Chapter 30: Doubts and Devotion
Sam first became aware of snow coating his eyelashes; a cold caress that banished the blurred edges of sleep back to give way fully to the dream before him. It wasn't jarring in the slightest, and by the end of it, Sam found that this time, standing knee-deep in glittering snow before the burning tree felt almost natural.
White flames arced skyward, higher than the tops of the tallest, bordering pines held at bay by distance. Sam listened to the voices croon their secrets to him from silhouetted branches, almost entranced by the foreign rhythm to the intonations. He still didn't understand much of what they were saying, but the longer he stood there, the more fragments began to make sense. One came through the clearest, ringing like a bell in his head.
Look up.
Sam obeyed and watched with the tree as the first star fell from the sky.
The pinprick of light stood out against velvet black, leaving behind a trail of stardust. After the first, the rest began to fall. Glowing streaks marked each descent, red and yellow tails making it appear as if the sky was crying at the loss.
Grotesque wonder rooted Sam to the spot. It was cataclysmically beautiful; a sight so opposite of what he held to be true about the fixation of certain elemental forces that he couldn't help but watch. As the falling stars approached, filling the sky with a brilliant light and an unearthly sound that brought to mind glass, Sam looked at the tree with renewed vision.
"Is this what you wanted to show me before?"
He still couldn't understand the voices, but Sam got the sense that they were saying yes, but only part of it. The rest could—and would—come later.
For now, knowing how the tree had come to be on fire was enough.
…
Sam awoke with a gasp, but not feeling nearly as disoriented as in some of his other experiences. If anything, he felt surprisingly well-rested.
Is this how it's supposed to be? Sam thought, mildly surprised to find that he was still in bed. Judging by the morning light, he'd even woken at a reasonable time.
He turned to face the nightstand, already prepared to write down what he'd seen, except someone had gotten to the notepad he'd left there first. Sam knew from the aural remnants clinging to the paper and pen (written maybe an hour after he'd gone to bed) who'd left a message before he even spotted the handwriting.
Samshine,
You were already asleep, and I didn't have the heart to wake you up. The news has eased off of you, so as long as you're accompanied (or careful, which I know you're capable of), you can go out. Just steer clear of your apartment.
If the station decides to call you down for a statement or to inform you of the situation, either I or Michael will take you.
-Gabe
P.S—Not to be that boyfriend, but please don't push yourself too hard.
That's a new one, Sam thought indulgently as he traced his finger over "Samshine." In truth, he secretly liked the effort Gabe put into coming up with new nicknames, even if he didn't like all of them. Sam suspected he was the only one that had received so many nicknames at once from Gabe.
He wrote down the contents of his dream and gingerly got out of bed. Already, Sam could feel himself recuperating, but he'd listen to Gabe. Today, he'd take it as easy as a Winchester could, which meant resting up until some random incident necessitated his attention and he was back in the loop before he could say, "Well, I tried to stay out of it!"
Cas waited in the kitchen, sulking over a cup of coffee as Dean made what smelled like the world's greatest fry up. Sam didn't remark on Cas wearing one of Dean's old shirts or Dean's theft of Cas' house robe, worn open over pants. He didn't want to fire up their already melded auras—he had things to discuss with the Enochian expert.
However, he allowed himself one smirk and eyebrow raise that made Dean stop whistling and blush furiously into the eggs before sitting down in front of Cas. Oblivious to the world beyond his coffee and papers, it took Cas a few moments to register his presence.
"Oh. Good morning, Sam," Cas said, bobbing his head stiffly in acknowledgment. "Forgive my inattention. I dedicated myself to the data and have paid the price for my hubris."
"What he means is that he stayed up far too late squinting at all those damn papers," Dean interjected, pointing his spatula at them. "I'm telling you, ang-Cas, you're gonna need reading glasses someday."
Alright, two smirks were allowable. Dean made a face back at him, and the whole wordless, expression-heavy exchange between the brothers was missed by Cas.
"From the news articles, I found three mentions of women that fit the profile in Kansas," he said, handing Sam a sheet of paper split into four columns. "Neighboring states are harder, but I found two in Colorado and one in Missouri."
Kansas (last cycle), Kansas (predating cycle), Colorado, Missouri.
"You're truly amazing, Cas," Sam said, committing the names to memory. He already knew the names in the first column, but the ones in the other three were new.
"While I agree," Dean said, giving Cas a fond look as he perked up at the praise, "I'd like to know why exactly he's amazing this go around. What have you two been up to?"
"You haven't told him?" Sam asked Cas, surprised.
"Not yet. I figured since I told him about Adam, you should tell him about this," he replied sagely, frowning forlornly at the bottom of his mug. "Dean. It's all gone."
"We'll talk about Adam later," Dean promised Sam, his aura reflecting a surprisingly calm if conflicted attitude towards the discovery. He turned his attention back to Cas, as he tended to do with the man was in proximity. "That is what happens when you finish your drink," Dean replied, grinning innocently in response to the venom-loaded glare Cas shot at him. "But give me one sec, angel."
"Gotcha!" Sam exclaimed, slapping his hand down on the table in triumph in the middle of Dean's groan at his slip up.
"What's all the fuss?" Bobby said, wandering in already dressed for work.
