Two

There are lights. And people. Applause. They're happy to be here.

Sam loves it all, the attention, the adoration, the awe. Watching the curtain rise from backstage. Millions of faces. And Dean, always in the front row, always the most supportive.

He has always been there for Sam. For everything Sam does. He's stood up for him more than once; been the big brother most people can only dream of. Sam feels like he owes his brother a million things even if Dean will refuse, or will say that this is all just his job. But the fact that Dean's here, it means everything. Because even now, when Sam needs him the most, he's here. Right where Sam can see him.

"Sam?"

Sam rushes to the green room and takes a deep breath in front of the mirror. Wayward strands of hair are already coming out of his ponytail, framing the sides of his face, and he checks his hair tie to ensure that the rest is properly 's starting. His part. It's starting. And. And, oh. He can do this. He is going to nail this. He knows he's good at what he does, with the way his cracking, popping joints remind him of all his practice and work each morning, and he knows he's going to be appreciated.

He takes a final few seconds in the room to catch his breath and returns backstage, ready to do his part. The lights go off. He takes his position.

The music begins amidst pin drop silence. He starts to dance, stretching his arms out as Jess enters the stage with a chassé and then a pas de chat, graceful as always, fluid and just perfect when she pirouettes. Sam moves ahead with a grand jeté and he just vaguely hears the gasp from the audience before he holds Jess's soft hands in his. They coordinate for another grand jeté and Sam now knows, as he dances a few perfect temps de poisson that the audience is enraptured by both of them and the story they're telling.

He takes Jess's hands again and they dance together.

They're a dance of two souls that Sam buries himself in. It's blissful to be in that realm; that world where his mind is disconnected to his body in favor of muscle memory, every sense inside of him savoring what he loves the most. He spins, pirouettes, feet carrying him as he glides and leaps. The Nutcracker Prince and Masha the Princess. Dancing to Tchaikovsky's best, in the grand melody made from violins and cellos and flutes and people and people and people.

"Sammy."

Jess has her hands in his again. He lifts her in a sweep, left leg sliding back as he arches, her arms around his neck and her gaze bleeding into his as a strand of her blond hair escapes her perfect bun. She looks utterly gorgeous.

"Sam."

Jess opens her mouth, as if to call him. She's crying. Sam doesn't know why, but she's in his arms, crying like he has never seen her do before.

"I need an ambulance here! My brother is hurt!"

Jess's tear drops fall on Sam's forehead, sticky and hot.

His heart is breaking for her and he wants to comfort her, hold her. Ask her to marry him. She's perfect. So beautiful, amazing, intelligent. She always makes him happy. He can talk to her for hours and hours and always and forever for eternity. He loves her so much. So much—

"SAM!"

Sirens. It's hot.

He looks up as more of Jess's tears fall on his forehead but then his mouth opens in a scream, the image, the horror of what he's seeing before him, shattering him for an eternity.

"Jess!" he calls out, arms flailing towards her. "Jess!"

She's on the ceiling, dripping blood from her stomach, burning.

She's dead.

~o~

Cas has been looking for Sam and Dean for days and days now.

Bobby has no idea where they are. They're not answering their phones and the last place Bobby knew they were in, their motel room is empty. Right now, Bobby is trying to track the Impala while Cas traces whatever evidence they can find of Sam and Dean's vanishing.

He is not sure who's behind this. Why would the angels take Dean with them, and likewise, why would the demons take Sam? It doesn't make sense that they are gone together—unless, of course, it is the work of hunters again. Humans were unpredictable. However, even with the unpredictability, humans always leave behind evidence and if this was the work of a human being, Cas would know by now.

No, it is most definitely a supernatural entity.

Cas had tried looking into the Winchesters' last case.. They'd been hunting a vampire, and no vampire that Cas has heard of has the extraordinary powers to make people disappear. It doesn't add up. They were supposed to turn up by now.

They are in danger.

Cas clenches his fist and gets up from the bench he's been sitting on. Sunlight filters in from the spaces between the leaves and Cas extends his hand to feel it, the golden light on his skin, the delicate heat.

