It's September and Sam Winchester sits on his bed with his notebook propped up against his knees. His face is scrunched in concentration as he scribbles the monster's face across the page. He should be packing up his things but for some reason he can't get his mind off the Lingora. It's dead. He should just let it go. Yet still something feels wrong here, he just can't figure out exactly what. He scratches at a spot behind his ear absently.
"Get a move on, Sammy," Dean says, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He slaps Sam's leg as he passes. "Dad wants us packed up and in the car in 10."
"Yeah, I'm coming." He taps the end of his pencil on the notepad. Forget this. He tears out the page and tosses it into the trash. Then he starts gathering his things.
In the back seat of the impala Sam sits with his head rested against the glass and listens as Dean and his father go over the events of the hunt. New strategy and ways they can improve. Dean's suggesting some sort of diversion tactic for next time. Sam sees him raise his arm and examine his elbow where his skin is held together by a jagged line of stitches; John's handiwork.
"Damn thing almost had me there for a second," He says.
"Almost had all of us," says John, "That was close, boys. A little too close, I'd say. Sam you've got to keep your head in the game, damn thing almost cut clean through you. And Dean for that matter."
"Yeah," Sam says, absently scratching behind his ear.
"I mean it," John says sternly, looking at him through the rearview mirror. "What the hell happened back there? Dean and I were trying to get it into the trap and you were off somewhere in La-la land."
"I know I just—"
"You didn't stick to the plan. You could have gotten us all killed, Sam. Did that ever cross your mind?"
Sam rubs his forehead. Had that crossed his mind? He isn't sure. The whole night feels surreal, like a dream or memory that had been told to him by someone else. Like it didn't belong to him. He's felt this way a lot lately. He hasn't shared this with his father or Dean, not when they've had so much going on lately. Whatever, he doesn't feel like having this argument with his father right now. "Sorry, Dad." He says half heartedly.
His father's eyes narrow at him in the mirror but he says nothing more.
...
It's dark. Unfathomably so. Sam stands in this darkness which has no end and no beginning and he faces the only other thing in sight; a mirror. It is tall with no framework around the edges. It almost looks like a giant blob of mercury suspended in mid air. Sam leans forward and prods it with his finger. His reflection on the other side does the same. When the two fingers meet he feels something odd. Something like…skin. Flesh against flesh. He gasps and jumps back. Mirror Sam does the same. This isn't right. It can't be real. But he doesn't have time to work it out because just then the mirror explodes into pieces and the Lingora bursts through it, charging straight towards him…
"Up and at'em, Sammy Boy!"
Sam nearly jumps right out of his skin. He jolts upright so fast that his head hits the roof of the impala.
"Woah, woah, easy there cowboy. Where's the fire?" Dean's hand is on his shoulder, presumably what had shaken him awake.
Sam rubs his aching head, "Wu—what's going on?"
"We're at Bobby's, halfpipe. You've been asleep the last couple hundred miles. Must have been some dream too, you were twitching all over the damn place."
Sam swallows. His mouth is dry and tastes of metal.
"Hey," Dean says, more seriously now. "You okay?"
Sam blinks up at the rusty old junkyard that he knows to be Bobby's place. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalls the image of a small blue house with dark shutters and a white picket fence.
A hand waves in front of his face. "Helloooo, earth to Sam!"
Sam clears his throat and slides out of the impala, still blinking away the fog left behind by his dream. "Yeah, I'm good."
Dean tosses him his pack and the two of them cross the dusty lot to Bobby's house.
The screen door bounces shut behind them. Dean tosses his bag onto the sofa and beelines to the refrigerator. John and Bobby are huddled around the kitchen table hunched over an ancient looking text and murmuring to one another.
Bobby's house is as it has always been; a dusty, stale place with far too many books and far too little places to put them. Books and papers in languages Sam can't even identify are piled ceiling high against nearly every wall. The frayed burgundy carpet tosses up flecks of dirt as Sam makes his way across the room.
"Jesus, Bobby, would it kill you to get some decent food in this place?" Dean says, closing the refrigerator door, disheartened.