He stopped in the doorway, took in the scene, and sighed heavily. His aura turned a fraction lighter, but that was the only detectable change in it as he approached the coffee machine.
"Dean, tie that damn robe. You're going to catch a chill," Bobby admonished, filling a mug up and snatching a pancake from the small stack steadily accumulating to be distributed. "No goddamn sense left in this house since you pack of wolves moved in."
He swept a withering gaze over all of them before leaving, muttering about being eaten out of house and home and revolving doors. His aura remained distinctly fond throughout.
Sam snickered at Dean's flabbergasted expression and Cas' embarrassed, averted gaze. They may have been idiots in the romance department, but God were they entertaining.
"Before Bobby's lovely addition," he began, still grinning, "I was going to say that I've been working on a theory. You should probably be sitting for this one, Dean."
Dean sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that I'm not going to like this?"
Sam helped set plates, insisting that he felt fine enough to help. He wasn't as talented a cook as his brother, but he could help calm the blue-eyed beast sitting at the table by supplying caffeine. Lisa and Ben—who'd calmed down, but apparently left disgruntled—had left earlier, leaving the three of them to gather at the table.
"So, care to explain?" Dean asked once they cleared away enough space to eat.
"Crowley's information made me reconsider certain assumptions everyone's made. In this case, the unvoiced assumption is that Yellow Eyes started his killing in Lawrence 20 years ago."
Dean caught on quickly, his aura crackling with lime green bolts. "Motherfucker. You think he started somewhere else?"
"We're pretty sure of it now that Balthazar confirmed Yellow Eyes is literally on a different level," Sam said dryly, scooping up some eggs. "I asked Cas to go through archives to cement the theory, and now that we have, I'll probably turn over the legwork to the LPD. They have better resources and the authority to pursue this."
Dean wrinkled his nose at that but didn't argue. It was either that, or relying even more on Crowley, and both brothers were already too cozy with him for their liking.
"Why did everyone assume that he started here?"
"The nature of his killings suggested it. Behavioral science was also different at the time, along with interstate law enforcement communication. The LPD was so focused on what was happening in the present that they never considered he might've successfully started somewhere else," Cas said, devouring his breakfast with gusto. "Hmm. This is good. When we first started on this the other day, Sam made a good point in hypothesizing that Yellow Eyes probably intended to be perceived as a serial killer in the infant stages."
"This guy is far too clever and good at killing to get caught. If he wanted to, he could've flown under the radar forever. He definitely has in other places," Sam explained in response to Dean's questioning look. "For whatever reason, he decided to make himself more public in Lawrence."
"Because of Mom?"
"I think so," Sam replied, "Did John ever mention anything like this?"
Dean chewed thoughtfully on some bacon. "No, but it might've been one of the secrets he wanted to reveal."
Both of them scowled at the audacity John had displayed. Cas looked between the two of them and cleared his throat, his aura shifting towards a lighter, clear blue gradient.
"I believe Balthazar should return today. He wants to talk with you both about your…you know."
"Lovely. Can't wait," Dean grunted. He nursed mild, illogical displeasure towards Balthazar that Sam was certain stemmed from how enthusiastically he discussed historical topics with Cas, who always got passionate in the debates.
Cas sighed, picking up on his sourness. "Dean…"
"And that's my cue to leave," Sam muttered, already averting his eyes from the mushy, lovesick teal cloud enshrouding the two of them as they leaned in to talk in hushed voices. At least he'd gotten a good breakfast out of it.
He got his second, less pleasant surprise of the morning immediately after he exited the kitchen.
Speak of the devil, he thought as Balthazar looked miserably up in his direction.
"When did you get here?" Sam asked, "And why are you covered in leaves?"
Balthazar stood outside of the shut door that led into the unused dining room, covered in plant debris and looking extremely displeased about it. Beneath the displeasure, quicksilver remnants of adrenaline coursed through his aura, along with a healthy dose of desaturated fear that put Sam on edge.
"An ill-chosen hiding spot," he said shortly, holding his muddy cane with a death grip. "Michael isn't here, is he?"
"No. Why would he be?" Sam asked, watching as Balthazar's aura did strange loops around the response. "What's wrong?"
Startled, Balthazar blinked hard, refocusing as he realized who exactly he was talking to.
"I don't know yet. But something is rotten in this city," he muttered, "Michael is not being forthcoming with me."
The concept didn't surprise Sam. Michael's genuine affability had to have its limits, especially if he knew Enochian. At this point, Sam thought it was safe to say that knowing the language tended to tie you to an unhappy childhood.
"You think he's hiding something?"
"I know he is. One doesn't know so much about Enochian without having been assisted. He won't give me a name," Balthazar said, nearly pouting in frustration, "I'll get it out of him soon enough. Preferably with less personal fieldwork."
It was probably supposed to sound threatening, but the effect was lost with his messy appearance. Sam stifled a laugh as Balthazar drifted off towards the kitchen, attracted by the scent of breakfast and hopelessly unaware that a certain Winchester was inside ready to be prickly and unaccommodating.
Sam pondered his wide-open itinerary from the comfort of Bobby's office chair. He didn't want to bother Gabe yet, but also didn't want to leave and stretch his legs in case either he or Michael decided to ferry him to the station.
