Dean, he thought. I have to focus on Dean….
So many memories flashed before him. Dean, in a million moments and a million instances. Holding him when they were little while their dad was away on a hunt at night, wrestling as gawky teens, however many thousands of miles sitting in the Impala hurtling away over the pavement over roads, listening to old music and eating bad diner food, Dean, going on about pie, them and Bobby poring over books of research, Dean showing up when he first appeared back from Hell, seeing Dean's face as he was fighting against Lucifer to avoid killing his brother….and finally, out of all of those innumerable moments, one settled and sat in his mind, painfully blotting out the rest. Dean, bloodied and flaccid in his arms. Dead….
Hard lines formed around his nose as he cringed at the memory, which had seared itself into his brain, the sickening gravity of it every bit as vivid now as it had been months ago. He sniffed, his face burning, feeling as if his gut had been ripped out through his throat.
"I…I think I'm ready," he said hoarsely.
"Good then. I think we are too," The Doctor replied.
"Come on then, over here. Sit here, yes—" The Doctor motioned to a strange chair with electrode pads and all manner of gadgetry built into it which he and Stanton had somehow assembled into the console.
Sam slid into the seat, his expression grim.
"I know, Sam. Just hold onto that. We need it. You need it. So that she can hone in on his presence. Just hold onto that memory a little longer."
The Doctor began strapping strange devices onto him—electrode pads of some sort went on his fingers, another on his chest under his shirt, and the absurd colander-shaped helmet went on his head, which he now saw contained a variety of electrode contacts, little flashing indicator lights and diodes.
"You…might want to know," the Doctor said slowly, "It may burn a bit."
"Whatever. Just do it." He muttered, gritting his teeth.
"Alright then. Geronimo," The Doctor breathed, throwing a switch.
With it came a blinding flash of light that seared its way into the depths of his being. And there was presence, of a woman, a voice, that echoed into his thoughts. A disheveled woman in ragged blue.
"Who are you," she asked.
"Sam."
"What are you doing in my inner sanctum?" She probed, her eyes burning golden with unfathomable power.
"Oh, god. Don't do that," Sam said, wincing.
"What?" The woman asked.
"That. It—it usually means bad things," Sam replied.
"Bad things?" She asked, reaching out toward him.
He moved back, away from her reach.
"What the hell are you?" He shuddered, feeling the waves of power she radiated.
" I am many things. I am the Heart of the Tardis. I see the turn of the universe, its birth and its death. I have basked in the light of a billion billion stars, and I have seen their ends. I am the space-time vortex, the Untempered Schism. I am the Bad Wolf."
"Bad Wolf?"
"Yes. I am the Bad Wolf. But who are you, and why have you come to me, Sam?" She asked, lifting his chin with her fingertips. The touch sent an icy yet boiling chill through him.
"I'm Sam Winchester," he said without meaning to. "I came here looking for help to find my brother. But the Doctor, he said you could help. I think that's how I got here."
"Yes, of course, Sammuel," the woman said. "It only makes sense he'd send you to me. My Doctor. Very well. Show me who you seek."
She reached out again, this time putting her hand on his forehead. He allowed her to do so this time, shuddering violently as the searing energy of her consciousness pierced his.
Dean. Dean, now a demon. Dean. Covered in blood, limp in his arms, dead….
He felt the intensity of it grow until he thought his mind itself would burst from the pressure of the memory and the violence of the power coursing through him from the woman.
Just as he was sure he was going to die, he experienced an overwhelming explosion of energy, his vision burning gold like the woman's eyes, his body shaking uncontrollably as he hurtled away through empty space—
"Sam! Sam! Wake up!" Someone was shouting in his ear, yet their voice seemed so small and far away.
"Sam!" Someone was shaking him, a warbling sound passing his ears.
"Wake up!"
His vision faded from black to dark violet, then the speckled orange-brown of the back of his own eyelids. He peeled his eyes open slowly, scrambling to make sense of surroundings.
Oh, him again, he realized, dazed. The Doctor stood in front of him, shouting something nearly unintelligible, holding the same strange device that he now vaguely recalled had been on his head.
"Sam! It's worked. She got what she needed from your memory. She's taking us somewhere," he heard the man say.
"Wh—" he moaned. "It worked!" The Doctor exclaimed again.
"It did? Oh, thank god," he muttered, cradling his forehead in his hands as if to dull the pounding.
"Yes, it did. We're nearly there now," The Doctor replied.
Sam groaned an unintelligible reply, sinking exhausted back into his seat.