Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to you all but I'll try my best with the reviews for this chapter. This is the final chapter and it will be followed by a prologue. This is a long one so get some snacks and a blanket and enjoy! :)

Sam – Unknown, In the dark

It hurt. The way his stomach clenched and squirmed, trembling with hunger. He knew nothing but the Dark, the memory of blue skies and sunshine were slipping away. Sometimes, he'd wake up and spend a minute trying to remember his own name.

My name is Sam. My brother is called Dean. My dad is called John. My mother was called Mary. My family are hunters. They will find me. I am still alive.

He repeated this mantra in his head whenever he was awake. But wakefulness and sleep were difficult to tell apart when he never saw anything but vast blackness. He didn't know when he was dreaming anymore, and the mantra was losing pieces and falling apart each time he tried to remind himself of it.

Little boy, I think you're turning quite mad, She crooned. Never mind. Your meat is young and fresh. Younger is better, I always say, keeps me healthy.

She was away more often than not, and Sam curled up in the cold darkness and hoped he might die before She came back. When She was there, She liked to play more games. Then She'd pluck away his hairs to eat, forcing Sam to eat whatever She'd brought him. He didn't find raw meat revolting when he was starving enough.

When I finish your hair, I'll start on your skin, She'd said once, licking a tuft of brown curls. The patch of scalp where the hairs had been rooted was now raw and painful. Or maybe I'll take your eyes first. You don't need them here, after all.

She said these things whenever She was around, She seemed to enjoy telling him which parts She'd eat next. The ghosts told him he was lucky that She started with his hair and not another piece of him. A part of Sam found himself waiting for Her; he was half-delirious with hunger and barely felt Her pull out his hair, too busy tearing into the chunk of meat She brought for him.

The meat always made him throw up after, and it was tough and fatty between his teeth, taking so long to chew through a small mouthful. But there was nothing else and Sam was so hungry. She gave him water, too. He couldn't see it in the Dark, but the taste of it made him sure it was clouded and muddy. Still, he gulped it down fast enough to make himself choke.

When She wasn't there, Sam slept. Or he'd lie down and feel at his face to make sure his eyes were still there. Sometimes, the ghosts would talk to him, but Sam could never talk back and they'd drift away into the dark, leaving behind a chill on his skin.

Aren't you gonna try, mister? One of the spirits asked. He looked much younger than Sam, maybe around five or six years old, and he was dressed in an old-fashioned nightshirt that reached his knees. Sam wished he could ask the boy his name, who his parents were, when he had died…

Mister? The ghost said again. Sam just shook his head. The ghost flickered a little, sadly. If you don't try, you'll never leave.

Sam couldn't try even if he wanted to. He'd crawled around in the Dark until his knees bled, and She had still found him. She would always find him.

Dean – 20th June 2000, The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.

It's a goddamn stupid plan. It's the worst plan in the history of plans. No way is this happening…

But it is happening, because it's the only plan they have and they're running out of time.

Sam was the one who came up with it. That stupid, genius kid.

Annette's collection of research is heavy and leather-bound, sitting in the back seat of the Impala like it's a passenger. Sun-down would be in a few hours and Dean and Bobby only have so long to formulate a plan. Sam couldn't offer much; he wouldn't write anything more than what he'd given Dean at Annette's house. It seems like he's shut himself off again, sitting hunched, head-down in the passenger side.

The town isn't much but there it's all they have. Bobby has driven over to the next town to see if he can find more of what they need.

It's just Dean and Sammy.

Dean pulls up right next to an electrical store. It seems a little out-dated, along with most of the rest of the town, but they're running out of time and they can't afford to wait another day. They need to get Dad back. Dean grips the steering wheel tightly, eyes clenched closed. Breathe… 1… 2… 3…

He can do this. He has to do this.

He glances to his right where Sam seems to have buried himself even further into his seat. Dean wants to reach out, place a hand on Sam's back, be as comforting as he can be. His hand pauses mid-way and he quickly pulls it back. Sam is shaking, not just in his hands but all over.

"Sammy," Dean says it as softly as he can, but Sam still flinches. It takes a moment, but Sam looks up at him, head still bent so far forward that it must be uncomfortable.

