CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
2x08: The Mind Flayer

"She's not waking up. Why isn't she waking up?"

Their words were muffled, disoriented, cloudy in her ears. It all sounded like giant blurbs, random sounds that blended together to make one giant noise. Sam's eyes fluttered, eyelids twitching. A bright light flooded her vision. An immense ache shot through her body, the sort of ache that made her writhe with every movement. A small, stifled groan left her lips—it was a sign of life.

Sam thought she was dead. In her opinion, it wasn't too bad of a consequence.

Someone was lifting her bridal style from the car and into the Byers household—Steve Harrington, she was pretty sure, or maybe it was Hopper. The person's body tensed when Sam's writhed. A whimper pushed past her lips, and she was sinking into cushions.

"She's waking up," Mike said. He blinked, refusing to look away. "Please. Wake up."

Waiting for Will and Sam to wake was painful. They sat around the Byers' house, everyone dispersed, with an eerie silence hanging over them. Lucas and Mike shared an armchair—they were across from Sam, and Lucas was nervous. His nails were bitten raw, and he'd barely spoke a word.

Corey sat with Sam's legs on his lap, an arm hovering over her torso to keep a cloth applied to the wound. His eyes scanned her face, waiting for any sign that she was waking. When her brow twitched, he sat up.

Then, Sam's eyes fluttered open.

Her vision was foggy. Small bits of light mixed together, dull colors dancing in her vision. She blinked, and the blobs turned to shapes. She blinked again, and the shapes turned into Corey's face. Sam drew in a quick breath.

"Core," she muttered. She made an attempt to sit up, but her head spun. "Shit."

Nancy rushed forward, and she rested a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Hey careful," she said "How're you feeling?"

Sam dismissed her question, squinting so the light didn't burn her sensitive eyes.

"Is everyone okay?" she asked.

Everyone's outraged cries were a little different, but the incredulity they felt was all similar.

"Are you serious?" Mike nearly screeched. "You're asking us that?"

She shook her head and backed onto the sofa.

"Bob," she whispered. "Where's Bob?"

Everyone's collective silence was enough. She knitted her brows together, tears welling in her bloodshot eyes.

"No," Sam mumbled, shaking her head.

She moved slowly. With her hand on Corey's arm, she hoisted herself up so that she was sitting normally. It nearly winded her, and the throbbing torso was worse. She lifted her bloodied shirt, head craned down so she could see her stomach. The skin surrounding was purple, and someone's jacket—Max's by the look of it—was wrapped around the patch of flesh missing from Sam's body. It was soaked completely with blood, no longer green like it had been before. A deep green bruise was forming on the outer end of the wound.

"I'm going to the bathroom," Sam choked, trying to move before anyone could stop her.

"Sam—" All of Lucas, Mike, Corey and Nancy were shooting forward, trying to prevent Sam from doing so.

But Sam was dismissive. She grabbed the arm sofa and hoisted herself up. When she wobbled, Corey clutched her shoulder.

"I'm okay." Sam shook her head. "It's fine. I'm going to the bathroom."

"Sam, you can't be walking by yourself—!" Nancy was yelling, but Sam was stumbling through the halls.

Sam leaned against the wall for support as she slowly traveled through. She was definitely getting her blood on either her drawings on paper or the wallpaper peeking through. She struggled through, until she heard Nancy shouting something else, then someone exhale finally.

"Alright, enough of this," Steve Harrington muttered from the kitchen table. He stood up, walked forward, grabbed Sam's wrist, and brought her to the bathroom with him. "Sit, kid," he ordered.

"What are you doing here?" Sam mumbled, not even listening to his instruction through her confusion.

Steve sighed in annoyance, grabbing Sam by the biceps and forcing her to sit on the sink. "I've been getting that a lot tonight. Dustin forced me to tag along when none of you asses were responding."

"My walkie broke," Sam defended, although it wasn't Steve Harrington she needed to be saying it to. "And I was busy."

"Yeah, I see that," Steve scoffed. He eyed Max's jacket soaked with blood. "Where does it hurt the most?"

Sam shook her head weakly, protested, "I'm fine."

Steve's eyes shot back up to her, giving her a deadpan face.

Sam choked out another breath, feeling defeated. Her face screwed up, feeling the sudden urge to cry, but she refused to do that with Steve here. She tilted her head, resting her back against the mirror.

"Where do you think it hurts?"

Steve grimaced. He looked up at her face, and then back down at the wound, a way of silently asking to remove the bloodied jacket. Sam shut her eyes and nodded, so he did, peeling it off carefully. They both winced.

Sam heard Steve curse loud. She continued keeping her eyes shut. She did not want to see the inside of her body, thank you very much.

"Shit," Steve said. "What the hell did you do, Hughes?"

Sam thought of the Demogorgon dog. Sam thought of Bob.

"I should've died," Sam whispered to no one in particular.

"Shit," Steve cursed again, just for extra measure perhaps. "No, no. Don't say that, kid, okay? You shouldn't have. Don't say that."

Sam's face was warping again, because she really did want to say it. She really did mean it. She didn't realize how much she meant it until just now. All she could hear in her mind was SAM, WATCH O— and NO! BOB! DON'T LEAVE HIM! NO! All she could see was the Demogorgon dog, biting into Sam's side, Bob tackling it to the ground to save her, Joyce screaming for Bob and watching him die before her eyes.

"Okay," Sam rasped, though her lip was wobbling and her eyes were stinging again.

Her legs dangled off the counter, waiting as Steve drenched a hand towel with water.

"Let me just—alright—fuck—shit—I shouldn't be cursing with you here. Sorry," Steve muttered to himself. He sounded more freaked out than Sam felt.