Michael. Lots of details had slipped Sam's mind, but in the relative isolation of Bobby's office, he had time to go over seemingly minor threads. He picked this one up with careful handling, waiting until he had a firmer grasp on it before searching through the papers he'd complied.
His dream ramblings—the freshest ones from right after he woke up from his coma—were in a sorry state. Lisa had suggested organizing them, but Sam didn't want anyone touching them. For one, he doubted anyone besides him could make heads or tails of the crooked, jagged stream of consciousness. There was also the highly personal nature of the mess; Sam knew that he'd have to compile these and share for future purposes, but he wanted to transcribe them first.
He found what he was looking for in a list that ran right off the edge of the page. Sam remembered letters scattered across a moonlit floor being the source of these names, but not much else. One set—the only set—leaped out at him.
Michael and Lucifer.
Sam found a marker and circled the names. Perhaps the name Balthazar was so dead set on pulling from Michael was Lucifer. A loyal brother was one of the best guides and mentors on Earth, never mind a twin.
Before Sam could give it further thought, his phone rang. Sam checked the caller ID and arched his eyebrows at the unexpected caller before answering.
"No more letter-writing?" he teased, earning a huff that managed to carry an incredible amount of disdain from the other end.
"You've got to let that rest at some point," Meg grumbled. Judging by the background din, she was standing at a busy intersection.
"Never," Sam promised mischievously, "What's going on?"
"We need to talk. I've got something for you."
Sam sat forward, concerned. Meg should've been laying low with Benny. What was she been up to now?
"What exactly?"
"Something that needs to be discussed in person."
So much for that empty itinerary.
"Where?"
…
Wrapped up in a coat too big for her (no doubt stolen from Benny) and smoking up a storm, Meg cut a striking, if small, figure on the park bench. She didn't turn to face him as he sat, keeping her dark gaze fixed on the pigeons strutting around a few feet away in the weeds.
"You sure know how to pick 'em," Sam remarked, looking around at the half-moon-shaped park. The last time he'd been here, Trent Cork—Miller's second known victim—had been strung up to the lamppost about ten feet away, and Sam had only just started to get a grasp of what he was diving headfirst into.
"Nothing wrong with taking a trip down memory lane," Meg remarked, letting out a stream of smoke that the wind carried away from Sam's direction. Judging by her wind-chapped cheeks, she'd gotten here shortly after calling him.
"You said you had something for me?"
"Hmm. The motherload of all gifts," she sighed, the hand holding her cigarette trembling slightly as she side-eyed him. "A name."
Someone entered the park from the left; a local with intentions of using the park as a shortcut to reach the street behind them. On unspoken accord, Meg angled herself towards him as Sam tugged his cap down and threw an arm across the bench. They were the only ones in the park and passing as a couple would excuse their presence in a place that, despite the intentions of the creator, didn't attract many loiterers, especially after Cork.
They waited until the person (who had a weirdly fluorescent green aura) passed before moving apart. Meg chuckled, smiling around her cigarette as Sam scratched his neck sheepishly.
"Quick on the draw, as always. Milton must love that."
"Shut up."
Meg inhaled and held it for a bit. Her aura, tinged towards the red-violet side now that she was on good terms with Cas, swirled with thought. Beneath it was an undercurrent of sour anxiety that told Sam that whatever Meg had to say, it was big.
"Owen, Kyle's brother, is the one that broke into your apartment." Meg started, pursing her mouth. "He got picked up on a drunk and disorderly a couple of weeks ago, and as soon as he made bail he got to work. I don't know where Kyle himself is. He's dropped off the map."
"Intentionally, or…?"
"I don't think so. Kyle's too hot-headed to lay low. He's either dead or worse."
One of the braver pigeons approached, pecking at the ground near Meg's ankle. She sneered at it and shuffled her booted feet away.
"Good riddance to him. The only problem is that Owen's smarter than him, the little shit. He'll be the driving force behind the Dead Eyes giving things a final shot before they're down for good."
Sam grimaced. The Dead Eyes had always been reckless (prime example: the Roadhouse), but now they'd be blatant about whatever they did, like breaking into his apartment in broad daylight. They had nothing to lose now that Crowley was pissed at them.
"But that's beside the point. The point is this," Meg said, pulling out a piece of paper from her pocket. "Got it in the mail slot last night."
Sam took it. Upon contact, his fingers tingled as if he'd submerged them in clear, icy water. Other than that, there was no other trace of an aura on the paper besides Meg's.
Took some trash out. Don't be shy to tell your friends :)
The typed lettering was a default font, but the smiley face had been drawn in with a red pen. Folded within the paper were two temporary tattoos. One was of a buxom, pin-up woman that bore a passing resemblance to Meg. The other portrayed a stereotypical devil: bright red and leering, with curling horns and a forked tail.
"Also left a baggie of demon blood, but Benny flushed it down the toilet before I could even think about doing anything with it," Meg said, tapping the devil tattoo, "Wanna take a guess?"
Michael and Lucifer. The Biblical good and evil. Brothers pitted against each other, but at one time birds of a feather.
Sam picked up the tattoo, holding it tight so the wind didn't rip it from his grasp. His stomach tightened in a foreboding, nauseating knot.
"Lucifer."