He shuts his eyes. He can feel tendrils of loneliness creep into him, their absence affecting his transformation to becoming human, and he doesn't like it. He needs to find Sam and Dean as soon as he can. And he will.

~o~

Sam looks up from his jello as Dean walks into the hospital room with a cup of coffee in his hand. His face is drawn and tired, but then he glances at Sam and raises the Styrofoam cup in his hand with a little bow of his head and Sam manages a smile as his brother seats himself on the chair next to his bed.

Sam's been in the hospital for a week now after numerous surgeries on his broken legs and his left shoulder. Although right now he's finally awake enough to talk to Dean. And no one's happier about that, than Dean himself. The pain from all the injuries on his upper body is excruciating, though (waist down is an entirely different story and Sam doesn't want to think about that), and he's usually drugged on painkillers but sometimes he's awake enough, like right now.

"The kids from your show came around," Dean says without preamble as he sips from his coffee and leans forward to talk to Sam. "They got you a little something." He reaches for his coat and pulls out a small bunch of daisies, and Sam smiles.

"Thanks."

"I'll tell them that," says Dean. "And, uh… Jake wanted to visit but you were alone and asleep so…"

"Oh. Is he performing instead of me?"

"No." Dean clears his throat. "They canceled it. They ain't performing it at all. Solidarity to you um…" Dean gestures vaguely at Sam.

"That's weird, though. Did you talk to anyone?"

Dean just shakes his head 'no' at the question and Sam falls quiet, thinking about how a perfect opportunity just got away from not only his, but also Jake's hands. Why would they cancel the whole show? It doesn't make sense.

"You should have let Jake in," Sam tells his brother. "You know you are being stupid about him."

"I don't trust him, Sammy," says Dean. "I told you."

"And what could he possibly do to make me worse?"

"I don't know." Dean shrugs. "But I wanna be around when you're vulnerable and he's visiting you, okay?"

"Fine." Sam lets out a sigh. Sam's not sure why Jake's name and presence give him an uncomfortable tingle in his gut, but Dean seems to feel the same. It's strange because Sam is sure that Jake's a good guy, and he never even tried to sabotage Sam. Dean never trusted him anyway. Either way, Sam's mind diverts to something else.

"Jess?" he asks hopefully.

Dean looks away. "Sammy…"

"Did she call?" Sam's heart is already sinking because he knows the answer. She has every right to move on, he knows, she has a vast life ahead, better things to do than come see her (now presumably) ex-boyfriend lying in a hospital bed, but Sam longs to hear her voice again. He remembers the nightmare he had right after his accident—that she was burning on a ceiling, dead—and every time he thinks of it, he feels his heart rate elevate. It had seemed too real; the heat and the stink of blood too visceral. He tried asking the doctors about it but they don't seem to be very concerned. They just thought it was his mind making stuff up in between states of consciousness.

Dean decides not to reply to Sam's question as he puts the daisies on the bedside cabinet, awkward silence following the action. Sam turns back to his jello and digs into it, waiting for the inevitable question from his brother today, and—

"Sam." There it is.

"Yeah?"

"How're you feeling?"

"Aces."

Sam feels a corner of his mouth snap into a half-smile and is instantly guilty about being an asshole. This is not Dean's fault. Hell, it's not anyone's fault. It was an accident. A horrible accident.

Sirens, Dean, pain, blood, can't move cantmovecantmovecantmove

"Sam."

The doctor stands with a diagram of the human spine. The vertebral column is numbered and Sam knows them from school. Cervical, thoracic, lumbar, sacral—

"This is where you have been injured, Mr. Winchester."

He blinks. Follows the doctor's finger. 'L1', it says on the diagram. He sees the nerves branching out, follows their routes, and he knows what the doctor is about to say. He's been expecting it. He's not a fool. He knew the moment he couldn't feel his legs that this would happen. That his life had just taken a turn for the worse.

He clears his throat. "So… uh, I can't walk again." He tries to be cool about it, a little more laid back, but his voice is tight and bitter. He sees it in the doctor's eyes.

"Seeing your injury is quite profound, we will try to help you, but at this moment I'm afraid I need to say…"

"Sam."

