Hiya, Sammy
Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.
Warning: Spoilers up to end of Season 9. Not Season 10 compliant. Some swears.
A/N: Alright, this took an amazingly long time to complete. D: It's really hard to make a cohesive story with flashbacks from different times! :/ Anyways, I did go along and edit my work, but I've read all the parts so many times I'm burned out and haven't looked at the piece as a whole. You know that thing where you read something so many times you just don't know anymore? Ha, yep. Anyways, I guess I'll let you guys be the judge of this piece. :P
Read, enjoy, review! :D
Now
This is not the first time he hears it, but nonetheless, he can't help but almost turn to his right. Incredulous. His mind is steps ahead of his mouth, he's already thinking, "Can you believe this?" before the reality ever strikes him down.
And then it is inevitable, all over again. No one is by his side. Not anymore.
Sam is hunched over the table of the second diner he's been to that day, the ninth diner of the week so far. He hears the question, "Is he your son? He seems like a real lady killer," and he's looking at a picture of Dean from before Sam left for college. It's only half of the picture- the other half with Sam himself has been burned away. It's an old, old picture.
Sam's instincts die away before he even blinks, and all that is left is to smile this haggard, worn away smile. It's fitting after all. It's 4 pm on a Wednesday soon-to-be evening, he still holds onto impossible hope, and he's lived longer than he has any right to.
Case 1 [Soon after The Event]
The walls are bloody. Fingerprints and dragging trails of red, sprawled across the house like life's farewell. It's not the worst thing Sam's come across.
He sees the last remains of what has happened- not just the blood, but the smaller things that speak volumes. Like the slightest indents of scratches on the floor, a ripped away fingernail, and an interrupted dust pattern. Someone being dragged.
Sam stands in the middle of the long abandoned house, blank and impersonal because that's the best he can do now.
This house, a crime scene, is left standing in the middle of nowhere and is hidden by trees and secrets. There are chills crawling in the floorboards, there are screams echoing like ghosts down the hall and returning, louder and louder, with the rising of the moon. Some have said the place is haunted, others have called it cursed, and only the most cynically skeptical dare call it anything other than wrong and dark.
For years it was just local legends, told almost like ghastly fairytales by way of small town gossip and superstition. Only these small town folks were near enough to be connected to the horror story behind the house and almost all of them had enough sense to stay away. That means that for decades, the deaths linked to the town's urban legend could be counted on one hand.
Recently though, construction has begun to climb further into untouched lands and the land surrounding the house was next on the list for future outlet malls and concrete parking lots. Of course, things like preexisting houses on future construction sites tend to be noticed. Of course, places like this one tend to breathe in newcomers and spit them out dead.
According to the research, no one who sets foot within the walls of this house live for longer than a week afterwards.
It's just the sort of case Sam has been looking for.
SOS
"Sam. How are you?"
"What do you want Cas?"
"…I'm worried about you."
"Don't. It," he sighs, exhausted, and runs a hand through his hair as if to gather his thoughts. Giving up, he finishes lamely, "It just doesn't matter."
Castiel steps forward, head cocking to the side and face worrying into a concerned frown. "It does matters, Sam." He pauses, letting the significance of what he's going to say hang over Sam. "You are the only friend I have left."
Sam snorts. He's bitter, of course he is, and he wonders idly how an angel living thousands of lifespans as an overseer of all things wretched could have possibly clung to a gospel of the end of the world so long that he saw the Winchesters as anything but a warning.
"It really doesn't, Cas. Face it, I'm nothing special; haven't done anything worthwhile since the Cage. All I've got left is to keep my head down and carry on with the family business."
Sam blinks, if only to not have to see Castiel's face at the very moment he finishes speaking. When Sam blinks, it's as if the eclipse of Castiel shines through the darkness of eyelids and burrows its way into his mind- it's a moment that sticks with him- and it's like Sam is really seeing Castiel. He wonders if this is what De- others have seen when faced with this particular angel.
He swallows the feeling, but concedes, "You could take the case with me."
Castiel stares at Sam. Sam cannot account for all of the seconds or minutes that pass in the lull of their glance, but he can detail the exact passage of thought that shows on Castiel's face. Before Castiel answers him, Sam has already seen the worry, sorrow, and pity Castiel has not yet learned to bury deeper than other eyes can see. It leaves an acidic taste in his mouth.
"Okay."
SOS
There is a process for these things. There's the identification, the clarification, the confrontation, and the lies.
Finding a case is easy. It's like a car accident- the worse it is, the harder it is to look away, and the more likely you are to be drawn to the curling flames of disaster. So all it takes is a sit down with a newspaper- or, increasingly often, 'search the web'- and then it all begins.
All the time, a never end blur of almost solely this, you lie:
Yes sir, I am who I say I am.
Don't worry, I can stop this.
Trust me. I've seen this sort of thing before.