"Ding ding," Meg drawled dryly, dropping the butt and grinding it with her heel. Nearby pigeons fluttered away, offended at the disruption. "I don't know if he killed Kyle, but he definitely had something to do with it. What I can't figure out is why. I don't want this freak's attention."
"Don't jump to conclusions," Sam said, even as his mind raced at the thought of a man more terrifying than Max Miller turned serial killer, or even Yellow Eyes. "I think this guy is more interested in you being a messenger than anything else. He gave you product, knowing you were the girlfriend of a somewhat prominent gang member from the same gang that's been practically begging to get their hands on demon blood. You still know people in those circles, right?"
Meg nodded shallowly, fumbling another cigarette out. The pack was nearly empty, and the undercurrent of anxiety in her aura rose to the surface.
"The Dead Eyes are on the way out. If he's behind demon blood, he's probably looking for other people or groups to spread the drug around. He's expecting you to spread the word to those sorts of people. I don't think it'll go beyond that."
"I sure fucking hope so," Meg said, fishing out a lighter. Her aura calmed a bit at his logic, but she remained uneasy as she lit her fresh cigarette. "I decided to stay, but I didn't think I'd get into trouble again this fast."
"No one will let anything happen to you."
Meg scoffed. "A nice sentiment, Winchester. Did you keep that in mind with The Crucifier started coming after your ass?"
Sam winced. He'd forgotten just how acerbic Meg could get, but she was right. There was no real guarantee that she would be alright—that any of them would be—when they were dealing with someone who was a walking mystery factor.
"Have you talked to anyone else about this?"
"Just Benny."
"Keep it that way for now. If the authorities catch wind about Kyle—and they will—they'll question you since you're his last ex. You'll want to look as clean as possible for that."
Meg blinked before swearing up a storm, running her free hand through her dark hair. Clearly, she hadn't thought down those lines yet, but Sam didn't blame her. Getting free from a bad partner was only the beginning of a long, arduous road to normalcy.
They ended their meeting shortly after that. Meg left first in a cloud of smoke and Sam watched her walk away until she was out of sight. He'd reluctantly agreed when she insisted on him remaining behind for a bit in case of unwanted eyes. Sam didn't want to feed her growing paranoia, but there probably was someone watching his movements; it was just a matter of who.
Somewhere down the street, an engine backfired. Both Sam and the pigeons jumped at the noise.
"That should do it," Sam grumbled, taking his leave before embarrassment could settle in. At least the pigeons wouldn't say anything to anyone about it.
He was a few blocks away, making his way roughly south when he got the anticipated call from the station.
"Do you have to do the whole 'pick me up in an FBI vehicle' routine?" Sam asked.
"Preferably," Michael replied slowly. He'd muscled in on the conference call, and Sam could practically see the suspicion in his aura. "Where are you?"
Sam spied a café run down enough that he doubted anyone would recognize him inside. "Taking a walk."
He bought a coffee and warmed up at a rickety table, thankful that the half-asleep man at the register seemed more concerned with ignoring his boss's tirade to another unseen employee in the back than taking notice of him. It was an unusual atmosphere, more notable for how old and etched into the place's sage green walls it was than for any welcoming factor.
"I didn't think you'd wander so quickly," Michael admitted when he pulled up in the vehicle. Agent Smith sat in shotgun, leaving Sam to fold himself up in the back.
"Had to stretch my legs," Sam grunted, meeting Smith's bleary gaze. His watery gray aura sagged with exhaustion and frustration. "What's with the long face?"
"Miller won't crack," Smith replied, turning pointedly to face forward. "He oscillates between unnatural silence and talking with us about anything except the pertinent points we wish to address. You know, things like the people he's killed and mutilated; just the little details."
"Careful Smith. You almost sound bitter," Michael teased.
"I am. I'm too old for this shit. If it weren't for you, I'd have already handed this over to someone else," Smith grumbled, settling back in his seat with a sigh.
Sam found the hidden kernel of pride for Michael in Smith's aura fascinating. He didn't think the old codger had anything other than negative emotions in him, but it seemed the older man genuinely wanted to see his partner's career elevated. A case like this would surely do the trick.
He tried not to think about Michael potentially having a literal evil twin called Lucifer as they drove to the station. There was simply no good way to go about the subject. If Michael was evading Balthazar about it, then he wouldn't spill his secrets to Sam. Sam thought his secrets were bad enough, but he couldn't imagine being on the opposite side of the law of a twin. What had gone wrong between them?
The LPD's downtown station remained much as Sam remembered it from his only time there to pick Dean up after his closest run-in with the law. Uniforms bustled about, catching up on tasks that had fallen to the wayside in the pandemonium Miller had wreaked. Civilians sat either waiting to be noticed or hoping to be forgotten. Noise connected them throughout the maze of hallways, waiting rooms, and bullpens.
At first, the initial assault of so many varying auras threatened to throw Sam into face-obscuring overload. However, the old coping techniques Dean had helped him come up with when he'd been young were fresh on his mind. He clenched his fists inside his pockets before taking them out, tapping each finger as he counted them. It only took one round of counting to ten before the auras melted back, letting Sam walk past faces instead of color.
A gray atmosphere defined the station, but it ranged in a spectrum that shifted depending on the department visited. The two main emotions that remained consistent were relief and anxiety; reflecting the liminal space the city hung in now that Miller had been captured. People could sense not all was well yet; that trouble of a different kind brewed approached on the horizon.