"Would it kill you to have a little patience, ya idijt?" Bobby grumbles over his shoulder. "Foods in the oven, should be ready in a few."
Dean groans in relief, eyeing up the oven baked pizza.
"You can set your stuff down in the old room upstairs, kid. I trust you remember the way," Bobby says, nodding towards Sam.
Sam doesn't respond. He's staring at the refrigerator. There's a mess of newspaper articles stuck to the door, along with some addresses, phone numbers, and a coupon for Chinese takeout. There's a picture of Sam and Dean when they were 4 and 8 respectively. In the photo they are standing in front of the impala; Dean has his arm slung around Sam's shoulder and Sam is holding a green toy truck. He doesn't remember this toy, or the day this photo was taken. Were they at home? Sam can't recall. There's another photo too; one of a baby Sam in his crib. The photo is burned at the corner. Sam takes the picture from the door and looks at it more closely. Something about it isn't right, but he can't put his finger on it. Vaguely he scratches behind his ear.
Sam?…
Mom?
"Sam." He jumps a little at his father's hand on his shoulder. John's eyes are dark and serious when they look into his own. "Go get yourself unpacked, Sam. Food's almost ready."
Sam nods, swallowing against the dryness in this throat, the echo of his mother's voice still ringing in his ears.
He makes his way upstairs to Bobby's spare room; the same room he and Dean have shared countless times in the past between hunts. There are two twin sized beds dressed with moth-eaten blankets and pillows that have been collecting their drool stains since they were old enough to walk. He drops his bag onto the bed closest to him and a puff of dust blooms. He coughs and sits down. From the floor vent he can overhear his dad and Bobby discussing leads for the next potential hunt and Sam feels uneasy. Something seems unfinished about the Lingora. He plays it back in his mind. The warehouse, the dead bodies, dad and Dean stabbing the thing clean through the heart, burning the remains…it should be done. No loose ends as far as the eye can see…but maybe there's more to it that he can't see…he feels a bead of sweat creep down his neck and wipes it away.
There's a knocking on the doorframe and Dean's face appears a moment later. "Soup's on, Sammy!"
"Yeah, I'll be right there."
Dean sighs and drops his head down to Sam's level. "Alright come on. What's with the sulky Sam act?"
"What?"
"Please, I can read you like a billboard, kid. You've been acting weird for days now. Now come on, fess up. What's got your panties in a bunch this time?"
"It's just….what if we missed something, Dean?"
"What do you mean?"
The setting sunlight glows just behind Dean's head and Sam has to squint when he looks up at him. "With the Lingora. What if there's something we missed?"
"That's what's got you all screwy? Come on, Sammy. You saw the damned thing yourself. We deep fried it extra crispy. There is no way that thing is ever going to hurt anyone ever again, okay?"
Sam looks away, unsure. "I just…something doesn't feel right about it."
Dean rubs his chin. "You think this has something to do with those people we found in the warehouse?"
"What?"
"You've always had a bit of a chip on your shoulder about the ones we couldn't save. About the ones we didn't get to in time. I think what you're really feeling here is guilt, Sam and let me make this clear to you," He grips Sam's scrawny shoulders in his hands and hold him firmly, "there is nothing we could have done to save those people. We did the best we could. And a lot more people are going to live because of what we did. You got to focus in the ones who will wake up safe in their beds tomorrow because of us, not the few who weren't so lucky. You did good, kid. You really did."
Sam smirks a little. Maybe Dean is right. Maybe he just feels guilty about the whole thing and its messing with his mind. "Yeah, I guess you're right."
"Atta boy," Dean smacks Sam's cheek lightly. "Everything is going to be okay, you just gotta learn to let some shit go, man."
Sam nods in agreement.
"Good," Dean smacks his hands together dramatically, "Now can we please get a move on, I'm starving."
Dean is probably right, he just needs to learn to let some shit go. Everything would be fine. He hops up from the bed and follows behind Dean down the hallway for dinner. He's only realized it just now but he's also pretty hungry as well. He can't wait to see what their mom has cooked for dinner.