Thank you so much VegasGranny and Ncsupnatfan for pre-reading. This chapter is un-beta'd, so I apologize for all remaining mistakes.

Chapter Three

For a full minute after Chuck left, Sam stood outside the ruined house that had once been like a home to him and just felt the wash of shock and desperation. He didn't know what to do, how he was supposed to handle this new form of life.

Ultimately, the growing pool of blood on his shirt and jeans made him realize he needed to do something more than just stand there. The wound was painful, and, apparently, Chuck had taken too much grace for it to heal itself quickly. He was going to have to stitch it up.

Ordinarily, it would have been simple, even if Dean wasn't there to do it for him. He'd get the first aid kit out of the trunk of the Impala or the med bay of the bunker, find somewhere clean, and sew himself up. But there was no bunker, no Impala; all he had in the world was the bloodstained clothes on his back.

He checked his pocket and saw he didn't even have his wallet or phone. He'd left them in the bunker.

He couldn't go to anyone else to sew him up—he had no idea if the grace still in him that would make an appearance if the wound was disturbed—so he had to find a place with the supplies he needed. Hospitals had too many people and clinics had too much security. There was one option, and he figured it was late enough for it to be clear of people.

He started walking through the rows of junked cars, making his way to the arched iron exit. It would be easier if he could fly, but he had no idea how to do that. He could feel the weight of wings at his back, and when he flexed his shoulders, he felt them spread, but he had no control over them. They were there, a strange sensation that didn't belong, but they were useless. He didn't think they were even really physically there. He'd only ever seen the shadows of wings before, never their physical selves, and when he looked over his shoulders now, they were more like a heat haze.

They were useless, and he wished they were gone.

That was the smallest of his wishes. The biggest, most pressing, was for him to be able to go back a few hours and stop himself shooting Chuck. He'd still be facing trouble, and Jack would be dead, but he would at least be with his family. He would have Dean.

He had no one now.

He reached the road and set off in the direction of town. Bobby's place was on the far edges of Sioux Falls, secluded except for a few other houses inhabited by people Sam had never met—though Bobby once mentioned a neighbor called Marcy with a wistful look in his eyes—and never really thought of. They were just part of the background when he visited Bobby's place. Now they were more people he was putting at risk by angering God.

Or was he?

As he walked, he considered. Chuck's revenge seemed designed to target him. He'd not been cruel to humanity directly before now. He'd left them to die when he'd failed to step in during the apocalypse and the disasters that came after, but he'd never been intentionally cruel. Sam had always thought of humans as God's highest valued creations. He had lost Lucifer because of them, and he had loved him. Maybe the people were safe.

The more he thought about it, the more Sam realized this new situation, though misery and torment to him, was actually the best outcome for the rest of the world, including the people he loved. Lucifer was basically neutralized as he was now just Nick, taking Sam's place in their family. Jack was alive and hadn't too much of his grace—thanks to Sam's instinctive and timely healing—so the balance that maintained his lifeforce was still there. Mary was alive and with Dean. In fact, the only one that stood to suffer in this new situation was Sam. Everyone else could be happy.

Maybe this was for the best.

The idea made Sam recoil within himself. It couldn't be for the best. His family was with Lucifer, the person that had tried to end the world and killed Castiel more than once. He probably would have killed Mary if he'd not needed her to get to Jack when they found a way back to their world. It was a nightmare.

Lucifer isn't Nick, a small voice whispered to him, quiet as if coming from a distance.

As shocking as it was to hear a voice in his head—the traumatic memories of his hallucinations burgeoning to the surface with it—it was the identity of the voice that worried him. It was Gabriel.

This is his second chance, Gabriel went on. Dad gave him that. Would he have done that while allowing him to be the monster he was before? He would take all that away, Sam. Nick would be the brother I knew again.

"No," Sam said aloud to the darkness. "Some things are ingrained. Lucifer is evil."

Is he really?

"Yes!" Sam said defiantly.

He knew Lucifer better than anyone. He'd had almost two centuries to come to know him in the Cage. He knew every facet of his personality, the way he enjoyed causing pain, the way Sam's cries would ignite something in his eyes.

He's Nick now…

Sam cursed. He hated to think it, but he thought the voice could be right. If he was right about what Chuck had done and said, Nick was the man Lucifer had been before the Mark had corrupted him, and how bad could he have been if he was God's favorite and the angel Michael and Gabriel had loved?

