Chapter 27: Through Hell and Back
Before he'd acquired his strange sleepwalking talent, Sam hadn't given much thought to his dreams. On the occasions he did dream, Sam never lingered on them. To him, they were nothing more than chemical reactions of the subconscious processing the day.
Then his dreams turned into reality, and everything changed.
Blood and gristle squelched under Sam's boots, mixing with the stench of the sewers and flying up in a spray behind him. These sewers barely resembled the ones that stretched out beneath Lawrence, but he didn't cease the breakneck pace. Bones lined the distorted walls, the gaps in between fibulas and spines filled by a heaving, breathing wall of shadow.
Despite the unfamiliarity of his surroundings, street names still flickered through his mind, somehow correlating to the tunnels he dashed through. Sam mumbled them under his breath like a demented prayer, clinging to the real-life roads as a reminder that the blood-filled tunnels existed only in this nightmare.
Sam didn't look at the shadows in the walls too closely. They had too many eyes and teeth, and he knew that if he let himself be pulled in, he'd be picked down to the bone by malicious, greedy hunger.
He didn't look back either. Whatever chased him made the walls look benign in comparison; Sam knew that without having laid eyes on his pursuer. Besides, there was only one person who could be chasing him.
Come on boy. You can do better than that.
The walls began to cave in, accompanied by the rising blood water mixture. Sam waded through it as fast as he could, shoulders hunched in a measly defense against the misshapen limbs now reaching for him from the walls. A raspy laugh echoed around Sam, rattling in his ears over the frantic pounding of his heart. Sam didn't know which would get him first: the rising water or the living walls.
"Where are you now?" Sam cried out, balanced on the knife's edge of rage and terror. His pursuer had vanished behind him, taking to the air in disembodied vocals.
The more important question is, where are you?
Yellow Eye's retort held a smirk. Sam couldn't reply. The water had risen too high, and the sickly red light illuminating the sewers winked out, leaving him in intense darkness.
Doesn't matter anymore. You're in for a whirlwind Sammy.
Sam swore through a mouthful of iron and sulfur, then screamed when something grabbed his ankles.
The darkness rushed by in a stream that roared in his ears. Sam's lungs burned, and even though he knew it was all some twisted nightmare in his mind, it really felt like he was drowning. Whatever had a grip on him wasn't letting go, and no matter how hard he thrashed, Sam couldn't break free.
Just when Sam's lungs were on the verge of collapsing, the watery darkness gave way to a hardwood floor. Sam smacked into it, knocking what little wind he had left in a muffled gasp.
Bone dry and disoriented, Sam immediately scrambled to his feet before the floor could give way beneath him. He came face to face with a framed picture of his mother, wearing the same blue dress she'd always appeared to him in. Sam didn't think the picture existed in real life, and a glance at the others confirmed his thoughts. Nearly all of them were of Mary on a farm, perhaps in her hometown, but definitely before she'd ever met John Winchester.
Like this, it's easy to see who Dean took after.
Sam looked around warily. He was home, but it wasn't exactly like home. The pictures were an obvious discrepancy, but other features were off too. The ceiling was a bit too low and the walls askew in a way that constricted his breathing. This version of the family home had been haphazardly created around him to cage him in, with the final proof in the form of a smooth wall in place of where the front door should've been.
It smelled different too. Instead of alcohol and gunpowder, Sam picked up the distinct sickly-sweet stench of rot, spread on lazy air currents generated by the softly turning fan in the living room. Locating the source wasn't on Sam's priority list, but he had no choice. Around him, the walls leaned in like bullies, urging him onward.
Sam gagged as he stepped into the kitchen, pulling up his short collar and half turning from the source. John sat at the small kitchen table, slumped against the wall. The pistol (a favorite of his Sam recognized from training) lay on the floor, glinting with light that came from no sun or bulb. Files filled the table, and on top of them, John's journal; the same one he'd never ceased to carry around even after filling it with all the information he had on Mary's case.
Sam averted his eyes from his father's face. Even if he hated the man for the mess he'd made of his childhood, that didn't mean Sam wanted to see him like this.
"This is what I expected John to do when I killed Mary."
Sam whirled around, fist flying through nothing but thin air. Yellow Eyes chuckled from behind him, voice still disembodied like before but carrying a quality that made it sound as if he was right behind him.
"Quick on your toes. Your old man must've instilled that in you," Yellow Eyes said dryly. "I guess that makes things more interesting than this scenario."
"What's the point of showing me this?" Sam asked testily, refusing to let Yellow Eyes get under his skin.
"Because I felt like it," Yellow Eyes sighed, sounding put out. "Shock value, but you're hard to shock. Or maybe your father is the wrong person to be using. No love lost there, right?"
John was replaced by Dean, and this time, Sam couldn't help the flinch and violent churning in his stomach. His instinct told him to step forward and help, to do something, but he couldn't do anything for this Dean.
It's just a dream, it's just a dream-
"Ah, that's more like it," Yellow Eyes purred, "Sam and Dean, two traumatized peas in a pod. Dean is Daddy's little soldier, isn't he? He's well on his way to living in a bottle just like Johnny or putting a gun to his head and shutting all those demons up for good."
"Fuck off," Sam whispered fiercely, wishing he could walk out of the kitchen and finding that he couldn't. Invisible ropes held his feet in place, forcing him to watch.
"Or maybe he'll die in a brawl. He's so violent. Did a number on my little acolyte," Yellow Eyes mused, his voice bouncing off the walls like a ventriloquist was in control. "I did warn the foolish boy not to toy with Dean and be done with it, but alas, he didn't heed me. If it weren't for the gift I bequeathed him, he would've been done for, even with his talents."