There was: Sorry, Mr. Newby—I mean—Shit—Shoot!—Sorry—Fuck!—Oh God—Sorry—I mean— Not sorry, Mr. N—Mr. Bob! And there was: Bob looked more nervous than she did.

Everything reminded Sam of him. Every little thing. Bob was now just a nightmare she couldn't run away from, just like he couldn't run from the Demogorgon dog.

"I'm just gonna pat this on, okay?" he muttered.

"Okay," Sam croaked. Then, "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to narrate everything you're doing," she huffed weakly, then winced at the pain that action caused.

Steve chuckled, though it was devoid of all laughter. "Yeah. Right. Sorry."

When the rag made contact with her wound, Sam's eyes snapped open and she writhed in discomfort. "Fuck."

"Sorry," Steve said, genuinely apologetic. "God This looks like... shit."

Sam scowled, and she thought she snapped back at him. She hadn't. Instead, she was blinking hard, trying to force the blurriness out of her vision. It didn't go away this time.

Steve was saying something—or cursing again, probably. Then he was rushing now, grabbing the thick, wide roll of gauze bandaging from the large first aid supply underneath the sink. Bless Joyce Byers and her paranoia that something horrible would happen again.

First, he took the wet cloth he'd been dabbing at Sam's side with and shoved it onto Sam's wound, just like they'd been doing in the car.

(Okay, cut Steve some slack. He had no clue how to actually dress a wound. He just didn't want this little ten-year-old before him to die.)

The action sent a searing pain through Sam's side, whiting out her vision for a second. She nearly passed out again, but Steve forced her to sit upright. She blinked rapidly, coming to. She watched Steve unwrap the thick gauze before setting the end on the unscathed side of her torso. He began wrapping, and wrapping, and wrapping. Sam winced, and Steve apologized, brows knitted.

"No, it's okay," Sam soothed earnestly, shaking her head. "If you weren't in the truck with me, I'd be dead."

"Why are you the one reassuring me?" Steve said exasperatedly, shaking his head with his eyes glued to Sam's wound.

He continued wrapping, and wrapping, and wrapping. Sam continued staring, and staring, and staring at the ceiling above. Why didn't I die? she asked, but maybe she was just saying that in her head. Hoping Bob was out there and hearing Sam, she questioned, Why didn't you let me die? Back with the Demogorgon dog, all she'd wanted was not to die, but if she'd known that...

If she had known, she would've laid underneath the creature and let it kill her.

Steve continued working, but Sam hadn't been focusing on what he was doing—not until he whipped out a large roll of duct tape, which she heard the stretch of, eyes snapping over open in alarm. Steve was tearing a long strip from the roll.

Was he going to tape her shut? Sam panicked, starting to twitch in feeble attempts to squirm away—Wait, no, thank God. He was just securing the gauze to the wound. Sam tried to stretch her torso to make it easier for Steve to wrap the tape around her a few times. There was a bit more taping and adjusting, and then Steve set the duct tape back down.

He nodded to himself, as if his entire inner monologue was, You did it, Harrington, You did it, Harrington, You did it, Harrington. Sam thought that was funny, so she laughed to herself. This time it didn't hurt to do so. The only side effect was Steve staring at Sam like she was crazy.

"There, kid, I think I've... I think I've got it," Steve mumbled. "Do you need help getting down?"

"Um—" Sam internally weighed all the factors of her pain and injury, what she probably could and couldn't do. "Yeah. Thanks."

Nothing was wrong.

Steve grabbed both of Sam's small hands with his big ones, helping Sam hop off the counter. There was a thank you, ready to fire from her lips, a smile to send Steve's way— and there was also bile rising up her throat.

Nothing was wrong, but Sam launched herself over the toilet. She began throwing up, and more embarrassingly, crying.

"Shit!" Steve said again, before falling next to Sam and holding back all of the hair that had fallen out of her two dutch-braids-to-ponytails.

Sam burst out into sobs. They were sad, and unrelenting, and heart-breaking, and she couldn't make them stop. It was the type of crying that made her curl into a ball, over the toilet, as she continuously vomited into it. Everything hurt.

"H-Hughes, it's... it's okay," Steve attempted comforting the crying and retching girl. One of his hands moved from holding her hair away to rub up and down her back. Sam shook her head back and forth rapidly, making Steve panic. "Come on, Goldie, breathe. It's gonna be okay."

There was: "Sam, kiddo, come on," Bob muttered into Sam's ear from behind. "Please breathe—" And there was: "NO!They're gonna die! They're gonna die!"

And then Bob died.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Sam choked. She heaved once, and then she was throwing up another round of empty stomach into the toilet bowl. It was nothing but internal fluids, considering Sam hadn't eaten in maybe two days minimum. At this point, her mind was just forcing her to vomit.

"Sam," he was using her first name now, so this had to be important. "Sam, stop. You're making yourself do this. Goldie. Hughes. Sam!"

Sam was shaking her head again, dry heaving to the bowl as she sobbed through it. Her hands gripped the sides, trying to stay, but Steve was forcing Sam off the toilet—he was much stronger than Sam for numerous reasons, so Sam was no match.

"Hughes!" Steve planted his hands on her shoulders, staring at the girl, scared and wide-eyed. He saw that, in her eyes, Sam was scared too. She was thirteen and terrified.

And then Sam lunged. She wrapped her arms around Steve's neck and pressed her head into the crook of it. She began crying harder, and Steve resumed sweeping a hand up and down Sam's back.

"I know... I know, kid... It's okay, I got you... You're okay, Hughes. It's okay."

It wasn't though, and Steve knew that, but that was okay. Sam wasn't okay, but maybe she would be.