Sam was herded into an elevator, which shortly opened up onto a bullpen notable for its less constrictive layout and lack of uniforms. Nothing about the beige space bespoke comfort, but the steely blue atmosphere reflected an accumulation of dogged determination nearly as old as the building itself. Here was where the hardest cases were toiled over to varying degrees of success.
A spectrum of auras all focused on him as his presence was registered. Sam did his best to look like a tired, innocent college student and figured he managed to nail two out of three adjectives as the FBI agents herded him towards a conference room at the back.
Gabe waited by the door. Under station lighting, his purpling bruise looked worse, but his aura greeted him with a cheerful unfurling of gold.
"Hiya, Sam. Doing all right?" he asked, restrained body language angling for a concerned friend and work partner over boyfriend.
Sam took the cue, throwing on a bemused expression equal enough to Gabe's nonchalance to pass muster. "Fine, everything considered. Still tired and sick of the news."
He wasn't quite tired enough that he'd let slip anything he didn't want to, but the conference room was propped open. With all the eavesdroppers, Sam couldn't resist planting a few seeds in his favor.
"I'll make sure they go easy on you," Gabe promised, eyes cutting back to the assortment of authority figures inside. The atmosphere within hovered on a knife's edge between an interview and interrogation, which Sam had anticipated. At this point, his name had popped up far too many times throughout the case, and they wanted answers.
There was no time to get anything straight—something that Sam suspected had been engineered on purpose—but none of the people inside would ever be able to grasp just how close he and Gabe had become. No one had improvisation skills quite like Gabe's, and Sam could read between the lines with more clarity than ever before.
This would be a piece of cake.
From the moment Sam sat down, the questions began. Sure, there was the official trite "we're doing everything we can" spiel regarding the news coverage and bringing Max Miller to justice, but everyone was aware that there was little to do about the journalists and even less to do with Miller if he kept up the silence treatment. Even that perfunctory acknowledgment was shortened by the overall eagerness to extract some sort of answers from him.
Sam answered questions with exhausted but accommodating grace. Some he lobbed to Gabe, who expertly picked up the slack and constantly reminded everyone that Sam was still recovering from his "flu," while others he simply didn't answer at all, citing whatever trauma would fit. In this manner, he managed to weave a narrative that was mostly true but excluded facts like his presence in the LPD's basement and how much he'd actually contributed to the investigation through Gabe's side of things. He could see the doubt and fear of Yellow Eyes dancing in some auras, unnerved by the subtle signs that pointed to the old monster being back in town. People seemed evenly split along whether or not he was back, but only one person voiced any sort of blunt statement about him.
"Mr. Winchester," Billy Reaper started, folding her hands on the top of the long, lacquered wood table. She sat at the head, and it'd only taken Sam three seconds to determine that she more than belonged in the position. With her vivid violet and burgundy aura and carriage, she radiated quiet authority. "Nothing has been confirmed yet, and nobody here wishes to relive the past, but it must be said: if Yellow Eyes has indeed returned, you will very likely become involved. What are your plans for the future?"
Sam was getting pretty tired of being asked that question and all of its permutations. He felt like he was back in high school, talking about career possibilities with his useless guidance counselor knowing full well he'd mull the question more productively on his way back to class.
"I don't know. I'm figuring it out as I go," he replied honestly, doing his best to mitigate his exasperation, "It's the best I can do, isn't it?"
No one argued with him. Thanks to the news, everyone knew exactly just how much of a loose end Sam had been turned into by circumstances. He was allowed a little bit of exasperation in front of the police.
There was a second round of questioning after that, but the muted tone signaled that he'd gotten through the worst of it. Sam almost managed to get away scot-free before the phone rang.
He hadn't had any sort of premonition beforehand detailing this particular chain of events, but Sam didn't need one to know that the call involved him as the phone—who'd been answered by a detective he didn't know—was passed over to Reaper. She listened, then placed the caller on hold, turning her attention to the crowd at hand.
"Miller somehow knows Mr. Winchester is in the building," she said without preamble, triggering a ruckus that abated when she continued sternly, "Quiet! It's highly irregular, but—"
"No way," Gabe interjected, pushing back from the table. His response was the most passionate he'd shown through the entire procedure, where he'd vacillated between characteristically cocky and professionally distant, "Miller wants to kill Sam! You can't possibly be thinking of using him as an incentive."
"Agreed," Jody added with a nod from Donna, "We still have time to keep chipping at Miller."
"As I said," Reaper repeated over the agreeing murmurs, "It's highly irregular. But he's the most talkative he's been this whole time, and we need to get something out of him before he shores up his insanity defense to the point of feasibility."
Sam was still early on in his law career, but he knew enough about the insanity defense to know that it'd be a disaster on all sorts of levels if Miller successfully plead down that route. If he could get Miller to confess…
"Don't even think about it," Gabe whispered fiercely into his ear. The room had devolved into an argument over the topic, so no one noticed as he gripped Sam's thigh and held on.
"I've got to. It's the only way to give him enough rope to hang himself with," Sam replied just as quietly, "Look, it'll be alright. Trust me."