Sam noted Yellow Eye's ramblings just in case he did recall anything when he woke. There was no doubt the killer was speaking of The Crucifier.
"But I tire of this. Time for a change of scenery," Yellow Eyes declared, his voice filling the whole house with a manic edge that Sam knew deep in his gut meant bad news for him.
Sam was right. After the kitchen, it all went downhill. There were a thousand ways for someone to die, and plenty of people Sam cared about for Yellow Eyes to play with.
…
Awareness came in the form of falling snow.
Sam blinked away snowflakes from his eyelashes. In the distance, a cabin stood lit up from within with yellow light, defying gravity by sticking up sideways from the ground.
Sideways?
Forming the single, coherent word in his brain through the ghost images of blood and guts did the trick. Sam's soul slammed into his body like an eighteen-wheeler, bringing just enough awareness for him to realize that he'd been let out of the gory circus Yellow Eyes had strung him through and plopped into a snowdrift, mere yards from the cabin he and Dean shared in hazy memory.
An image of one of the hundreds of Deans he'd watched be hurt and die flashed through Sam's mind. He recoiled physically from it, rolling out from the drift's grip just in time to vomit.
Yellow Eyes hadn't spared anyone. Sam wasn't sure which one had made him snap and rage-either little Ben or Gabe-but he knew that he'd gotten angry enough for the strange grip Yellow Eyes had on him to slip. It wasn't enough for Sam to break free from the prison his mind had become, but it was enough to land him in this no man's land of a memory.
Somewhere beyond the pines, Sam could hear a thready voice calling his name. It didn't sound like Yellow Eyes, but he ignored it anyway. This was the closest he'd ever been to the cabin, and for all the uneasiness the light instilled in him, the towering trees didn't radiate safety either. Better the cabin than the woods for now.
Sam wiped his mouth and staggered to his feet. One way or another, he'd finally see what was inside.
Cloying incense and cedar smoke replaced crisp mountain air. The light got brighter and brighter until all Sam could see was white as he crossed the threshold. For a moment, the combination of scent and light overpowered him, but Sam managed to squint through his watery eyes to make out the interior.
John blocked his view. Sam side-stepped him to find that the cabin was essentially one large room, with a door on the far side by the fireplace and strategically placed curtains and furniture blocking sections off. Beyond that, the layout hardly mattered, as it was what was going on in the middle of the cabin that caught Sam's eye.
An enormous Enochian circle glowed yellow on the floor, brighter than the fire in the hearth and the single light bulb fizzing and popping sporadically overhead. Dean lay within it, Enochian runes painted in something resembling blood all over his bare chest and back. He slept, and dreamed, judging by the way his eyes flicked back and forth beneath pale lids.
Sam's ribs itched with a phantom heat that he scratched, echoing what he'd done what felt like ages ago in Gabe's bathroom when he'd first dreamed of this place.
"Are you sure this will work?" John asked the woman barely visible through all the light.
Sam walked around the other side of John, trying to make her out better, but her dark hair shielded her face. A young version of him lay on a worktable, and she didn't shift her focus from methodically painting runes that matched Dean's.
"It should. I've copied all the notes right down to the last rune. I'd feel better if I could read them for myself, but…well, you'd just worsen the tail you already got hounding you if you tried to find someone that could read these."
"Right," John said, and Sam was astonished to find that concern was written all over his face. He looked younger here; more like the father Sam could remember before the alcohol. "So, Dean's going to be alright?"
"He won't remember a thing," the woman assured, still focusing on her work. "His talent is easy to lock away, but he'll always be stronger than normal and his inability to feel pain will remain. Be watchful of that."
"And Sam?"
Here, the woman paused. The light show from the circle began to dim. For a second, Sam thought that it was because the ritual was done, but there was more dimming beyond the circle. Everything was, like a steadily encroaching vignette.
"Sam is…different. I won't know until the ritual is over, but his talents are stronger. Missouri was right when she said he was special."
Whatever John replied with, Sam couldn't hear. Fog began to engulf the cabin before his eyes, and the last look he got was of Dean's freckled face, still lax with sleep, and the glow within his chest that outlined his ribs in red and shadow.
Time contorted itself, forcing Sam back out into the snow on his back. Stars gleamed overhead, spilled across the clear sky in a splash worthy of observation, but Sam only had the cabin in mind.
However, the cabin no longer existed. In its place, a tree burned, tossing embers into the sky on tongues of lashing white flame. It burned so hot that Sam could feel the heat from where he crouched in the snow, and with the heat came whispered voices in Enochian.
Sam hesitated, entranced by the phenomenon. Did he dare to get closer, or did he go?
The choice was made for him when, off to the side, a familiar golden light flashed into life.
Can you hear me, Sam?
"Gabe," he whispered, properly standing to turn towards the woods.
From the burning tree, the Enochian took on a more guttural quality. The fire didn't want him to go, but its irritation only solidified Sam's decision. Gabe had never led him astray. Somewhere in the real world, he was waiting for him, calling his name on the half-chance Sam could hear him.
"Maybe some other time," Sam said to the tree, unsure why he felt the need to reassure the fire. Out of everything he'd experienced so far, it seemed the least likely to have some double meaning or bearing on the future. A burning tree could just be his imagination, even paired with Enochian.
Sam?
The fire flared, dancing in the wind. Sam watched it, wondering how long it'd been burning and if it would burn forever, before turning away. He knew that Gabe wouldn't be able to lead him out of the labyrinth while Yellow Eyes still had him (and he did; Sam could sense his presence beneath the surface of this dream layer), but Sam had a feeling he'd get him through the woods.
Sam took a breath and plunged into the pines, following the thin path the light illuminated.
