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Apropos nothing, Sam asks: “How do you know when you’re dead?”
It’s 11:04 PM in a hotel room in New Mexico (not Santa Fe; somewhere north of there with a name that makes the manager’s kid giggle when Dean tries pronouncing it). Sammy was supposed to be in bed two hours and four minutes ago, but Dad’s not around to check. It’s Spring Break, so who cares? Dean wants to crack open a window and enjoy the breeze, but Sam won’t let him because it could “let something in.” Sam’s been talking funny since Christmas.
Dean tears his eyes away from the television where a man insists that he’ll save tons of money if only he buys their food dehydrator. He’s fairly certain that a) the dehydrator won’t fit on most hotel countertops, and b) that he hasn’t had any fresh food to dehydrate in at least three years (except in school). The old dude in the apron is pretty convincing, though. “Huh?”
“How do you know when you’re dead?” Sam repeats very calmly. It’s an odd picture his little brother makes, splayed perpendicular across the bed opposite Dean’s, upper half hanging off the edge like he’s on the monkey bars. Maybe it’s because he’s upside-down, but despite looking very young, his eyes seem very old, and shaped a little wrong. That, too, has been common since Christmas.
Dean throws a pillow at him. It hits Sam square in the kisser and he falls off the bed and onto the carpet. Ding ding ding! Pick your prize!
“What was that for?!” Sam demands hotly as he scrambles upright. His hair is askew (needs a trim soon), but his eyes are their normal shape.
Dean has already averted his gaze back to the television (though he’s no longer watching), heart racing as he desperately tries ordering his thoughts. Dead and Sam are not two words he thinks about together, ever. It makes his stomach do loop de loops and palms sweat. Reminds him of ugly hags leaning over the tiny little brothers, and how heavy shotguns really are.
“For being a freak,” Dean replies loftily. “Go to sleep.”
“You said I could stay up ‘til midnight!”
“I lied. Go to bed now, or I’ll tell Dad.”
I’ll tell Dad, used to be an effective threat. It’s the one good thing about the man being away so often—it makes him unknowable, mysterious, and most importantly, capable of anything. Not that they’re afraid of him or anything! But one day you’re doing laps and the next he just looks at you with that disappointed, ‘why do I try’ face, which is way worse. All boys look up to their fathers and want their approval. In that one thing, Dean thinks, they are exceedingly average.
But used to be is the problem here. Sam doesn’t move, nor does he cross his arms and pout. He squints at Dean long and hard, head cocked to the side like a dog as he thinks and thinks and thinks. Dean’s brother thinks way too much. It’s disconcerting. A little freakish. Another thing gone wildly wrong since Christmas. “Then I’ll tell him you promised to let me stay up in the first place.”
“No you won’t.”
“Will.”
“He won’t believe you.”
“He will because I’ll tell him what was on the TV and then he can check the TV Guide and he’ll know it’s true.”
Dean glares at the bane of his existence. How does that kid fit so much spite in such a little body? “Whatever, I don’t care! Stay up if you want. Just shut up.”
Sam pinches his lips then climbs back up onto his bed. He mirrors Dean’s position (stretched out on his stomach, chin propped up by hands and a pillow) and shuts up. Dean doesn’t hold his breath. It won’t last.
Like clockwork it comes, low and a touch wounded, irritating and guilt-inducing in equal measure: “Was just a question...”
“It’s a stupid question,” Dean snaps and Sam, already miniscule, somehow shrinks into himself. Scowling, Dean sits up to punch his pillow into a more suitable shape—maybe a bit harder than necessary—and flops down in a huff. “Look, it’s pretty hard to miss being dead, alright? Dead bodies can’t move. End of story.”
If the obvious answer bothers Sam, he doesn’t show it. He nods his head sagely, as though Dean has given an answer that’s almost right, but not quite. That look is why he doesn’t raise his hand in school. “That’s how other people know you’re dead. How do you know when you’re dead?”
When you’re dead. The finality of it, the weight—kids don’t talk like that. Dean wishes he had another pillow to throw, but his spare is on the floor and if he moves he’s afraid he’ll throw up.
