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Just after midnight they pull into a rest area outside Battle Mountain. Dean doesn't say anything before disappearing into the bathroom. When he returns, he climbs into the back seat, cracks the window a few inches, and pulls his jacket up to his chin like a blanket.
"So we're stopping for the night?" Sam asks, the first words he's spoken in hours.
No answer. Sam twists around. Dean is either already asleep or doing a good job pretending. The light from a pair of streetlamps shines through the window, sickly and yellow, but bright enough for Sam to see the fresh bruises blossoming along the side of Dean's face.
Sam pushes the door open and steps out. The desert night is cool and smells of sage and gasoline. A single truck rumbles by on the interstate, a roar of engine and flash of headlights, then there is silence. He walks toward the bathroom, picking his way gingerly through the mess of dead and dying Mormon crickets strewn across the sidewalk. The light in the men's room buzzes loudly, there are a dozen of the fat yellow insects crawling on the walls, and the ice-cold water tastes like rust.
Sam splashes his face and examines his reflection in the sheet of polished metal above the sink. The angry red scrape on his jaw is tender to the touch; his fingernails are filthy; his t-shirt is tattered and stained. He looks ragged, tired. Pathetic. Exactly like somebody who crawled for three hours through an abandoned mine and ended up on the wrong side of a fight with something that didn't need a flashlight to see his sorry ass was ready to be kicked.
Well. The other guy -- monster, cave-creature, thing, whatever the hell it was, he never did get a good look at it before Dean blew its head off -- looked much worse.
That's probably supposed to mean it was a good day.
"Another fantastic showing," he mutters to himself, tilting his head to see the splotch of bruises on his collarbone.
-
Sam got a six-inch bone-handled buck knife for his seventh birthday.
He thought it was the best present he'd ever gotten. It wasn't a baby present like the shoebox full of Transformers and G.I. Joes Dad had found at a garage sale last year. It was a real knife, just as big as the one Dean had, and after Sam tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box, he could barely sit still while his father showed him how to sharpen the blade and keep it clean. He was too busy practicing holding the blade pointed away from him to even eat his ice cream or get angry when Dean told him he was stupid for doing it wrong.
That night he slept with the knife under his pillow, because that's what Dean did with his knife, and Sam wasn't a little kid anymore.
His birthday was on a Wednesday, and on Friday in Mrs. Madison's class they had show-and-tell. Sam brought the knife to school and proudly showed it off to the class. All of the boys thought it was really cool and asked him if they could hold it, but Mrs. Madison pressed her thin lips into an even thinner line. She quickly shushed Sam's excited explanation about what kind of things he was going to hunt and told him to sit down.
When fat Sally Powers got up to talk about this stupid shell she found at the beach last summer, none of the kids wanted to listen to her, because Sam's knife was way better than any shell, and Mrs. Madison got mad. She took the knife away from Sam and wouldn't even let him have it back after school let out. He went home without his knife and waited until Dad got home. When Sam told Dad about show-and-tell, Dad didn't say anything at all for a long time.
Then Dad said, "Weapons aren't toys."
Sam waited. He knew that. He just wanted to know if he was going to be grounded.
Dad said, "It's better if you don't tell anyone about the kind of hunting we do. This isn't a game."
Dad got the knife back from Mrs. Madison, and two months later they moved away from Phoenix. Sam's new class in Minnesota didn't have show-and-tell every Friday, but it didn't matter. He didn't have anything to tell anymore, anyway.
-
Sam cleans up a bit more, flinching every time one of the bugs hops in his direction, then he goes back outside. Instead of heading back to the car, he strolls over to one of the wooden picnic tables and sits down on the top. The trees rustling overhead are, as far as he can tell, the only trees for miles, the highway department's sad attempt at creating an oasis on a lonely stretch of road.
Yawning, he lies back on the table and looks up through the sparse branches at the stars. Out here, far from the lights and smog of any city, the night sky is breathtaking. Sam isn't going to sleep, doesn't want to sleep, so he counts stars and finds constellations and tracks satellites and plays connect-the-dots.
He doesn't let himself think about the weird looks from gas station clerk in Elko when he asked for the bathroom key so he could wash cave-creature blood off his hands. He doesn't think about the uneasy three-day detour that began with Dean overhearing an old man with a Wyatt Earp mustache and a ten-gallon Stetson say, Tommyknockers, bet my life on it.
He thinks instead about making up names for stars, the little stars that nobody ever sees unless it's a clear night in the middle of nowhere.
He doesn't think about the long, silent walk out of that wretched mine. He doesn't think about his brother silhouetted against the sunset, arms thrown out in disbelief. He doesn't think about throwing the shotgun into the trunk and snarling, Why the hell are we even here? and, This is fucking pointless, and, There are a few hundred things I'd rather be doing.
