Chapter Text
Sam Winchester had Restless Heart Syndrome. Ask anyone near him and they could tell you all about it. Hell, the grocery store bag boy at the little twenty-four hour shop down the road with the glassy eyes could go on about the outbursts and the jittering hands and the stumbling-more-than-walking gait. The man that came in when the moon was high and the city was sleeping. The man who seemed to rattle. To thrum with energy, hands shaking as he handed over his crumpled dollar bills and rocked back and forth on his heels, eyes just as bloodshot as his own. The man that showed up at hours fit only for brand new parents and teenagers and the lonely roamers of the world, fluorescent lights blurring with the moonlight outside the glass doors. Sleeplessness came with the territory and the title of lonely roamer had long since stamped its way across Sam’s forehead. Besides, the grocery store was soothing in the nighttime, filled with so few people. It was another world by night.
Sam had tried to ignore it, as the syndrome came on. It was like a rattling, like a white noise lost beneath the sounds of his everyday life. At first, he could ignore it. He could go to class and date a bit and come home to eat dinner with Dean. Life as normal. Soon, though, it was all he could hear and there was no way he could ignore it any longer as its symptoms took over his life. Restlessness, jitteriness, a hollow feeling that made his chest tight and heavy as his heart beat inside. It was happening again, now, legs too restless to let him sleep. Sam couldn’t find a reason to go to the store this time, though, so he stood over the heat of the stove instead. Anything to get out of the silent darkness of his room.
“Sammy?” Dean grunted from the darkened hallway, sleep dragging his voice down to a grumble. Sleep held no sharp edges and it took a while to shake it from their voices as they woke. Especially when the sky was still night-dark.
Sam looked up, eyes burning and face warm from the sizzling pan. The pancake in the center of the worn gray pan started to black at the edges and sent up a smoke signal. Sam ducked his head, the smoke starting to crawl down his throat. It itched and he held back the urge to cough the blackness from his lungs. “Sorry.”
What was he supposed to do, he wanted to yell. Sit in his room in the dark, wide-awake, just waiting for the sun to wake his brother and with it some sort of distraction? The hours were longer than they seemed and he could not fill them alone. Reading was too stagnant, working out too tiring to keep up for eight hours. There was little else he could do, shut in his bedroom. There was no way to make Dean understand.
Sam braced for the yelling. The daggers and sharp edges that would come alive as Dean flung them at him, anger waking him up in an instant. They’d already done this once this week and it was only Wednesday. The shouting from the night before had shattered the windows and sent the earth shaking. Or, so it had felt beneath Sam’s bare feet. In reality, no one else in the world heard it except Sam. His world the only one left in ruins.
This time, there was only the soft padding of Dean’s socks against the wood floor as he shuffled back to his room. He shut the door behind him with a soft click and then silence fell. Sam could fill the choking silence with the angry red-stained script they usually followed. Dean would ask Sam what in the hell he thought he was doing and Sam would mutter about not being able to sleep. Back and forth they’d go and Sam’s world would crumble. Not this time, though, and it left Sam in shock all the same. Who knew the absence of a fight hurt just as bad as having one? Instead of his world reduced to rubble, his world was gray and storm-clouded. Silent and empty. He could not decide if the ruins were worse than the silence. At least the ruins gave him something tangible, something he play over and over and over in his head. The silence gave him nothing, only held breath and an emptiness, and that was torture too.
Sam knew that this had gone on too long. He needed to do something about this problem keeping him up. Dean didn’t deserve this. Not after coming home grease stained, twelve hours after he’d left. Not after Cas, matching tattoo on his chest, had entered his life, all dark hair and small smiles. He needed to be able to deal with his own problems without Sam getting in the way, depriving him of his sleep and his sanity. Just because Sam couldn’t sleep didn’t mean Dean shouldn’t get to. Standing still this long was driving Sam crazy too.
He had just graduated, a degree in English Studies framed on his bedroom wall, and the interest of an intern at Scribe Publishing, who was just a friend from one of his creative writing classes named Kevin. He said Sam's work was ‘promising’ and to ‘give me something good to show my boss in the next few months and we’ll see where it takes us’. His name now covered Sam's recent call list. And his text messages. And his emails. So, at least there was that. Though, with the sleeplessness and the lack of attention, his word documents and notebooks were filled with half-finished sentences, sporadic drawings of birds, about Dean, and about how many bricks made up his bedroom wall. It was 240, he found out.
Sam looked down at the North Star tattoo on his wrist, slightly raised and jet black against his skin, and sighed. His bones knew he hadn’t yet found home and they were itching, eating at Sam from inside to get moving. Find whoever home was. They didn't much care he had responsibilities and family and his life here. He had to give in, or he’d rot here forever.
The tiny window of the bunker Dean had found and made their home, let him glimpse the stars. In sudden, chest-punching clarity, something his mother used to tell him came flooding back.