I am the [FBI, police, wildlife services, journalist, cousin of the victim].
I'll protect you.
You're going to make it.
Finally, you find the monster or the ghost or the demon and desperately reach for something that can save you. You're gasping for air that you've forgotten to appreciate, because it's been a long enough time since you last almost died that you almost fooled yourself. Then you walk away from a town of more secrets and more blood, momentarily satisfied with the good you've done.
You save people. That's all you've ever done.
SOS
Castiel joins the case and he's not nearly as clumsy as he once was. Sam cocks his eyebrow several times throughout the case, nearly impressed, but mostly just horrible, inconsolably burdened.
He thinks, 'This is what we- I do. This is the family business.' Nothing gets left alone and soon or later, everything good burns away. That's a thing, isn't it? Fire- high flames, heat, burning, destroying…
See, that's how it starts. Everything has a luster to it, an innocence, but then life kindles within a person the smallest of evils. From there, it almost seems like there's a destiny- tinkered with by the devil, because God is long gone but Lucifer lies in every shadow and nightmare.
Sam is the only thing left untouched on the razed path of his life. He's the only one to be what he's always been- evil, angry, tortured- and everyone else is all the worse off for it. Everyone he loves. His mother, his father, his-
"-am. Sam." That's Castiel; hand on Sam's shoulder, shaking him, standing too close, face scrunched with worry.
Sam returns to himself with a jerk. "What?"
Castiel says, "I finished burning the body."
Now
Sam can't stress enough how he never signed up for this crap. Once, he had dreams of pulling all-nighters, overdosing on Starbuck's coffee, and reading complicated books till the lines of text dance across his vision… as a lawyer. Ironically, he does all of these things on a regular basis anyways. He wonders if that says something about him…
"You waitin' for anyone, sir?" The waitress asks when she swings around to refill Sam's cup, again. Sam nods and she smiles. It's genuine and happy, and for a moment, Sam takes notice.
She's kind.
He can tell by the budding wrinkles on her face. They're barely there- she's far too young for the deep-set wrinkles that come with time- but Sam likes to think he's got an eye for these sorts of things. It's all about looking for when the light hits a person just the right way. That's when you'll spot them. Laugh lines or frown lines.
He smiles back and says, "Can't say that I am." Then, as she turns back to the rest of the diner, he turns back to his papers.
She's got laugh lines.
Case 7 [Almost seven months after The Event]
Screams, louder than they've been in so long, trace along his skin, raising goose bumps. Begging and weeping and prayers for death come easier than they should. It is as if whatever is in that room with those people is truly, frighteningly evil.
Then, silence.
Sam forces himself to walk. It's difficult. Like each step is Atlas moving with the earth on his back. Like each push forward is shoving Sam against blades sharp enough to flay his skin from his body. His heart is pounding almost sympathetically, like it's beating for himself and all the hearts that must have stopped by now, if the sudden hush is any indication.
'Breathe in and out,' he tells himself. 'You've already seen the worst the universe has to offer,' he tells himself. 'It's not what you think,' he tells himself. His neck convulses when he swallows too hard.
Finally, he's at the door. Hand on the knob, don't stop, you have to do this, hand turning the knob and…
SOS
Life is a funny thing. In a morbid, bitter sort of way. A person is born less than human, because they are more dream than anything else. Mother and father mingle and a child grows. And it's not fair what a child does. No matter who these people were, they are now connected by forces of fate (of Heaven). Mommy. Daddy. The hunters, the drunks, the scholars, and the blessedly ignorant.
Chemicals skyrocket, like when cupid strikes, and pound through veins. And the brain, well, it's like there's a drill tearing into it, molding what's in there, chucking this and that away. It's violent, it's mutilation, it is His plan. It's a simple makeover, making room for the new burdensome love required when making something as extraordinary as a child. Put like that, it's Stockholm syndrome.
But kids are blessings. They're mini Mommy 2.0 and teeny Daddy upgrade, hunter and soldier. They are your dreams because of biology. They are your dreams because of need.
I need you to live in this house surrounded by a picket white fence and salt. Go to school, go to college, and think nothing of the dark. Live long lives of mundane mediocrity because I never did.
I need you to grow up big and strong, relying on instincts and anger and hatred. Avenge your mother and then me too because I'm already dead on the inside.
I need you to do what I never could.
But children are innocent. They don't know what keeps you awake at night. They are happy, giggling, burbling, little dreams. Till they grow up, be it at six months or four years old or any other age. Then they lie awake at night, haunted by yours nightmares that are now theirs.
That's why life is funny. It's made up family and the things they do to you. The guilt and joy, the hurting and being hurt, the way they make you do all the things you never thought you would. Then the tables turn, but it's still family.
SOS
Inside the room is blood. Of course there's blood. It's always there. There is a sofa smothered in it. There is a lamp drowning in it. There is man. He's bathing in it.
