This was my 2008 submission to Jeanne Gold's Blood Brothers 2 fanzine, published last May. Of course, it was printed in one piece. I broke it into chapters here for ease of reading.
Just a few notes: this was written a few weeks before the end of season 3, so there are some differences and obviously no relation to season 4 at all. Here, the boys got the Colt back from Bela, and while there was a battle with Lilith, it wasn't the night Dean went to Hell. Dean died at a crossroads.
The story is set one year after Dean's death.
Special thanks to geminigrl11, K Hanna, and Jeanne for editing the various drafts of this story. They all worked very hard to perfect it. I own nothing. Reviews craved.
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Apocalypse
It's been a year already.
The realization dawned on him while he was cleaning the guns, waiting for Bobby to arrive at his motel room. It hit him so suddenly, he nearly dropped the bore brush.
One year.
One year since his brother died.
One year since Dean was dragged to Hell, closing the deal that had brought Sam back to life.
One year since Sam's failure.
It had been his chance, his one chance to show Dean what he could do. To show he was just as devoted a brother as Dean, could protect his older brother the way his older brother had always—always—protected him.
You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. And I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this. Guess I gotta save your ass for a change.
The words, spoken with such conviction outside that Wyoming graveyard, taunted him, rolled over in his mind night after sleepless night.
Turned out there was one thing he couldn't do, after all.
One thought rose past all the rest. Dean is dead because of me.
It was too much. He hurled the gun he'd been cleaning—the .45 his dad had given him when he was nine—against the far wall, hard enough to leave a dent in the plaster. He grabbed Dean's pearl-handled 9mm instead, cradling it against his chest while he tried to shut out the guilt.
He remembered what the Trickster had done, what it had shown him. When it made him live out his own future without Dean—months before Dean actually died—and showed him what he would become: an obsessed, revenge-driven shell. Hell, I was ready to kill someone just for a chance to bring Dean back. I almost became a monster.
Sam had kept that in mind when Dean actually died. He did his best to avoid becoming that person, to prove the Trickster wrong if nothing else.
No, that was a lie. He avoided it because being that cold-blooded, that inhuman, would dishonor Dean, and he still valued his brother's opinion of him. Even a year after his brother had gone to Hell. But damn if it didn't get harder every day.
Sam barely felt anything anymore. He'd eat food but not taste it. He'd come back from hunts covered in bruises he didn't remember getting. Sometimes, he'd look in the mirror and not recognize the lost, empty person staring back at him. Most days, he just went through the motions, at least pretending he was alive so Dean's sacrifice would still hold meaning.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the cool steel of the gun in his shaking hands. Dean's gun. He'd put it to his temple right now, if Dean would let him. Dean had been very clear on his last day, though.
You live, Sammy. I bought you a second chance, so use it.
He'd been too grief-stricken that night to do anything but nod, accepting the order and making Dean a silent promise. A week later, the unintended cruelty of the words sank in: Dean was denying him an escape from the torture of being left behind, of being alone. Rage had overcome him, and he'd trashed Bobby's guest room…and a bar down the street. A week after that, the anger had burned out and he'd accepted it as a rule to live by. He wasn't allowed to kill himself. Seemed simple enough. It'd be a hard order to follow, but he'd do it for Dean.
After that, he'd left Bobby's and hit the road again, unable to bear the familiar surroundings anymore, or the empathetic glances from their old friend. He'd moved from motel to motel, going a full month before he realized he was still paying for two beds. Didn't matter, not like either was ever slept in much. Most nights, when he wasn't on a hunt, he ended up curled around a bottle of Jack on the floor between the beds.
He kept on paying for the two queens. Probably always would. Dean had left him the ten thousand dollars Bela had paid them for saving her life, and the considerable winnings Dean had made gambling with it. Sam didn't need to worry about money for a while.
Sam shook himself out of his reverie and tried to calm himself. When his hands stopped shaking enough, he let the gun drop into his lap and just stared at it. He still remembered the last time Dean had touched it, fired it. He pretended he could still feel Dean's fingerprints, even though it was just a mildly comforting fantasy. The gun had been cleaned dozens of times since then. It didn't matter; Sam had become a master at pretending.
He gently placed the gun back on the folding table in front of the bed, and rose stiffly to retrieve his discarded .45 from the corner. His back was still sore from where a vampire had hurled him against a brick wall the week before. It was only bruised, but it had made getting up difficult the past few days. This, Sam could feel. Pain. It was about the only thing left that still registered, but even that was fading like all the other sensations of living. He didn't know whether he should cling to it, as a last reminder that he was still alive, or let it go.
Sam was definitely leaning toward letting it go.
"Sam?"