He thinks about getting back on the road. He's not tired; he can keep driving while Dean sleeps. Sometimes Sam thinks he's never tired anymore, but he isn't quite far enough gone to actually believe that. He thinks about the human brain, the intro neuro class he took at Stanford, the way the people they help are always saying they can't believe what they see right before them.
He thinks about the map, about the smooth line of I-80 crossing the country, jogging south just west of here, rolling across the desert, climbing over Donner Pass and sinking into California.
He doesn't think about the careless shrug of Dean's shoulders. He doesn't think about Fine, whatever, champ, don't let me hold you back and the twist in his stomach that wasn't quite relief.
They're only seven hours from Palo Alto. They could be there in time for breakfast.
-
It started snowing as soon as the sun set. Dad was hunched over the steering wheel, peering through the windshield into the oncoming snow. Sam was in the front seat, only because Dean had hurt his leg and wanted to stretch it out over the backseat, but still enjoying it.
None of them talked at first. Dad hated driving in the snow, with the flakes rushing into the headlights and the tire chains crunching underneath.
Then Dean broke the silence, "What sort of meals d'ya think they made?"
Dad glanced in the mirror but said nothing.
Sam looked over his shoulder. "Who?"
"The Donner Party."
Making a face, Sam faced forward again. "Ew. I don't want to know."
"Baby-back ribs?"
"Yuck. You're disgusting. Besides, they didn't eat the kids."
Even without turning around, Sam knew that Dean was grinning. "How do you know? That's just what they told everybody after they got out. I bet they ate the kids."
"Did not."
"Did so. They made Rice-a-Ronnie out of kids just like you."
"I'm not a kid."
"You're fourteen. Perfect age for a Samburger."
Sam rolled his eyes, but he said, "Maybe they liked Jack 'n Cheese better."
"Peanut-Butter-and-Jenny sandwiches for lunch."
"Hank 'n Eggs for breakfast."
"Fish 'n Chip for dinner."
"And Baby Ruth for dessert."
"No," Dad said suddenly.
Both Sam and Dean fell silent. Sam glanced at his father nervously. Dad's hands were still gripping the wheel, his knuckles still white, his eyes still fixed on the heavy Sierra snow surrounding the car.
Dad's lips twitched into a smile. "Sloppy Joes. It's in all the history books."
In the back seat, Dean laughed, and Dad's smile grew. Sam relaxed, sliding down and resting his head against the back of the seat. The snow didn't let up, but Dad drove carefully, and a while later they stopped at a motel in Truckee. They ordered pizza ("Better not ask what they put on the meat lovers'," Dean advised sagely) and watched Night of the Living Dead on a fuzzy television with crooked rabbit-ears. Dad couldn't help but point out everything that was wrong about the movie. But he did it jokingly, laughing and making fun of the actors for not knowing how to correctly dispatch a zombie, so it didn't matter. It was a good night.
-
The crunch of tires on gravel jerks Sam from his doze. He sits up as the headlights flash over him.
A car stops a few spaces away from the Impala, a brown Honda Accord that is listing severely to one side. The front left tire is completely flat. Sam wonders how long they've been driving on the rim and winces in sympathy for the car that has to endure such treatment. The engine shuts off but the headlights stay on. Two women climb out, one middle-aged and the other younger, both very thin and tall. Mother and daughter, Sam guesses. If Dean were awake, he would put on his most charming smile and stroll over to help them, somehow managing not to look like a crazed drifter despite hanging around a remote Nevada rest area in the middle of the night.
Sam rests his elbows on his knees and watches them. The older woman crouches down to examine the tire, as if she can't already see that's it's flat, and the folding of her limbs reminds Sam of the Mormon crickets scattered all around. She stands up and says a few words to the younger woman, then goes around to the back of the car and opens the trunk.
Just as she is reaching in, she raises her head and looks directly at Sam.
Startled, he blinks and tries to look as though he hasn't been staring, but it is too late.
"Excuse me," the woman calls. She has a strange accent, one that Sam doesn't recognize, and her voice carries strongly through the night. "Might I bother you for some aid?"
Sam stands up and walks toward them, shoving his hands into his pocket. "Sure," he says. "Need some help changing the tire?"
"Indeed," the woman says. "We have another, but no tools. Do you have a jack?"
"Yeah." But he hesitates.
It's been a long time since most people, especially women, have been able to look Sam in the eye, not since he passed Dean in height when he was sixteen. But this woman is a good two inches taller than him, and her eyes are dark, almost black, fixed on his. She steps quickly to the side when he glances at the open trunk.