That made his situation more frustrating, and it made a childish part of him rebel at the unfairness of it. Nick had done so much more bad than him, he'd betrayed God and his family, he'd almost brought the world to its knees, but he got a second chance while Sam was cursed to this lonely existence.

Technically, you were the one that hurt God. You shot him.

"Shut up!" Sam shouted.

The voice fell silent, and Sam sped his pace. He was feeling weak and tired—which seemed ridiculous for an angel—and the blood was still seeping from the wound. He needed to stop raging at the situation and voice of a dead archangel in his head and concentrate on taking care of himself. He wasn't going to be killed by this injury, that was impossible, but he was going to end up falling on his ass on the side of the road if he didn't get himself sewn up soon.

Headlights appeared in the distance, and he ducked his head and walked on. As tempting as it was to be given a ride into town, there was no way someone was going to take him where he needed to go instead of to a hospital. He held his arm awkwardly over the bloodiest spot on his side and hoped what remained visible would look like a spilled drink, not bloodstain.

To his relief, the car passed him without slowing, and he carried on walking. Heading to his next destination and problem.

Sam sighed with relief when he reached the veterinary clinic he was destined for and saw it was in darkness.

He had no lockpick with him, which would have pissed Dean off as he always maintained that they needed to keep one of them for situations of being locked down someplace as they often were. He figured he would be okay though. He was an angel now, though one with decreased strength, and the lock on the door of the office didn't look that strong.

He looked up and down the street, pretending to be examining the displayed opening hours as a couple of women with linked arms passed him, staggering a little. They laughed with each other, barely casting him a glance. They were dressed as if coming home from a night on the town, and Sam guessed they'd drunk enough and were happy with each other's company to not pay attention to him. When they were gone, he gripped the handle of the door and pushed it down roughly. He heard something snap inside, and the door opened.

He quickly entered and then pushed it closed again. It didn't quite slot in place with its broken lock, so he grabbed a bundle of pamphlets from the table, folded them, and jammed them into the doorjamb. It held the door in place, and Sam moved deeper into the room, a strange quiet buzzing reaching his ears. It was so quiet he doubted he would have heard it if he'd been human still, even with honed hunter's senses, but his angelic hearing picked it up clearly. He could also see clearly, too, even though the only light came from the streetlamps outside and didn't give much illumination.

He looked behind the reception desk and saw a small white panel set into the wall with a blinking red light. It was a security alarm system. He circled the desk and punched it, cutting off the buzzing.

He turned away and took in the room. The walls were pasted with posters of pictures of dogs and cats with messages about worming and ticks. There was one with pictures of various breeds of dogs and another that listed the perils of a poor diet that advertised the brands of food that, Sam guessed, the practice got a bonus from companies for selling.

He'd not been in a vet's office since he'd last visited Amelia to take her out for lunch a lifetime ago, before Dean came back, before Don, before things had come together and fallen apart in equal measure. He knew it was the ideal place for him now, though. It had all the supplies he'd need to fix himself up, and it was as clean as any hospital.

He went through a swinging door marked as the clinic and looked around. Able to see still, he didn't bother to turn on a light. Instead, he went straight to a cabinet across the room and pulled open the door. It contained a wealth of packages and boxes. He opened a few, finding plaster cast bandages and packets of tablets that he didn't know the use of and didn't think would help him anyway. On the second shelf he found a box of suture kits, and he grabbed one of them and a package of gauze and peroxide. He didn't know if infection was a risk for an angel running on less than half-power, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

He set his finds down on the stainless-steel table and pulled over a rolling stool and sat. He needed to keep his shirt to cover him when he was done, so he unbuttoned it and laid it down on the table before dampening some gauze with peroxide and wiping around the wound to clear the blood. It wasn't that wide a wound, the beauty of an angel blade came in its power rather than the size of a wound, but he knew from the way it tugged inside that it was deep.

He cleaned the area thoroughly and then leaned back and tipped the bottle over the wound. The peroxide dripped inside, burning like fire, and spilled down to his pants. His next job when he got himself stitched up was to get clean clothes.

After that, he had no idea what to do.

He dried the edges of the wound and then tore open a suture kit then looked down at the wound.

"This is going to suck," he muttered.

He took a breath and then pinched the edges of the wound together and forced the curved needle through the resistance then drew it out again, leaving the thread of a silk suture through his skin.

He repeated it, slowly closing the wound, until it was puckered and crossed with dark stitches. He let the needle hang for a moment as he cut the thread and wiped away the blood that had spilled as he dislodged the clots, then covered it with a dressing and got to his feet.