He spun around, raising the .45 toward the source of the voice before realizing the gun was partially disassembled, and now damaged from its impact with the wall. It took a moment for Bobby's concerned—and surprised—visage to come into focus. Once Sam's mind cleared, his gaze shifted from Bobby to the door, then to the salt line on the floor and back to Bobby.
"How did you get in here?"
Bobby frowned, crooking his thumb back to the doorway. "It was open. You should be more careful, kid. Something could have walked in on you."
Sam didn't respond, just walked back to the bed and tossed the .45—with considerably less reverence than he had Dean's gun—onto the table. He motioned for Bobby to come all the way inside, then moved to the small kitchenette and poured himself a shot of whiskey. He tossed it back, and held the bottle up.
"Want a drink?"
Bobby eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, I guess."
Sam poured a shot for his friend and another for himself. Funny, I used to get drunk a lot easier….
He handed Bobby his drink, and drained his glass while Bobby glanced around the room with a frown. Mildly curious, Sam followed the older hunter's gaze, wondering what Bobby saw when he looked. To Sam, it was the same thing he saw every day: the bed, made with the military precision his Dad had always demanded. Notes and newspaper clippings cut out neatly and arranged on each wall in chronological order, and in order of importance; he could always tell how long he'd been in a motel room by how much of the walls were covered. Through the door to the bathroom, his few toiletries could be seen, clean and lined up perfectly along the side of the sink.
He looked back at Bobby, again wondering what the man saw. He wanted another drink, but his guest hadn't even touched his yet, and it would be rude to get another now.
"This is a nice motel," Bobby began, turning back to Sam. His mouth turned up in an amused grin. "Got a strong Timothy McVeigh vibe going, but—"
Sam looked at him, his eyebrows knitted a little as he tried to decipher what Bobby thought was so funny. He shrugged. "I'm a little OCD."
The smile evaporated off the junk-dealer's face, replaced by that compassionate frown, the same one that had driven Sam out of the man's house eleven months earlier. He hated it, the pity. He didn't need anyone's pity. He was doing the best he could. He wasn't the one who was burning in He—
Sam stopped that thought, crushing it. It wouldn't do to break down in front of a guest.
"Sam—"
"What did you want to show me, Bobby?" Sam cut him off, moving to sit at the kitchenette's small table. He suppressed a groan as his back protested the hard wood of the chair.
The older man looked as if he wanted to say something, but whatever it was never came. Instead, he pulled a manila envelope out of his coat and joined Sam at the table. The contents slid out onto the wooden surface. Maps, newspaper clippings, weather reports.
"Demonic omens," Sam deduced instantly.
Bobby raised his eyebrows, clearly not expecting such a quick response. "Yeah, that's right, but bad ones. Most intense I've ever seen. Atmospheric disturbances, too, all over the area for the last week. Something strange is going on."
Sam examined one of the maps. "Looks like it's over the Blue Ridge Parkway."
"Close to it. The center of this, whatever it is, is near Gatlinburg, Tennessee."
Look, Sammy! Wall-to-wall jelly! We gotta stay here sometime….
Hey, man, strawberry or blueberry? Come on, Sammy, you know you want it….
Sam blinked away the sudden moistness in his eyes. He and Dean had driven through the small mountain town a few years back. His older brother had immediately fallen in love. The town was famous for the jarred jelly and jam stores, and Dean Winchester's sweet tooth was never to be denied. Sam wiped the wistfulness off his face with one hand before Bobby noticed.
"Sam…" Too late. "Look, maybe someone else should take this one."
"Why?" Sam asked blandly, the familiar numbness settling over him again.
"Take a break, son. Some time off. You've been hunting for a solid year. Go see some friends, do something."
Friends? Sam frowned to himself. Did he even have any? He hadn't spoken to any of his college friends since…since Rebecca and St. Louis. There was Ellen, and Jo…but he still couldn't look Jo in the eye without remembering flashes of what he'd almost done to her while possessed. She was skittish of him after that, anyway.
Sarah Blake, maybe. She liked him, he liked her— No. Sam couldn't even consider that. He had feelings for Sarah. He wouldn't risk— She wasn't safe around him. The experience with Madison had proven that.
So, where could he go? There were a lot of demons out there still gunning for him, especially after that dustup with Lilith. Even if he had someone to visit, how could he expose them to that kind of danger?
He shook off that train of thought and looked back at the notes. "I'll check it out."
"Sam."
That tone again. The voice that reminded him of a father, a family that loved him. A tone his actual father had used so rarely, Sam could count it on one hand. He couldn't accept solace from Bobby. Not like that. He wouldn't dump his issues on the older man.
He rose, ignoring the hand that brushed his sleeve, and stepped back to the counter. He took another shot of whiskey before offering the bottle to Bobby. The older man shook his head. Sam poured another shot for himself.