The man bathed in blood smiles. It is a terrifying smile, one that shows each pearly white tooth, a shock of white against tainted red.
He says, "Hiya, Sammy," and starts running out the backdoor.
'Sammy' is powerless to stop him. Of all of the horrors faced, he's never been on this side of the table and now he's too busy seeing his future and his past bind together. It's inescapable and inseparable. The devil's meat suit; he who drinks the blood of demons. The righteous man; he who was torn apart and in turn, tears apart. The thirst quencher; he who turns to mistress demon and smiles at her veins. The liar; he who speaks of family when he rips apart his brother.
Sam is frozen. He feels dead (but that never lasts). So Sam, the half dead boy wonder, moves among the wreckage before a single cell can dwindle to nothing.
The demon; he who was Winchester.
Blood covers Sam's shoes, because isn't that what blood does?
Now
As time passes, the once ordered stacks of newspapers are turned to clutter. At first, there were two stacks; one of unread papers and another for the ones that have been read. Now desperation and aggravation sprawl research across the table. What Sam had been trying to do was look for clues. It's all been messed up though.
Things are going wrong. Wrong enough to shake up the natural order, and loud enough for Heaven to hear. All across the Midwest, droughts are plaguing some small towns, while others are being flooded. The seasons come and go faster than they should. Even regular people are taking notice. But still, there's no rhyme or reason for it.
Sam's scrupulous in what he does, but this place is still coming undone.
Maybe he really is getting too old for this. Maybe this is the kind of thinking that might have once been answered with the reassuring retort, "bitch."
Sam rubs at his mouth, rough and frustrated. He needs to concentrate. Moping won't help. Something- no- someone is causing this. There's got to be a clue of whom somewhere.
After all, monsters don't just disappear.
Case 23 [A little over two years after The Event]
Sam has always liked organization. It's proactive, it increases efficiency, and it's nice to look at. Sam's never had very much stuff, and he's always had way too many problems, so it makes sense to be as particular about the 'who,' 'what,' 'when,' 'where,' and 'why' as he is about weapon storage. In an ironic sort of way, it seems like it's fate for Sam to be so stuck on organization. After all, isn't the devil's in the details?
He organizes because he wants control. This need has always been around, mostly manifesting itself erratically. Maybe it's why he left the family business, or why he was so power hungry (bloodthirsty, in a metaphorical and literal sense), or why he let himself get pushed around for so long.
He took the route that was predictable, but that burned away with the flames of a demon. He took the route that gave himself the power he always wanted, but it turns out he was the worst sort of control factor. He let others take over, trusting that even the most harebrained ideas were better than untold destruction on a biblical level. That one eventually led to an angel hijacking his mind. No go.
All that's left is to accept the particular brand of fate that follows him. It's misfortune. It's pain and suffering. It's controllable in its own way.
No one says much about his OCD tendencies, but that's mostly because there's no one left. Sam's been meticulous about that. He can count on his hand the number of people he cares about, he can list out addresses of the homes and graves of those people, and he can decide that he doesn't need any more numbers to remember (even if phones do come equipped with address books nowadays).
Sam's alone now and it really is for the best.
SOS
Scratch that. He's usually alone.
Earlier that day, Castiel had appeared outside the bunker. Sam had been reading the top book out of a pile of books about demonic spells and lore, ordered from most general to most specific information, when he heard a loud knock. Knock. Sam got up to investigate. There was a pause distorted by the echoes of said knock, followed by three more louder, booming, desperate knocks.
It's not like the knocks themselves were really all that interesting, but Sam had been getting edgier and edgier in the past month, and so the interruption had brought forth a rush of paranoia and adrenaline. Years of being alone had turned Sam into the monster killing machine he's only been on very rare occasions. Sam might be meticulous about not making friends, but he's very generous when it comes to making enemies (though he has been cutting back in recent months, losing interest in everything except for the search).
This time, it had turned out to be Castiel at the bunker's front (and only) door. Sam made sure of this, splashing the angel with holy water and (kind of lightly) jabbing him with a silver blade, before putting down the knife and gun both hands had been holding.
Castiel had been pretty mellow and unperturbed about the whole process. The only thing he tacked onto the interaction was a greeting.
"Sam."
Sam didn't bother with returning the sentiment. He was already walking back into the cave of solitude and lots of books, and figured gesturing for Castiel to come in would be good enough.
He was right. Castiel walked right on in.
SOS
It's been two weeks since Castiel had invited himself into the bunker. Sam wants to be angry, or at least gruffly annoyed, but he can't find it in himself to be either thing when Castiel has such a knack for dusting and tidying. It really feeds into the whole unhealthy, symbolic OCD thing Sam's been working at.
The days are a changing, and an angel is the cause. It sounds like some sort of Christian rock song, or maybe a pastor's sermon, but it really is just a passing comment. With Castiel around, Sam finds that he's focusing less on his tunnel vision obsessions and internal monologues about isolation being a means of control. Instead, Sam is sharing these views with Castiel, who in turn, is taking Sam's words of guidance to heart.