The room comes back to focus, spins a little. Sam shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to say it, didn't want to answer that question. But it's not Dean's fault and Dean hurts just as much at Sam being hurt so he should talk.

And when he does, he just states the obvious; what Dean already knows, and what both of them can't get themselves to believe. They shouldn't be in this situation. They shouldn't. But—

"I can't walk, Dean. I'm paralyzed. Waist down. Do you even know what that means?"

It comes out in the smallest voice Sam's ever spoken in, a resigned statement, and Dean stops staring at the sun rays falling in through the singular window in Sam's room. He blinks. "Yeah."

"Yeah. So no, I'm not okay." He barely notices the crack in his voice, the sting at the back of his eyes. "I can't—what I loved, the ballet, my classes, the kids. The-the…"

the fact that this is the only thing I want to do, but can't

He realizes he broke something by saying that because he never let himself think of it after he'd woken up. Didn't let himself fear the consequences when the doctor showed him the diagram. It hadn't seemed to matter because he did not want it to. But, it does. This is not temporary. Not fixable. It's shattered.

Dean sets his coffee down, gets to his feet and for a moment, Sam wonders how Dean'd look in a leather jacket. He can almost see his brother sporting one, maybe carrying a gun too, and he blinks, because Dean doesn't have a leather jacket.

He stops thinking further when he feels Dean's hand on his shoulder. He doesn't lean into Dean, but Dean pulls him into a hug anyway, arms around Sam, tucking Sam's face against his stomach, and if a tear drops down Sam's cheek while that happens, they don't talk about it. They just stay that way, grieving the loss of what was normal for them.

~o~

"I tried all my hunter contacts. None of them know where those idjits are at."

Cas barely registers Bobby's half-angry, half-worried voice as he paces the study, hands behind his back. It's times like these, situations like these that he wishes he still had access to Heaven but he doesn't, and he is going to have to rely on his depleting powers to find Sam and Dean. He feels an odd sense of loss that they're somewhere that he cannot reach them; he's quite used to the camaraderie and friendship that's developed between them. It makes things seem easier, even though Cas technically knows that it's not so.

He finally seats himself on a chair before Bobby and watches him unscrew a bottle of whiskey.

"Drink," Bobby tells him as he sets a glass before Cas. "Bottoms up."

"I am not sure how alcohol will solve our problem right now."

Bobby scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Just drink, ya idjit, stop thinkin' about it."

Cas narrows his eyes before accepting the glass. The stench of the spirit is overpowering, and his vessel feels warm as he downs the cool liquid. However, it has absolutely no other effect on him.

He clears his throat. "I cannot understand what supernatural entity did this to Sam and Dean."

Bobby sighs. "I think we both know that hunters ain't out of question yet."

"Yes," Cas says as he sets his glass on the table, "but no human is that perfect."

"Now you're just underestimating my species."

"No, I would know, I would find something."

"A hunter could have cast a spell on them," Bobby suggests, "did you think of that? Humans using supernatural sources can be pretty good."

He pushes back his chair, a sense of urgency coursing inside him as he stands up. "I did not consider that at all. I need to—"

He is interrupted by the sound of something heavy slamming on the hardwood table before him, and blinks to see Bobby push a book towards him. "Read," he says. "Once you get some direction you can talk about rescuing 'em from Timbuktu. But for that ya need to locate Timbuktu."

Cas finds himself agreeing with Bobby as he sits down again to read, and he prays to his Father to be able to reach Sam and Dean again, hating himself for every moment of the silent prayer.

~o~

They have to make many changes around the apartment to accommodate Sam and his wheelchair. Sam truly realizes just how different everything in his life is about to be. It's not just that his bodily autonomy is screwed up or that he can't move or pee or poop by himself, it's the other things too. The little things that are much, much bigger than they seemed at first.

Many things and places were never meant for the disabled. The world never stops to consider him and people like him. He is special now, in the eyes of people—someone to feel sorry for, or to target with vaguely ableist remarks that are so normal to them, they don't even think it's wrong.

And the whispering voices that talk about him: "He had a career but he doesn't anymore."

(He had a life but he doesn't anymore).