"Sam. Kid, I'm worried about you. All you do is hunt. When you're not hunting, you're reading these damned tomes." Bobby tapped the cover of an ancient text on demonology Sam had "appropriated" from a university library.
"I'm going to get him back, Bobby. He's not going to die for me." Sam squeezed his eyes shut. He already did. A year ago. He had to remind himself sometimes.
Bobby finally drained his glass, seeming to steel himself. "I hate to say this, son, I do…but Dean's been gone a year. Maybe it's time to move on. He wanted that for you. I know he did."
"Dean didn't move on," Sam muttered, eyes fixed on the countertop.
"Sam—"
"Leave the notes. I'll call you when I find out what's going on out there."
The older man sighed and moved for the door. He stopped just before opening it. "Whatever you find…call me. This job I'm working won't take more than a day or so. Don't go in alone."
Sam didn't raise his eyes, just stared at the countertop. When he stared hard enough, he could see beyond, to other times. To when he hadn't been so alone. He hated it. He hated feeling like this. He liked it better when he felt nothing at all. Damned liquor. Not strong enough.
"Yeah," he said tightly, trying to reign in his emotions. "Yeah, I'll do that."
He didn't look up until he heard Bobby's old Chevelle start up outside.
00000
"Atmospheric disturbance" didn't do the storm justice. As Sam neared Gatlinburg, hailstones the size of golf balls were raining down. He didn't want to think about what the Impala's roof would look like. Static interference, laced with EVP, blanketed every radio station up to fifty miles out. He turned down the volume when the demonic muttering became enough to make even him nervous.
Rain made it hard to see more than ten feet on the highway, and nearly all traffic had stopped. Most of the cars Sam passed—only about two dozen of them—were parked along the sides of the road, waiting the rain out. Lightning bolts were arcing across the sky every few minutes, far in excess of any normal thunderstorm.
What the hell am I walking into here?
Sam followed the road map to the coordinates closest to the center of the storms as shown on Bobby's weather printouts. It was a small two-story house on a mountainside just south of Gatlinburg proper. Sam was silently grateful for that. He didn't want to drive through any more of the town than he had to. The risk of triggering a Dean-related memory was one he didn't want to take. As it was he still had to pass through a small stretch of the main road. That was too much for his taste.
Once there, Sam parked the car at the base of the hill where the house was situated. He didn't want to alert whatever was inside, and Dean's old Chevy rumbled far too loud for a stealthy approach. He gathered the smaller weapons bag, a canteen of holy water, and the Colt, before pulling his collar up and getting out. His clothes were soaked through within minutes.
This was going to be a long walk.
Sam kept under trees as much as he could, which didn't help with the rain or the hailstones, unfortunately, but did serve to conceal his movements for the most part. It was midday, but the stormy sky blotted out the sun so completely it looked like dusk. He crouched behind a bush, scoping the house out, and almost jumped out of his skin when a bolt of lightning struck less than a hundred feet away, making the hair on his arms stand up even at that distance.
Calming himself, Sam decided to move. The rain was picking up, and the hail was falling more rapidly, so any noise he made entering the house should be drowned out. He hoped. As Sam reached the door, he double-checked the knives in his wrist holster, pulled out the Colt and the holy water, then tried the door. It wasn't locked. He nudged the door open with the barrel of the gun, and slipped inside.
The interior would almost pass for normal if he overlooked the shattered windows and the thin film of sulfur over most of the surfaces. Sam crept forward, weapons ready, passing through the den and into the dining room. Nothing, except the sulfur, was out of the ordinary. A few broken picture frames hung at odd angles, as if someone had been tossed around. He knew all about that; his bruised back protested as he twisted slowly around a corner.
Normal stopped when Sam passed into the kitchen at the back of the house. The still-burning light bulbs in the ceiling fan flickered constantly, creating a strobe effect. The cabinets and drawers were open, their contents littering the floor. Chairs were overturned, and the countertops were stained with blood. A back door led out to a patio, but on the opposite wall was a narrower, battered wooden door. A trail of dark red blood led to it along the floor and walls. Sam grimaced. He had a feeling it was already too late for whoever lived here.
He moved to the smaller door, checking behind him before pushing it open. It squeaked and he froze, but nothing happened. He pushed it open slower, keeping the noise down. The door opened onto a steep wood staircase leading down into a basement.
A small voice in his head told him he should get help, backup. But that line of thinking only led to Dean, and Sam needed to focus. He squashed the thought and proceeded down the stairs as silently as possible. Nothing and no one challenged his movements. The floor was concrete, and lit by some flickering light or lights from around a corner. Sam could only see the bottom of the stairs and a wall from that angle.
He reached bottom, and spun around the corner, Colt at ready. Sam froze when he saw what was there.