Gabe's voice always stayed ahead and a bit above, like a bird hidden in the branches. Brambles began to choke the downward path Sam followed. They tore at his legs and feet, but the pain was inconsequential. Between the moonlight and the golden light guiding him, Sam could make out most of the landscape, and couldn't distinguish anything that indicated Yellow Eyes was nearby. The shadows stretched as regular shadows did, and the air remained clear of sulfur.
Unfortunately, the peace didn't last. Gabe's already soft voice was the first thing to go, leaving him bereft and chasing after a light that grew weaker with every step he took. Sam began to run, matching the sudden frantic pace of the light.
Just a little further, Sam thought, panic choking his throat of being left without the light. The pines were starting to be replaced by gnarled, stunted things that barely passed as plants. Shadows replaced snow, sneaking away from trunks with a life they shouldn't have possessed.
The woods ended abruptly. Sam plowed through the last of the stubborn brambles, crashing straight into what remained of the light.
A faint bloom of warmth filled his chest, rejuvenating his spirits before fading and leaving him standing at the top of a hill. Down the grassy slope, a church he didn't recognize (a common pattern at this point) stood tall, breaking the night with a classic white steeple.
Sam didn't see what else he was supposed to do or where else he could go, so he went to the church. The darkened stoop wasn't exactly welcoming, but the grand double doors gave in to his hurried push, so Sam decided to look past the empty eeriness. Sanctuary was sanctuary, wasn't it?
His blood-wet feet (and when had he lost his shoes?) left behind sticky footprints, but there was no one around to mind, not even in the sanctuary. Standard rows of wooden pews took up the left and right, bordered by stained glass windows that weren't totally visible in the dark. Crosses hung on the walls and over the pulpit, but it was what was on the floor that caught Sam's eye. Papers spread across the hardwood, the only sign of disarray in the otherwise still, untouched room.
Curious (but also cautious), Sam bent down to grab one of the papers, doing his best to keep his feet from them. It was folded like a letter, and when unfolded, revealed font reminiscent of a vintage typewriter.
To whom it may concern,
Ishmael has been blessed by the angels…
Sam skimmed the letter before picking up another, quickly sensing a trend when he encountered a similarly phrased letter, this time referring to an Oriel.
"Oh no," he whispered, looking out over the sea of letters before him.
There must've been dozens of letters lining the floor. Sam rifled through them, seized by an urge to find the names he knew amidst the pages of insanity. How many babies had been left in churches, harboring instinctive knowledge of a dead language in their heads? Why hadn't anyone connected the dots? If there were so many, didn't that technically mean Enochian wasn't a dead language?
A half-hysterical laugh bubbled out of Sam's mouth. He was getting blood on some of the pages now, but the names were crowding his head and distracting him from the mess. Jophiel, Puriel, Yomiel, Muriel; on and on until they all began to melt into one big mystery. All the letters gave a name, birthday, and some vague angelic explanation for their abandonment on church property, and none of them mentioned Enochian.
He found Castiel's, read it ("Born on a Thursday into his namesake"), and pocketed it. A minute later, he found a letter containing an anomaly. Instead of one name, there were two.
"Michael and Lucifer," Sam whispered, frowning at the birthday, "Twins?"
Isn't Agent Arch's first name Michael?
"No way," Sam muttered (Michael was a common name, so it could be a coincidence), but also pocketed the letter. It was the only set of twins he'd found so far, but he still needed to find Gabe's.
There. Illuminated by a fragment of moonlight, with a corner wedged into the frame of a pew. Nothing about it stood out from the rest, but instinctively, Sam knew it was the one. He unfolded it with trembling fingers and scanned the letter, burning the words into his mind.
January 7. His birthday was just a couple of months before we met, Sam thought, tracing his finger over Gabriel's name.
A cloud passed over the moon, casting the already dark church into something a few shades darker. Outside, the night stilled in a manner that raised goosebumps on Sam's skin. Something was coming for him.
Sam hastily shoved the letter into his back pocket with the rest, scanning the room. There had to be an exit somewhere, but where would he go from here?
Does it matter? Run into whatever hidey holes are left, and then keep running.
Being trapped in his mind was getting old. Sam's feet continued to bleed, but in typical dream logic, the injury didn't hinder his progress as he ascended the platform and passed the pulpit in search of an exit.
Something smashed into the double doors (automatically locked; the church really was a refuge), sending a reverberating boom through the building that showered dust from the rafters. A second later, Yellow Eyes called his name in the sing-song tone Sam hated, raining his fists down onto the doors.
"This won't keep me out forever," he promised, trailing off into a cackle, "A bit on the nose, but solid! You're a fast learner, Sammy."
The stained-glass windows shivered, the holy images within them warping from empty peace to wariness and terror. Sam gulped as their eyes shifted towards the double doors, wide with fright. Only one looked his way, and Sam didn't know whether to scream or laugh as he saw the golden horn clasped in the image's hand. The archangel Gabriel, standing resolute but useless in his colored glass.
Did Yellow Eyes think he made this place? Sam didn't have time to ruminate on the implications that the mind madness he was embroiled in could be harnessed; he needed an exit.
"Open up! Running only prolongs the inevitable," Yellow Eyes cackled, voice cracking the rafters, "I! Am! Inevitable!"
Crosses began to turn on the walls like some cheap horror flick. Sam turned his back on them, unwilling to give in to the scare tactic. What he needed to do was focus and solve the problem at hand before Yellow Eyes got in.
There were no doors behind the platform. Sam slammed his fists against the unforgiving brick, tearing open his skin on the surface in his desperation.
"Come on! How do I get out?" he asked himself, pushing back from the brick with a growl of frustration.
Use the letters.
As soon as the thought occurred to Sam, it all clicked into ludicrously simple place. There was no time to think it through, but he could spare a second to try it.