"Not true," Dean tells Sam. "You have a fucking life, Sammy. Don't talk that crap, man."

Sam tries to believe him.

Dean's got a ramp at the doorway because there is a step down from it into the hallway. He's got a shower chair, and rails to hold on to on either side of the toilet (not that Sam will be sitting on the seat anymore, thanks to that glorious thing they call a catheter which doesn't look like it's going away soon, but Sam thinks Dean's done that in anticipation of a recovery). The food items in the kitchen are now at Sam's height (Sam used to be tall, now he's just half of who he was and no part of who he wanted to be).

"You're still my same old ugly little brother," Dean scoffs at him. "I mean, sure, you can't feel some parts of you but you are you." And, okay, Dean can be an asshole sometimes, but Sam pretends that didn't just make him feel warm.

Dean moves into the spare room to give Sam more space in his, and, to be honest, Sam knows they've had the spare room since forever but isn't sure why they were sharing the other one, all cramped in those twin beds that were too uncomfortable.

"You know. Cas," Dean whispers absently as he moves his stuff into the guest room. "We needed a room for him but I don't know if he's coming."

Sam takes a moment to register that, and hears a whoosh of wings. He blinks. "Who?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"You said Cas." The name is painfully familiar to Sam, and Dean's hand goes to rub at his left shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're saying, Sam," Dean tells him finally. "What the hell is a Cas?"

Sam decides to leave it there and wheels himself out, watching Dean move the rest of his stuff in.

The neighbors are soft and sympathetic, just like the rest of the world. They talk in That Voice, which Sam hates so much, he could pull their stupid little larynxes out and throw them away. They help more than they need to, and Sam finds himself gritting his teeth because he's not a cripple. He snaps at them (oh, fuck them, they think they're doing God's work by being nice to Sam but fuck them, fuck them so much).

"Sammy—" Dean tries to explain on one such occasion, but Sam rolls his eyes and wheels away to his room. He can do that now, wheel into his room, but God, that was hell for a while because his shoulder injury meant he couldn't move one arm much. He tore his rotator cuff, apparently. How lovely. And well, he's still learning how to move from one place to another, like from the wheelchair to the bed, to the couch and so on, so he doesn't think he's going to be fully uncomfortable until he can do all that without Dean half-lifting him.

He'll be happiest when he can pee without having to shove a tube into his dick.

Later that day, Dean comes over with meatloaf that one of the neighbors apparently sent in. Sam is silent as Dean sits next to him on the bed and they both start to eat, Sam sighing a little at the taste of the meatloaf as he shuts his eyes to savour it. Most of him that hasn't lost sensation is still stiff and painful from injuries, but he can thankfully do the little things, like feeding himself.

"Sam," Dean begins again. Today has been a passable day, but Sam's stomach clenches because don't ruin it, Dean.

He swallows. "Look—"

"No, I'm sorry." Dean puts his fork down and stares ahead at the wall. "I know things changed too soon for you, and they didn't change for the best."

"Ya think?" Sam scoffs, diverting his eyes to the meatloaf.

"I…" Sam hears Dean set his plate on the bed and feels him shift awkwardly. Dean lets out a breath. "This doesn't matter, I know—it shouldn't, but these things, they changed for me too."

Sam shuts his eyes, hands trembling a little. "This isn't about you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know…"

Sam takes another bite of the meatloaf and rolls it around in his mouth. It makes him think of a homely bar. Cigarette smoke, tough crowds, cold beer, but home. He doesn't know why. It is oddly nostalgic.

"This meatloaf is really good," Sam finds himself whispering. "Did you make it?"

"No," Dean replies. "Ellen got back from visiting Jo last night. She wanted to see you but I told her…" Dean trails away, and Sam can feel him struggle to maneuver himself around that topic. Dean, however, clears his throat and manages to completely avoid it. "She sent the meatloaf instead. You love her meatloaf, right?"

Sam frowns, turning to his brother, who has picked his plate back up, looking appropriately guilty for that selfish little conversation about how things had changed for Dean (really, Dean, just because you had to fit a damn ramp and do some carpentry? You can't seriously mean that).

