Work Text:
Again.
Sam Wayne is dead.
That's the part it's gotten used to. That he's gotten used to. This body just accepts it at this point. The familiar, sharp, brute force, the sound of his skull caving in. The taste of blood between his broken teeth. He doesn't even beg anymore. A mournful Scarlet sometimes holds back her tears, sometimes, is at the mercy of them. Sometimes, Sam falls forward onto her, just as an act of defiance. Others, he crumples to his knees. Most of the time, he just lets his body follow whatever angle feels most natural.
As if anything is natural about this.
"That's the Holler for you, ain't it?" He thought, once, before the end, his feet pulled in a direction he could neither control nor prevent.
Indeed, it is.
The entity inside Sam Wayne's body is... alive.
By some definitions. By others...
They've gone and messed up bad. Didn't even make it an entire day this time.
Again.
Some weeks are better than others.
Again.
Some weeks...
Again.
Well, some weeks, the prodigal cousin trips running from the creature best described as a mountain lion and breaks their neck tumbling down the hillside. The farmer finds them right away in those weeks. Wayne used to feel guilt and shame at its inability to protect them.
Would it ever actively allow harm to come to them? No. Decidedly, forcibly, no. But it is desensitized after some time. It can't remember when it stopped actively stepping in their way to prevent the slightest paper cut, which snowballed into apathetic acquiescence. It still feels some amount of pain, heartbreak, remorse when they fall to the tragic hands of fate and folly.
But that's just the Holler for you, ain't it?
Wayne watches the farmer run back to the main road to call for help before stooping down to shut their eyes, putting a hand to their already quickly-cooling skin.
The same hand, the same cheek it oft caressed. The times they would lean into the touch, others where they would hiss and snap and push it away. How many times is it, now?
Wayne stands and goes to a favored spot to sit and watch the sun sink below the mountains. Tabitha will sob herself to sleep this time. She is well and truly alone. Night passes. The sun comes up once again. A bus pulls into town.
Again.
It wants them to make their own decisions.
Again.
It wants them to have some semblance of autonomy.
Again.
It wants this to be over with.
They make it all the way to Friday this time. How many turns has it been?
It all melds together.
Wayne can't recall.
Sam doesn't care.
They look ethereal in the morning sun. Each time, it can't help but to stare. The way the light dances off those tired eyes and sinks into their skin. This has been a rare week. One where they remember.
Once in a while, they'll call out to Wayne before it has even had a chance to welcome them home.
Once in a while, they'll reach for its hand. And it will let them hold it, because they aren't scared.
Once in a while, their face will screw up in a moment of deja-vu.
It is just past eight in the morning, or therabouts. Wayne sometimes waits, ready in the forbidden wing, but this time, its (beloved?) charge has been overwhelmingly warm and flirtatious towards it. So it does a casual lean, between two windows where the slimmest of shadows fall, to be with them from the beginning on into their exploration.
Their hand hesitates when reaching for the lock. They tremble, and it drops back to their side. Wayne cocks its head at them.
"Is something the matter? The lock will simply fall away, if that's your concern."
"No it - I know. It isn't that. Just... We've done this before... Haven't we."
"Yes. Many times," it replies after a thoughtful pause. There is no use in lying to them.
"Do you know how many?" They look at Wayne, face upturned in resignation. It shakes its head, no. "Figured."
"How much do you remember this time?"
They take a long, deep breath in. There's pain in their eyes with how much of it has hit them all of a sudden. "I remember fighting you. Or, rather, trying to." Wayne hums in amusement at this. "Running from you, jeez, how many times? I remember you stalking me outside of Stella's house however many times I stayed the night. Fighting Reese with you... Fighting you with Reese... I remember seeing you everywhere. The church. The garden. The trail. The library." They rub their arms, laughing. "I've told you to fuck off and die a handful of times. Sorry about that."
"You needn't apologize." It shrugs simply.
"I hope you know I don't mean it."
"I do."
"I think I'm just scared. I think some part of me knows, each time, that we've already done all of this before." They sigh. "How many times have I been... this affectionate towards you?"