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

After enough time had passed, Sam exited the bathroom, sniffling and wiping any remaining tears. Steve was following Sam closely, still not sure if she would collapse, throw up, cry, or all of the above. Sam wasn't going to do any of those things—or, at least she didn't think she would. She was pretty sure she'd gotten everything out of her system. She was surprised it was Steve Harrington Sam spilled her guts to (literally), but he'd actually been really helpful.

Poor Steve, who was now going to be stuck with a Sam Hughes glued to his side indefinitely.

As Sam trekked through the hallway, she heard Hopper yelling into the Byers' rotary phone:

"I am the police! Chief Jim Hopper!" Hopper roared, growing frustrated with whoever he was speaking to. "Yes. The number that I gave you, yes. 6767—I will be here!"

He slammed the phone back down, ending the call with a ding.

Lucas, Mike, Max, Corey, and Dustin stared back at him from the kitchen table, unamused.

"They didn't believe you, did they?" Dustin raised an eyebrow, already knowing the answer.

Hopper turned from the phone and to the kitchen, sighing. "We'll see."

"We'll see?" Mike repeated incredulously. "We can't just sit here while those things are loose!"

"We stay here, and we wait for help," Hopper insisted, leaving no room for any arguments. No room for arguments except for—

"My cousin needs a hospital, Jim!" Corey protested, a glare on his face.

"We stay here," Hopper repeated, before walking out of the kitchen to console Joyce.

Corey shot out of his seat, angry. He started stomping to the bathroom to check on Sam, until he found out that Sam was right there, entering the kitchen with a timid look. All heads turned to her now. She was no longer being patched up, and now wearing one of Jonathan's old shirts since her clothes were absolutely ruined.

"I think, um," Sam held up a bloody jacket in Max's direction. "I think I got some blood on this."

They all blinked at her.

"Fuck, Sam!" Max cursed—why was everyone doing that so much?—before practically jumping out of her chair and launching herself at Sam. She wrapped her arms around Sam's shoulders and squeezed hard.

Sam wheezed, not even aware that Max was a hugging type of person. Max had grabbed her bloody jacket back and just thrown it to the floor with how grateful she was to see Sam.

Steve stepped forward tentatively, trying to pull Max off. "Okay, gentle. Gentle. There's still a hole in her side, Red."

Finally, Max released Sam, and Sam could breathe again. Max kept two hands on her biceps though, not really wanting to let Sam out of her sight. She let out a wet laugh, half-heartedly joking, "I can't believe you left me with these idiots for so long."

"Sorry," Sam returned, but her voice was strained and wobbly.

"We thought you died," Dustin said from beside the table.

Sam's eyes went wide. Lucas hit him hard in the side. He hissed, "Dustin!" before getting out of his chair too. He walked up to Sam with everyone else. "You're... you're okay. I thought you weren't gonna be okay."

"I'm okay," she tried smiling back to him, although it was weak. Lucas looked like he wanted to hug her—everyone did, but they were too afraid Sam would break. Everyone except for Max, that was. "I vaguely remember you performing surgery on me back in the truck, so... thanks, Dr. Sinclair."

"Enough with the Dr. Sinclair," Lucas cried, but he looked so fucking relieved. A laugh came bubbling out of him, and it was so contagious Sam had to smile.

"You told me you were going to be fine," Mike said, somehow both worried and angry. "You look terrible, Sam. You're all pale and clammy."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Well I have an excuse. Why do you look the same?" she shot back, pulling out a chair to sit down.

Mike couldn't help but crack a smile. He was grateful to have her back.

"I'll kill you if you ever pull a stunt like that again," Corey warned, sitting right next to Sam. "I'm serious, Sammy. I'll tell Steph everything."

Sammy, he said. It made Sam smile, despite how serious his threat was.

"Sure, Core," Sam dismissed. "You do that."

From the table, Sam looked to her left—she had a clear view of the living room. There, lying unconscious on the couch, was Will. Thinking of Will made her think of the shadow monster, which made her think of the possessed Will's betrayal back at the lab, which made her think of the massacre, which made her think of...

Remember: Bob Newby, superhero.

And Sam Hughes, sidekick!

Sam's eyes traveled to the monochrome blue Rubik's cube with sad eyes. She picked it up and stared down at it.

"Did you guys know that Bob was the original founder of Hawkins AV?" Sam muttered, her voice low and tense.

Lucas sent Sam a look of surprise. "Really?"

Sam glanced up from the Rubik's cube and now to her friends. A small smile managed to play on her face. "He petitioned the school to start it and everything. And then he had a fundraiser for equipment! Mr. Clarke learned everything from him. Pretty awesome, right?"

"Yeah," Lucas, Mike, and Dustin chorused.

Sam placed the Rubik's cube back on the table with a new, fiery determination in her heart. "We can't let him die in vain."

"Well what do you want to do, Specks?" Dustin stared at her exasperatedly. "The chief's right on this! We can't stop those Demodogs on our own."

"Demodogs?" Max echoed, eyes furrowed in distaste.

Dustin stared back at her. "...Demogorgon... dogs? Demodogs? It's like a compound. It's—it's like a play on words, you know—"

"Okay," Max cut him off, her eyes widening judgmentally, and—God, Sam missed her.

Corey shook his head, flashes of the junkyard and the bus and the Demodog attack replaying in his memory. "I mean, when it was just Dart, maybe..."

"But there's an army now," Lucas finished for him.

"Exactly."

"His army," Mike said. When Sam turned to look at him, his eyes were wide in realization. She could tell his mind was moving fast.

Steve looked up in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"His army!" Mike repeated, like that would make them understand. "Maybe if we stop him, we can stop his army too."