An inverted pentagram, drawn in chalk and outlined in blood, covered the floor. Above it, hanging from the ceiling rafters directly over the five points of the star, were a man, a woman, two young children, and a dog. They hung from their feet, hands tied behind their backs. Their throats were slit, and blood pooled in each point of the symbol.
Sam just stared for a moment in horrified fascination. What kind of sick freak kills the whole family and their dog?
All macabre musings fled his mind when the smell hit him. Frowning, he edged closer, moving around the pentagram but not crossing it.
On the far wall of the basement was another closed door. Blue and yellow lights in the next room seeped through the cracks, outlining the door in the gloomy surroundings. Sam glanced to either side, scanning the room. Time to party.
He moved in, hearing chanting as he got close. The door opened away from him, into the next room. Bracing the Colt over his hand that carried the holy water, he reared back and kicked the door open. It was so old, he broke the hinges, and the entire thing fell sideways, leaving the opening clear.
Inside, against the far wall, a bright blue whirlpool of light and smoke hovered a few feet off the floor, roiling like a tiny, silent hurricane. The center was pitch black and featureless, but somehow seemed to stretch into infinity beyond the wall. Sam had never seen anything like it, outside of some movie he'd watched with Dean once. Something about a Navy ship going back in time.
On the floor in front of the bizarre vortex, kneeling inside a pentagram identical to the one beneath the dead bodies, sat a young man, little older than a high school student. He stopped chanting and spun toward Sam as soon as he realized he wasn't alone. The boy's eyes were solid black—possessed for certain—and he had a bloody gash along his cheek. Probably from the fight that wrecked the kitchen.
He rose and lunged at Sam, snarling. Sam reacted quickly, slinging a stream of holy water into his attacker's face and sidestepping out of the door frame. The kid went down, shrieking, steam rolling off him as the holy water scorched the demon within.
It recovered enough to lock eyes with Sam. The possessed boy growled, and Sam was yanked off his feet by an invisible force and hurled into the opposite wall, landing in a heap next to the spinning vortex. A few feet to his left, and he would have landed in it. Whatever it was.
The impact caught Sam on his already sore back, and he cried out as he crumpled to the floor. He flailed, trying to get back on his feet, but his abused back muscles were slowing him down.
While he struggled to rise, the demon was already back on its feet, wiping the steaming holy water from its face and eyes. "Well, well," it wheezed. "Little Sammy Winchester himself. What an honor."
Sam kept his eyes on his opponent, but couldn't help note with dismay that the vortex was spinning faster, and more erratically, since the demon had stopped chanting. He had no idea what that meant, but it couldn't be good.
The demon stalked toward him, sneering. "The others will hate me for getting to you first."
Sam sneered back. "No, they won't."
He splashed another dose of holy water at the demon, hitting it again and causing it to stumble backward. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sam raised the Colt and fired, point blank. The enchanted bullet struck the man in the chest, just below the collarbone. Yellow-tinged energy crackled and sparked along the man's skin, and he fell to the ground with an expression of shock frozen on his face.
Sam grimaced, trying to keep his back straight as he pushed himself up the wall. Freakin' demons…. He tried not to think of the young man he'd just killed along with the bastard inside him. Pushing the thought aside, he staggered forward, glancing warily at the whirlpool of energy. It seemed to be sucking the heat out of the room, and even the air was visibly warping around the edges of the "storm."
The circle where the demon had been kneeling was the same as the one outside, though without the blood and with a few characters inverted and rearranged. Sam had no doubt the two circles were linked, but he had never seen them before. The demon was dead, but the swirling "storm" was still there. The circles must be related to it.
Worse, as the vortex picked up speed, it seemed to be drawing things in. Loose papers and objects all around were moving inexorably toward the disturbance. Wind was picking up as the air was drawn in along with scattered debris. Sam found it increasingly difficult to keep his footing as he struggled to reach the circle to try to shut the thing down.
He pocketed the holy water and fumbled in his jeans pocket for his switchblade, thinking maybe breaking the painted circle would be enough to disrupt its power, the way it did to devil's traps. Sam was mere inches away from reaching his goal when the wind got stronger. He had to drop to his knees and use his hands to balance himself against the force of the rushing air.
Ultimately, Sam abandoned his attempt to reach his knife, all his energy and both hands focused on keeping his place on the floor. He slid a few feet backward, and panic started to set in. He was in trouble. There was nothing to hold onto within his reach, and the concrete floor offered little resistance to the growing gale.
As his hands lost their grip, and he felt himself lifted up, Sam thought maybe he should have called Bobby after all. One last notion flitted through his mind before he was engulfed in darkness. I hope this isn't a black hole, or I'm screwed.
TBC