"Sammy," Dean says again, "Do you want to come in to the store, or do you want to stay in the car?"

Sam glances up over Dean's shoulder, eyeing the electrical store warily. Dean watches his unsteady hands find their way into his coat pocket and pull something out. Dean can't see what it is, but Sam holds onto it like a length of rope keeping him from falling.

"I'll be real quick, okay?" Dean finally says, because Sam is looking down again, fiddling with the woven bracelet Dean gave to him for his birthday, and not making any indication that he's going to move from where he is.

Dean sighs and climbs out of the car. He locks it, just in case, and heads into the store. The old guy behind the till is busy with a heaped mess of wires and bulbs, so Dean wanders around the store until he finds what he needs.

There are only five UV lightbulbs and none of them are big enough. He piles all of them into his arms and heads over to the checkout. The shopkeeper looks up, eyes gliding up and down what Dean has in his arms. The guy shrugs, then sweeps aside everything in front of him, not seeming to notice or care when a couple of the wires slip over the edge of the table.

"That'll be fifty dollars in all," he says, tapping his finger on the desk. Dean sighs and places the boxes down so he can fish out his wallet. He hands over the cash, all of which he hustled of some Jackass in Illinois a while ago, and the old guy counts it twice.

"Is there anywhere I can get more of these?" Dean asks.

The shopkeeper shrugs again. "Not in this town," he answers rather unhelpfully.

Dean sighs and collects the boxes. He nods his thanks and leaves, not wanting to leave Sam on his own for too long. Sam doesn't seem like he's moved an inch from where Dean left him, and Dean isn't sure if he should be relieved or worried. Still, he dumps the lights onto the back seat next to Annette's book of research and hops behind the wheel.

"We'll grab some food, okay?" Dean suggests, but it's more of a statement than a question since he knows he won't get any kind of answer from Sam.

Sam doesn't even look up.

Dean starts the car, and he's about to pull onto the road when he notices what Sam has in his hands.

Sam's eyes are closed and his mouth is moving silently, moving too fast for Dean to even try to figure out what Sam might be saying, or not saying. And in Sam's hands is something small and gold.

Jesus Christ spread out on a crucifix, trembling in Sam's hands.

Dean – 18th July 1997. On the road.

Dean was under a Chevy when the call came. It had been ten months since Sam's lights had flicked back on. Dean had been so tired of looking into those vacant eyes, so tired of easing food into Sam's mouth, and then one day Sam had looked at him. And Dean had been so overjoyed that it took him longer than it should have to realise that Sam wasn't talking.

But Sam was better now, that's what their dad had said. John Winchester never could sit still for too long, not that he was around much even when Sam was zombied out. Sam being better meant they could all get back to hunting. Not that Sam had been on many hunts since…

John was clearly getting frustrated with Sammy's no-talking deal, and even more frustrated at the fact that Sam wasn't going to tell them what took him in the first place.

Sam was okay. Dean told himself that. Sam was still in one piece; the scratches on his skin had healed long ago, and the plucked hair at the front of his scalp was coming back through. It was white, but Dean thought it looked kind of cool, kind of like Rogue from the X-men.

Sam didn't seem all that bothered, he hadn't even complained when Dean chopped all of his hair down to one length. Sam was fine. He was. He was getting better. So what if he didn't talk?

But then Dean's boss, Jerry, called him into the office in the garage.

"It's the local high school," Jerry said, holding out the phone. "You got a brother there, right?"

Dean nodded mutely and took the receiver. Sam had been back in school for a couple of months, in fact, this was the second school he'd been to since he'd come back from… wherever he went last summer.

The thing is, Sam's a good kid, the school doesn't ring home about Sam, that's not how it is.

The last school said they thought Sam ought to speak to a psychiatrist, but what the hell did they know? They were just a bunch of quacks with nothing better to do than pick on some kid for being quiet. John and Dean had pulled Sam out and moved on before the end of the week.

Dean sighed and brought the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"Am I speaking to Mr Winchester?" a woman's voice asked.

"Um. That's my dad," Dean said. "Is this about Sammy?"