They all shared questioning looks, but before they knew it, Mike was darting out of the kitchen. Unsure what was going on, they got up from the table and followed him all the way back to Will's room. For an explanation, Mike picked up Will's drawing of the shadow monster and shoved it into Sam's hands.

"The shadow monster," Sam inspected, while everyone peered over her shoulder and did the same.

"It got Will that day on the field," Mike continued. "Remember how the doctor said it was like a virus? That it infected him?"

"Oh my God," Sam realized. "The virus. It's connecting him to the tunnels—to the monsters, to the Upside Down. Everything."

Mike nodded rapidly, grateful that someone had caught onto his train of thought. "Exactly!"

"Okay, woah," Steve cut in, because not everyone could be little child geniuses. "Slow down. Slow down."

He took Will's drawing from Sam, inspecting it because he had yet to see what Will had done. Steve seemed very confused, which made Mike nudge Sam with an annoyed look, because for some reason everyone only understood when she was the one explaining.

Sam sighed. "Okay, so: the shadow monster's inside everything. And if the vines feel something like pain, then so does Will."

"And so does Dart," Lucas pieced together, but it was something only the junkyard group could really understand; Sam knew by the knowing looks beginning to form on Corey's face. They were getting it now.

"Yeah." Sam nodded eagerly. "Like what Mr. Clarke taught us. The hive mind."

"Hive mind?" Steve questioned, not comprehending.

"A hive mind," Dustin began like a smart-ass. "A collective consciousness. It's a super-organism."

Mike pointed to Will's drawing. "And this is the thing that controls everything. It's the brain."

"Wait—wait." Corey snapped his fingers, like there was a word at the tip of his tongue. "This is like... like that D&D thing, right? Like the—the Brain Terminator, or... the—the Mind—"

"The Mind Flayer," Dustin realized with wide eyes.

Corey was right. It was like the Mind Flayer.

Sam's eyes magnified too, along with Lucas and Mike's, and Lucas snapped at Dustin in realization.

"The what?" Max questioned, while a confused Steve asked, "What?"

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

They gathered everyone back into the kitchen, save for Joyce (who was locked up in her room grieving Bob) and Will (who was unconscious and a spy for said shadow monster).

Those who didn't understand D&D (Corey, Max, Steve, Nancy, Jonathan, and Hopper) surrounded the group who stood around the table and did understand D&D (Sam, Lucas, Mike, and Dustin).

Dustin pulled out an old D&D book of Will's. He slammed it on the center of the kitchen table, and so they began explaining what the Mind Flayer was.

"What the hell is that?" Hopper judged, unamused, the second he heard Dustin utter His name.

"It's a monster from an unknown dimension," Dustin informed, talking with his hands. "It's so ancient that it doesn't even know its true home. It enslaves races of other dimensions by taking over their brains using its highly-developed psionic powers."

Hopper threw his head back. "Oh my God, none of this is real. This is a kid's game."

"No," Dustin argued weakly through his stammer, "it's—it's a manual. And it's not for kids."

"Yeah, it's just for nerds," Corey mumbled, though everyone heard him.

Dustin glared, pointing accusatorially at both Corey and Hopper. "Okay, unless either of you know something that we don't, this is the best metaphor—"

"Analogy," Lucas interjected, correcting Dustin's error.

"Analogy?" Dustin repeated incredulously. He threw up his hands. "That's what you're worried about?! Fine! An analogy"—he shot Lucas a glare—"for understanding whatever the hell this is."

Nancy waved her hands, trying to make sense of it all. "Okay, so this mind flamer thing—"

"Flayer. Mind Flayer," Dustin said, growing thoroughly frustrated.

Nancy exhaled, because she didn't care about the proper terminology right now. "What does it want?"

"To conquer us, basically," Dustin explained. "It believes it's the master race."

"Uh—like the... Germans?" Steve intoned.

He snapped, nodding at his immaculate correlation.

But Dustin looked at Steve like he was stupid. He judgingly amended, "You mean the Nazis?"

Steve blinked, staring back at Dustin dumbly.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, cheeks blazing, "the Nazis."

Dustin rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. "Oh my God, I can't do this anymore. Sam, you explain it."

Sam sighed, uncrossing her arms and stepping forward. "Okay, yes, Steve. Kind of like the Nazis—if the Nazis were from another dimension." She continued, "The Mind Flayer views other races, like us, as inferior to itself. It wants to spread, take over other dimensions."

"We are talking about the destruction of our world as we know it," Lucas emphasized. Sam shot him a pointed stare, because he was not helping soothe anyone.

"That's great," Steve snapped sarcastically. "That's great—that's really great. Jesus!"

Nancy leaned over the table to get a look at the book. "Okay, so if this thing is like a brain that controls everything..." She picked up the book and examined it further. "Then, if we kill it—"

"We kill everything it controls," Mike said, bringing them all to the conclusion he'd come to before anyone else.

"We win," Dustin added.

"Theoretically," Sam and Lucas said in unison, heads glancing to each other in amusement as they did.

Hopper strode over to Nancy, taking the book from her hands. "Alright, great. So how do you kill this thing? Shoot it with Fireballs, or something?"

"No," Dustin chuckled with hilarity. "No, no Fire—" He met Hopper's incredulous glare, and the smile immediately dropped from his face. "No Fireballs. Uh, you summon an undead army, uh, because... because zombies, you know, they don't have brains, and the Mind Flayer, it... it... it likes brains..."

Corey marched forward frustratedly, slamming the book shut. He tried to hit Dustin before Sam snatched it from Corey with her left hand and hit him with it instead.

"It's just a game." Dustin looked down, revoking his explanation, overwhelmed by the angry stares he was receiving. "It's just a game."

Hopper pivoted angrily, snapping, "What the hell are we doing here?"