They’d lay back, shirts staining from the grass below them on the lawn and she’d sweep her thumb across Sam’s wrist and then point at the North Star in the sky.
“Follow this,” she’d say.
“Which one?” Sam would ask.
“Both” she’d say and turn towards him, bright eyes and smelling like vanilla. “‘Both. One’s for your heart, the other for your journey to find where it belongs.”
He made a decision, there in the silent kitchen, morning dew just frosting over the blades of grass and wayward weed outside. Sam was going to follow the North Star.
He reached up and clicked off the stove, the red light blinking into nothing, and he tossed the still-burning pancake batter into the trashcan. He hadn’t even wanted pancakes. He had just wanted something to do. Sam put the pan back on the stovetop to cool and headed to his room, the wood floor icy on his feet.
In his room, he set to work. A few changes of clothes, his phone charger, his wallet and keys. What else was he forgetting? He tossed his laptop and charger into his beat-up duffel bag along with everything else. Across the hallway, he grabbed his toothbrush and a spare, half-empty tube of toothpaste he found under the sink. As a precaution, he tossed in a notebook and a few of his favorite pens and lugged his bag to the living room. He shrugged on his jacket and slid his now sock-clad feet into his boots. He paused.
In the silence, he took a moment to breathe. Was this a good idea? Did it matter? It made sense and, right now, he felt calmer than he had in a long time. That had to count for something. Sam tore a sheet of paper from the notebook he’d thrown into his bag and scribbled out a note for Dean to find in the morning.
Dear Dean,
I won’t be bothering you anymore. I’m off to find whatever my fate has in store for me. Mom used to say follow the North Star, so that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t freak out. Don’t worry. Don’t follow me. Figure your own shit out and say hi to Cas for me.
P.S. Don’t get married without me.
P.P.S. I love you and I’m sorry.
I’ll keep in touch,
Sam
Sam had been able to find the North Star since he was a kid. His mother taught him how. He wasn’t worried about that. Dean teased him about it growing up until that time they’d gotten lost in the woods.
They’d wandered out there after school, both too young to drive and too be okay with being stagnant. They walked the dirt road into the trees, pushing each other and picking up sticks as they went. Dean found a river, clear and cool, so they jumped in after shedding their clothes and tried to one-up each other as they jumped off the rocks that dotted the area. They hadn’t spared a glance at the sky until it was too dark to see their hands in front of their faces and Dean couldn’t remember which direction they’d come in. Neither of them brought their phones. They got dressed in the dark and huddled together as they tried to figure out which way home was. Sam turned his head skyward, waiting for the North Star to take its place. It was always the last to find its spot, so Sam sat down atop a rock, Dean pacing and cursing around him, and waited. When it arrived, knowing home was south, he turned in the opposite direction and kept it over his shoulder as he and Dean stumbled over each other home. Their parents hadn’t been happy, but Dean never said another teasing word about it again.
Sam sent a prayer to the sky and the stars and whoever was listening that the North Star be bright and steady and the night stay long. Prayed it would lead him to someone who could settle his bones. Prayed for some sleep. That is what you prayed for at night, wasn’t it?
Sam tossed his duffel bag into the back of his black Charger and put the keys in the ignition. The radio blasted something loud and guitar filled, a remnant of earlier that day when Dean had taken Sam’s car to get some milk. Sam left it blasting. Out his windshield, he could see it, there in the sky. The North Star shining brighter than all of its shimmering sisters. He eased his way onto the road and took a right, making sure to keep the star in the pane of his windshield. He was on his way to find his soulmate, or inspiration, or maybe just some sleep. He hadn’t gotten much of that lately. Whatever it was, he prayed he’d find it.
The sun appeared in an instant, it seemed, blinding Sam through a glint against his windshield as he drove. He decided to find a hotel and sleep while the sun was up. Maybe backwards days would work for him. He was following a star after all. He pulled off the highway and stopped at the first semi-decent hotel he spotted along the side-road. The air was crisp, almost fall, as he shrugged his bag over his shoulder and went in.
“Hi, can I help you?” A blond receptionist asked from behind the glossy wood counter. The lobby was bland, dark couches, dark walls, and the smell of dead flowers. Typical.
“One room, please.”
“Single bed or double?”
“Single.” Sam lowered his eyes. When he handed over his cash, her eyes lingered on the tattoo on his wrist as his jacket sleeve rode up. He’d stopped holding his breath for a reaction a long time ago, instead just waited as she did not react. He figured as such. What were the chances he’d find his soulmate so fast? She handed over a room key and he was on his way through the carpeted hallways.