"Could you give me your father's number, please?"

"He's away right now. You can talk to me," Dean told her squarely.

She sighed, clearly not pleased. "There's no way of contacting your father?"

"Look, I'm legally an adult. If something's wrong with Sam, you can tell me about it."

There was a moment's pause. "Alright. I need you to come down to the school to collect Sam."

Dean frowned. "Why? What's happened?"

"There was a fight, but I'd really rather speak to you about it in person."

Dean clenched his hand out the receiver and huffed out a breath. "Alright," he relented, "I'm coming now."

He hung up without another word and turned to his boss.

"It's okay, Dean," Jerry said, waving a hand dismissively. "Do what you gotta do."

Dean gave a short nod and hurried out the door, climbing into the Impala still dressed in his overalls. The town was a small one and it only took him ten minutes to get to the high school, he could have made it there on foot if he wasn't in such a hurry. The school itself was as small as the town it was in, with only one floor and about one hundred students. Sam had been there for almost two weeks and there hadn't been any problems before.

Although, it had been a nightmare trying to explain to the teachers that Sam was effectively a mute.

They seemed to be waiting for him because the receptionist pointed him in the right direction before he even had a chance to open his mouth. He walked past the nurse's office where some kid was crying and groaning in pain.

Dean wasn't there for that kid. Whatever.

He found Sam sitting outside the principal's office, knees tucked up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs.

"What happened?" Dean asked, crouching down to get a better look. Sam flinched away from his prying hands but Dean managed the hold him still. His upper lip and the side of his mouth were tinged orange where blood had been cleaned away.

"Aw, fuck. Sam?" Dean said, rubbing a thumb over Sam's cheek, trying to get him to look at him. Sam's eyes were set hard on the floor, his jaw was clenched tight, his hands trembled where they clutched onto his knees.

"Mr Winchester?" A woman appeared in the doorway of the principal's office and Dean knew right away that she was the woman he'd spoken to on the phone.

"Yeah, that's me," Dean said, standing up. "What the hell happened?"

She motioned inside the office. "Come in, please."

Dean felt reluctant to leave Sam on his own. The kid looked seriously spooked, pale white and shaking hard. Dean patted him gently on the shoulder, Sam jerked. Dean sighed and followed the principal. He dropped down into one of the two seats in front of the desk.

"I'm Mrs Jones-Whitely," the principal said, taking her seat.

"Why the hell is Sam just sitting out there alone when he's been hurt?" Dean demanded. "Where's the nurse?"

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "The school nurse is busy with the other boy involved in the fight. The ambulance is on its way as we speak."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Ambulance? No way Sammy hurt someone that bad. He's – he's fragile. A stiff wind would knock him over."

"I don't know what caused the fight," Mrs Jones-Whitely said, "but Sam bit one of our students so hard on the arm that stitches are required."

Dean shrugged. "The kid probably had it coming."

The principal raised her eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Maybe the other student did say something offensive, but violence is never the answer. If Sam had trouble, he should have informed a teacher."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, because Sam's so chatty."

Mrs Jones-Whitely sighed. "I understand that Sam has… difficulties, but I will not tolerate that sort of behaviour."

"I get it. It won't happen again," Dean agreed.

"I'm not sure you understand," the principal said. "Mr Winchester, your father has informed me that Sam has been to see a psychiatrist in the past, correct?"

Dean nodded, lying through his teeth. Already, he could feel the grounding vanishing beneath him. He knew where this was going.

"Well, I'd suggest you seek psychiatric help for your brother again. Sam is a rather disturbed individual."

That was enough. Dean snapped. "Look, lady," he hissed, knocking his chair as he stood up. "I know Sam is different, alright? You have no idea what he's been through so don't get all high and mighty on me about what's in Sam's interest. Sam is fine, got it? He's just… adjusting."

If the principal was surprised by his outburst, she didn't show it. She simply folded her hands neatly on the desk and peered up at him over her glasses.