"I thought we were waiting for your 'military backup,'" Dustin insulted. While his idea of how to kill the Mind Flayer hadn't been helpful, at least he'd done something.

"We are!"

"Even if they come," Mike interjected, "how are they gonna stop this? You can't just shoot this with guns!"

"You don't know that! We don't know anything!" Hopper argued, incredulous as to how reckless these kids could be.

"We know it's already killed everybody in that lab!" Sam snapped.

"And we know the monsters are gonna molt again," Lucas added.

"And we know," Dustin started, "that it's only a matter of time before those tunnels reach this town."

"They're right," came a new, croaky voice appeared.

Joyce had moved from her room to the kitchen, looking terribly distraught and traumatized when everyone turned to get a look at her.

"We have to kill it," she said. "I want to kill it."

Hopper walked closer to Joyce with an unconvinced look. He began to dispel her, "Me, too—"

"I—" Joyce tried protesting.

"Me, too, Joyce," Hopper cut her off, "but how do we do that? We don't exactly know what we're dealing with here."

"No." Sam shook her head, agreeing. She pushed herself off the table and began walking slowly the living room. "But he does." Her eyes were trained on Will, and so everyone else's were too. "If anyone knows how to destroy this thing, it's Will. He's connected to it. He'll know its weaknesses."

Max's eyebrows furrowed, struggling to keep up. "I thought we couldn't trust him anymore? That he's a spy for the Mind Flayer now?"

"Yeah, but," Mike's brain began working again, "he can't spy if he doesn't know where he is."

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

"Where were you when I was lonesome? Locked away with freezing cold?"

They were building a place Will wouldn't be able to recognize. They were setting up the Byers' shed, taking supplies from the house, so that there was no way for Will to know where he was or what he was looking at.

"Someone flying, only stolen... I can't tell, this nights so old..."

Sam wanted to help. She wanted to help more than anything, but because Hopper and Steve and every single fucking person was worried about Sam, she was stuck in the house. Sam had retrieved her walkman from the backpack she'd left at Will's before the hospital. Now she listened to "When It's Cold I'd Like to Die" by Moby on her more melancholy of mixtapes. Her back was laying on the sofa, her hands were folded over her chest, and her eyes were glued to the ceiling.

"I don't wanna swim the ocean... I don't wanna fight the tide..."

She felt weak. She hated being useless. She wanted to help. This was all her fault anyway. She should be helping.

"I don't wanna swim forever... When it's cold I'd like to die—"

Someone nudged Sam's leg, and she looked to her left to see Lucas right there, sitting on the floor. With him, he brought a sandwich on a plate and a glass of water in his hand.

Sam paused the song on her Walkman, taking off the headphones and setting the device to the side. She looked at Lucas with a raised eyebrow, silently wondering what he wanted.

"What song were you listening to?" he asked.

"Why aren't you helping?" Sam eyed the food and water suspiciously. There was no way he made Sam pause her music just to ask that.

Lucas rolled his eyes. "I am helping—I'm watching you," he said. "Making sure you don't pull anything stupid."

Sam scoffed. "So getting up and helping is considered stupid now?"

"Pretty much," Lucas hummed. He then set the plate and glass carefully on the floor before shifting to stand before Sam on the couch. He held out both of his hands in front of her.

She eyed them suspiciously, then her gaze traveled back up to Lucas. "What?"

"Come on, Hughes," Lucas said expectantly, waiting for her to take his hands. "Let's get some food in your system. Steven tells me you puked your guts."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So Steve set you up to this?"

Lucas looked confused for a moment, hands falling. Then, "What? No. I volunteered to stay with you. I just made the food 'cause I figured it would would make you feel better."

Oh.

"Oh." Sam blinked, feeling her heart squeeze in her chest. Or maybe that was the gaping hole in her torso, needing to be touched up. Yeah, probably that.

"Yeah, oh," Lucas repeated in a teasing voice, unfazed that he'd done something so nice. He stuck out his hands once more for Sam to take. "So come on, Hughes." And as if it would convince her further, he cooed in a sing-song voice, "It's turkey and cheese. Your favorite."

Sam's daze broke, and she laughed. But amidst the laugh came pain, so the smile was tampered pretty quickly. Lucas was staring down at Sam's wound, sad. Sam knew he wanted to ask about it, but she couldn't talk about it right now. She didn't think she would ever be able to talk about it.

Before Lucas could speak again, Sam grabbed Lucas's hands and began pulling herself up. Lucas, who snapped out of his staring at Sam's torso, tightened his grip on her hands and helped get her to stand. Then, he slowly lowered Sam onto the ground, so that her back was up against the bottom of the couch. She had one leg bent, and the other one straight out. Lucas sat diagonally from Sam, watching her examine the sandwich and water tentatively.

"This is not turkey and cheese, Luke," Sam deadpanned. "This is ham, cheese, and cilantro. Your favorite."

Lucas gaped at the food, pretending to be very confused as to how the sandwich he made was miraculously his favorite kind of sandwich.

"That's crazy!" Lucas shook his head in astonishment, hands holding his head. "How did that happen—?"

"Just take the other half," Sam said abruptly, hiding the amusement from her voice. Lucas had cut the sandwich into two triangles, one of which Sam was holding out to him right now.

Lucas continued shaking his head, turning away from the sandwich. "No, no, Samantha. I possibly couldn't—"

"Lucas," Sam laughed now in exasperation. His entire facade fell at the sound of a real laugh coming out of her, and he was staring at her entranced again. He totally forgot about the sandwich, which Sam was still pushing his way. "Take the damn sandwich, you schemer."

And finally, he did, with a smile that matched Sam's on his face. Lucas was in a criss-cross position, watching as she picked up the other half. For a moment, they were just two kids sitting on the floor, eating sandwiches, as if the entire world wasn't going to hell around them.

