Author's Note: Hi everyone! So, I'm not going to lie… This story will really test my writing abilities, but I'm very excited, and I hope you all give it a chance. Should be a lot of fun!

Takes place in season 8, shortly after Goodbye Stranger (8x17).

Disclaimer: When I was sharing the premise of this story to a friend, she cautioned me that she had seen another story with a similar concept, but couldn't remember where… I'm not trying to copy anyone. Any similarities are coincidental.

I do not own Supernatural. I am only writing this for fan enjoyment.

SPN

"Listen, I may not be able to carry the burden that comes along with these trials… But I can carry you."

It was a quarter past noon when Sam finally woke up and stumbled out of bed. Despite sleeping for eight whole hours, he was still tired and found himself wondering, not for the first time, how he would endure the next two trials when he could barely endure the first. His legs were shaking as he changed out of his sweatpants into a pair of jeans. He felt the congestion in his throat as he traded his V-neck for a warm plaid shirt. Except, it wasn't congestion. It was probably blood.

"Sam… You're damaged in ways even I can't heal."

Why, in God's name, did Castiel have to make that comment in front of Dean? They all knew the trials would be dangerous, potentially terminal, and while Sam was determined to survive, he didn't need his brother panicking. He would survive. He would. After all, he survived the deepest bowels of hell in a cage with Lucifer! What were three measly trials compared to that?

Running his hands through his hair, Sam ventured out of his room and down the long, subterranean corridors of the bunker. The place was enormous. Even after three-and-a-half months making it their home, they still had much to explore, and much to catalog. Considering how frequently they traveled, the task could take them all year, but Sam didn't mind. He felt safe there. More importantly, he felt comfortable. As much as he loved history, it was almost like a playground.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and a hot breakfast greeted him as he entered the industrial kitchen. Dean was standing by the stove, dumping scrambled eggs from a skillet onto a plate with bacon and sausage. "Just in time, sleeping beauty." He shot Sam a peppy smile. "I was getting ready to wake you up."

"Dude… You haven't cooked this much since we were kids…" Living on their own while their dad went hunting… Dean taught himself over a hundred different ways to make macaroni and cheese. Good times.

"Well, someone's gotta keep you from wasting away…" Dean tried to sound flippant, but he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice.

Sam frowned as he poured himself a mug of coffee. Was he losing weight? On top of everything else?

They sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Dean slid the plate over to Sam, reserving nothing for himself. "I already had some leftovers," he explained.

Sam nodded, taking a small bite of the eggs. They were surprisingly good; Dean learned a lot during his stay with Lisa and Ben. Unfortunately, Sam didn't have much of an appetite anymore, and knew he wouldn't be able to finish the meal. Soon, he was picking at the food with his fork, much to his brother's annoyance.

"You eat that," he barked, pointing at the plate, "or I'm taking you with me to Warsaw."

The small city in Missouri was where Garth docked his boat—Fizzles' Folly. Kevin Tran was currently holed up there, translating the demon tablet away from distractions. (When Sam and Dean suggested moving him to the safety of the bunker, he said he would never get any work done, and blatantly refused.) They hadn't heard from him in awhile, and Dean wanted to check up on him and make sure he had everything he needed.

Warsaw, Missouri was about six hours from Lebanon, Kansas. Dean wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and he figured Sam was better off resting than traveling, especially in the bunker where nothing could hurt him. To be honest, Sam was eager for a short break from his constant hovering, but now, if Dean thought he wouldn't—or couldn't—take care of himself, he wasn't about to leave him on his own.

"I'll be fine, Dean," he said softly, forcing down another bite to make his case.

"Uh-huh…" His brother watched him with a knowing look. Sam promised he wouldn't lie about his health anymore, but it was difficult breaking old habits. He didn't like to admit when he was in pain.

For the next few minutes, neither of them spoke. Sam stared at his breakfast. Eggs, bacon, and sausage. He must be in really poor condition if Dean would go through this much trouble cooking for him, when he himself only had leftovers. But at least Sam wasn't feverish. Not yet, anyway. "I mean it, Dean. I'm sick, but it's not progressing. You can go. I'll still be here when you get back."