He can't remember who Dean is talking about, though. There are some people from their childhood, friends of their parents, who contact them sometimes. Dean keeps track of them all and Sam knows the ones who talk to them regularly, but the others slip his mind on occasion. He assumes Ellen belongs to the second kind.

He purses his lips, squinting. "Which one is Ellen?"

"What do you mean, which one?" Dean asks him absently. "How many Ellens do we know?"

"I don't know any, so you're gonna have to enlighten me."

"You're kidding, right?" Dean raises an eyebrow, just as the face of a woman flashes in Sam's head—middle aged, dark haired and tough, cleaning a bar. Oh. Ellen. Ellen Harvelle. No wonder the meatloaf reminds him of a homely bar. She owns that very bar he considers his second home.

Sam shakes his head and glances at his bedside table where his medicines are carefully aligned with a jug of water—all Dean's work, because his brother is just weird like that. Sam himself likes to be orderly but Dean … there is no telling whether Dean will avoid hygiene altogether or be an asshole about everything being orderly and neat. It's either one or the other and there is no in-between.

Dean's gaze follows Sam's, to the meds. He sighs. "You're dosed up on the good kind of Tylenol, aren't you?"

Sam scoffs. "I took them a while ago."

"Yeah, now I'm not surprised you don't remember Ellen," says Dean.

"I do remember her."

"Whatever, Sasquatch, eat up and get to bed. You're high." The statement makes Sam think of Dean leading him to bed and Sam's blabbering, drunk as hell…

"Sammy?"

Sam snaps out of his reverie, only to see Dean staring at him, confused and scared. "Sam, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm just… I guess I'm tired."

Dean doesn't reply but he waits patiently for Sam to finish and takes their plates away. Then he wheels Sam to the bathroom (he still helps sometimes when Sam's had his meds but dammit, Sam's independent), waits outside for him to finish his business and after a while, Sam's sitting on his bed, Dean lifting his legs up for him as he droops, too tired, and Jess's voice whispering in his ear. He misses her. He misses her so much.

He barely registers as Dean pushes him gently, getting him to lie down, and then the light blanket on him as he drifts away. The last thing he knows before he enters his own realm between dream and reality is Dean's hand on his forehead.

"Thanks," he whispers with all the energy he can gather and he knows that he has this, and much more, to thank Dean for. He owes Dean everything. He owes Dean the entire fucking world. But Dean disappears then, and there is blackness everywhere, everywhere, until he finally sees Jess before him.

"Sam," she whispers to him, happy, sad, hurt, all at once. She's in her negligee; the one she wore the first time that they made love. It was after their fifth date. She'd taken him to her apartment after and he still remembers her warm body underneath his, her hips moving to match his rhythm, the crescent-shaped dents on the skin of his back, the bruises on her neck, her harsh gasps and her soft, wet lips.

He raises his arms to hold her again, but she disappears.

"Sam."

He doesn't know where she is, but her voice is different this time. It's a hoarse whisper, calling out his name again and again until it is not Jess's voice in his ears anymore. Until it's a man. A man whom Sam doesn't know but feels like he vaguely recognizes.

"Come to me," the man says. "I will take your pain away. I will make it better for you."

Sam reaches to the blackness before him, trying to hide himself, but the man speaks again. "You don't have to hide from me. I would never hurt you. And you will see me soon, Sam. I promise to take all your pain away.

"I will give you everything, in exchange for just one small thing."

Sam takes in a deep breath and speaks for the first time. "And what is that?"

"I need you to say yes."

~o~

Cas sits on one of the beds in the motel room and stretches his hand into the air before him, shuddering as he feels something like a static current pass through him. He and Bobby got back here—to the last motel room Sam and Dean were in, after a lot of dead ends and this time, the things around here are different. A lot different.

For starters, they did finally locate the Impala, hidden in the woods nearby and Cas checked there before and can swear in the name of his father that it wasn't there. And now… this.

"What is it?" Bobby asks Cas from his corner. "You told me you didn't find anything here. That change all of a sudden?"

"I did not find anything then," Cas tells him, still pronating and supinating his palm to feel the wave of current before him. "The last time I was here. However, right now, I feel something else."