Sam swallowed a bite of her sandwich, then picked up the glass of water Lucas provided and sipped it to wash her throat. It was nice, no longer having to taste bile and blood. She was grateful for the water, and she was even more grateful for Lucas.

"I like the makeup," Sam teased, now that her throat was clear.

Lucas's face screwed up in bewilderment, looking around as if hoping Sam had been talking to someone else. She snorted in amusement, taking both of her pointer fingers and sliding them across their cheeks, explaining, "The eye black." She nodded up and down mock-seriously. "Very intimidating."

"Oh," Lucas said, feeling his cheeks, because he'd forgotten he'd even put the eye black there. That had been so long ago. He laughed nervously. "Yeah, well," he looked down shyly, "we were going Dart-hunting, and you said he was dangerous. I wanted to he prepared."

Sam nodded, listening intently to what Lucas was saying. "How was it? Dart-hunting."

Lucas hummed, head tilting side to side contemplatively. He kind of sent Sam an awkward look, not knowing if he should say what he was thinking. Ultimately, he decided to do it anyways.

"Probably less traumatizing than what you were doing."

Sam huffed humorlessly, emotionlessly. Maybe Lucas shouldn't have said that—shouldn't have reminded Sam of everything she'd gone through. Sam could still hear her own shrieks, her own begs and cries of pain. She wondered, if any of the party had been there, had heard, what would they have done? Mike had been present, but he was outside of the hospital at the time, unable to hear everything that was going on.

Would her friends have cared about Sam? Would their ears have hurt at the sound of her screams as much Sam did while remembering it all?

Or would none of that have happened, and would they have just been thankful it was Sam who got attacked and not them?

Sam needed to stop thinking. Why was she always thinking?

"Yeah, I bet," Sam said, when she realized she'd forgotten to respond. She didn't want Lucas thinking she wasn't okay, so she just casually took a bite of her sandwich. Lucas's shoulders sagged in relief that Sam didn't outright burst out into tears, which Sam thought was ironic, because she really wanted to.

Lucas copied Sam's action, munching away on the ham, cheese, and cilantro sandwich. Sam could faintly hear cluttering and hammering outside, and she knew it was because all of her friends were working on making the shed unrecognizable for Will. They were working, while Sam was forced to stay here, doing nothing.

"Thanks, by the way," Sam suddenly muttered.

Lucas startled, meeting her gaze with an unsure look. "For the food?"

"No." Sam shook her head. Then, "Well—yes—but... no." She sighed, setting down the glass and just shrugging at him now. "For keeping me company. I felt..."

"Sometimes I just feel like I'm not a part of you guys."

Sam had said she was just the girl that hands around them, and she had meant it too.

Sam knew it shouldn't feel that different—being a girl amongst only boys. But there had always been something about her, something that maybe went deeper, that made her feel separated from the party. From anyone. From everyone.

"...separated," Sam finished, hoping Lucas understood what she was referring to.

Lucas nodded, because he did.

"I know," was all he said. He didn't need to say anything else. It was enough.

Right now, I know was enough.

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

While Max and Dustin were outside searching through the trash, looking for anything that could possibly be used in the shed they were trying to disguise, Corey and Mike were in the kitchen. Their task was to tape up a chair with duct tape and search for chemicals to wake Will up with. Corey was the one ripping off duct tape, while all Mike had to do was dig under the cabinet of the kitchen sink.

Corey watched Sam and Lucas, smiling with each other in the living room while they ate the sandwich Lucas had made for her. They were... cute. Unfortunately. And even worse, their happiness brought a smile to his own face—though he'd never admit it.

His gaze moved from the right to his left. Corey's smile fell as his eyes lingered on Mike's back, watching him rummaging through the cabinet. All he could do was stare, and it wasn't even at Mike, it was at his fucking back.

God, this was embarrassing.

Corey cleared his throat, trying to tamper the flushing of his face as he shifted his focus onto placing another strip of duct tape onto the chair.

"Um... so..." Corey started, and when Mike whipped his head around to Corey, Corey cringed, because now he actually had to say something. He really didn't want to do that. "I think it was cool... that you, you know... took care of Sam, and everything. Stayed with her."

"Oh," Mike said, because Corey was acting weird and he didn't know why. He shrugged. "Well, I mean, I'm pretty sure it was the other way around, but..."

"Right, right! Of course." Corey nodded rapidly, stupidly.

Holy fucking shit, shut the hell up, Gray!

He unscrewed his eyes, opening them to find Mike's eyes were trained on Sam and Lucas in the distance like his had been—or, more so Sam than the pair. Corey wondered what he was thinking about.

He breathed in through his nostrils, gesturing to Mike with one hand as if to say, As I was saying. But he really had nothing to say. Why couldn't he shut up? He was usually great at not talking! But right now he was blurting, "That's good."

"What's good?" Mike's attention snapped away from Sam, and he'd kind of forgotten what Corey had been saying, because it wasn't anything of much substance.

"I mean," Corey swallowed, shrugged in force nonchalance, "Sam means a lot to me, so..."

What is he saying? Mike wondered.

What the fuck am I saying? Corey thought.

Of course though, Corey just had to continue. "But also, well, you know... it's good that—that she was looking after you too. 'Cause, you know..."

"'Cause what?" Mike asked, because, no. He did not know.

"'Cause you," Corey forced out, "you mean a lot to me too."

Mike's eyes brightened up—dark brown to a beautiful, warm shade. Suddenly all of that embarrassment was worth it, if it got Mike to look like this. Corey had to physically close his mouth shut, so that he wasn't gaping at the boy before him.