He pulled a letter out from his pocket and slapped it against the wall, willing it to work. Castiel's name looked back for a single instance before the paper seeped into the surface, white mingling with rusty red. Inked words flashed gold, and just like that, the letter turned into a door.
I made a door, Sam thought wildly, turning the doorknob just as Yellow Eyes broke down the doors with an enraged howl.
Yellow Eye's howl melted into a crescendo of cold wind. The door acted like a vacuum, sucking letters out at a speed that gave Sam cuts on his already battered legs. Beyond, Sam saw gray, and nothing more.
Just step through, Sam thought, blindly stepping through and letting the door slam shut behind him. He'd made it, so wherever it led, it had to be better than Yellow Eyes.
…
Lawrence streets unwound before him like a ribbon from a spool, tangling into each other and forming a grid that Sam drifted over, reduced to little more than a wisp. The storm clouds had more substance than he did, rumbling with long-held rain and flickering with trapped lightning.
The initial power Yellow Eyes wielded over him had been reduced to a tiring give and take. Using the letters that had fallen through with him, Sam managed to open doors into everything from formless wastelands to memories both old and new. Sometimes Yellow Eyes caught up, sticking him in either the gory circus or something the man described as educational. The first of the "educational" scenes had been of Yellow Eyes entering Lawrence for the first time with a trunk full of sadistic tools and an itch to kill.
"But not just to kill," Yellow Eyes revealed, turning his head to pin Sam with a toothy smile that he returned with a hateful glare from the passenger seat. "You see, there was a mission within my mission, much like these dreams within dreams within nightmares."
"Cut the shit," Sam spat boldly.
Yellow Eyes turned his gaze to the road. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but behind them, Sam could see hellfire.
"Your mother," he said finally, the scene fading just as they entered the city. "She was the one I was meant to kill. The others were just a bit of fun along the way."
Sam pondered this in a detached way, skimming along the bottoms of the thunderheads. Through the weariness, he could see the importance of Yellow Eye's reveal for what it was: his mother had always been the man's endgame (just like she'd said in that vision of the basement), and it had something to do with the talent she'd passed down to him. Yellow Eyes hinted at that much when Sam worked up the nerve to ask a question he'd been holding onto since John had explained just what happened to his mother.
"Why did you spare me?"
He and Yellow Eyes sat in a bar so filthy and dank that Sam knew the place no longer existed in his time. Yellow Eyes was looking past him; no doubt stalking one of his first victims. The downside of being dragged through the killer's hay days was that Sam had no control over what the man chose to reveal. But he could ask questions, and while some got him hurt in response, others might get him a real answer.
"And I mean at that moment. Not all this justification after, about wanting to mess with me and ruin my life," Sam added when Yellow Eyes started to sneer, "When I was a baby, why didn't you kill me."
The sneer fell away to a disturbingly blank face. Sam had seen everything from homicidal range to unholy glee on the man's face, and none of those emotions scared him as much as the blankness before him did. He looked completely inhuman, as if his body was only a vessel for the hate and horror that fueled him.
"You're starting to get into the stuff I don't want to reveal yet. Timing is key, Sammy," Yellow Eyes replied autonomously before the flame flickered back to life somewhere inside his head, "Would it surprise you if I said your mother made a deal?"
The way Yellow Eyes said deal sounded grave, but Sam had no clue what the man could be implying beyond the obvious.
"So what, she convinced you to let me live and in return, she went with you…willingly?" Sam asked, feeling sick to his stomach. It was a sacrifice in line with what a mother would make, but that didn't mean he had to like it.
Yellow Eye's smile shone like a blade, and yes, Sam was missing something. He was getting far too good at reading the man's face, and the smile said that there was far more to it.
Time became inconsequential, measured only by the letters Sam had at his disposal. When Yellow Eyes caught him, one would form either in his pocket or in some hidden corner that he could snatch it from, starting the race anew.
But now there were no more letters, and Yellow Eyes had grown distant. Something outside of Sam's head was occupying him, leaving him to his own limited devices.
Hopefully the police, but most likely it's his new acolyte, Sam thought, managing to infuse a spark of sarcasm into the words.
Below, Lawrence finished forming itself. A dark, oily fog crept in at the edges, spreading like ink in water to cloak the streets in darkness.
Speak of the devil.
Sam frowned down at the city. There'd been no sign of The Crucifier (or Death) in his mind thus far, save for the disturbing references Yellow Eyes made regarding his "acolyte." One of which was that The Crucifier had been the one to make both shrines, and much to Sam's horror, he was extremely eager to get his hands on him.
Yellow Eyes toyed with the idea of delivering him up on a silver platter, but Sam knew better. He wouldn't let his new pupil kill him anytime soon, either in fantasy or for real. Sam's endgame belonged to Yellow Eyes and The Crucifier was either too jealous or too lost to insanity to work that out. This meant that the relationship the two killers had was already on the rocks and would end catastrophically once they realized that they simply couldn't agree on what to do with him.
It wasn't how he envisioned being of use, but Sam decided that if someone had to be of interest to two serial killers at once, it might as well be him. It wasn't as if he had anything else to make his life interesting.
Above him, the clouds rumbled ominously. Sam took that as his cue to drift downward, accompanying the first drops of rain on their fall to earth.
A closer looked revealed disturbingly empty streets. Sam skimmed over the top of the black fog, cringing away from the pure malice and fury held within it. He couldn't discern a visible source, but it all flowed towards the heart of Lawrence.
Sam soared upward, cutting through the soft rainfall. He couldn't sense Yellow Eyes (a presence he was uncomfortably good in detecting at this point) but that didn't mean the man wasn't far behind. He felt obligated to investigate, but he'd have to do it carefully.