Now, the two of them work side by side, reading books, searching the web, and destroying any clues of actual human presence in the bunker (by ways of cleaning, with a heavy emphasis on no dirty laundry anywhere but in a hamper and no food in bed). They're like a fearsome fighting, studying duo. Sam supposes there was a time when the two would have been called nerds and shoved out into sunlight so as to go gank some monsters, but then Sam decides it's best not to suppose at all. They've got better things to do.
Like research. And memorizing spells, studying, planning ahead… The two of them are doing just fine like this.
SOS
Another month passes in much the same way.
It's not like they don't do anything. They spar. Sam is still a big hunk of human steel and is pretty confident that he could still decapitate a vampire with wire if need be. Castiel is getting better and better at blinking consistently. Sam's a little on the pasty side, but that's pure aesthetics.
"Sam."
"I know, I know. This spell doesn't make any sense. If there was really that much lizard brain, then it wouldn't mix properly with the-"
"Sam."
"Huh- What do you want?"
"I have heard rumors of a demon in the northeastern area."
"Okay, so? There's lots of capable hunters out there. Especially these days."
"I've heard that even other demons are avoiding this one."
SOS
The sun is searing against the black of the Impala, swathing Sam's skin and sinking deep into him like stains on cloth.
He'd forgotten what this kind of travelling was like.
This is the type of travel that carries over, through days and nights. There's little to no stopping, with gas station stops that are more akin to supply runs during war than stopping for just gas. Then there's a certain crawling feeling, like time is escaping you and you're losing to it. There's the need. Not the selfish, I need this kind, but the all-encompassing push of a job as important as this kind.
It makes Sam grimace. These used to be the pure feelings of the hunt, but now they're just wrong. Sam doesn't fit this anymore. It's all pear-shaped and loopy, like he's a funhouse mirror version of what he once was. Because he's different now.
Not just because he's obsessed with order, he's a control freak, and he can't even hold a polite conversation. But because the thing that used to make him who was has been torn out of him. Like it was never even there. There's just a gaping nothing.
Not that it matters. Sam's got work to do and Castiel's back from the convenience store part of the gas station. He's brought the water and sad-looking salad that Sam asked for. Good, wholesome health food, fit for rabbits and men.
SOS
Turns out they drove for nothing. By the time they got to the town and had hunkered down in a moderately nice motel (not a single "Magic Fingers" in sight), the trail had gone cold. No one knew anything, or at least they were to shaken up to want to let two total strangers with faces made of stone know about the scariest moment of their lives.
Sam tried to use the techniques that had served him well a long time ago- the ability to make himself look nonthreatening despite his size, the patience and slow way of getting information, the compassion- but it has since then deserted him. It's like he forgot how be 'Sam the Hunter.'
Now, Sam and Castiel are sitting in the motel. Neither have anything to say, but Sam is clenching his fists so hard he's sure he must be bleeding. Monsters don't just disappear, but it seems like an exception will be made if Sam's involved. Sam relaxes his hands and feels a twinge on his palms. Yep, they're bleeding.
"Sam?"
Castiel's always the first one to start their conversations. For years now, Cas has been reaching out to Sam, talking to him and forcing him to interact, even if it's for just a moment in between long spans of nothing. Sam looks up from his hands, stares across the gap between the beds at Cas who is sitting in the bed opposite of him. To think that Sam speaks to angels more than humans. It's almost hilarious.
"-to leave, Sam." Castiel pauses, looking Sam straight in the eyes. He's always doing that. This time Castiel just stares Sam down. He stares and stares. Like maybe he can give all of his thoughts to Sam just by eye contact.
Sam can't look away, but he hates the feeling rising in stomach. To distract himself from it, he says, "What are you trying to say, Cas?"
"Heaven is in turmoil. There are no leaders, no rules, no balance between order and free will. Civil war is threatening to break out all over again."
Cas pauses again, to add significance to what he's just said, while Sam just nods impatiently. Cas sighs and looks away for the first time.
"I was hoping to help you find your brother before it got to this point. I'm sorry Sam, but I've got to return to Heaven. I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back, but I know it won't be soon."
Sam finally speaks, cracking out a small grin. "Well, I guess you've got to get back to it then. Show those angels how it's done, alright Cas?"
Cas shares a smile similar to Sam's own attempt and the two get up to pat at each other's' shoulders. It's a brief, bordering on impersonal, and then Castiel blinks out of sight. In turn, Sam falls back onto his mattress. He paid for the night, so he might as well get some sleep before he drives back to the bunker.
'Alone at last', Sam thinks to himself pointedly.
Now
"May I take your order?" The question comes from the other side of the diner.