"Sam needs help," she said. Her voice didn't hold the abrupt, authoritative tone it did before. It was gentle, her eyes clouded with sympathy. "His behaviour is not that of a normal fourteen-year-old boy. I can understand finding it hard to talk, being shy, I can understand the anxiety, but… he doesn't look anyone in the eye, and if he does it always seems threatening. When I found him today, biting into that boy's arm, there was blood everywhere, all over Sam's mouth. And when I told him to stop, he let go and barred his teeth at me like a wild animal."

Dean shook his head. "No, that's not Sam. Sam isn't like that. He's just… hurt by what happened to him."

"Be honest with me, is Sam like this at home?"

Dean was about to protest, no already sitting on his tongue. But then he thought of the times where Sam would scratch and hit if Dean of John tried to get close, the way he threw food across the room if he decided he didn't want it, the fact that the first thing he did when they arrived at a new motel was try to pull the curtains down.

Dean could have told the principal all of this. Instead, he said, "Sam is fine."

There hadn't been much to do or say after that. Dean was allowed to take Sam home; his brother wasn't allowed back at school for the last week before the summer holidays since he was temporarily suspended. Back at the motel, Sam just sat on the bed and stared at the carpet. Dean turned on the TV just because he couldn't stand the silence.

He made them ramen noodles out of a packet that night, which Sam inspected for a solid ten minutes before he was assured it was meat-free. They ate in silence because Sam didn't like talking and didn't seem to be planning on starting anytime soon.

Still, Dean needed to know.

"Sammy," he said. The slight flinch in Sam's shoulders was the only indication he'd heard. "That kid, the one you got into a fight with, did he - did he say something to you?"

Sam finally glanced up. He just stared at Dean dully, chewing slowly.

"Did he say something to upset you?" Dean clarified. "I'm not mad at you. I just want to understand, alright?"

Sam blinked and Dean wondered if it meant anything.

"He did?" Dean ventured. "What did he say?"

Sam looked away again, glancing down at the table top. Dean sighed hopelessly and watched as Sam placed his fork down, then reach up a hand to his hair.

"He said something about it?" Dean guessed. Sam fingered the patchy white strands between his fingers. Then, Sam yanked, pulling a tuft from his scalp hard enough to make his eyes water. Dean was up and out of his seat, leaning across the table to grab a hold of Sam's arms.

Sam wasn't so keen on being pinned down and he wriggled under Dean, managing to slip out of the seat and across the carpet. He was heading for the bathroom, the room with a door that could lock. Nope. Not happening. Dean lunged after Sam, landing as gently as he could over his brother's body and pinning him down.

"Dammit, Sam!" Dean grunted, his little brother kicking and struggling beneath him. Sam leaned over, mouth open, teeth bared, aiming for Dean's arm. Dean knew the damage the kid could do with his teeth now; he wasn't planning on getting stitches any time soon. Out of reflex, he jolted back, accidentally giving Sam the room he needed to make a run for it.

Sam didn't go for the bathroom, he made a turn right back to the kitchen table. By the time Dean was on his feet again, Sam was across the room, his fork in hand, the prongs pressing into the soft skin under his chin.

Dean's hands went up, trembling like Sam's. "Sam, drop it!" he snapped. Sam stared at him then, truly looked at him, eyes watering, mouth trembling. Dean shuffled forward a step, voice softening, "Please, Sammy."

Sam's face dropped, eyes scrunching closed. Slowly, he pulled the fork away from his skin, then he threw it hard enough to the ground to bend the head. Perhaps the most surprising thing to happen was Sam throwing himself into Dean's arms, holding on for dear life, crying wetly into Dean's shirt.

Sam had barely let anyone touch him for months. Dean slowly bent down until he could pull Sam's head gently onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around him and pressed his nose to the top of his head.

The two of them jolted when Dean's phone rang in his back pocket. Carefully, he freed one hand to fish it out. He answered.

"Dean, get Sam packed and ready. We're moving out tonight, I'm on my way back now," came John Winchester's voice.

Dean breathed out deeply. "Um, dad. I'm not sure if… Sam's not doing so well."

"We're going to take him up to Jim's, okay?" John said. "He'll be safe there, I promise."

"Dad," Dean cleared his throat, "I really don't think – "

"I'll be back in a couple hours."