"Corey?" Mike questioned, and Corey watched his Adam's apple as he swallowed thickly.

"Yeah?"

"You mean a lot to me too," Mike whispered, like it was a secret no one else knew.

Corey liked this secret. He really liked it, actually. Usually, he was unjustifiably jealous over Sam or Will, who always knew a secret of Mike's before Corey did. Like he said, it was unjustifiable—Mike had known Sam and Will for much longer, and they were much nicer, so it made sense Mike would trust them more.

But Corey wanted Mike to trust him. Corey wanted to know every little thing about Mike, every good quality and every flaw. Corey wanted to tell Mike everything about him, just the two of them, no other member of the party to know or to intrude or do anything to piss off Corey, which was hard, because he had a short fuse.

Corey... Corey wanted Mike.

How was he supposed to make Mike understand how important he was to Corey? How could Corey explain that sometimes he looked at Mike, and his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, so full and quick that it was painful? How could he explain that most times there was a burning anger inside of him—so fierce it felt like he was going to combust—but all Mike had to do was talk to him and the fire was doused, all his edges softening until he was a human being again? How could he explain his longing that didn't seem to stop growing, that rose and rose until he thought he might burst if he didn't get to kiss Mike at least once? Mike made him feel so much, all the time, that being around him was almost dangerous, a test of human limits. How many emotions could one boy experience before his head exploded?

And yet, somehow, Mike made him quiet. Gentle. All Mike had to do was brush against his shoulder, touch a light hand to Corey's wrist, tell Corey in an easy voice that everything would be okay, and suddenly everything was. It didn't matter if they were too hard and angry boys to the outside world. Together they were people much softer.

So this was a good secret. Corey hoped he was the first one to know. Maybe even the first of many.

"Mike, I—"

And Joyce was in the house now. Corey knew this, because he heard her shriek of terror, scaring all of Corey, Mike, Sam, and Lucas.

"Sam, your wound!" Joyce cried, jogging up to the blonde girl on the living room floor.

Sam looked down, craning her neck to see her torso. Her shirt—Jonathan's shirt—was being soaked in blood. Fresh blood.

"Shit," Sam muttered.

"Come on, come on," Joyce panicked, helping Sam up and forcing Lucas to do the same—although Corey knew Lucas Sinclair would never have to be forced to help out Samantha Hughes. "I need to fix this."

"It's fine." Sam flexed her fists. "Really, Ms. Byers, it doesn't hurt."

Joyce shook her head. "It's not fine. This is gonna get infected!"

"I'm okay," Sam whined, like a child, and it amused Corey, because it reminded him of when Sam would whine to her mother when she was younger.

"Nuh-uh." Joyce shook her head, unimpressed. "I'll clean it. Come on."

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

Sam was miserable, back on the counter of the bathroom she'd just been in. It reeked of vomit now, because of how Sam had thrown up in her with Steve. She wasn't with Steve this time though. It was Joyce Byers who examined Sam, much more thoroughly than Steve had.

Sam didn't have Jonathan's bloodied shirt on anymore. She was just in her sports bra, but that was okay, because Sam felt comfortable, as long as it was only Joyce in the bathroom with her.

When Joyce got a good look at how Sam's wound was treated—messily wrapped, covered in duct tape, trapping in a clumped hand towel—she tutted in distaste.

"Who did this?"

Sam blinked. "Uh. Steve."

"Ste—" Joyce made a low noise in her throat. She shook her head, said, "Of course he did."

"I'm sorry," Sam muttered.

Joyce placed her hands onto Sam's shoulders, shaking her head again. "No, sweetie. No, don't be sorry about anything, okay? Let me just fix you up, okay?"

"O-okay," Sam managed past the lump in her throat, definitely not about to cry. No, don't be sorry about anything was not affecting her at all.

But for some reason Sam's eyes were watering.

Although, that could also be due to the increase of pain Sam felt as Joyce cut the duct tape and bandaging off, leaving her torso bare and exposed; the cold air hitting the wound was painful, and Sam tried to restrain her instinctual yelp at the feeling. Evidently, she didn't do so well, because Joyce looked up to apologize and brush the hair away from Sam's face. It felt nice, even if she was pretty sure it had left a streak of blood behind on her cheek.

For the first time in Sam's life, Sam heard Joyce swear. Like, really swear. Bad swearing. I must look really bad then, she thought. But maybe she accidentally said it aloud, because Joyce was inhaling sharply and telling Sam to breathe, to be quiet.

Joyce found an entirely new roll of bandaging gauze and wrapped it firmly around Sam's torso. The unexpected pressure had Sam making a strangled sound; this felt nothing like when Steve did it, because Steve hadn't had an idea of what he was doing. The bandaging hadn't been so tightly wrapped around Sam, but Joyce didn't make that mistake. All of this was to say this process did not feel fun.

Sam tried not to complain, or make any little noises, because she knew applying pressure was important.

When Joyce was done, Sam knew the woman had done a much better job than Steve—bless his soul—because the gauze wasn't thick and making Sam look like she was a bursting marshmallow. Joyce's firm wrapping made it so that the gauze looked thinner, although she had used just as much. Another difference, besides the lack of duct tape, was that Joyce didn't make Sam wear another one of Jonathan's t-shirts.

The instinctive motherly side of Joyce not only worried about Sam's torso, but also how cold she could get in the November air. Joyce gave Sam one of Jonathan's old winter sweaters, which was baggy on Sam, but she sort of liked it. Then, since so much of Sam's two dutch-braids-to-ponytails had fallen out, Joyce had taken Sam's hair out of that particular style. She pulled half of Sam's hair back, pony-tailing it in an attempt for her hair to seem neater, but pieces still fell out anyways.