The first body Sam spotted was on the west side of the city. Fog shrouded details (and Sam didn't want to get any closer), but the prone silhouette was unmistakable. Like dominoes, they started to fill the streets, laid out on sidewalks and lanes, and increasing in number as they reached the Kingsford Parallel.
"But where is he?" Sam muttered to himself, unwilling to voice any of the monikers. It might wake some slumbering beast he didn't have the strength to deal with.
Bodies seemed to be concentrated in some areas over others. His map of Lawrence (hammered into his head courtesy of John) revealed a disturbing pattern. They were all party hubs: bars and nightclubs, along with the occasional private residence.
With that information, Sam understood what he was looking at. These were the casualties of demon blood in a future Lawrence; one that might be too late to prevent completely.
The rain increased in intensity with a low rumble that shook the earth. Startled, Sam decided it was time to leave the sky, touching down on a roof right as lightning split the sky open. His feet absorbed the shock, and in a second, Sam had his body back.
"Who's responsible for this?" he yelled, abandoning caution with the renewal of physical limbs. Sam didn't know if Yellow Eyes was listening or not. "Are you part of this too, Yellow Eyes?"
No reply. Lightning struck again, exposing the world for a white-hot second that revealed nobody but Sam in the death-riddled city. He was alone.
A fierce swell of rage filled Sam's chest. He wanted to scream at the sky and be let out of this nightmare. He wanted to wrap his hands around Yellow Eye's throat (or Death's-hell, both would be great) and finish what should've been done long ago.
Above all, Sam wanted to go home. Gabe's voice flitting in and out was no longer enough. There were no more hideouts. Slowly, but surely, Yellow Eyes was wearing him down to the brittle bone. Perhaps his respites had merely been illusionary, allowed on Yellow Eye's unpredictable whims.
Sam sat down, bracing his head in his hands. The thrumming rain coaxed him to sleep, but could he even sleep within an already deep sleep?
He couldn't summon his habitual curiosity to care. The downside of having so many questions answered with either Yellow Eyes tossing answers his way or rediscovering them as he trekked through the murky corners of memory lane was that there was no time to process anything. All he could do was chase lights and run from shadows, and hope he'd wake up.
The rain softened. Sam raised his head, wondering what the change heralded, and was pleasantly surprised to find that Yellow Eyes wasn't in front of him. It was only the storm passing, leaving behind vestiges of a flat, steely sky.
"Well, that's a nice change of pace," Sam said, feeling safe enough to lie back and wait for…something. Moving didn't seem to be the right course, so he let the rain stream down the sides of his face and kept his gaze fixed on the sky.
The answer drifted down from the clouds. Sam remained where he was, summoning just enough energy to stretch his hand up and meet the object halfway.
A downy feather, somehow dry despite the rain, landed on his fingers. Somewhere between gray and blue, it shimmered with a gossamer light that reassured Sam it wasn't meant to harm him. He clasped it in his palm and brought it to his face, twirling it this way and that so it caught the meager light and refracted it like glass.
"Pretty," Sam murmured, eyelids drooping. The feather wasn't much longer than his hand, but it had a presence that urged him to hold on to it.
Sam clutched it to his chest, enjoying the mild warmth it radiated. Around him, Lawrence began to disintegrate, but he felt that more than he saw it. At this point, he was too tired to fight the change. He decided to accept that the feather was the source and went with it, even as it began to burn in his hand and fill his ears with the same voices of the burning tree.
Lawrence, gone.
Yellow Eyes, going. Past his own surprise, Sam could sense Yellow Eye's. He tossed a grin in the direction of the sulfur and smoke, relishing the silent scream of fury as Sam slipped free from the nightmare realm.
See you on the other side, bastard.
…
Stale house air never tasted so good.
Sam gasped like a drowning man as his mind reset itself with a jarring slam back into his body. Skin burning, muscles aching, mouth dry, eyes stinging. Reality, warm and filled with voices, welcomed him back. Every nerve fired at once, telling him that he was very alive, very sore, and being held by multiple hands.
"Ow," he coughed, cracking his eyes open.
Colors looked back, bright and dancing lively. The voices went with the colors, but Sam could only stare, trying (and failing) to make out the faces that went with them.
"Sammy!"
"Ah, it appears to have worked."
"Give him some space. Ben, what are you doing here?"
"He'll need water, right-?"
"Sure sounds like it…"
"Everyone take a step back, you're confusing him."
With a rising sense of panic, Sam called out for the first person that came to mind, giving up picking out anyone in the explosion of color as a lost cause.
"Gabe," he rasped, "Gabe? Are you there?"
"I'm right here," Gabe murmured, golden aura floating before him. His hands grasped Sam's shoulders, providing a focal point that he used to make out flesh and blood.
"Can't see your face," Sam whispered, unnerved by the way Gabe's face remained out of focus.
Other blurry faces emerged from the splashes of color. Lisa, moving with determination to check his vitals with Cas trailing behind her; both only distinguishable by their dark hair. Sam could sense but not see Dean lurking in the corner, a smaller aura glued to his side: Ben. Beyond them were even more people, but Sam's brain refused to take in any more past that point.
Secondary emotions ran through Sam like a pack of panicked prey, trampling him with overwhelming feedback. Usually, Sam could regulate how much auras affected him, but his defenses were lowered and in all the confusion, they swamped him.
Make it stop, make it stop-
"Make what stop?" Gabe asked frantically.
Sam hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud or curled up on his side with his eyes squeezed shut until Gabe spoke. Seeing hurt his eyes and already throbbing head, and he wanted no part in it when he couldn't even make out faces.
Someone said something about adjustment periods in the background, but those words were barely coherent through the white noise filling Sam's ears. He could barely hear himself think.