The line broke off and Dean felt his heart plummet to the centre of the earth.

He hadn't gotten all of Sam back, he knew that. Part of Sam was lost when he vanished in Georgia. It was like living with a ghost. A ghost intent on destroying itself. Dean had been looking after Sam his whole life and he never once complained, now he felt like he was drowning and his father was barely around enough to help keep his head above water.

Dean couldn't do this alone.

He glanced down, the hairs on top of Sam's head kissed his lips. He felt his brother shake and sob soundlessly in his arms. Dean dropped the phone and curled his arms tighter around Sam's body, rocking him gently, whispering words that weren't enough.

He felt his brother's warm body in his arms and wondered where he'd been all this time. Even now, Sam was lost.

Where did Sam go?

Sam – Unknown. The Dark.

Wait for Her to leave, the ghost girl said, and follow Her through the door. The door only opens for Her. You need Her to escape. You're still alive, boy. She can't keep you here like she keeps us.

He wished he could tell her it was hopeless. He would never leave. He knew how this story ended.

We can try to distract Her, another spirit said, and you run!

In the dark, Sam lost track and the spirit's voices faded away. Even in his dreams, it was dark.

He was shaken awake by ice cold fingers, touching him, pulling him.

Wake up, boy! She's coming back!

Let Her come, Sam thought.

The door will open, ghost girl said. You'll only have a moment to get away.

Sam was too stiff with chills, trembling in the Dark, limbs frozen solid. He'd never make it.

Run!

Something in him came alive. Sam was on his feet, stumbling, losing his balance in the darkness. Looking down, he couldn't even see his own hands, but he could feel them shaking.

Sam began to run.

He tripped, not being able to see if he put one foot in front of the other, but each time he got back up and kept going. He didn't know where he was supposed to go, he couldn't see where he was going.

This way!

A light flickered in the corner of his eye and he skidded, turning in its direction. The ghost girl was there, hanging in the hair, waiting for him. She reached out a white, faded hand and Sam took it. The feel of her was like ice on his skin, burning him. He let her pull him along.

Boy! Sweet and salty boy! It was Her. She was coming.

Run, boy! Ghost girl cried.

He ran faster. He heard Her behind him, sniffing, clawing. The sound of Her grew louder.

You will not leave me! She cried.

Sam felt Her swipe at him, he felt the rush of air of Her claws near his back.

And then he saw it.

Light.

Barely a pinprick. The door, the way out. It was closing. He ran for it.

All he remembered was running, running, running. Then something pushed him, icy hands on his back, and he was tumbling from the dark, crashing to his knees onto a hardwood floor.

The room was dark and empty.

Dean's room.

He glanced around. The room was empty; Dean's things were gone. His family was gone. The moon lingered outside, offering its glow through the window, the first real light he'd seen in… how long was he gone?

He scrunched his eyes shut, shying away as the moonlight stung him.

Sam scrambled away from the shadows in the corner, barely managing to scrape himself from the floor to make it down the stairs. Each clunk of his heavy bare feet against the wooden steps sent vibrations from his toes to the tip of his head, dizzying him.

The front door was closed. It seemed so much bigger than he remembered, stretching thin and high to the ceiling. Everything was distorted in Sam's eye, not the right size, too dark, too bright.

He scrambled at the door handle, his icy fingers slipping, numb. Taking too long, too long, too long. She would be coming. He was so tired… but he yanked the door open and pushed himself, all but fell, out into the open air.

And there was a light, brighter than anything he'd ever seen, brighter than anything he remembered. He forced his eyes closed and hid behind his hands.

The light parted to a long shadow. It was Her, She'd found him, She was going to take him back…

The hands on his face were warm and dry. Sam, for the first time for a long time, felt safe. He could rest… he could…

"Oh my God. Sammy."

… let go.

Sam – 20th June 2000. The Ridge, Ridgeville, Georgia.

The house looks the same. It stares down at him. That rounded window in the attic glints like an eye, the sun hitting off the glass. Standing by Bobby's truck, Dean looks over and locks Sam's gaze. There's an almost smile from Dean, a smile that doesn't really mean anything. Sam quickly looks down to the dashboard.