Sam is far more startled than he should be. He's finding that the clues, the secrets, the mystery surrounding this particular brand of disaster are slipping right past him. Sam feels the same gut instinct as when you feel as though you're being watched. It's that hair-raising, prickly feeling that can't be reasoned with or ignored. Catastrophe is near, breathing on his neck, but Sam is near useless.
It sets him on edge.
Sam's a full grown man. He can swallow down pain and disappointment, tragedy and terror, with a grimace and a pack of bullets. But not right now. A din of laughter and muttering, memories overlaying roadmaps and newspaper clippings, tweak him in all the wrong ways. He's unraveling, as if he's never been here before; like he hasn't squared off against evil before he could legally drink and with a shotgun in his hand.
And there's a couple on the other side of the diner who can't bear to break eye contact for mere seconds. And the waitress stands in front of them with a fond smile, just a twinge of upturned lips, at their love. And Sam can't bear to look at anything so pure ever again. Sam's a full grown man, falling apart slowly and pulling himself together with alcohol and stitches.
He can't look because all he can see is the end of the world. The signs are reminding him of the darkest days long since passed. It's like living nightmares of the devil and apocalypse, of monsters taking over corporate America, and of angels falling are coming back again. This time, he's alone and he doesn't know what to do.
So when Sam sees that couple, he thinks, at least they'll die together. But that's not what he's supposed to think. He's meant to save them, to fight because hope never dies and hunters never rest. That's why he's still here.
He's got work to do.
Interlude [Fourth Anniversary of The Event]
Sam has a fair amount of experience with monsters. Well, that's actually an understatement. Depending on how you look at it, all Sam has ever known is monsters.
If his mom could have been held up against a black light, Sam's willing to bet some nightmares would show up. That's the woman who gave birth to him, held him, and sang to him. And then there's his father. He's the one who went to war and then turned right back towards it because it invaded his house.
There's a whole childhood worth of monsters… shifters, werewolves, ghosts. There's the demons who skulk around the Winchester (and Campbell) name like it's cocaine. Yellow eyes, who turned Sam into something wrong because of the name. Alistair, who carved Dean into a form he should never have had to be. Ruby, Lilith, Crowley. Even angels are monsters (just with better advertising). Uriel, Naomi, Metatron… Lucifer.
Sam could go on.
It's always been up to the Winchesters to scurry along come hellfire or black goo. The name is used by heroes, but also by others who are less deserving- who will undoubtedly end up turning away from all the horrors left in their wake just so they can crawl along in the dirt another day longer.
But it used to be that Sam didn't understand. Sam would like to believe that he knows enough and is powerful enough to see the good, the reason for hope, in the family he has chosen, but Sam knows he's just blinded by expired promises.
Once upon a time, there was Ellen and Jo and Bobby and Garth and Charlie and D… But Sam has no one left to fight for. All he has is himself and he doesn't deserve it.
If Sam could, he would hold his breath until he either petrifies under the pressure of eternity and becomes a statue memorial with a plaque that reads, "Here Lies the Failure, Lazarus's raiser and Demons' beckoner," or until he passes out and dies of brain damage.
Instead, Sam gets to stand in front of an empty memorial to a name no one will remember, knowing it should have been him.
So that's what he does. He stands there indefinitely as time passes both fast and slow, the sun becoming moon and stars. Then, when it's the latest it can be before the night turns to early morning, Sam turns away like he always does.
Now
Sam finally finds a clue.
It's actually pathetically simple. Sam had been looking at the clue this whole time. Nothing weird is going on here in Maine. That in itself is weird. When the whole world is screwball sideways and one place stays upright, there's definitely something important about that one place.
Sam has no idea what the hell is up with Maine, but he almost wonders if it's the epicenter of all of it. Like the eye of the storm, home base, whatever.
It's a start, but Sam still has no freakin' way to stop this upcoming calamity. He doesn't even know what disaster is brewing, or where it's coming from. Hell? Heaven? Purgatory? He's seen the damage each of those realms can do, so no doubt whatever happens will be bad, but they're all bad in different ways…
Sam dearly wishes he were part of a team again. Sam is actually the worst person (besides Castiel) he knows for giving pep talks. As it is, Sam's version of a pep talk right now is, hey, at least we're not all dead yet. Yet.
To be perfectly honest, Sam has lost all hope. The more entrenched he becomes in this, the more hopeless it seems. It's like someone once said. The world keeps getting itself into trouble. It's never going to stop, and Sam can't go on forever.
Then again, Sam's always been good at coming back from what he shouldn't. Maybe he'll outlast the whole friggin' world. Maybe he'll save it.
Sam is just so tired.
He needs another cup of coffee.
Case ? [Five and a half years after The Event]
Sam screams.
Each finger is being crushed, slowly and purposefully. Like there's all the time in the world and this is the hallowed mission. Torture one Sam Winchester.
Again, Sam screams.