One by one, the auras flitted away, removing the feedback until all that remained was green. Brotherly, warm, but also filled with concern and exhaustion.
"Sorry about that Sammy. Come on, let's reset," Dean murmured, gently touching his arm.
Sam carefully focused on Dean's aura, observing through narrowed eyes the way valleys and hills dissipated into a calm, emerald sea. Usually, it was more lively, towering above everyone with light and life, but now, it soothed him in familiar sweeps of sturdy, stubborn comfort.
It does that when he's trying to calm someone, Sam thought idly, recalling how many times Dean's aura had unfurled like that when dealing with Ben as a fussy infant.
Piece by piece, the world rebuilt around him. Dean stroked his arm, providing a grounding point of contact until Sam tentatively tried to sit up.
"Better?" Dean asked, propping the pillows up and studying him intently. Much to Sam's relief, he could see his brother's face now, right down to every last freckle and faded scar.
But he could also see much more beyond that. Dean's aura had never been clearer, and the sheer detail of it astounded him. It was as if someone had changed the resolution and saturation, leaving Sam to figure out how to adjust.
A vision upgrade. Just what I needed.
"I think so. How long have I been out?" Sam asked, frowning down at the IV in his arm and fearing the answer.
"A few days," Dean replied grimly, "It's Tuesday night. Lisa stuck you with that earlier."
Sam groaned, pressing his IV free hand against his forehead. Tuesday night?
"What'd I miss?" he asked, dreading what could've possibly happened in the time listed. Half of Lawrence might've burned down. The Crucifier, or worse, Yellow Eyes, could've killed more people. For fuck's sake, Dean and Cas might've gotten together officially, and he would've missed out on it!
"Well…" Dean started, rubbing the back of his neck. Flits of emotion scattered through his aura like minnows, eventually settling on something between satisfied and confused. "They caught the Crucifier?"
"They-what? How?" Sam asked, flabbergasted.
"That's for your trickster to tell. I don't know details," Dean sighed, "I just woke up a couple of hours ago and heard for myself. No sign of Yellow Eyes though."
"There wouldn't be. He hasn't waited twenty years to fuck with us just to get caught his first week back," Sam frowned, his head spinning at the news.
The original case-the whole catalyst for him and Gabe coming together-had concluded without him. After late nights, pursuits through the streets, and memorable events both good and bad, Sam had slept through the finale. It was so anticlimactic that Sam could hardly believe it.
"Are you…okay?" Dean asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.
"Yeah. Besides feeling like I got hit by the Impala," Sam joked, attempting to soothe Dean's worries.
The joke fell flat. Dean's anxiety only increased, a grimace cutting across his face. He seemed to struggle to put his thoughts to words, but after clasping his hands together, found the strength to speak.
"We couldn't wake you up," he started softly, eyes averted, "Sometimes you screamed like you were caught in some horrible place. I couldn't help you besides carrying you to the damn tub when we had to give you an ice bath to bring your fever down. I thought you were gonna burn up. I…I don't want to see you like that again."
Sam's stomach sank, twisting in guilt as Dean scrubbed a forearm over his eyes and cleared his throat.
"I'm gonna shoot that fucker right between his yellow eyes for what he did," Dean growled, jutting his chin at the nightstand. "I thought that feather would be a load of crock, but when it started working…"
Sam followed his gaze to where it ended at a mason jar holding a very odd feather. It was pitch black as if charred to a step just before ash, but it was the same size and shape as the one he'd held in his last dream before tumbling back into the real world.
"It's real," he murmured, bending his head to study it further. No other details leaped out; nothing to show how far from ordinary it was beside the quick shiver Sam could've blamed on the chill of the room.
"Your boyfriend's fancy friend, Balthazar, used it to wake you up somehow. He's got all sorts of tricks up his sleeve," Dean muttered, warily eyeing the feather as if he expected it to combust at any moment.
Someone knocked at the door. Sam could sense it was Lisa, with a few others loitering in the hall behind her. Cas, Gabe, and someone whose aura he didn't recognize. Balthazar.
"I'm going to bring just Lisa and Cas in so they can check up on you. Then you can Milton," Dean ordered, raising a hand before Sam could protest. "I don't want you to get overwhelmed again."
"Fine," Sam replied curtly, crossing his arms and doing his best not to look stupid pouting. He hated when Dean made genuinely good points.
Judging by Dean's smirk, he hadn't succeeded, but Lisa and Cas were already coming in and bringing a unified wall of medical expertise and concern his way. Combined with their blue auras brought to crisp definition, Sam had his work cut out for him trying to prove he was healthy enough to get out of bed. He bore their ministrations as best he could but put his foot down when Lisa tried to keep him hooked up to the IV.
"I don't need it anymore!" he protested, grasping the pole firmly with one hand to keep it out of Lisa's wily grasp. "Come on Cas, tell her I'm fine."
"He is awake and not as dehydrated as we thought," Cas admitted, but continued with a stern frown. "However, leaving the house is impermissible in your state. I doubt you could get down the stairs on your own."
Sam scowled but didn't rebut him. Cas was right; every muscle he possessed ached, and even if he got past the dull headache throbbing in his skull and mustered up the energy to stand, his legs would betray him.
"Should I…take this?" Lisa asked about the feather once they'd taken the IV out and stopped (at least in Sam's opinion) smothering him with unnecessary attention.
"I'll handle it," Cas replied, gently grasping Lisa's hand to keep from connecting with the jar. His aura dominated with quiet ease. "Go back to Ben."
"Alright," she said dubiously, shooting one last glance at Sam. She didn't have to speak for Sam to know that things were beginning to move out of her depths.