On his lap, he fiddles with the bracelet, the same one he hasn't taken off since the day he received it. And pressed in one hand, he holds the crucifix, the one Pastor Jim gave to him a long time ago.

Soon, the sun will go down. Soon, Sam will have to sit in the dark for the first time in four years. Even now, at the age of seventeen, Sam sleeps with a nightlight. He won't sleep in the dark, you couldn't make him do it even if you offered his voice back.

But Sam needs to sit in the dark, he needs to wait for Her, he needs to save his dad. God help him, Sam is terrified.

He hasn't been this scared since that asshole Tommy Renwick locked him in a closet three years ago. Sam hopes Tommy's arm has a nice, ugly scar on it where Sam sunk his teeth into the jerk's skin. Fuck that asshole.

Dad. Do it for dad. Sam could cry with how much it hurts to miss his dad, how much it hurts to know where his dad is.

In the Dark.

Sam shudders and pulls his jacket tighter around hit body. He's sweating under three layers, the air is stuffy inside the car, the sun is hot on his skin. Still, Sam shivers. He always shivers. He can't stop his hands from shaking.

"Sammy?"

Sam jerks, almost hits his head against the ceiling of the car, when Dean appears in the window. His face is pinched, he looks too old, too worried. Sam wishes he could say something to make him less afraid. But Sam can't speak. Sam will never speak again.

Dean gently eases the car door open and crouches down. "Me and Bobby are just setting things up inside. Are you okay out here on your own?"

Sam wants to say no. He wants to tell Dean how much he wants to drive all the way back to Minnesota and hide in his room for the rest of his life. But Sam just nods because he has no other choice.

Getting away the first time was a miracle.

They need something more than that this time.

His fingers tighten around the crucifix.

Sam watches Dean and Bobby head over to the house, watches them make their way up the steps and through the front door. An unhelpful voice in his head tells him that they won't be coming back out. He pushes it down with prayer, one of the many Jim taught him, reciting it over and over in his mind until he can't hear that voice again.

Be brave, be brave, be brave.

She had eaten up his bravery, gutted him and scooped it all out.

His hands tremble harder, if it's possible, hard enough to shake up into his arms. He curls his arms into his middle and hunches forward to keep them still.

The front door creaks open again and Dean comes hopping down the stairs. The sight of his brother seeps a little relief into his chest, but not enough to quench the fear that is consuming him. Sam grips the bracelet and the crucifix pendant tighter in his hands until he can feel the point of the cross digging into his palm.

Dean eases the passenger door open and kneels down. He hesitantly reaches out a hand, but quickly diverts it to grip the door handle.

"Me and Bobby are all set up in there," he says. He's quiet for a moment and Sam can feel his eyes on him. He can tell Dean is waiting for some kind of answer so Sam just nods.

"Are you sure about this?" Dean finally asks. "We can find some other way to lure it out…"

Sam shakes his head frantically. He doesn't want to do this, dear God, he doesn't, but he wants his father back more than he feels afraid. If he wants his dad back, this is the only way. She didn't take John for any reason other than to lure Sam. John is a worm on the end of a hook, Sam is a fish. And Her, She's the shark.

She won't come out unless Sam is served up on a silver platter.

"I'll be right outside the door the whole time. Me and Bobby," Dean reminds him. "We're armed, okay? I'm not letting it touch you again. All you have to do is make the signal, then me and Bobby will come in and do the rest. All you have to do after that is run."

Sam frowns. No.

"What's wrong?" Dean asks.

Sam opens his mouth and wishes once again that he could speak. He clamps his mouth shut and frees his hands from where they're pinned around his middle. He jerks a thumb towards himself, wiggles two fingers in a running motion, then shakes his head.

Dean doesn't look like he understands, so Sam repeats it a few times. When Dean finally gets it, his eyes go wide.

"What? No, Sam. You need to run," he says. "What do you mean you're not running?"

Sam clenches his eyes closed, frustrated. He'd thought he'd made everything clear back at Annette's, writing it out and miming until his wrists were stiff, but maybe his communication skills aren't as manageable as he'd thought. He's definitely going to have to learn sign language, if his hands would just stop shaking, or if he doesn't die tonight.