"What changed?" Bobby crosses his arms, sounding equal parts suspicious and cautious.

"The air around here," says Cas. He withdraws his hand and squints at the rip. He can see it. A small wave, a seven-colored spectrum. It's right there. He should have looked more carefully before.

"What is it about the air?"

"It's the aura," says Cas. "I may be wrong, but…" He breaks away, and looks at the peeling, yellow wallpaper before him as he gathers himself to break the news to Bobby. "I think they have been pulled into an alternate reality."

"Okay." Bobby lets the silence remain for a whole minute before continuing and Cas finally faces him to see that he hasn't moved at all. "How did you find out about that reality just now? What went wrong—or right?"

Cas extends his hand into the 'little rainbow rip' as Dean would call it, feeling the short, sharp burst of current, smiling this time. "One of them has managed to find loopholes in that reality."

Bobby scoffs. "How much do ya wanna bet that it's Sam?"

Cas grips onto the bedcovers and shrugs. "I do not have money but if I did, I would lay a bet on Sam as well."

"And what are you going to do now?"

Cas stares at the little rainbow rip, the loophole that Sam has created, and braces himself. "I am going to go into their reality and bring them back."

"You need help for that?"

"No, I can do it alone." He looks Bobby squarely in the eye. "I will bring them back by myself, whole and unharmed. I promise."

Bobby just wheels himself to the dusty table to retrieve the remote for the TV. "I deserve a damn pat on the back for saying this after everything your family pulled on us and is pulling on us right now, but I trust you to get those idjits back from the land of whoever they pissed off this time. Go get them. I'm going to be waiting for you to return in one piece."

~o~

Rehab is exhaustive as always, and all Sam feels, like every other time, it brings with it the crushing realization for him that he is never going to be able to walk again. (They say he will, but he knows he won't). His sessions are for his shoulder injury from the accident and some damage and stretching of the muscle tendons on his arms, that give him pain, and passive exercises for his legs, but none of it makes him feel better about anything.

He would honestly take all that pain with no complaints at all. If he could just walk. One more time.

Jess still hasn't called and the strange man still talks to Sam in his dreams. He tried to tell Dean about it but Dean scoffed, saying it was probably the meds. And Sam hasn't had the courage to talk about it with his doctor so he holds it in, hoping Dean is right, even if there is something prickling inside, telling him that it's probably worse.

He holds himself together, though. And he follows all the exercises that he is advised by his physiotherapist, Dr. Alva, cooperatively taking treatment for his problems. He's quiet the whole time, just doing as he's been told. It's a couple of months since his injury now and he is getting better, he can see that, but he can't get rid of the thoughts anyway. He is interrupted by Dr. Alva mid-reverie.

"Can I talk to you, Sam?" she asks him in a kind voice, but it is not that Horrible Sympathetic Voice that so many people use for him and he is grateful.

He nods. "Sure."

"In my office," she says, glancing at Dean, who's patiently perched on one of the plastic chairs.

"All right," Sam tells her, nodding at Dean as he wheels after her into her office.

It's a simple little room with almost no personal touches, except for a couple of pictures of a black pug—one of the pictures has the physiotherapist in it hugging the dog. Sam smiles at them and wishes Dean'd let him keep a dog at home. But in all honesty, since Sam can't walk now, it would only be more responsibilities for Dean, so he understands.

"That is Vinnie," the doctor nods at the photos. "Do you like dogs?"

"I love them," Sam tells her. "We had one when my brother and I were kids. His name was Bones."

"Pug?"

"No, a golden." Sam thinks of the big, beautiful bounding dog eating pizza crusts off his hand, and falls quiet. Something makes his heart race at the mere memory. Like he disappointed someone. Like he hurt Dean. Which is ridiculous because Dean loved that dog, too. They buried him at Flagstaff. He lived a good, old life.

"Sam?"

He looks up at the doctor and blinks, turning his gaze to the bookshelf behind her. "Sorry. You wanted to talk to me?"

"I did." She is silent until Sam's looking at her again, into her eyes. "How are you doing?" she asks him.

"I'm okay. Why do you ask?"

"It is important."

"Yeah, but I've got a million people asking me that every day, and my brother alone asking me a hundred times a week at least."