"Yeah, you better be," Dean grumbled, climbing to his feet. He made his way over to the sink, where he began to hand wash the dishes. One downside to the bunker was the lack of modern appliances, and Dean seemed reluctant to leave a mess for Sam to clean. "Look, keep your phone on, okay? I'll call you when I get there, and I don't want your voicemail."

"Got it," Sam said, just to humor him. He felt a cough coming, but did everything he could to hold it down. This wasn't the time.

"And if you hear from Cas…" Dean trailed off, letting the skillet slip into the sink. Sam glanced up at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders. Water was pouring out of the faucet, but Dean was no longer scrubbing. He didn't move at all.

Castiel was part of their family, for better or for worse, and Sam knew how deeply it shook Dean when the angel turned on him down in Lucifer's crypt. They shouldn't hold it against him—he was being controlled by Naomi—but that didn't erase the memory of someone Dean loved beating him to an inch of his life. Even after all these years, Sam still remembered the shapeshifter who wore Dean's face while trying to strangle him. It wasn't actually his brother… But it was his brother's face.

Dean sighed, turning off the water. "Don't go anywhere near him, Sammy."

"Come on," Sam tried to reason with him. "You said the angel tablet fixed him."

"Yeah, maybe…" Dean reached for a towel and dried his hands. "But then he took off, God knows where, no explanation, nothing." His shook his head. "We can't trust him anymore."

"You don't mean that," Sam protested.

"Yeah, I think I do…" He crossed his arms. "We need more information. We need to know where his allegiance lies—cause it ain't with us. And I don't want you to get hurt." They stared at each other, and Sam knew he wouldn't win this argument. He might as well pick his battles.

"Okay."

This life… It was nothing but heartache. If Sam could just complete the trials, maybe they would finally have some lasting peace.

SPN

Hours later, after Dean's departure, Sam found himself scrutinizing the giant telescope in the back of the library. It didn't make any sense to have an observatory underground, especially considering the power plant directly overhead. Was there some kind of secret button to open shutters in each level of the facility, thus exposing the sky? Anything was possible, but the more Sam poked around, the more he believed the device was just in storage, perhaps set out for decoration.

It was a shame, really. Sam loved watching the stars. Sometimes, when he and Dean couldn't afford a motel room, they would camp outside. Perched on the hood of the Impala, they would spend hours gazing up at the night sky, never saying a word. Sometimes, they were so far out in the wilderness, they could even see the Milky Way. It was breathtaking. The world contained so much evil that Sam cherished every glimpse of beauty he could find. Dean would never admit it, but he did too. Honestly, a telescope could be revitalizing.

As Sam stroked the long gray tube, the walls around him began reflecting an odd, flickering blue light. Some kind of energy filled the room, making him sweat, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he jumped at the sight of a floating hand mirror with a vintage frame. A portal opened around it, and the next thing Sam knew, a flock of strangers were entering the library. Six total—four men, two women—ranging in age from thirty to fifty—dressed in black uniforms with tactical vests—brandishing submachine guns.

What the hell!?

Before Sam could make sense of it, the intruders fanned out to secure their surroundings. One guy immediately noticed the hunter and marched towards him with a dangerous expression on his chiseled face. He had to be 6'2" or 6'3", with raven-black hair and icy-blue eyes. He didn't make a sound, but he didn't have to. Sam knew exactly what his command would be, and resistance would only get him shot. He wasn't prepared to fight, so he held his hands out in surrender.

Meanwhile, the other five thugs swept in and out of the library, apparently searching for signs of life. Sam didn't move, waiting nervously under the fixed gaze of his guard. He thought about asking who they were… how they got here… what they wanted… But something told him they weren't going to answer.

When they didn't find anyone else in the immediate vicinity, they relaxed, lowering their weapons while sauntering towards their prisoner. Sam quickly scanned their faces, and nearly lost his balance when he recognized two of them.

Christian Campbell had light-brown hair, a widow's peak, and a narrow jawline.

Gwen Campbell had a tough demeanor with dark hair pulled back in a French braid.

They were his cousins—well, his third cousins—and they were both dead.

"Hello, Sam," Gwen said with a patient smile as her friends circled around him. "It's good to see you."

"This can't be real," he replied, heart pounding. The bunker was safe. Impenetrable. How could this be happening? "You're dead!"

Her gaze softened. "I'm sorry to hear that. But you're mistaking me for the Gwen from your reality. We're not the same."