It felt a little better now that it was closed, though he knew it shouldn't. The stitches usually hurt more than the wound at first until it settled, especially when he'd made them too tight. He figured it was a grace thing; maybe the wound could heal now that it wasn't open.

He pulled on his shirt again and buttoned it, feeling the tackiness of blood against his skin, then froze as he heard the sound of an engine approaching and cutting off outside. Other cars had gone past while he was inside, but this was the first to have stopped. He had a feeling that, whoever it was driving, was coming in.

He looked around for another exit, but the room only had one door. Whoever it was out there, he was going to have to go past them to get out.

He looked around for a weapon, instinctively falling back on hunter reactions, and then gasped as something dropped into his right hand. He looked down and saw it was a long silver blade. Not an angel blade of the kind he'd wielded before; this one was longer and seemed to hold an inner light that they hadn't. This was an archangel blade.

It seemed to hum in his mind, resonating with him, and he considered it for a moment before a voice cut through the air, and he started.

"Police! Come out with your hands up!"

Sam looked around the room again, analyzing the windows as a possible escape route and dismissing them as too small, then slowly walked towards the door.

"I'm coming out," he called.

"Slowly. Hand's up," the voice replied.

He pushed open the door with a foot and slowly started to enter the large open area that served as an office with his hands raised in front of him.

"Drop your weapon!" a voice shouted, and this time it was one Sam recognized.

"Jody?" he said, louder than he intended.

"We know you're in there. Come out with your hands up," Jody commanded.

He walked into the room and saw Jody Mills was standing with a man Sam recognized as her deputy, Frank. They were both aiming guns at him.

"Drop your weapon!" Frank barked. "Drop it, or I will shoot!"

Sam just stared at Jody for a moment, seeing the fear in her face that had a depth he'd never seen before, even though he had seen her in some high-tension moments when her life had been in danger.

"Easy, Frank," Jody cautioned. "Don't shoot."

Frank chanced an incredulous glance at her. "He's armed, Sheriff!"

"I see that, but I know him. This guy is…" Jody swallowed hard, "dangerous."

Sam huffed an unwilling laugh. He was dangerous; that was true on so many levels. He was a hunter that posed a danger to all kinds of monsters; he was a man that had made many mistakes that had killed some and put others in serious danger; he was armed with a blade that could disembowel them both in one well-aimed swing; he was now an archangel. Sam had never been more dangerous in his life.

But none that was what Jody saw, though. He could tell from the look in her eyes that she saw him as what he was now to her and all the people he loved—he was Lucifer, the devil; he was the enemy.

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Sam said evenly. "I just want to leave."

"No can do, buddy," Frank said. "Drop your weapon and get down. Lie with your hands behind your back."

Sam took a step forward, planning to walk around them and get out, but before he could two guns fired and he felt two hammer blows to his chest that knocked the breath out of him and made blood soak through his shirt.

"Seriously?" he rasped.

"What the hell?" Frank said, his voice weak with shock. "Sheriff?"

"It's okay," Jody said, her eyes tight with stress. "There's no need for anyone to be hurt here. You can go, sir."

"What is he, Sheriff?" Frank asked. "I know you've got some crazy theories and like the wackadoo cases, but this guy is…"

"Just leave, please," Jody implored, her scared eyes on Sam.

Sam started walking again, and Frank corrected his aim to Sam's head. Sam saw his finger depress the trigger, and at the same moment, the weight of his wings spread across his back and he took flight. He came to rest in the open-plan living room and kitchen of Rufus' Montana cabin, and he stumbled back a step.

He looked down at the bloodstain on his chest, the bullet holes grouped close over his heart, and cursed. Their aim was perfect, and unless he wanted to dig the bullets out of his damn heart, which he didn't think he could stomach, he was going to be carrying them around for the rest of his life.

He unbuttoned his shirt and looked at the perfectly positioned wounds, barely a millimeter between them, and sighed.

He was going to take care of these new wounds and then stop and regroup before figuring out what he would do next. He would give himself that brief reprieve since he wasn't ready to think of the big picture.

He'd never been more lost.

So… What do you think of Sam's situation now? How was Jody's cameo? We'll be hearing from Dean in the next chapter and getting to see what they've been up to. We'll also get our first Nick POV so you can see how his life as a Winchester is working out.

I am looking forward to hearing what you think of that. I have no idea how you're going to react to him, if it will be possible for you to connect with him, and that's a defining part of this story and the way you see it.

Until next time…

Clowns or Midgets xxx