"A handful."
"How were those times?"
It pauses. Thinking. Sifting through those memories to pull them out of the tangled mess of overlapping instances. "They were... trying."
"Because you knew what was going to happen." It isn't a question. They state it plainly. Wayne hates these times when they know. It would rather they remain ignorant. These are the most painful of loops. It nods again. "I'm sorry I don't always remember. Then maybe I could break you out of this."
"It isn't your place to do so. You are my responsibility. Not the other way around."
"What if I want you to be my responsibility? Have you ever thought about that? That I might care enough about you to desire that?" Wayne doesn't answer. Of course it has. "You don't seem to care too much about my mental well-being. Maybe you should start, because if you care so much, you need to let me care back before I drive myself insane and off the very cliff this estate dangles from."
"You wouldn't."
"You don't know that! You don't know how infuriating it is to be walking around and everyone just acts so fucking casual and sweeps every goddamn thing under the rug until it's too late! I don't need it to be too late with you, too!"
"That's not-"
"Don't you dare say that's not how this works, or that it's not my responsibility, or whatever bullshit excuse you have to deflect me this time." Wayne remains silent, near stunned by the pushback. They turn and step towards it. Wayne can read their intentions, and know where it will lead. "Let me. Please."
The same hand. The same cheek it oft caressed. They lean into the touch, murmuring.
"How many times..."
"You know what will happen if you stay like this."
"I know," they whisper, reedy, harsh, laced with the threat of tears. "But all I have is now. All we have is now. Can you grant me this one kindness?"
"No. I can't lose you this soon."
Wayne had tried this before, in the rare moments of clarity through the haze. Tried admitting. Tried touching. Connecting. Tried gaining reciprocation. Whether it be by the curse placed upon it, or the powers within Wayne, any tender moment was ripped away and he was Sam once more.
"Please," they beg, tilting their head upwards. Sunlight sparkling against the storm-gray skies. Silence between the trees.
Wayne remains still. The veil peels back from its face, just enough for curious lips to touch.
And the world falls down.
Again.
"I think we're being watched."
"It's probably just skunk ape. Let's try not to scare it off."
The shotgun goes off in the wrong direction.
Again.
They stare in horrified silence.
The mines echo, heed our warning.
"Where were you when I was in the woods, then?!" Accusatory. Frustrated.
They don't make it out, trapped under the rubble.
Again.
The blinding lights of an old, beat-up BMW.
"Do you need help?"
They aren't afraid.
"I guess I'll see you when I see you."
Forward.
A sacrifice is made. It takes more of a toll than usual. They don't wake up the next morning.
Again.
"Don't mind him, dearie. He's just sick."
Suspicions.
"What are you?"
A ghost left behind.
The paint writhes and springs forward from their canvas prison. A silent apology, before the sounds of rending flesh. Wayne had fought so hard, but it's harder when it's thrown from a window to do so.
Again.
Two steps forward, three steps back.
A rare Saturday. Wayne wonders if Sunday will ever come.
They have been largely indifferent to Wayne. Appreciative of the company. A curious one. It is a gray and dewy dawn, and they are awake earlier than usual. They're running a hand over black granite; a grave. Mary-Belle Scarlet. Their grandmother. It's a reflective, somber mood they're in right now, with everything that has been lost.
The children. The library home. The artist, whose ashes still somehow cling to the fibres of their clothes.
"I'll be meeting her soon, huh?"
"I'll ensure you do not."
"And if you fail?"
"I will just try again."
They snicker. "You're funny, Wayne. I like you."
"The feeling is mutual."
It isn't even noon when it fails to live up to its promise. It's okay. Sam will wake up in the morning and trail up to the estate. He'll remember the pain. He'll think some final, sardonic thought, a parting shot to the oncoming entity that finds hold beneath his skin.
The bus will arrive between 11:00 and 11:01 on Monday. And Wayne will welcome them home. Again. And Wayne will watch them trip and stumble and falter and fail. Again. And Wayne will be hated. Loved. Passed over.
Again.
Again.
Again.
As many times as it takes.