It’s not the first conversation they’ve had like this since December. At first, they weren’t so bad. Simple things like, “Are werewolves really real?” or “What the heck is a ghoul?” Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy. Dean can talk about that stuff all day, all while puffing up their father as the superhero he is: “All he’s missing is the cape, Sammy-boy.” But then the questions got a little... off.
“How can you kill a vampire if it’s already dead?” (Vampires aren’t real, numb nuts.)
“Why do werewolves only eat hearts? Do they taste better?” (Better than what? Who cares?)
“Why doesn’t every murder make a ghost?” (I dunno... Stop asking.)
“Does it hurt them when you make ghosts... go away?” (Yes... no... no one knows! No, not even Dad! Will you stop?)
And now this. “Same answer,” Dean mumbles. He makes a show of shifting in place and rubbing at his eyes, like the TV is too bright. When he settles, he can only sort of see Sam out of the corner of his eye, mostly blind to how the infomercial bathes his brother in weird shadows and colors. Mostly blind. “Can’t move your body no more.”
“So you’re awake when it happens? You can tell when everything stops working?”
Dean closes his eyes and buries his face in his pillow. “Sam, come on, pleeeeease shut up. What are you even talking about?”
Sam ignores him. Of course. “Because, you know, if that’s all, I mean, what about paraplegics? When they can’t move anything from the neck down? Like in that Metallica music video? And you can’t talk or nothing!”
“Sam—”
“A-And so if you already can’t move before you die, and then you die, how do you know? Could there be ghosts that are trapped in their bodies because they don’t even know it’s all over? And they’re in their bodies forever because they can’t tell?”
“Sam! Quit it!” Dean barks.
But Sam’s practically in a frenzy at this point. When Dean gives in and looks back over, the whites of Sam’s eyes are too big and bright. He’s up on his knees, squeezing his pillow so hard it might explode into fabric and fluff, and huffing into it like he’s run a marathon.
“So what if something gets me and I can’t tell? What if I can’t tell? What if—”
“SAM!”
Sam’s jaw clicks shut. The infomercial guy excitedly presents his something-o-matic. The people next door bang twice on the wall. Dean hears his own breathing short and angry puffing out of his nose—like a bull. Huff. Huff. Huff.
“Sam,” Dean tries again quietly. “Nothing’s gonna get you. I told you a million times. Dad and I won’t let anything get you. You know that, right?”
It takes a long time for Sam to answer. Too long. “... Yes,” he mumbles.
“So what’s this all about?” Dean presses.
Sam looks away. Wordlessly, he inches his way up the bed to the headboard then flops on his side, back to Dean, still curled around his pillow. Dean mutes the TV. He gets up (thankfully doesn’t throw up) and sits beside Sam, close enough to touch but not. Sam won’t like it right now, he’s pretty sure.
“Did something happen?” Dean asks. Sam, face hidden, shakes his head. “Then what? Do you not trust us or something?”
Sam doesn’t shake his head again. But before Dean can even think about swallowing that bitter pill, Sam speaks. “It’s not that.”
“So...?”
Dean doesn’t catch the soft words at first, and has to prod Sam once more for a reply. The second time is barely louder, like the squeak of an ant, but it’s just enough: “...I can’t feel it sometimes.”
“Feel what?”
“My body.”
Dean’s first instinct, as always, is to call Dad. Dad will know what to do. And if not Dad, then Uncle Bobby. Or Pastor Jim. Somebody who knows about these things—supernatural things. Because Sam’s not sick, not in a way that a doctor can fix. Something’s done something to him, is inside him, and only somebody like Dad will be able to kill the problem dead and put Sam right, like how superheroes do. Sam will be better in a snap.
Sam peeks at him, tip of his nose red, eyes a little runny, and Dean thinks better of it. Dad might know what to do, but more likely he’ll be pissed that Dean distracted him from a hunt because Sammy’s a little sad. It’s fine. Dean knows about these things. He can take care of this.