"Yes, because we're concerned."

Sam shakes his head at her and smiles, biting his lip. "That is not it. You're doing it as a duty. The others are doing it to sound courteous."

"And Dean?"

"He cares."

"You think he's the only one?"

Sam nods, and traces a finger over a wood of her table. "Yeah. I mean—it's not like we have many friends. My girlfriend just… left for some reason, and we're stuck like this…"

Alva lets out a sigh. "That's not true, Sam."

"What isn't?"

"That no one apart from Dean cares."

"No, it is."

She shakes her head. "You have to believe me when I say it isn't."

Sam folds his arms, holding them around his middle as he leans over slightly. Alva's AC starts hissing a little but he ignores the sound. "Is that why you called me here? To say you care too? Or that Dean's not the only one who does?"

"Mostly the second thing."

"Okay," says Sam, rocking back and forth a little, still listening to the hissing of the AC. He needs to get out of here. He doesn't want to talk about any of this and staying here feels suffocating. He just wants to get out.

Alva bends over, hair falling into her eyes before she shakes it back. "You already know that, don't you?"

"What?"

"That Dean's not the only one to care?"

He shrugs. "Look, no offense, but if that's all you wanted to say, can I leave?"

"Leave? Why?"

"I know you want to say people are here for me and that you're concerned… or whatever…"

"You never asked why, though."

Sam frowns at her. This is getting weirder and weirder. He grips at his wheels, ready to leave. "All right, I'll see myself out, then."

"No, Sam," she says, "you can't go yet. You haven't answered me."

There is something about the way she says it—something sinister about the words and Sam gets his hands off the wheels, looking back into her eyes and pure terror takes him over when he does that.

Her face melts off. It contorts like wax or gel or putty, distorting and repositioning, changing, metamorphosing before Sam's own eyes and when he blinks he is looking at a man, a blonde man on the chair previously owned by Dr. Alva and every cell in him is frozen, every word he wants to say stuck to his throat.

The man smiles. "So have you thought about it?"

Sam's mouth moves but nothing comes out and the man before him just shakes his head. "Come on, Sam. You have had enough time to be prepared. Don't tell me you don't know who I am."

It hits him then, like a freight train. As to why the voice scares him so much. He remembers the darkness, sleep, that small kingdom that is not dream or wakefulness and the voice… the same voice beckoning to him each day. The silky, dangerous voice calling out to him.

"Sam."

A motel room. He stands before a man—the same man, but Sam's eyes are filling with tears. He can feel the helplessness and anger and he knows he doesn't want this. He is Lucifer's true vessel. Lucifer needs his consent to possess him. To destroy the universe. And Sam only prayed to God and only wanted to help people. He never wanted to destroy. He never wanted to be the Devil. But he can't escape Lucifer. Lucifer, who can't find him but can enter his dreams; Lucifer using him through Jess image…

And Jess.

Jess isn't… is Jess dead? For real?

Sam feels another tear slide down his cheek as he looks around the physiotherapist's office and at Lucifer, and he doesn't know how he knows, but he knows he can't say yes.

He can't say yes.

"You know the deal," Lucifer coaxes him, folding his arms as he sits back on the doctor's chair. "You let me in, and you can use those legs again."

Sam swallows. "What did you do to the real Dr. Alva?"

"In the grand scheme of everything I'm about to do? Doesn't matter."

"Did you kill her?"

"I did."

"And Jess? What did you do to Jess?"

"Just give me a yes or no, Sam." Sam's blood curdles as he thinks of this person—Lucifer— taking Jess, and Dr. Alva, and whoever else he's killed or tortured, and he wishes this were a dream, but he's known for the last few days that something was horribly off. He just never expected it to be… this.

Sam licks his dry lips. "You are Lucifer."

"Yes I am. And you are Sam Winchester and you are going to answer me in a yes or a no."

Sam grits his teeth and takes in a deep breath. "No."

The word is barely out of Sam's mouth when he hears the loud shattering of glass. There is a hand on his shoulder and he only just catches a glimpse of strange blue eyes before everything around him dissolves in a flurry of colors and voices.