In his room, he went straight into the shower, and found the water too cold to stay in for long. He flicked on the TV just to fill the silence and drew the curtains to block out the sunlight. He could at least try to get some sleep. He wouldn’t be able to keep going until the sun was down and that was hours and hours away. Hair still dripping, he turned the volume to a low murmur and crawled beneath the damp, maroon colored sheets. Despite his tired eyes and bleary vision, sleep did not come for him. Instead, he dozed, drifting off for a few moments before jerking back awake, his heart racing to find the room just as he left it minutes before. He felt like he was drowning, just able to gasp in a breath of relief before falling back under. Some people said Restless Heart was a made up syndrome. Sam would’ve liked to punch those people right about now. Or let them punch him until he was unconscious. He’d get some rest that way.
Sighing, he got out of bed and pulled his laptop from his bag. Maybe now in the silence he’d be able to get some writing done. He’d find that Big Idea that would put him on the map. Something that would change people, inspire people, make them feel something. He snorted. Yeah right. He could dream, though. He could dream. Hadn’t ever been able to shut that part of his brain down. Not even after all these years of disappointment. After ten minutes of watching his cursor blink at him, angry and daunting, his laptop pinged with an email alert. Great, he’d just check his email. Then he’d get some writing done.
It had been spam, of course. Something about sending money to a foreign price in need. A bunch of bullshit. Now that he was here, though, he noticed the little black number beside his inbox was in the hundreds and his junk almost double that. He might as well clean out his inbox, while he was here right? He’d let the spam and junk and things he should have replied to long ago pile up for much too long. Now was the perfect time to fix that.
An hour and a half later, he had a brand new inbox complete with labeled folders to sort his emails into and was back to the blank word document. Still nothing worthwhile came to him. The sun was still high and bright outside the streaky hotel window and he willed night to come faster. He itched to keep moving, his legs jumping beneath him. His stomach growled and he once again got out of bed, this time pulling on jeans and his shoes and heading out the door. It was no use waiting around for an idea to come in that stuffy hotel room. In the lobby, he paused.
“Can I help you Mr. Winchester?” The receptionist looked up from her computer. There didn’t seem to be much going on, not this time of day he guessed. Night was when the truckers, travelers, and lost souls came.
“Uh, I was just going to get some food. Any good places around here?”
“Oh, sure! There’s a breakfast place a block over that direction and a burger place just past it.”
Sam nodded. “Thanks.”
“Oh, and, I’m not sure where you’re from, but around here, we don’t flash those around much. Small town and all.” She glanced at Sam’s wrist where his tattoo sat. Odd, back home nobody cared. And no one had minded at Stanford either. Back in the day, Sam knew soulmate tattoos were a private, taboo thing. This town, with its brick well out back and dirt roads was just small enough to be behind the times.
Sam tugged his jacket sleeve over his wrist and nodded his thanks to her. Nothing would have happened had she not said anything, but Sam didn’t want attention drawn his way and he appreciated the warning. He was just here to wait out the sun and move on. This was not a place he wanted to leave his mark behind. Not one he wanted to remember. He’d be a ghost here and that was okay with him.
As he walked down the street, his phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it without looking, cool air filling his lungs as he walked.
“Dean, I’m fine.”
“Sammy, where the hell are you?” His brother’s voice jumped out at him.
“Dean, seriously, I’m good. I need to be on my own for a while.”
“Sam-“
“No, Dean. I’m fine and I will continue to be fine. Go. Be with Cas and get some uninterrupted sleep, okay? We both need to figure our shit out and I can’t do it there and you can’t do it with me there. This is better for both of us.”
“Why can’t you just use one of those matching websites?” Dean asked. He was only half joking. Once soulmate tattoos were less taboo, a new market sprung up overnight. Places to post pictures of your tattoo with the hope someone with the same one stumbled across it. Some were pretty damn detailed, categorizing the tattoos in hundreds of ways to make it easier to find your match. Sam, in a fit of desperation one night, had searched those sites until his head ached from staring at the screen and tattoos danced behind his eyes when he closed them. Though, he wasn’t about to tell Dean that.
“Dean, you know those don’t work. And this feels right. I feel like I’m on my way to finding them, like I’m closer to them somehow.”
“Alright, alright. Cut the cheesy shit Samantha. Just keep me posted, okay? One call a day or I’m assuming the worst and tracking you down, got it?”
“Got it. Thanks Dean.”
“For what Sammy?”
Sam paused. Above him, the sky was filled with wisps of clouds, thin and see-through. A car crept past him, wheels crunching dirt. The driver waved to Sam as he passed and Sam threw up a hand in response.
“Just everything,” he said.
“What did I just say about the cutesy stuff?” Sam could hear his smile.
Sam could hear a low murmur in the background. Cas, he figured. They met when Cas brought his car into Dean’s auto shop. Matching angel wing tattoos sealed the deal, though Dean didn’t find Cas’s tattoo until he’d already brought him home for a little ‘fun’ as Dean called it. Now it was a month later and Cas was still around. Sam hadn’t ever seen Dean so calm, so happy. When he saw the way Dean had started to look at Cas, crinkly eyed and warm, Sam knew he was missing something special. He wanted that. In whatever form in came in.