“I told you, you shouldn’t have read Dad’s journal,” Dean scolds, but shakes Sam gently by the shoulder so he knows it’s actually okay. “Should have waited for him to tell you. When he gets back, we’ll all have a real talk about all this. You know, man-to-man-to-man. Then you won’t be so freaked out.” Dad knew Sam knew—Dean had to tell him—but he hadn’t really said anything about it yet. Just started replacing “business trip” with “hunt” before he took off, and stopped hiding the big books he got from Uncle Bobby. Still only cleaned the guns when Sam was in school, though.
Dean’s heart swan dives into his feet when Sam ducks his head and mutters, “Before then.”
“What? Since when?” Dean demands, even though he already knows the answer: two years, since the shtriga. He’s screwed up his brother for life. He’s such a screw-up.
“Dunno.” Sam deems it safe to roll over, but keeps the pillow tight to his chest. “Since a long time ago. I was little, I think.”
“Oh.” Dean’s relieved, but only for a moment. Since he was little? Sam’s little now. “So, like...” He pokes Sam lightly in the side and Sam curls away.
“It’s not all the time,” Sam clarifies, which doesn’t make Dean feel better in the slightest. “Just, you know. Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Dean echoes unhappily.
“Just, um.” Sam’s face scrunches up as he thinks. “It’s like... I’ll be laying there trying to go to sleep and it’s like I’m watching myself try to sleep. Or I’m walking to school and can’t tell that I’m walking even though I’m moving. Or I can’t taste food. Stuff like that. So it’s like...” He swallows. “Like it’s not really... mine?”
“What’s not yours? Your body?”
“Y-Yeah. Like I’m borrowing it?” Sam agrees tentatively, like it’s a question. Every question out of his mouth is the worst question Dean’s ever heard in his life. It’s like the intro to an episode of the Twilight Zone: What if you couldn’t feel your feet when you walk or taste your food when you eat? What if your mind and senses were separate from your body? What if your body... was not your body?
“Don’t say that,” Dean says viciously, harsh enough that Sam jumps. “Don’t even think that. Here—” He pinches Sam hard on the upper arm; Sam yelps and slaps at him, but the point—and the bruise—has been made. “You feel that?”
“Obviously, jerk,” Sam growls, rubbing at his sore arm.
“And when I hit you with the pillow, right? Then too, right?” Dean insists. Sam nods. “Well, that’s it then. You’re fine, you’re normal,” Dean announces. “Your brain just gets... tired sometimes.”
“Tired?” Sam repeats skeptically.
“Yeah. Because you’re thinking too much! So it taps out and goes on vacation.” Dean grins. “Even your own brain gets annoyed by you. I totally get it.”
Sam’s still frowning, but a little more thoughtfully this time. “You think?”
Dean lifts his chin and puffs out his chest—superhero. “Of course. Makes sense.”
It does. It really, truly does. It has to.
Sam, for once, doesn’t question it. “So I guess it’s never happened to you,” he says smartly. “Since you only have a thought like once an hour.”
“You little—”
It’s a pathetic wrestling match by their standards, without a single clothesline or elbow drop even attempted. Dean doesn’t mind though, because within minutes Sam’s eyes are drooping, head dipping up and down and he fights the inevitable... then loses. Somehow Dean manages to shove Sam under the covers and doesn’t worry about whether or not teeth got brushed or hair combed. Let Sam be a mess for a while. Maybe he’ll be able to feel more that way.
The thought makes Dean shiver. He watches Sam until every twitch and grumble fades away, until his breathing is still and even as a machine.
The man on the TV tries selling him a few more gadgets (less convincing now with the sound off). Dean watches it all with mild fascination, not at what’s on the screen, but within himself. Does Sam not feel the tingling in his hands when he goes too long without moving? The burning itch of his eyes when he doesn’t blink? The ache in your bladder when he’s gotta go, go, go? Or... or when he broke his arm! What about then? How can he just... not feel it?