Another finger has broken. What Sam feels is an inflated pounding, excruciating pressure that encompassing his hand and then expands. It's like the pain has threaded itself with the atmosphere, so as to make more room for this feeling.
And then the foot that's been grinding his hand moves. Sam's been collapsed against concrete for at least 20 minutes, but maybe it's two hours. It's hard to tell. Only now though, has there been a pause.
A knee plants itself beside his hand. And now opened hands are coming at face so, so fast. But then again, maybe Sam's just lagging. Like an old computer.
His face is jerked towards his left, rotating his view upward. A tear, or sweat, or drool- Sam isn't really feeling qualified to decide which- falls down face.
He can't talk. His face is swelling too much from early when he was punched in the face. Again, and again, and again. If he could talk though, he would say, "This isn't you."
But he can't, and maybe that's a good thing. He doesn't know if he could sound like he means it.
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. Why didn't you let me go, brother?"
SOS
"Saaam! Dinner's on the table."
If it were at all possible to become a shape shifter without being bitten, Sam would bet good money on being the one to pioneer the way. He near turned feral, locking himself away in the bunker for months and months. Barely eating, never speaking, forgetting that sunshine is a vitamin and not that thing other people go out in. Basically, Sam is in bad shape.
He has on good authority, that of Jody Mill, that she had called him at least once a month for a year, and then once a week for another couple of months without a single response. Eventually, she decided she was done with that radio silence and dragged Sam out of the bunker by his ear. He's pretty sure they both heard him growl as she did that.
Today, three days after that fateful day, Sam wonders if Jody is trying to turn him from wolf to turkey. She's been stuffing him with her 'famed' chili and poking at him. Like she's waiting till his plump enough to cook and eat…
Long term isolation does funny things to the mind.
"Yeah, I'm coming Jody." Right, answer people when they talk to you.
SOS
The sun is setting, casting hues of royal purples and whimsical pinks across the lower rim of the sky. And above that rim are speckles of star, glowing and scattered like dust. It's a beautiful night, and Sam inhales freshly turned dirt and dying blades of grass.
This is a moment that doesn't last. It never does.
"You ready?" That's Jody, who had kindly offered her help over dinner.
Sam sighs, swipes at his face like his hand can brush away the worry, and says, "Yeah."
"Et ad congregandom, Eos coram me. Get your ass down here… bitch." Okay, so Jody does things a little differently than Sam had anticipated. Still, it gets the job done…
"Well, hello love. Pleasure to see you. And ah, Moose! I suppose you have need for me and for some reason expect me to help you out."
"Listen here, 'Roderick,' I have a question for you and I expect that you will answer it."
Sam is all ears. Jody sworn up and down, left and right, and all around, that she had this covered. The situation doesn't seem very promising yet, but Sam figures Jody must have some sort of trick up her sleeve. Hell, maybe she found something in what remains of Bobby's stashed cornucopia of lore and secrets.
"And why is that, darling?"
"Because you owe me."
Crowley narrows his eyes and says, "How so?"
"You botched my first good date in years and I want you to make it up to."
Crowley snorts, disbelievingly. This time, Jody is the one to narrow her eyes. Then her lips purse and somehow, something inside of Sam quivers a little in fear. Crowley doesn't seem to be immune either, as he straightens up a bit and looks away, pretending to brush lint off of his suit.
"You mister, are going to tell my dear friend, Sam Winchester, here, where his brother is. And if you don't know that, you are going to tell him any information you know that might help him out."
Sam holds his breath. Crowley stands there, stunned and dumb. Jody doesn't break eye contact with Crowley for a single moment. Somehow, Sam pities the poor King of Hell.
Crowley spills everything.
SOS
In the end, it didn't matter.
Sure, Crowley had some prime bits of information, but Sam and Jody hadn't realized how sorely underprepared they truly were. The two of them had spread out across the small area Crowley had assured them Dean would be. They had been near surgical in the search, and they did indeed, come across Sam's brother.
Yet, Sam wishes they hadn't. Or at least, he wishes he had never allowed Jody to tag along.
Dean was inside of an old, rotting barn. Unsurprisingly, but horrifyingly nonetheless, there were several dead bodies strewn across the ground. A couple of cows were left alone, but fear was palpable and they cried in distress until Dean shot a look at both of them that sent them dropping.
One look and they were dead.
The next thing Sam and Jody had known, Dean shot out a hand in their direction, which was actually behind Dean's back, and clenched it. As his hand clenched, the both of them grunted as a pressure squeezed and tugged at them. Violently, they hurdled through the doorway and across the barn.
They crashed against the wall. Sam shook it off and tried to stand. Jody did not get up.
"Funny seeing you here," Dean says, not looking at Sam.
Sam says softly, "Dean," and Dean whips his head towards Sam. Sam can't help but gasp. He's known what to expect, but it doesn't change the fact that he's never seen Dean's black, demonic eyes before now.