“Dean, I’m serious,” Sam huffed.
“I know, I know. Stay safe, talk to you later bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Sam hung up as he arrived at the door to the breakfast place. It was one of those little hole-in-the-wall places with old school black and white pictures of the New York skyline and newspaper comics covering every inch of the walls. Peeling-plastic booth seats dotted the stained carpet. The waitress, in an honest-to-god pink poodle skirt, knee-high socks so threadbare Sam could see the tanned skin of her calves, and a smirk across her red lips, let him take his pick in the empty room. He chose a seat at the bar and she slid him a sticky menu before loading her arms with plates and making her rounds.
“Be back in a sec, honey. Special today is the omelet breakfast, you choose two sides.”
A glance at her plate-laden arms told Sam that most of the other customers ordered the omelet special so he figured it couldn’t be so bad. He ordered it and a water and watched as she made her way around the room to chat with the other patrons. When she had come full circle and slid his plate in front of him, she stopped to chat with him too.
“So, what brings you here?”
“Just traveling. Humor me, will you?” She raised an eyebrow but nodded. Must get a lot of weird requests, working here. “Where exactly is here?”
She laughed, her pixie blond hair falling into her face. “Franklin. That’s Nebraska, in case you weren’t sure on that either.”
“Right, Franklin,” Sam said.
“Franklin. Population 900 something, full of greenery and walnuts and nothing much else.” She smirked, but there was something sad in there too. Maybe it was the writer in him, giving the character in front of him a backstory to make it okay to want to drive away with her in tow. Just to get her out of here. Out of this dirt covered town.
“So why live here?” Sam asked.
She shrugged. “It’s where I landed, doing what you’re doing now. Just never left, I guess.”
Sam nodded. She walked away and Sam dug into the steaming plate in front of him, his hunger catching up to him with its heavy weight. The omelet was mediocre, exactly what he expected from a place like this. Sam didn’t much care. If he wanted fine dining, he wouldn’t have chosen this in the first place. Nor this town, if he was being honest. This was the kind of place with saloons and water wells still intact. He wouldn’t be surprised if it still had a sheriff, gold star badge pinned on his flannel shirt and everything.
“Name’s Meg. What’s yours?” The waitress asked, leaning against the counter on her elbows in front of Sam. Sam looked up to find the restaurant had emptied around him, leaving him alone inside.
“Sam. Nice to meet you,” he offered, scraping his plate clean.
“So proper, like a real gentleman. Not many of those 'round here.”
Sam sighed. He knew where this was going and he’d already spotted the swirling tattoo behind her ear when she moved past him earlier, her hair had falling out of place.
“Listen, I-“Sam started. She cut him off.
“I get off around 8 if you want to come back. Just an offer. I see you’re tatted and so am I, no harm in that. I won’t be heartbroken if you don’t show.” She glanced at his wrist. Sam tugged at his sleeve.
Sam nodded, but he knew he’d be on the road by then, hours of road between them. Plus, flings weren’t his style. That was more Dean. What was the point if nothing good would come of them? They were just a waste of energy and a potential for heartbreak. Sam couldn’t help but form attachments in an instant. His heart broke often and regularly. It was breaking for Meg and her stranded sadness, though he knew her for an hour.
He could only head north until the border to Canada in North Dakota. That, he knew, was only 12 hours from here. Technically, his soulmate could live in Canada, but he didn’t have a passport and wouldn’t be able to cross the border anyway, so that was where his road ended. For now at least. He doubted it would remain the end if his soulmate was not in sight before the border. But, he’d deal with that when he got there. He planned on stopping as soon as the sun came up, around five, which put him in South Dakota by tomorrow morning as long as nothing slowed him. It was tricky, though. He had the nagging feeling that he was going to pass his soulmate by in one of these small towns. He figured he should stop in at least one or two more before hitting South Dakota. Cover as much space as possible while still moving, so he didn’t get too restless.
He paid his bill, left the restaurant, and paused. He wasn’t tired, so he didn’t feel like going back to the hotel. Instead, he wandered around beneath the sun until he came to the steps of a large, white building. Franklin County Museum hung hand-painted, on a large plaque above the door. He shrugged and went in. When in Rome, right?
He spent his afternoon wandering around the museum and the ‘authentic’ 1800s schoolhouse set up just outside which was, if he was being honest, really fucking cool. He snapped a picture of the set up and texted it to Dean. His phone vibrated with a response not long after with just the word ‘NERD’. He rolled his eyes. Should’ve expected that. As the sun started to go down, Sam headed back to his room to try to get an hour of sleep in before the stars blinked awake and beckoned him onward.