Gabe didn't look convinced, and Sam was only partly so. If only his dreams from the night before had decided to focus on more pertinent, present matters. As it was, he was flying as blind as anyone else.
"I'll do it," Sam said, pitching his voice to be heard over the din, "I'll get him to talk as best I can."
His response garnered a new set of reactions, but Sam was only aware of two people throughout it all. Gabe, resigned by his side with golden-white wings flaring up behind him, and Reaper, her dark eyes scrutinizing him with renewed calculation.
…
The only reason they'd kept Miller in a local holding cell instead of transferring him to a jailing facility was that during the LPD's hasty investigation of the tunnel system that ran beneath Lawrence, they'd discovered that the local jail hadn't been excluded from the secret network. Paired with Miller's knack for evasion, the LPD had taken that as an omen and decided to house Miller under their roof, where they had eyes on the discovered tunnels and every possible exit option Miller could take, including suicide.
(Handing him over to the FBI wasn't an option. Gabe had caught Miller, which meant it was their jurisdiction by the loosest definition, and besides, they had Sam Winchester. That was more than enough for the Feds to have in terms of responsibility.)
Not that Miller seemed to be considering suicide. He looked positively ecstatic when Sam was brought into the adjoining viewing room. His aura, black and rotten, rested spread out against the wall like a long, distorted shadow. It looked disproportionate in more ways than one by being attached to a narrow-shouldered, blond youth wirier than first glance revealed.
"I knew you'd bring him," Miller said, beaming at the glass. Simultaneously small and big, he painted a picture full of contrasts hard to look at. "I knew it! Hello there, Sam. Aren't you the brave one?"
"He always knows when someone's in here, and who," Donna whispered as Sam stepped back from the glass and bumped into her. "Downright creepy."
Their little entourage consisted of Sam and Gabe, the familiar lady detective duo, the FBI agents, Billy Reaper, and Talbot of all people. Sam had been initially confused by her presence, but it appeared she'd been tasked with operating the recording equipment. She had avoided his gaze since his arrival and Sam had in turn given her the cold shoulder. He didn't have time to get into it with her—her inhouse punishment seemed bad enough.
"Someone should go in with you," Jody said, eyes drifting to Gabe, who glared at everyone except Sam. He'd made his disapproval loud and clear on the way down, but when they'd entered, he'd fallen eerily silent.
"No. He'll want to talk alone," Sam sighed, recalling fragmented images of blood on an olive-green jacket. Gabe had gone with the black one today, but he wasn't taking any chances; no matter how much more upset it'd make him.
"Earpiece?" Smith suggested. "We'll have to coach him."
"No, let it evolve naturally," Michael replied, "Miller caught on to the earpieces we tried before. He'll just clam up if we give Sam one."
"You can leave anytime you want," Donna said, face tight with concern, "Don't feel that you have to stick it out."
"I don't like this," Gabe muttered, pressing himself into the corner where his aura arced upward in a tight spiral of dissatisfaction.
Out of all the conversation surrounding him, Sam registered his voice the clearest. He wanted to offer him more reassurances—maybe kiss away the growing frown—but the room was crowded both physically and aurally. All he could do was flash Gabe a smile more confident than he felt, wave away everyone's concerns about him going in unprepared, and step out into the hall.
He had no real game plan, but this wasn't Sam's first time going wit to wit with a criminal. John had been more of the "fight first, questions later" sort in the Winchester's nightly runs throughout Lawrence, but that didn't mean they never asked questions. He'd be at a disadvantage with his visibly less than stellar health and the multiple witnesses watching his every move, but Sam wouldn't let those factors weigh him down.
Better him than Gabe sitting across from Miller and his shadow. Anything but that.
"Oh, you look like you've been sleeping poorly lately," Miller said when Sam entered. Despite the bright lights, his eyes were fully dilated, turning them black against his sallow face. "Or maybe you've gotten too much sleep lately?"
He smiled with only enough teeth to keep the grin conspiratorial instead of manic. Behind him, his shadowy aura stretched on, curling over the edge where the cinderblock wall met the ceiling. Despite the distinct lack of air coming from the ceiling vent, a strong chill clung to the room.
Sam ignored all of this as he yanked the metal chair out, flipped it around, and straddled it. Crossing his arms over the top of it, he looked Miller right in the eye. It was a mystery how Miller could know so much from his isolated position, but Sam knew that he was referencing his impromptu coma courtesy of Yellow Eyes.
There was no way he would let Miller know how fresh the coma was on Sam's mind. He tamped down his anger, stoking it into more productive energy that he channeled into the method of interrogation he employed best.
"You don't look so good yourself," he remarked, using his best disarming voice. Dean called it his lawyer voice; others called it his nice voice. Sam never felt like either when he used it. "Is it hard, being apart from your teacher?"
Miller's smile slipped. Sam's own bloomed to life, sunny and soft in the cold room.
"Tell me. Why'd you do it? You had to have known he'd be pissed at you for coming after me. He spared me for a reason," he said, settling back casually as if he was talking about the weather. Sam's gentleness was a mask for the purpose behind his questions, but such a convincing one that people were always left floundering in its wake. "You had a good thing going. Kill the ones that wronged you, and then put them on blast by exposing the dirty secrets you collected. You had an impressive count going and the police running in circles. Then you messed up."