Dean smirks and says, "Hiya, Sammy." Then everything goes dark.
SOS
Sam doesn't know how long ago anything was when it happened, but he's weakening. Dean knows how to hurt, always has Sam supposes. But now Sam is appreciating as much as the fog in his brain will allow, first hand.
His head has been kicked in, his fingers broken, his ribs ache like they were held up against burning kindle wood, and he has a brief moment of insanity where he thinks about how he really needs a haircut. Strands keep falling in his eyes, stingingly.
"Little brother, I wish I could say that I've missed you. I guess I could say it, but that'd be lying and we both know how that turns out, don't we Sammy."
Sam shifts against the concrete, uselessly and only managing to waste any energy he has left.
Dean kicks him.
"Oof." The grunt is involuntary.
Dean tsks, almost sounding disappointed. Sam has no illusions though, and knows his brother is just playing with him. Too bad for Dean, Sam's too tired to be any fun.
Sam must have all the luck, because this actually irritates his brother, and so he grabs at Sam's hair and pulls him up by a chunk of strands. Now they're looking each other in the eyes, and Sam can't help it when his own water.
He also can't help when he says, "This isn't you Dean. I can help you. Please. Just let me."
Dean drops him, Sam falls gracelessly and heavily, and Dean laughs bitterly. "Right. Help."
Dean turns away, kicks at some piece of metal and continues, "I don't want your help! I don't need it."
Sentiment has always been the name of Sam's game, and it definitely shines now, at the least sensible of times. With these feelings of love and loyalty that Sam now realizes will last forever, he reaches out for Dean. Even though he can barely speak, even though he can't lift a single finger never mind a whole arm, Sam still reaches out.
In response, Dean growls. Then, Sam blinks.
And Dean is gone…
"Sam! Sam, where are you?"
Sam thinks two thoughts before he passes out. The first is, 'oh, Jody's alive.' The second is, "He didn't kill me."
Now
"Order up!"
It's the first time Sam has heard the cook say anything. Somehow, Sam forgot the man was there. Which is dumb, because if he weren't there, there would be no food. Sam is starting to notice a pattern of him missing the obvious. It's not a good trait for a hunter to have.
Sam is still waiting for his coffee. He could actually go for more food too (so it's a good thing he ordered some). Sam skipped over the healthy choices, because he's always picking those. This time around he ordered a big, ol burger.
Sam's combed through all of the papers he's brought with him. Of course Sam hasn't looked through the entire freakin' internet, but he's pretty sure he's found everything that might be useful. Anything else that might reveal more of what on earth is going on is going to have to wait till Sam can do some field investigating.
Which he will do. Soon. But right now, he's just going to sit here and wait. The clock is ticking and his food should be ready soon.
Current Case [Four days ago]
Sam is at a dingy hotel, reading. It's light reading, but only because Sam is distracted and tired right now and has no retention powers for important reading right now.
Ever since Jody dragged him out of the bunker two years ago, Sam never returned. He realized after his encounter with his brother and immediately followed hospitalization that it was making him weak. He holed himself up, used all of the coping mechanisms- mental crutches- he had depended on his whole life, and cut himself away from reality.
He's never making that mistake again. If he's going to get anything done, he needs to be a killer (not a human killer, so much as a monster killer). Lethal, instinctive, and using his size as another weapon of the hunt- they're all traits meant to keep him sharp.
He's chasing down leads for whatever strikes him as important, or detrimental to humanity. Lately, every bit of news he comes across alarms him. He'd be scared if he wasn't so experienced with endings and if he hadn't already come across the worst things.
As it is, he's determined. Not just the 'I really want things to go like this' kind of determined, but the gut wrenching, till my last breath determined. He's found a few reasons in this world, ones that keep him half way sane and slightly less than blindly bloodthirsty. One is drilled into the core of his being, and the other is the more general goal of keep the world running because we need somewhere to exist.
So yeah, he's having a hard time concentrating on his light reading.
"Sam."
Sam, for a split second, thinks, 'What is it now?' Then, he thinks, 'Wait, I know that voice.'
Son of a god… It's Castiel. Sam raises an eyebrow at the exceptionally tardy angel and says, "You've been gone for quite a well."
Castiel seems a bit startled by his nonchalance, and Sam can't help but snort. He gets up from the bed he's been lying on and says, warmly, "It's good to see you Cas."
Castiel says, "I have been very busy in heaven, but I had hoped to come back sooner," even as Sam wraps his arms around the angel for a very rare, reunion hug.
"Does that mean all is right in Heaven?"
There is a long pause, and Sam is experienced enough to know the answer. No.
"No."
Sam's face twists in worry, and he says, "So why are you here then?"
Castiel walks towards the window, and gazes out of it. Sam wonders if Castiel has a soft spot for the entirety of Earth. Does Cas miss the sky, the trees, maybe even the air?