"Do you have a jack?" she repeats.
Sam shakes himself. "Yeah, just a sec. Let me get it."
He hurries back to the Impala and grabs the keys from the front seat. Dean is still asleep in the back. He must have been more tired than he let on, otherwise the sound of another car and voices would have woken him. Sam opens the trunk and roots around for the jack and lug wrench, wondering, with a wry smile, if the woman with the Honda has as suspicious a collection of items in her trunk as he does in his.
He brings the tools back to the Honda and kneels beside the flat tire. "Where're you headed?" he asks, just to make conversation as he gets to work.
Neither of the women responds at first. Sam glances up. They are standing to the side, arms crossed identically over their chests, watching him.
Suddenly nervous, he goes on, "Rough luck, getting a flat at this time of night, out here."
"We're from Provo," the young one says.
"Oh. That's nice."
She smiles crookedly. "No, it isn't. My cousin's wedding was two weeks ago, and there was a terrible...thing that happened."
Sam readjusts his grip on the jack handle and asks, as casually as he can, "Yeah? What happened?"
"The graveyard of the church where the wedding took place was robbed."
Sam looks up sharply. "Seriously?"
"Oh, yes," the older woman says. "The night before the wedding. It was a mess. The police were everywhere."
"Nineteen bodies," the younger woman adds.
She did not just lick her lips, Sam thinks. He returns his attention to the jack and tire. "That's terrible."
"Shocking."
She does not sound pleased about it, he tells himself.
"Did the...did the police find out anything?"
"They didn't seem to have any leads." Sam glances up again, and the young woman smiles conspiratorially. "You know how police are."
He does, all too well. Grave-robbers are a bit outside the realm of crimes most cops are prepared to deal with. "That's terrible," he says again.
"Terrible," the older woman agrees.
They say nothing more. Sam changes the tire as quickly as he can, then lets the jack down and scrambles to his feet. "There," he says, "all done."
Both women smile. "Thank you," the younger says. "What do we owe you?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Are you certain?" She steps forward, extending her hand.
Sam steps back and gestures to imaginary grease on his fingers to avoid taking her hand. "Yeah, it's no problem. Really."
"Very well," the older woman says.
The younger one looks disappointed, but remains silent. She puts the flat into the trunk and slams it shut, then both woman climb into the car without another word. The engine starts, and they pull away, crawling slowly out of the rest area.
Sam watches until the red taillights are no longer visible on the highway.
"That," he says to the silent parking lot, "was really weird."
He sighs, runs his hand through his hair, and carries the tools back to the Impala. Even the slamming of the trunk does not wake Dean, which is as sure a sign as anything that hitting the road again tonight is out of the question.
Sam walks back to the picnic table, but this time he takes his knife with him.
-
Apparently, Getting To Know Each Other -- in all capital letters, he could tell by the way they said it -- was an inescapable part of the college experience. They had a get-together that first night in the freshmen dorm: cookies and coffee and preternaturally cheerful counselors gathering everybody in a circle to introduce themselves. Name, hometown, an interesting fact about yourself, that's what they said. It was corny and kind of kindergarten-ish, but everybody did as they were told, because it was better than letting the faces remain nameless.
"I'll start. I'm Anna Patterson, your Resident Counselor. I was born in Des Moines, Iowa, and I've been a competitive figure skater since I was seven years old."
I'm Sam Winchester, he thought. I was born in Lawrence, Kansas, and I've been hunting ghosts and killing monsters for as long as I can remember. He slumped down in his chair and tried to be invisible.
"I'm Kyle Latham, from Manhattan. I, uh, have a scar that looks like a treble clef, but it's in a place I'm not going to show you."
Laughter around the circle. Well, gosh, so do I, Sam thought. We should be best friends, man. Did you get yours from a banshee, too?
"Luke Fremont. Long Island. I've got a black belt in judo."
He was a tiny guy, about five-five. We could still kick your ass, Sam thought uncharitably. Then he pushed that thought from his mind, wishing suddenly he hadn't eaten quite so many cookies before joining the big circle of sharing.
"Clara Chang. I was born in Taiwan, but I moved to Houston when I was twelve. I learned to ride horses then and I've been riding every since."
When I was twelve, I learned how to stitch up an open wound using nylon thread and a needle sterilized with a Bic lighter.
"Mike Sanchez. Born in Ramstein, Germany, grew up all over the place. Army brat. My older brother is Senator George Sanchez of New Mexico."
My older brother can hit a moving target with a knife thrown from fifty paces. Every family has its talents.
"Jessica Moore, from Los Angeles. I can put both of my feet behind my head."
Okay, that's hot.