"I didn't mess up," Miller hissed, hands curling around the manacles that kept his wrists bound to the table. His feet were similarly bound, but none of the restraints applied to his aura.
"Yeah, you kind of did," Sam sighed, hiding his hammering heart. The shadow was steadily stretching over the ceiling now, rolling like a tide of oil. "You got cocky. Did you think you could supersede your idol?"
"No! You're trying to put words in my mouth," Miller replied, huffing out a strangled laugh at his own cleverness for seeing through Sam, "I wanted Azazel to pay attention. He could have this city on a platter! Instead, he's just observing."
Confirmation he's back: check.
"Observing, and ordering you around," Sam conjectured, "He told you I was off-limits."
Miller scoffed. "He has plans for you. Plans to counteract other plans, but he liked talking about you the most. All he ever talked about was you, and your brother, and your father, and your mother. On and on and on. Especially your mother." Miller went from outraged to conversational in a contortion of expression. Above Sam's head, the shadow paused in its advance forward. "You know, I think he regrets killing her. Sounded downright maudlin when he got going on her."
Sam checked his reaction to that revelation. This was about getting information out of Miller (who was being extremely chatty for someone so hard to crack), not about letting Miller get into his head.
Unless he's talkative because I'm in the room.
"You wanted his attention back. How'd you get it in the first place? Through your handiwork?"
"Of course," Miller smiled, ego successfully stroked, "He came to me. Appreciated my artistry. He spoke words; so many beautiful, glorious words. He doesn't know Enochian, but that doesn't matter! His language is nearly as good. He said he'd teach it to me."
Confirmation that he's supernaturally gifted and influenced Miller: check.
"When did he come to you?"
"In the night," Miller replied vaguely, head tilting towards the glass as if listening, "Hmm. Someone's angry in there."
Probably Gabe.
"I remember seeing you in the library. You caught me by surprise. You're the one that chased me when I stuck around to see how the police would react to Trent Cork," he reminisced, fixing momentarily sharp eyes back on him. Cold sweat dampened Miller's straw blond hair. "Maybe that's when it started."
"It?"
Miller leaned forward far enough that his orange-clad chest covered his hands. "My interest in you."
Great. As if Gabe wasn't pissed off enough, Sam thought dryly, even as he made a show of looking equally interested in return.
"Why are you interested in me?"
"I sense something about you," he said slowly, turning the words around in his poison mouth like honed knives, "Something different. Maybe Azazel gifted it to you that day he let you live under that tree. Maybe you were born with it. But it's something in your eyes…something in the way you look at things. It certainly makes you competition."
He can't know. No one knows except the people I've told.
"Aren't you supposed to be the special one?" Sam asked, deflecting. Having everyone in the observation room listen to Miller talk about killing him wasn't high on his priority list. "Death incarnate?"
"Death has his companions," Miller replied in a detached drone. His eyes slipped, and Sam realized this was the aspect of Miller that had mutilated in the name of some strange mix of revenge and spiritualism. "It gets lonely, deciding who will live and who will die. There's so much sin to ferret out. So much to be cleansed. I can cleanse anyone I choose. I can cleanse you."
"…No thanks."
Miller's eyes drooped in time to a flicker in the overhead lights, and too late, Sam realized he'd stopped tracking the shadow.
"Who said you had a choice?"
Sam's hand lashed out of its own accord, reacting on muscle memory before either panic or rational thought could form. He grabbed Miller by the throat as the other lunged forward with gnashing teeth, halting both him and the black stain from crossing the ceiling to his side of the room.
It was a near thing, but he managed it. Sam hastily stood and pressed upward. Miller went with his grip, hands still cuffed but somehow detached from the table. The delicate skin of his throat burned Sam's hand with fever heat.
"It was—worth a shot," Miller wheezed, spit bubbling around his lips. His eyes were no longer dilated, but they rolled with delight as a grin stretched across his reddening face. "I was—right about you. You saw it. And I saw you—in the well."
"Shut up," Sam growled, squeezing harder. Behind him, he could hear frantic movement at the door. They didn't have much time. "Where is he?"
"He'll come," Miller gasped, teeth catching the light as Sam hoisted him high enough that the short slack of his still chained feet pulled taut. "He'll…come. For me. He'll come! Or I'll do it—myself…"
Red began to mottle into purple. The door burst open, and the once quiet room exploded into action that Sam hardly paid attention to. His mind was already far off, turning over every word Miller had offered up before attempting to shut a trap on him.
Or I'll do it myself.
…
"He only talked so much because he plans to escape."
Things had become fraught once Miller threw himself across the table. Before Sam could think about how his move had probably shattered whatever façade of "tired and innocent" college student he had left, Gabe herded him out of the station with a single-minded ferocity that nobody's protests could breach. The last thing he'd heard was Reaper ordering everyone back inside and to let them go.
They must've made quite a sight. Sam, pale and shaking —not with fright or adrenaline like it must've appeared, but with leftover anger and adrenaline—and Gabe…
He glanced out of the corner of his eye after trying to breach the silence. The wings were still there, crowded up against windows and windshields in a spread of fierce protectiveness. They didn't react to Sam's ominous prediction, and Gabe gave no indication he'd heard him at all.