Sam huffs a sigh and opens the glove compartment. He finds a cigarette pack and glares at Dean who looks suitably guilty, then he finds what he was looking for. A notepad and pen. Balancing the paper on his knee, he focuses his efforts on writing intelligibly. Once he's done, he hands it to Dean.

"'The door only stays open if She's in our world'," Dean reads. He frowns and glances up. "Yeah, you already said."

Sam refrains from rolling his eyes and takes the paper back, scribbling something else down, then handing it over.

Dean frowns at the paper as he reads, "'If She's dead, the door closes.'" He considers it for a moment, then nods. "So, we only gut the bitch once dad's back, right?"

Sam nods, relieved.

Dean shrugs. "No problem, Sam. Me and Bobby will handle it while you run back to the car, okay? The Impala's warded so it's the safest place we've got for you."

Sam nods, running a shaky hand along the dashboard. He feels Dean's hand on his shoulder, and for once, Sam doesn't jerk away.

"Let's light the bitch up," Dean says.

The curtains are drawn, blocking out any light from the moon outside. Sam settles down in the centre of the room, the UV torch in his hand flashes back-and-forth in his trembling grip. In his other hand, he tries his best to hold the string still.

He can hear Bobby and Dean outside the door, hear the floorboards creak under their weight. There's a brick wedged between the door and the frame, Dean won't be locked out like he was the last time.

No one makes a sound. There's nothing but the high whisper of wind rushing down the fireplace.

Sam tilts the torch upwards until he's sitting in a pool of light, surrounded by a circle of shadows. He has no idea which direction She might come from. It feels all too familiar to the Dark and his hands are now slick with sweat, the torch is slipping in his shaky grip.

She'll be coming for him soon. She must have smelled him by now. She's coming.

He grips the string more firmly, he feels the crucifix weighing down in his inner pocket, the bracelet feels tighter on his wrist.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe. She's coming, coming, coming, coming for him.

Sam feels a tightening in his chest, his heart beats desperately inside, wanting to be out. He needs to get out. But his legs feel like lead beneath him, his whole body is frozen solid, his hands twitch and shake uncertainly. He's so hot, he's too hot…

"Sam, I'm right here," Dean's voice filters quietly through the gap in the door. "I'm right here with you, Sammy. I'm here."

Sam forces a breath in, then back out. Dean is here, Dean is here, Dean is here. In and out, in and out, in and out.

For dad. They're doing this for dad.

The huff of hot air on the back of his neck stiffens his spin and suddenly he can feel the weight of Her right behind him. Sam's mind has detached itself from his body and he's hardly aware of turning around, tilting the torch upward and yanking the string as he does.

He yanks the string hard, hears the bell ring on the other side of the door, hears Dean cursing.

For a split second his torch settles on Her face, settling on the stretched skin of Her empty eye sockets. Her mouth is stretched wide, a gash running from ear to ear, her countless teeth are bared in a grim smile.

Then the room explodes with light and She rears back onto Her long, bone-like legs, hissing and spitting, scrambling back into the corner in search of darkness. There are no shadows, there is nothing but light, brilliant light.

When Sam can't move, it's Dean who pulls him back and out of the way. Sam finally manages to get onto his feet and he stumbles clumsily into a wall, banging his shoulder painfully but he barely notices. He can't pull his eyes away from Her.

Bobby and Dean have Her cornered, training Her with their weapons. Seeing Her now in the light for the first time, truly seeing Her, She is far more terrifying than he remembers. She's big, bigger than She seemed when he was half the size he is now. But She's cowering, curled up and pressed into the corner, whining like a dying cat.

"It burns!" She shrieks. "It burns!"

"You're gonna feel a lot worse than that before I'm done with you," Dean barks. He turns to look over his shoulder, eyes going wide when he catches sight of Sam. "Get the hell out of here!"

Sam is rooted to the spot. He can't move, even though he wants to more than anything. He sees Her look up and stare at him with that eyeless face. Her grin grows wider. She reaches out one arm, Her long fingers wriggles, and one of the claws scrapes the glass of the nearest light.