Sam blinked, trying to process the outrageous claim. The Gwen from his reality? Not the same? "What the hell are you talking about?"

Before she could answer, Christian interrupted. "We don't have time for this. We can't clear the whole bunker, and for all we know, he's got help on the way. Focus on the mission." He nodded at a large man with an athletic build and a scruffy face, who promptly pulled a zip tie from his vest. Sam's eyes widened, but with his guard still holding him at gunpoint, he was helpless to prevent the bastard from binding his wrists behind his back. He was then ushered over to a chair and forced to sit down.

"Don't take it personally," Christian told him. "We had no idea you'd be here. We've plundered a lot of bunkers, and this is the first time it wasn't vacant."

Sam peered over at the vintage hand mirror, which was now resting on the central table like a regular piece of glass. "So what? You're a bunch of thieves using that thing to raid parallel realities?"

Christian smirked. "You've got it."

"We're not thieves," the other woman objected. Like Gwen, she wore her blonde hair in a French braid. "We're hunters and retrieval specialists."

"I like the term 'pirate' myself," the athletic guy said, making the woman groan.

"Get to work," Christian admonished before directing his attention to Sam's guard. "Keep an eye on him."

"Yes sir," the man replied.

"What are you looking for?" Sam called after the 'retrieval specialists' as they filed into the control room.

"Shut up," his guard snapped.

"Who the hell are you?" Sam asked, glaring at him in frustration. The man cocked his head, chewing on the question.

"You don't recognize me?"

"Should I?"

The man scoffed. Sam knew from experience—thanks to Gabriel and Balthazar—that parallel realities could be very similar in some respects, but drastically different in others. Perhaps, in whatever reality they came from, these guys were all acquainted with the Winchesters.

"The name's Ethan," he said at last. "Ethan Dobbs."

"What do you want?"

Ethan leaned towards him. "Right now? I want you to shut your pretty little mouth."

Sam fumed, averting his eyes. Of course this would happen while Dean was on the road. That was just his luck.

SPN

Thirty minutes later, Christian, Gwen, and their three buddies made their way back into the library. Judging by their stiff postures, and the lack of loot in their hands, they didn't find anything worth stealing. Sam shifted uncomfortably, tugging on the zip tie that pinched his skin. He didn't think his cousins would hurt him, but then again, he didn't actually know them.

"We're never going to find the crap," the last guy whined. He was in his late forties, and while he had a solid frame, he didn't share Ethan's stamina or the athletic guy's brawn. "What's the point?"

"We'll find some," Gwen calmly assured him. "It's just gonna take longer than we hoped."

"Besides," Christian said, casting his gaze on Sam. "This trip wasn't a complete bust."

Sam shied away, as much as the chair allowed. "What?"

"Christian, no!" Gwen argued, reading his intentions loud and clear. "You can't be thinking what I think you're thinking!"

"Why the hell not?"

Gwen glowered at him, as if he lost his mind. "We're not kidnappers!"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. As far as he could tell, Gwen was the only one fazed by Christian's proposal. The others were considering it with obvious interest. Ethan grinned, flashing his bright, pearly teeth.

"He could be useful," the blonde woman allowed.

"No!" Sam jumped to his feet, in a panic, which compelled Ethan to grab his shoulder and shove him back in his seat.

"Sit your ass down! And SHUT UP!"

Sam flinched at his hostility. "Please," he whispered, picturing Dean. What would his brother do if he returned tomorrow, only to find Sam gone, without a trace? "I belong here."

"Yeah, maybe," Christian agreed. "But that's not my problem." He glanced at Gwen. "You know what your dad would say. The fate of our reality is the only one that matters. Now, we need Sam's help, and the brat's nowhere to be found. This Sam happens to be available."

Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I am NOT available!"

Ethan tossed up his arms. "Oh my God!" He dropped his gun on the table and produced a roll of duct tape from his cargo pants. Sam watched in horror as he peeled back a strip. "Would you…" He roughly pressed the strip over Sam's mouth. "Shut up?"

Gwen was appalled. "Ethan!" But she didn't stop the bastard when he kept peeling the tape, wrapping it behind Sam's head and back around, covering his mouth three or four times.

"I'm sorry," Christian said with genuine regret in his voice as he gazed down at his prisoner. "But you could turn the tide, and that's not something we can pass up."

SPN

Please Review!