Sam sighed, knees knocking against the dash as he settled in for the rest of the ride. He'd never seen Gabe this intense before, and while he wasn't scared (what was he supposed to be scared of?), the nature of it puzzled him. Silence didn't go hand in hand with his imagining of Gabe.
Gabe didn't say anything until they were inside his apartment which was a mess of paper. A human-sized tornado had gone through the place, frantically churning up stress into a spiral of color that still swirled in the air, preserving remnants of Gabe's mindset during the days Sam had been lost in nightmares.
The source stopped in the middle of the wreckage, facing the large windows that had entranced Sam his first time over. He hadn't turned on the lights, so Sam didn't reach for them. The light of his aura sufficed.
"You know, I've never had any illusions about who's best at keeping the other safe in this relationship," Gabe started, still facing the city as the wings blurred back into the more familiar, abstracted spread of gold. A tinge of indigo despondency clung to the edges. "But I've tried. It's never been good enough, but you know I try, right?"
Sam decided he hated the color indigo in correlation to Gabe right then and there.
"I'm sorry," he murmured as he approached, taking his wrists in hand, "I knew you didn't want me going in there, but I did anyway. I didn't mean to undermine your efforts."
"It's not that. I—I was just hit with it all over again when you grabbed Miller by the throat like it was nothing," Gabe said, awe creeping into his voice, contrasted by the lingering indigo, "You're still recovering and sick of at all, and you still went in there and…you're just so impressive. But I don't want you to have to constantly be going and going. It frustrates me that you might think I take it for granted."
"I don't think that. Where'd you get that idea?" Sam asked, genuinely confused.
"Everyone else seems to take you for granted. Just tossing you into that room like that," Gabe huffed, averting his eyes, "I'm just so fucking concerned for you all the time."
Sam couldn't help his laugh. Gabe whined and pulled back, but he held on so he could kiss the back of each hand.
"I can read auras, Gabe," he said, pleased at the high flush on Gabe's cheeks and the surprise replacing the indigo, "I can tell how much you're concerned about me, along with a variety of other things."
"Yeah, but still," Gabe muttered, "It's not the same as saying them."
"Maybe not," Sam conceded, "But to me, the fact that I can even mention auras and have you accept it is far more valuable."
"Doesn't mean I still shouldn't say things," Gabe said, eyes catching the skyline lights from outside. They fixed uncannily on him as if he was the one that could read auras. "Isn't it nice to hear things sometimes, just to make sure?"
Sam tilted his head, the note Gabe's words struck deep-seated. It wasn't an uncomfortable proclamation, and he kissed Gabe to express so when, a second later, his aura swirled conflictedly.
"Yeah. I like hearing things," Sam murmured against his mouth, lips drifting across his cheek so he could whisper in his ear. "Don't even make the innuendo."
The cherry-red creeping into Gabe's aura sparked as the man pulled back and waggled his eyebrows.
"Nope! Not tonight," Sam said, picking him up and tossing him over his shoulder.
Gabe yelped, ready to protest until he saw where Sam was taking them. Then his aura turned peachy warm, sending warm shivers through Sam's skin and down into his bones.
"Oh, you should've said something," he said as Sam tossed him onto the bed, bouncing into a lounging position that had no right to look so inviting.
"I'm saying it right now," Sam replied, captivated by how he looked against the white expanse of sheets. For a moment, he was distracted, but he got himself back on track. "I want to leave Lawrence, with you. You're right. We both need a break. Do you still want to?"
The last part he tacked on half-hesitantly, but Sam's momentary doubt was quickly laid to rest when, after a stunned moment, Gabe beamed with delight. His aura exploded outward in a golden burst of light, and for one wild moment, Sam thought he was witnessing one of the stars from his dream touching down before him.
"Are you serious? You're serious!" Gabe exclaimed, tackling him around the middle. "Sam."
Words couldn't describe the emotions Sam felt at the sound of his name—not one of his many silly nicknames, but his most used name—said like that. It reminded him all over again that sometimes he was incredibly slow when it came to romance and making beneficial decisions, but that Gabe didn't mind much. By leaving, they could keep each other safe and happy.
"I meant to tell you earlier," Sam said, hugging him back to soak up all the warmth he had to offer and more. "So don't worry anymore. We'll be okay."
There was still so much undone around them, but Sam found a seed of faith in holding Gabe close. He trusted him completely and cared about him more than himself (which wasn't surprising given his track record but still merited stating). Just because nearly everything else was out of his control didn't mean that they were. They were still together and would be in the next step ahead.
Gradually, the stagnant stress hanging in the air gave way to pure golden shades that shimmered like endlessly refracted sunlight. Sam had unwittingly put the first in place with his coma, but purposefully caused the second, which made him nearly as happy as the idea of leaving Lawrence made Gabe.
As they retired for the night, whispering in bed about all they had to pack and where they would go, Sam decided that all any and all future consequences stemming from his decision were outweighed by the sheer force of Gabe's happiness. For once, he'd made a selfishly good decision, and no one could take it away from him.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
One more chapter…I delayed in this a bit because while I did good on my finals, they sucked more life out of me than I expected. Spend most of my break just recovering from them which was pretty lame. I also wanted to solidify the title for the last installment in this series. I'll announce it in the last update! Hopefully will finish before the semester starts again for me…