"Meg Merriman. Atlanta, Georgia. I finished high school a year early and took that time to hike the Appalachian Trail."
Did you know any of those hikers killed by that spirit haunting the New Hampshire leg? I never would have guessed that the spirit of a vengeful tree-hugger could be so fucking blood-thirsty.
"And you?"
Sam sat upright, nearly spilling his Styrofoam cup of coffee. Anna Patterson of Des Moines was looking at him expectantly.
"Um...I'm Sam Winchester. From Kansas." He paused, looking down at the floor and thinking quickly. Then he was talking quickly, too, smiling and feeling like an idiot. "I...I learned how to drive when I was eleven. I couldn't pay attention to the road and the speedometer at the same time, so I was going about ninety before I realized it."
Smiles, politely disinterested laughter; Sam felt his face grow hot.
Because both my father and brother were unconscious and bleeding and I didn't know what else to do.
And around the circle they went. Next person, next fact, next face.
Sam slouched down in his chair and sipped the lukewarm coffee.
-
Sam wakes just as the sun is rising over the desert. He stares at the pale blue sky through the sparse leaves of the trees overhead, then stretches his arms out and yawns hugely.
"You have a huge-ass bug on your chest."
Sam sits up quickly, brushing his hands wildly over himself.
Laughing, Dean says, "Gotcha." He is sitting beside Sam on the bench of the picnic table, a pen in one hand and notebook resting on one leg. Not Dad's notebook, just a cheap spiral-bound Sam has never seen before.
"What're you writing?" Sam asks, fighting another yawn. He rubs his hand over his face and squints into the rising sun. The desert is golden and soft in the dawn light, strangely beautiful despite the emptiness.
"Nothing. Just notes, about that thing in the cave. We've never seen anything like it before. Thought it might be helpful." After a few moments, Dean slaps the notebook shut and caps the pen. He stands up and says, "We leave now, we'll be in Palo Alto by lunchtime." He starts to walk away, toward the car.
Sam does not rise to follow. "There were these weird women here last night."
Dean turns around, an Okay, random expression on his face. "Weird how?"
"Creepy weird. They had a flat tire. I don't think they were human."
It is a sign of just how fucked-up their family is, Sam thinks, that Dean doesn't even blink at a statement like that. Instead, he looks intrigued. "Yeah? What were they?"
"No idea. Body-snatchers of some sort, maybe. They seemed pretty eager to talk about these robbed graves in Provo."
Dean doesn't say anything at first. He isn't looking at Sam; he's staring down the highway, at the couple of trucks and cars glinting in the distance. "Provo's in Utah," he says quietly.
"No, really? I never knew."
Dean looks at him then. "It's in the other direction, genius."
"Well." Sam glances down, picking at a hole in his jeans. "It's the middle of the summer. Classes don't start until fall."
Another long silence. Sometimes, Sam thinks, he's pretty good at reading his brother's mind. This is not one of those times. He stands up and scuffs his shoe in the dirt, hoping he doesn't have to say anything else.
"Body-snatchers? Mormon body-snatchers?" Dean tilts his head to one side thoughtfully. "Never met any of those before. Could be fun."
Sam snorts and shakes his head. "You really are a freak."
"Takes one to know one. C'mon, get your ass moving. We're burning daylight."
-
The car rolled across the desert. He watched through the window, shading his eyes, wondering what they looked like from above, a glint of black on the dull, dark pavement. Shadows shortened as the earth rolled toward noon. The salt flats raced beneath their tires, and the sharp profile of the Wasatch Range appeared on the horizon.
Into the sun, away from the sun, direction didn't mean much anymore.
Sam closed his eyes. He did not say, Wake me when we get to Provo, but it didn't matter. He knew Dean would anyway.
-
"Dean, don't drive so fast in the daytime."
"Don't worry, man, I know what I'm doing." I began to flinch. Dean came up on lines of cars like the Angel of Terror. He almost rammed them along as he looked for an opening. He teased their bumpers, he eased and pushed and craned around to see the curve, then the huge car leaped to his touch and passed, and always by a hair we made it back to our side as other lines filed by in the opposite direction and I shuddered. I couldn't take it anymore. It is only seldom that you find a long Nebraskan straightaway in Iowa, and when we finally hit one Dean made his usual 110 and I saw flashing by outside several scenes that I remembered from 1947 -- a long stretch where Eddie and I had been stranded for two hours. All that old road of the past unreeling dizzily as if the cup of life had been overturned and everything gone mad. My eyes ached in nightmare day.
"Ah hell, Dean, I'm going in the back seat, I can't stand it any more, I can't look."
-- Jack Kerouac, On the Road