And Sam... well, Sam could cry. Again. It was just all so nice, and it all felt so good, and no one had taken so much time to care for Sam like this in so long. Sam missed her mother, and she missed her father, and she missed Steph too, even if Steph was alive; keeping secrets from her older sister hurt just as much. They all felt gone.

But Joyce was here, caring for Sam, and if the mother noticed the glassiness of Sam's green eyes she didn't comment on it. She just cupped Sam's face in her hands and smoothed over her cheeks with her thumbs.

"There," Joyce muttered, now smoothing Sam's hair in front of her shoulders and smiling gently. "All done."

Sam tried smiling at Joyce, but she was so emotional that it came out as a wobbly grimace. "Thanks, Ms. Byers."

"How many times, Sam?" Joyce breathed, exasperated. "You can call me Joyce."

There was: "Sorry I'm late, Mr. Newby! I wasn't there when the AV room was finally redone, so Mr. Clarke showed me today!" And there was: "You don't have to apologize, Sam," she heard Bob laugh from the counter. "Or call me Mr. Newby."

"I-I'm sorry," Sam croaked, and it was so plainly obvious something was wrong. Her voice strained almost immediately, and the wetness of her eyes refused to go away. "I'm sorry, Ms. Byers, but please don't make me. I can't—I can't, I—"

"Woah, woah, Sam," Joyce cooed, eyebrows creasing in worry. "Okay, sweetie, it's okay. You don't have to if you don't want to. Is that what's bothering you? Is that what's wrong?"

Sam shook her head, eyes screwing shut because it hurt too much to look at anything anymore.

"Okay, that's fine. That's fine," Joyce muttered, clearly panicking to herself. "What is it, then? What did I say—?"

And then it hit Joyce: all the times Sam had called Bob Mr. Bob, all the times Bob had come over and told Joyce about a Radio Shack visit from a particular, radiant little girl...

"Oh," she said sadly. "Oh, Sam. Come here."

Before Sam knew it, Joyce was stepping in between Sam's legs, and wrapping her gently in a hug. One arm was around her shoulders while the other cradled her head, and—wow, Sam really was crying now. Shit. She'd been trying so hard not to. She'd already cried enough today.

"Sam, listen to me," Joyce said when she pulled away from the embrace. "That was a very brave thing you did—volunteering to go with Bob. You're a good kid. You're so good. I am so sorry any of this happened to you."

Sam shook her head, something feeling stuck in her throat. She didn't feel good. She felt like she deserved all the bad things that came to her.

"If I hadn't volunteered to go... If I hadn't been attacked... then he wouldn't have—"

"No, Sam," Joyce interjected firmly, now crying tears of her own. She gently brushed away Sam's tears falling from her face. "This wasn't your fault. You can't blame yourself."

"Do you blame yourself?" Sam asked, because every time Joyce made contact with Sam, she was flooded with such pain, grief, and guilt that she couldn't stop herself from asking.

Joyce hesitated, bewildered by Sam's ability to read people so well. Her mouth opened and closed, looking for words to find, but suddenly her throat was tightening too.

"I..." she muttered. "That's not important right now—"

"Ms. Byers—"

"Here, Sam," Joyce was saying, pulling away from Sam, and Sam's short attention span had her falling quiet. She watched as Joyce reached under her newly-changed clothes. Around her neck, she pulled out a golden necklace with an initial on the end. Sam had to squint to see which letter it was, but her heart dropped a little when she realized it was a B.

Joyce began fiddling with the necklace, and it took her an embarrassing amount of time to realize Joyce was trying to give it to her.

"No," Sam protested guiltily. "No, Ms. Byers, I can't."

"I want you to have it, Sam," Joyce dismissed, finally reaching the clasp and removing it from her neck. "He was important to you too."

Joyce was reaching forward, trying to get the necklace around Sam's neck, but Sam was leaning back, feeling horribly guilty that Joyce was trying to give up her jewelry. Unfortunately, her torso hurt so badly that she couldn't strain her body for long.

"Ms. Byers, please no—"

"Sam, it's yours now," Joyce insisted, leaving no room for discussion, using Sam's inability to let herself defy loved ones to her advantage. Before Sam could protest again, the golden chain was around her neck, and Joyce was clasping it in front of Sam. When it was properly on, she shifted the chain so that the clasp was in the back and the golden B was in front.

Sam held the pendant in her fingers, craning her neck down to examine it. She was quickly getting choked up again, and she wondered how intoxicated the group would be if she asked them to take a shot every time she cried today.

"He gave that to me," Joyce said, and she was choked up too. "It was a gift from him to me, but now I'm giving it you. He would've wanted you to have it, Sam."

"I don't deserve it," Sam whispered, wanting Joyce to take it back.

"Yes, you do," Joyce stated. "I heard what you said back there. We can't let Bob die in vain, right?"

"...R-right."

Joyce nodded. "Okay. Then we won't let him," she said. "Wear the necklace, Sam. It's yours."

Sam couldn't help from reaching for Joyce, hugging her desperately, and Joyce was hugging her back. In between them was a golden B for Bob Newby.

╰━━━ ◦ ✸ ◦ ✸ ◦ ━━━╯

Published: January 14, 2024
Re-published: October 30, 2025

BAILEY YAPS...

Oh GOD this was sad. Sam I'm so sorry your life only gets downhill from here.

Ok but I did give you guys a Hughclair and Colorwheel moment to apologize for the angst

It's so funny to me though that Corey is like this mean, brooding tough guy in everyone else's POV, but in his POV he's just a gay, pathetic, pining loser. Goodbye. Corey Gray, you are so real.

No but seriously his yearning is D1 and genuinely concerning

And if we're talking about yearning don't even get me started on Lucas's pining I've had ENOUGH