry-heaving, half-crumpled on the floor, hanging onto the edge of the toilet to keep his balance. He's on his good knee, his other leg stretched to the side, and he knows he won't be able to hold himself up for long. He hasn't had a migraine in months, and not one this bad, not for a long time.

All he can think of is that he wants Dean. Dad isn't around most of the time, and Sam's mostly okay with that, because it's always been like that, just him and Dean. Dad took care of him a couple of times when he was sick, but it's usually Dean who's there whenever things get really bad. Dean who drags him into the bathroom before he pukes all over himself, Dean who pats his back and makes stupid jokes and pets his hair. Dean who figured out that a cold washcloth over the back of his neck helped the puking more than anything else in the whole world.

He doesn't even have his meds, he realizes. He and Audrey packed up all his belongings, but the foil packet with his tablets is still in the first aid kit, along with everything else, and Dad and Dean would have put the first aid kit in the car to hide it for the social worker's visit. It's why he didn't think of taking them with him at the time, and now it's too late. Now he's stuck in a house full of strangers in a bathroom that's to small for him to even fit, and Dean isn't there to make jokes about how one day he won't fit through the door to the motel rooms they stay in, and that when he outgrows the Impala they'll just hitch one of those trailers they use to cart horses around to the back so that Sam won't have to run to keep up with the car. Dean isn't here, he doesn't have his meds, and the whole place is just wrong. Tears slip down his face, drip off the end of his nose into the open toilet and all he wants is to curl up into a ball and die.

"Mary!" Donnie's voice comes from further away. "Mary you gotta come!"

The sounds coming from behind him are indistinct, muffled the way they sometimes get when things are bad. He thinks he can make out footsteps, the soft murmur of Mary's voice, and then Donnie's, high-pitched and easier to distinguish.

"I dunno. He said he was going to the bathroom, but he threw up and now he's crying!" he says, as though it's the most appalling thing in the world.

"Okay, Donnie," Mary's voice is a little louder now. "You go back and play in the living room with Lorraine, okay? I'm going to take care of Sam."

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out. You go on, now. I'll come get you later."

Sam misses whatever happens next when he's racked by yet another bout of dry-heaves. He coughs and spits, his mouth and nose burning, eyes streaming.

"Sam?" He can't answer. If he does anything other than hang on to the toilet, he's going to fall over. "Sam, talk to me, sweetie. Why didn't you tell me you were feeling sick?"

Suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder, and it feels both reassuring and completely wrong, too small and too delicate, and the light from the fixture is bouncing off the tiles and searing right through his retinas, even with his eyes screwed shut.

"Sam, tell me what's wrong."

He chokes. "Head hurts."

Her hand comes off his shoulder, presses against his forehead. "You're a little warm. How badly does your head hurt? You have to tell me so I can help."

He tries to swallow the whimper that bubbles up from his chest. "I left my pills at home," he moans quietly. "I forgot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to forget."

"What pills, Sam? You didn't mention anything other than what the hospital gave you." She won't stop talking, and her voice is wrong, too high-pitched and too soft, and he thinks he's going to be sick again.

"No." His arms are trembling with the strain of holding himself upright. "They're for the headaches. Migraines." He wouldn't have to explain himself if Dean were here.

"Oh, Sam," Mary strokes his head. "All right. I can't get that for you right this minute, but we need to try to fix this. Can you tell me what your medication is called?"

He can barely think, but somehow he manages to dredge up the name, and the effort just of trying to keep his thoughts together costs him the concentration he needed to hold himself up. He flails with one hand, grabs at the wall for support, and lets himself lean against it, trying to shield his eyes from the light with his arm.

"I want Dean." The words escape him before he can bite them back, and the sob that accompanies them is just an extra humiliation to cap it all off.

"Sam, sweetie, do you need me to take you to the hospital or a doctor? You look like you're in a lot of pain. You might be getting sick again."

"No." He wants to die. "No, I'm not sick."

"Are you sure? I'll call Alan, and we can be there in a few minutes. Come on," she pulls on him gently, until he sags in her arms. It hurts too much to fight her on this, and he lets her hold onto him, petting his hair. He's getting her blouse wet, he realizes, but even blinking hurts, never mind trying to pull away from her. "Come on, Sam, it's okay. Let me take care of this, just for a little while, all right?"