Maybe Sam’s too still. Dean carefully flicks Sam’s ear. Sam wrinkles his nose, huffs, and squirms deeper into the covers. His body is still there. His body is still his.
All is well. It must be. Sam, like always, just needs his rest. It’ll be better in the morning.
*~*
“So did you brother answer all your questions, Sam?”
Sam stops at the door of Mrs. Peterson’s classroom, reluctantly glancing over his shoulder at the teacher waiting at her desk. Even though he now knows why he’s forced to switch schools every couple of months, it doesn’t make him feel much better about it. What’s worse, is he really likes Mrs. Peterson. She’s never tutted or gotten annoyed when he has to explain for the millionth time that he hadn’t read this or studied that; nor has she left him out in the cold like other teachers do when they don’t want to waste time playing catch-up with the new kid. No, Mrs. Peterson always makes a few extra minutes for him, always. He wishes Spring Break never existed, so he could have had one more week with someone who actually cares.
“Sorta,” Sam says. She doesn’t know everything he’s asked Dean about, of course, but she’s the one who encouraged him to ask in the first place if he wasn’t sure about speaking with her. It seemed like a good idea at the time (better than asking Dad at any rate).
Mrs. Peterson probably assumes he was only worried about silly guy-problems, like puberty or something. It sure seems like that’s the case when she offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure he did his best. But just because you don’t get answers the first time around doesn’t mean you should stop trying.”
Sam shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t wanna be a bother.” And Dean had seemed very bothered. Not surprising. It bothers Sam too, how he thinks sometimes. How he feels (or doesn’t).
“No, no!” Mrs. Peterson exclaims, beckoning him over and fiercely clasping his hands in hers. It kind of hurts. “Curiosity is a good thing, Sam, a wonderful thing! You should never be afraid to ask questions. It’s how you grow.”
“But... but what if the person being asked doesn’t like it? Or thinks you shouldn’t know something? Shouldn’t know yet,” Sam hastily amends. Dean insists Dad would have told him about everything eventually, but... Sometimes it’s like Dad can’t even look at him now that Sam knows about monsters. Like Sam was never supposed to know.
Mrs. Peterson smiles an indulging adult smile. “Come now, Sam. Why let that stop you? Knowledge is meant to be shared, not locked up. Think of the waste. After all, if you don’t use this big brain of yours—” she taps the side of his skull, “—then who will?”
Sam finds himself nodding along even as he rubs at the painful mark her nails left on the back of his hands. For a moment, he thinks about asking Mrs. Peterson about everything after all. He’s pretty sure what’s going on with him isn’t caused by whatever lives in graveyards or haunts houses, so surely she’ll be helpful on that front. Heck, why not ask her about monsters and stuff too? Plenty of people who don’t know the truth still believe in ghosts; she could even be one of them. Even if she’s not, he’s positive she won’t laugh at anything he says. She’ll take him seriously, like he’s not just an elementary schooler. Like he’s something more.
It’s not the worst idea he’s had. Maybe asking Dean (Dean, who like Dad, never wanted to tell him anything) was a dumb idea in the first place.
Mrs. Peterson’s eyes are dark—so very dark!—and so lovely. “You can ask me anything, Sam,” she says lowly, and he believes her. He really does.
But they’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. No time to research or discuss or theorize. There’s no point. There never is.
Sam reminds himself how to breathe. “Bye, Mrs. Peterson,” he says. “Have a good rest of your day.”
She leans back. “You too, Sam. And remember, keep asking questions! We want you growing big and strong, don’t we?”
He will keep asking. But as Sam orders his feet to move left, right, left, right out the door, he thinks maybe he’ll keep this one particular question—what’s wrong with me?—to himself for now on. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.
It’s a long bus ride. When he gets off at his stop, Dean is waiting. They shove each other back and forth for no reason at all as they walk back to the hotel. Halfway there Sam falls, skinning his palms as he hits the ground. A pebble digs into his skin and it stings like crazy. Strangely, even as Dean yanks him roughly to his feet and chides him for being such a klutz, Sam feels a little better. He doesn’t question it.