He wasn't surprised the feather, despite its apparent normalness, unsettled her. Of all the things Sam had seen and learned to accept over the weeks (and he'd seen some crazy, logic-defying shit), the unassuming little feather topped the list.
"Since when does Lisa listen to your medical advice?" Sam asked, watching as Cas picked up the jar delicately.
"Since I showed her what Ben likes to call magic," Cas said, frowning at the feather before glancing at him. The shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual, and his aura carried an air of lingering exhaustion beneath the ease that spread the shades of blue throughout the room. "My skill was useful in keeping the worst of your symptoms in check, but I couldn't heal you completely."
"No worries," Sam dismissed, sensing the regret and guilt spilling forth in gray shades. "You did your best, which is more than many people bother doing."
"I suppose," Cas sighed, "I'll send Gabriel in. He will catch you up on everything. Please don't overexert yourself."
"How would I…oh," Sam blushed as he caught the stern, azure overtones adding to Cas' meaningful gaze. "I wouldn't!"
Cas hummed doubtfully but sent Gabe in without further comment.
The exchange of blue for gold happened instantaneously, with the colors ratcheting up to a degree that led Sam to physically squinting against how bright Gabe's aura was.
But the sight of it was nothing compared to the physical warmth it lent Gabe's immediate embrace. One second he stood in the doorway, and the next he was throwing himself at Sam with nothing more than a choked sound, for once speechless.
Sam soaked it all up, his trembling fingers tangling into the back of Gabe's jacket as desperately as Gabe's arms were thrown about his neck. They only parted when Gabe suddenly went boneless on him, drawing a muffled grunt from Sam at the unexpected weight.
"Shit, I'm sorry," Gabe said, immediately springing away, much to Sam's disappointment. "Balthazar said you might be more sensitive upon waking, but I didn't expect-and God of course you're still sore-"
"Woah, slow down," Sam said, reeling from the barrage of words. To make matters worse, he could now pick up a sickly yellow-green color in Gabe's aura. Physical pain, old and lingering beneath the surface.
For the first time, Sam properly looked at Gabe and was horrified by what he saw. A bruise blackened his eye and went in tandem with a butterfly bandage over Gabe's eyebrow. He'd been in a fight, and acid burned in Sam's gut at the thought.
"Who the fuck did that to you?" he asked, outraged.
"Er, The Crucifier. Well, actually Max Miller, since we were right about him," Gabe explained, catching Sam's hand before he could touch his face. "I'm fine! I got a little scratched up by his sword-"
"Scratched?"
"It's nothing," Gabe laughed nervously, "I didn't even need that many stitches!"
"You have stitches? You're killing me here," Sam groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was angrier mentally, but physically, he was too tired to express how much he wanted to kill Max Miller for laying a finger on Gabe.
"I'm fine. Nothing I won't recover from. Just try to relax, please? For me?"
Sam did so reluctantly, already settled on examining Gabe more thoroughly later. Gabe fell back into an armchair Sam only just noticed was pulled up by the bed, kicking up his feet on the edge of the bed.
"I had your ridiculously strong brother lug this upstairs," Gabe explained, picking up on his confusion, "If I was going to be the concern-stricken lover holding vigil over you, I was going to do it in comfort."
Sam's started laugh quickly threw him into a coughing fit, but he didn't regret it at all, even when Gabe had to help him drink some water.
"This sucks," he sighed, falling back against the pillows, "I was asleep for days, and I wake up feeling tired."
"It'll take a few days for you to feel 100% better," Gabe explained, running his fingers through Sam's hair and wincing as they got caught on tangles, "Feel up for a shower?"
Logically, Sam knew the bathroom was only two doors down, but it might as well have been a thousand miles away. That, and a part of him was reluctant to show so much weakness in front of Gabe. Despite all they'd been through (multiple relationship defining incidents they'd shared in bathrooms came to mind) Sam couldn't quite overcome that final hurdle without some encouragement.
However, Gabe was familiar with his idiosyncrasies and smiled reassuringly. It was one of his more handsome smiles, and Sam hated how easily charmed he was into listening.
"C'mon. You'll feel so much better once you get it done, and it won't be the first time I've seen you naked," he winked, managing to infuse humor into the embarrassing situation.
"I guess," Sam relented, allowing himself to be helped up. The only other person he'd let help him like this would be Dean, but his brother's aura had revealed he was grappling with issues of his own. There was no point in bothering Dean when Gabe was right here, willing and able.
Once Sam got over himself, it wasn't that bad. Gabe was gentle, and a comfortable silence filled the bathroom as he got himself back into order. The steam lulled Sam towards complacency, which was the only reason why he agreed to the bath instead of stopping at the perfunctory show he'd managed to drag himself through.
"Nonsense," Gabe said, already rolling up his sleeves, "This is the nicest tub I've seen in my life, and a soak will do your muscles some good."
Sam couldn't argue against Gabe's logic and didn't particularly want to. Soaking in the tub did sound nice, but as the water filled, he couldn't help but recall that early, terrifying incident of waking up in an overflowing tub.
You're in for a whirlwind, Sammy…
Timing is key-
"Sam?"
"I can't remember," he said, the realization solidifying itself as soon as he spoke, "My nightmares-I can't remember them right."
The general knowledge was there, but the grisly details were absent. It was as if his mind had been picked over carefully, removing all the nasty bits that would've had Sam completely traumatized upon waking. When he tried to recall what he was sure happened, nothing floated to the surface. Just some disembodied words from Yellow Eyes and main events like the cabin in the woods and the church came to mind.
"That was the secondary purpose of the feather. It's primary was to break the weird spell thing Yellow Eyes had on you," Gabe explained, wrapping his hand around Sam's wrist to keep him from swaying into the wall, "I've got to admit, I tuned out most of it after Balthazar said it'd take most of the bad memories away. No one wanted you to have those."
