In three days, it'd be exactly eight years ago that Sam said yes. Eight years, Sam mused as he passed through the rift.
Eight years, he thought, as it closed behind him.
Sam stood in the bunker. He was numb to Dean's, "Sammy!" Numb to mom's hug or Castiel's pat on his shoulder or Jack's relieved sighs.
In three days, it'd be eight full years.
"You did it," Dean told him. Sam looked at him, tore his eyes from where the light of the rift burned itself into his retinas. "You did it, man."
Sam stared at him and parted his lips as a thought crossed his mind unbidden.
Would it hurt when Dean killed him?
The date came and went like any other day. Sam got up at 0500, made a full pot of coffee, drank half himself, and made a second for their many, many guests. He jogged for three miles through the quiet forest that covered their bunker like a blanket. Sit ups, pushups, pull-ups and then a shower.
Then books, one after another. The people they brought with them were safe, but they were all down an archangel. Sam looked up from the book at the thought of Gabriel and frowned.
They'd both gotten their revenge.
He hoped Gabriel died happy.
Five more days passed since the date, a full week since Sam abandoned – since Sam delivered the devil to his fate.
Lucifer and Michael alone in an empty world, a grey and lifeless void, to fight for eternity until one of them died.
Eight years and five days ago, for the first time, Sam'd been smack in the middle of that fight in a similar gray and lifeless void.
Surely Michael would succeed, but there was no guarantee. 'Their" Michael, this world's Michael, had not. But then, neither had Lucifer.
He wondered from time to time whether Dean ever thought about their combined destiny. Oil and water of the apocalypse, Dean said eight years ago. That wasn't untrue just because things turned out a little different.
And Lucifer was gone.
Until he wasn't.
Sam stared at Maggie, miraculously alive and breathing and not six feet under like she should've been when she was a bloody corpse not ten hours ago.
He stared at her as she prattled on, disjointed, about how it all went down.
And he knew. He knew before she ever mentioned red eyes, glowing and burning and gleeful as they stared down at her dying body.
Because she was alive and breathing and not six feet under and the feel of her, around her, was unmistakable.
Sam comforted her. He watched her shuffle wearily away after the conclusion of their chat. And he sat and thought, hands folded and pressed to his lips and trembling, trembling, against his skin.
Eight years and five days ago, Sam said yes. Sam beat the devil.
But he'd only won the battle, not the war.
Hours later, two archangels and one nephilim squared off in a bunker too small to contain them.
"Yeah. It's me. Yay," Lucifer awkwardly cheered and Sam stared at him from across the room. He backed away because nothing changed. Nothing would ever change.
Sam had handled it. Sam had handled it the best he could, the pieces all in place. Lucifer, Michael, an archangel blade and nothing but time.
And for all his analysis, all his calculation and planning, he hadn't wagered they'd work together.
Because he'd wanted them not to. He'd wished and hoped, desperately, they wouldn't.
But it wasn't like it was the first time.
The truth of Maggie's murder rolled accusingly past Sam's lips, Sam himself only half-conscious of even speaking.
Jack looked at his father who looked at Sam, briefly. Briefly, but there was a lifetime of meaning in it.
And then accusations, truths, and fury from Jack, fury from Lucifer, and then something else entirely.
Lucifer, hopped up on golden and glimmering grace, prepared to disappear with his offspring – no doubt to teach his son his first lesson: Do not betray the devil.
It was instinct that propelled him, Sam inserting himself in the familial fray. And he would do it over and again, forever and ever, because it was Jack.
The chapel floor was hard against him, stealing the breath from his lungs as they landed. He pulled himself up in an ungraceful crawl, away from the presence looming behind him.
The rest was a blur – pain, the physical sort. Pain, the psychological sort.
And pain. Pain in the heart, excruciating, as blood began to bubble up from where Jack was piercing himself with the blade.
Sunlight poured into the chapel, unbidden and blinding and bright and they all looked away while Lucifer huffed out a quiet, amused little laugh.
And then a battle that should've been apocalyptic instead waged on almost quietly, almost unassuming considering the beings it involved. Intimate and personal, the threads of betrayal and hate and despair were heavy in every blow and blast.
And then, like a dying sun, the Morning Star flickered out like a light. He landed in a heap, sprawled, his magnificent wings seared into the marble.
Sam didn't believe it. It couldn't be, it could not be, but he laughed and felt the weight of eternity lift off his shoulders.
His brother saved him. His brother would always, always save him. And Sam loved his big brother so much it hurt.
"You did it," he said, awed, catching Dean's surprised eyes as he looked back.
"We did it," Dean said. And Sam loved him just that little bit more.
Like clockwork, it fell apart, the foundation under them crumbling like dirt.
Dean was gone, hijacked by a holy interloper with a vendetta against humanity.
And it was just him and Jack alone in a church, a dead archangel –
A dead archangel.
Lucifer was dead.
Sam looked at the corpse. Could they leave him? No. It would cause questions. Too many, probably. Too many.
Jack tugged at his sleeve but Sam was processing. The last ten minutes had been a roller coaster, a rickety, old roller coaster that threatened to fall apart and it finally did.
"Sam? Sam, are you okay?" he heard jack ask.
He moved his mouth to say Yes. Yes, I'm great! I'm incredible because he's dead, he's dead! Sam moved his mouth to say No! My brother is gone – Dean is gone and he's possessed and it's the first time and Dean is gone!
Sam didn't say either. Instead, he panted, he gasped for breath and all of a sudden noticed his heart pounding against his ribcage like it wanted out. It probably did – Sam couldn't blame it.
"Sam!"
Right. Jack. Dead body. Dean.
Sam could have his moment later. It was fine.
"I'm good," Sam made a face and shook his head. "I'm okay. Are you okay?"
Jack managed a dubious nod.
"Okay," Sam said while he stood. "First, we clean this up. Then we find Dean."
Carrying Lucifer's vessel Nick out of the chapel and giving him a hunter's funeral was surreal. Sam was sure he'd dreamed about doing it once. He vaguely wondered where Nick ended up – in heaven or in hell? Or maybe the empty, even.
The bunker felt different without Dean in it. It felt different without Lucifer in the world.
Mom, and the other Bobby – they took the news as hard as Sam figured they would. They offered Sam determined promises. They would get Dean back. They'd fix this and save the world yet again.
Sam thanked them excused himself for bed.
And there, hours later, he stared up through the dark at his ceiling unable to sleep.
Because somewhere in him, deep down, he felt the lingering tendrils of grace tickling him from the inside.
Sam cooed the whispers, like a caress inside his own skull. You saved me, Sam.
He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.
hmm
(spoiler: maybe sam's a horcrux)