He's crying too hard to care now. "You're not my mother!"

She hugs him tighter. "I know, sweetie. But that doesn't mean I don't care."

~*~

Sam isn't sure how she manages it, but Mary gets her hands on his pills –or a new prescription, maybe– and reluctantly agrees to just let him stay in bed until it's over rather than take him back to the hospital. Donnie and Lorraine are summarily barred from the back of the house where Sam's room is, sternly ordered to keep their voices down while he's sick so as not to disturb him. It's not as bad, being in the dark, except that he's alone most of the time. It's like being back in the hospital, only with less of a regular schedule, and he feels Dean's absence like the throbbing ache of a missing limb. Only Mary comes in, moving quietly and checking on him with soft hands, wiping his face with a damp washcloth, and his guilt at how nice it feels makes his stomach twist. Finally, after what feels like forever, the pills gradually start to take effect, and he manages to sleep. When he wakens again, Mary is sitting on the edge of his bed.

"Sam, how are you feeling?"

He wants to snap at her that he's spent God only knows how long trying to sleep off a migraine, and that therefore he feels like he's been dragged behind a car for a while and then beaten with a backpack full of bricks. But the pain is receding, almost gone now, and she's been nice to him. Nicer than she has to be, even. It's not her fault that she doesn't understand.

"'m okay." He pushes himself carefully up on his elbows, squints at the digital display of his clock. It's a lot later than he thought, or maybe it's just early.

She pets his hair, and he's kind of ashamed of how nice it still feels. Safe. "I'm glad you're feeling better, but you can be honest with me, if you're still feeling sick."

"No, I'm better. I'm better, I swear. I'm just tired."

"Okay."

"Um, how long was I asleep?"

"Over a day. I talked to Dr. Shaw, and she said it was fine to let you sleep until you were feeling up to getting up again. Would you like something to eat?"

"Did Dean call?" He doesn't know how much time has passed, not really, and the idea of food makes him want to puke.

"Not today, but he did call yesterday while you were sleeping. He said he'd call back, but if you want you can try calling him now. It's still early enough that you probably won't wake him up. He doesn't go to bed early, does he?"

Sam snorts, and just that small sound threatens the precarious balance he's achieved. "No, Dean's a night owl. I'll call him in the morning, he won't be home now." He lowers himself carefully back onto the bed, eyelids already drooping.

"Does your brother go out a lot?"

He just wants to go back to sleep. "Sometimes."

"He leaves you alone with your Dad?"

"No. When Dad's home we stay together. It's not what you think."

"What do I think?"

"He doesn't hit me. No one hits me. It was just a stupid accident, and if I hadn't got sick none of this would be happening. It's not fair."

She sighs, and keeps stroking his hair. "You know, I get a lot of kids through here. You're old enough that you can probably figure out that most of them come from some pretty rough places. Just because someone loves you doesn't mean they'll always do the right thing. It's easy to rationalize some things away. Donnie says he told you about his father, how he only ever gets mad when he's had too much to drink, how he doesn't mean it. Donnie had a fractured skull when he first got here, but he's convinced his father is going to come any day now and take him home and rebuild that Lego city he loves so much."

"It's not the same." Dad doesn't hit him, he knows that much. Dad isn't abusive.

"Every situation is different, I know. But it doesn't mean yours isn't hard in its own way, that we shouldn't try to make it better. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

"Dad has a reason for doing what he does." But he can't muster much conviction. All he can think is that he's trotting out the same tired excuse that Dean gives him, over and over, and time and time again. Dad's work is important. Dad is out there saving people. It's the same argument he had with Dean had the last time they talked.

"Just because he has his reasons doesn't make it right for you."

"You're wrong. It's just complicated." He pulls his arms back over his head, deliberately turns away from her to face the wall. "I'm really tired, please let me go back to sleep."

"Okay," her voice is still gentle, and she squeezes his arm just below the shoulder. "Get some sleep. Things'll look better in the morning, Sam. They always do."




[Part III]