"I believe we may be at war again. The signs are similar to the very beginning of when there was a hint of the rising of the apocalypse."
Sam says, "Is it the way nature isn't working like it should?"
Castiel turns sharply towards Sam and demands, "Explain."
"The monsters are nearly nonexistent in some places, and seem to overrun other places to such an extreme that normal people are noticing. The weather changes faster than it should, earthquakes seems to be hopping around America in some sort of weird road trip like pattern while there hasn't been an earthquake anywhere in California in months."
Castiel looks away, muttering, "I was afraid of that."
Sam waits, and Castiel continues, "I think deals are being made on every plane. Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, Earth. Nowhere is at peace. The demons have split into factions, some larger than others, but one of the most powerful factions being comprised of only a handful of demons. The angels are asking questions, but ignoring their duties and any answer offered. We're all fighting against each other."
Sam is silent for a few minutes, almost afraid to ask. But eventually, he does. "Do you think… Could he be involved?"
Castiel sighs heavily. Then he says, "It's… possible… Maybe even plausible. You Winchesters do have a profound ability for screwing up the order of almost anything you get yourselves involved in."
Sam smiles crookedly, because it is a truth he's particularly well versed in. As quick as the smile appears though, it disappears just a quickly.
Sam says, "What should we do?"
Castiel says, "There is a place Maine that seems to be an essential piece to the plan that is unfolding. Go there, and try to find out what's happening."
Sam says wryly, "Just a regular old assigned hunt, like back when we first met."
Castiel gives Sam a halfhearted smile, before letting Sam know that he will be taking his leave.
Then he's gone and Sam starts getting ready to go to Maine.
Now
All at once, everyone within the diner drops. The cook who'd been barely noticeable from his cubby in the wall behind the register, the couple who couldn't bear to break eye contact for mere seconds never mind when they had been asked what they'd like to order. The waitress.
Sam turns his head to the front door, because if this isn't someone making an entrance, then Sam must be 31 again and wearing a tiara.
The world had already stopped the moment everyone dropped dead, but now the very air in Sam's lungs has stopped too.
He's there, right in front of Sam.
He still stands straight, like time is just a guest left waiting at his front door. He still walks like a western hero, a swinging gait and loneliness at his shoulder. He hasn't shaved in a while and he looks rumpled, but the crinkles around his eyes are sweeter than anything Sam can recall.
He is still Sam's brother. He is still the same demon that tortured Sam years ago.
His eyes shine just as black as before, his hands are more scarred than last Sam knew (he thinks of all the blood that must have fallen on them), and it is a more tender smile than ever before that Sam sees.
He takes a step forward.
Sam pushes himself up, slowly, heavily, and the slow creak of the table as it takes the burden of Sam's weight is the only sound that cuts through the silence that sits between the two. Sam's mind slows to a halt. Sam can almost feel the burn of his brother's presence, grating against any defense Sam has built over the years.
Dean says, "Hiya, Sammy."
And Sam finds that what happens next doesn't really matter.
SOS
SOS
The Event
Time is steady like hands trained for killing. Everything is stagnant- each breath bated, every nerve decaying.
When Dean opens his eyes after death, there's a moment where time is steady and everything is stagnant, and memories lie fixated alongside stuttering time. Then whatever may have lingered in his mind goes away so fast. None of it seems to have ever really mattered.
The moment is when he sees that the world is tinted yellow- the yellow of childhood nightmares maturing into adult binges on soured beer, the yellow of fading bruises and fever on sickly little boys who spent a little too much time being cold and hidden away in dark motels, the yellow of school buses and sunshine and sometimes fireworks, the yellow of old linoleum tiles in countless bathrooms and moth eaten sheets.
The yellow of rotting eggs and sulfur.
Then the saccharine nostalgia of time is swallowed down and lost to him. The change of his eyes- black and void- comes before he sees his brother again.
That's when Sam thumps heavily into his room. Dean is better than he's ever been and he can smell the pitifulness of his brother like a pungent deposit of lucidity. It is a scent of weakness and grief and salty tears. Dean snarls, gripping tighter at the first blade (a cacophony of blazing terror and twisting-souled instincts turned to its truest, sweetest dulcet tones), and lunges at his brother.
And Sam reacts too slow, flinching by the time Dean has already wrapped the blade along the curve of Sam's neck.
Then Sam is saying, "This isn't you, I know you Dean. You can fight this!"
Sam doesn't know anything. Sam doesn't know about time, or yellow, or the ringing of his own blood as it trickles from the thin, playful cut on his neck. Dean though, he knows all about the blade and the kinds of things it wants.
He says, mockingly, angrily, bitterly, "Bye, Sammy," and then runs before his brother's prayer answering angel can come.
Dean is letting sharp promises of the first blade pull him along and Sam is crying out, "I'll save you Dean! I promise- we'll find a way to fix this."
For the first time, Dean doesn't fall for Sam's lies.