Sam grunted, unsure what to make of that. On one hand, it was nice to avoid piling more trauma on top of the existing stuff he was already doing a mediocre job of handling. He didn't want to remember his family and friends being tortured, or the visceral fear and anger that defined his actions and movements with that nightmarish realm. On the other, his memories had been meddled with, even with good intentions in mind.
It was a whole new level of strange; one that Sam didn't want to tackle right now. He slipped into the tub and found that the warm water, so different from the cold shock he'd woken up to that one time, was as good as Gabe said it would be. He'd even scrounged up soaps and some kind of oil to put in the water.
"You're upset."
"…I'm not."
"You're sulking."
"I'm not sulking," Sam stressed, looking up through his damp hair.
Gabe's lips twitched, but the amusement gave way to a tired sigh. He crouched down by the edge of the tub, bracketing his arms on the lip to steady himself as he gazed at him.
"You've got questions. I can see them piling up in your head," he murmured, smiling sadly as Sam brushed his wet fingers over the bruise darkening his eye, "I'll let you ask them, but first, I need to ask you one."
"What kind of question is it?" Sam asked, more than a little wary. Knowing Gabe, it could've been anything ranging from something silly to relationship related. His aura revealed very little other than that something weighty was on his mind.
We haven't even had proper sex yet, and that is something I shouldn't be thinking of in this tub.
"How badly do you want to catch Yellow Eyes?"
Sam almost got indignant at the question (hadn't Gabe promised to help him with that all those weeks ago?), but Gabe's somberness made him hold his tongue in check. It was his exhaustion making him snappish, and Sam was glad he had enough restraint to keep from lashing out.
"I really want to," he said slowly, scrutinizing the color shifts in Gabe's aura, "You're about to say something that might upset me."
Gabe's eyes widened, but he recovered, huffing out a wry laugh.
"Nothing gets past you," he remarked, pillowing his head on his arms. His next words were hesitant, but his golden gaze was resolute, "I think….I think we should leave Lawrence for a bit."
There were several parts to the single sentence that Sam's mind got hung up on. The use of "we," the vagueness of "for a bit," but above all (and the most important part), leaving. He'd never left Lawrence since coming back for good as a child, and Sam had only ever considered it in the barest terms for potential career purposes.
"That wasn't my question, but that was the lead-up," Gabe said, squeezing his eyes shut, "My question is…how likely are you to accompany me?"
"There's…a lot of factors to consider," Sam hedged, trying to soak up every revealing detail Gabe's aura could offer. The gold churned riotously against oranges, pastel pinks, and blues, swirling into a mess he could only describe as incredibly conflicted.
"Spoken like a true lawyer."
"In the making," Sam added, relieved Gabe's lips temporarily curled into a smile, "Hey. Look at me."
He smiled as reassuringly as he could when Gabe did, which wasn't hard. Despite what he'd said, Sam found that deep down in his heart, it wasn't all that earth-shattering of a revelation to find that going anywhere with Gabe would be no hardship. It would feel right, being by Gabe's side.
"I'm not as averse to the idea as I once would've been," Sam admitted, deciding to put a lid on the more heartfelt sentiments. They were both too tired for those sorts of declarations, and they still had so much to cover past this topic. "I feel like you're suggesting it because of something more…specific? Is there some sort of problem?"
"Things are getting too dangerous for you. And no, don't get started," Gabe said, halting Sam before he could protest, "Max Miller wanted to kill you. And Yellow Eyes wants to start some sick game with you. We caught the first bad guy, but there's still the second, not to mention all the other shit going on. If we're going to go after Yellow Eyes properly, we need some kind of break in the madness."
I need a break went unspoken, but Sam heard it loud and clear regardless. For Gabe, who'd already stayed abnormally long in Lawrence, the pressure must've been suffocating. However, Sam knew that if he told Gabe he didn't want to leave, he would stay. He'd go on and help him catch Yellow Eyes because he'd promised, and he'd wear himself down to nothing in the attempt.
Sam couldn't do that to Gabe. Not only did it worry him to think he had that sort of influence over Gabe, but he also couldn't ask it of him when his own convictions for staying were malleable. It'd require further discussion, but he felt they could come to some agreement. Maybe for a weekend, they could get away.
"I'm not trying to sway you right now, and I don't need an answer either. I just wanted to ask," Gabe said, sitting up with renewed energy, "So don't stress yourself out debating pros and cons. You've missed a few days, and I know you want to know what happened. Where should I start?"
"From the beginning," Sam said, secretly amused that Gabe thought he was worrying over his proposition. Perhaps if he was more awake he would, but Sam quite liked the idea of leaving town while in the tub. Everything seemed possible when he was this relaxed.
"As you wish," Gabe cleared his throat, aura spiraling high into dramatic flairs, "Let's see, in the beginning-"
Sam flicked water at him, and Gabe grinned, dropping the pretense and starting anew.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I am…not completely satisfied with this chapter, but that's less to do with it and more to do with me. This summer has been rough for a lot of reasons, and my writing has suffered a lot as a result. Finishing this story suddenly felt like a hurdle instead of a breeze, and I just kinda let my doubts and whatnot fester. I was in high school when I started this series, and it feels weird thinking how long I've been working on this. I'd sit to write this chapter and just erase what I wrote cause I didn't like any of it.
But here it is! I'm back, and the next chapter should be up shortly since most of it is written. It'll pick up with Gabe's POV and recount what he was up to while Sam was knocked out, and from there we'll launch into the last few events that need to take place to end this installment.
Also, I miscounted in my last author's note: there's an extra chapter, so the final count should be 31. Serves me right for outlining haphazardly.