Lightning fast, she swipes and the room grows a little darker. She lashes out and knocks Bobby and Dean back. Sam watches Her crawl up the wall, across the ceiling, and through the door to the hallway.

"Fuck!" Dean yells, kicking the broken UV light. Bobby grabs Dean's arm and points across the room, to the corner by Sam. There's a patch of blackness nestled in the lit-up part of the room, the same place where Dean's bed was settled four years ago. An impossible dark hole leading to nothingness.

"It's going to be coming back here if it wants to be getting back to wherever it came from," Bobby points out.

Dean nods, catching his breath. "Do you know what the hell that thing was?" he finally asks. "It was ugly as fuck."

Bobby raises an eyebrow, amused. "Not a clue. Never seen anything like it."

Dean shifts his gun in his grip and makes his way over to Sam, placing his free hand on his shoulder. "You good?" he asks.

Sam is anything but. Still, he nods. The motion makes him dizzy and he eases himself down, eyes locked on the doorway to the Dark. He was trapped in there for two months but it had felt like years. He thinks maybe it was. He manages to tear his gaze away and looks up to Dean.

He opens his mouth and forms the shape of the word dad, pointing to the Dark.

"Dad's in there," Dean agrees. "We'll get him out, okay?"

Bobby is kneeling by the doorway, peering into its blackened depths. Hesitantly, he reaches out a hand and pushes it forward until it disappears in the shadows. He quickly pulls it back.

"Well, I ain't never seen something like that," he admits. He flicks on his flashlight and shines it inside, the light is swallowed up by the Dark. Bobby leans forward a bit. "John Winchester?!" he shouts. His voice echoes away.

Dean squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Dad's coming back," he says surely. He turns to face the door where She disappeared, gun focused into the hallway.

All three of them jump at the sound of a high pitched scream. "Help me!"

Dean's eyes go wide. "That's a kid!" he cries. "It's got a fucking kid!"

He sprints out the door and Sam's right on his tail. He manages to grab Dean at the foot of the stairs up to the attic, pulling him back.

"Sam, I'm not leaving a kid with that thing!" Dean snaps, trying to pull away but Sam's hold is firm. Once he has Dean's attention, he points to his ears. Listen.

"Dean, help me! Please help me! DEAN!"

Dean looks to Sam, mouth hanging open. "That's you," he realises. "That's your voice. But I…"

Sam pats his throat, where his vocal chords once were.

"Jesus, fuck!" Dean swears, realisation dawning. "That's why you can't speak. That thing took your voice."

Sam nods sadly.

"Why did you never try to tell anyone?" Dean asks softly. "I always thought it was… I thought you were just too scared to speak. I never thought it was because you can't speak. Fucking Christ…"

Sam never tried to tell anyone because he never wanted to remember any of it ever again. He could grow his plants and read his books and never think about the Dark again. But he'd never be so lucky as to forget.

"Dean, why don't you play with me anymore?"

It's Sam's voice, but not from his mouth. The voice of a child coming from the mouth of something grotesque. She's at the top of the stairs, crawling down towards them on all fours. Sam can see the glint of her teeth in the dark. Dean grabs a tight hold of his arm and pulls, tearing them away, back to Dean's old room where there's light.

Dean pushes Sam at Bobby, who catches him and guides him over to the corner. Then, the two of them close the door and barricade it with an old dresser. Sam backs up against the wall, shivering. He finds his abandoned flashlight a few steps away and leans over to grab it.

The door knocks. He hears his voice coming from the other side, "Dean, let me in!"

Bobby gapes, sputtering, looking between the two of them. The door knocks again, trembling in the frame. Sam gets onto his hands and knees, staring into the Dark. His mind detaches itself from his body again and he crawls forward, letting the blackness swallow him up.

It's colder than he remembers, sending a shiver through his bones the moment he's inside. He can feel the damp, stickiness under his feet as he moves. The patch of light from the room grows smaller and smaller behind him.

Oh, boy, why did you come back?

He sees he flickering just up ahead. Ghost girl. It hurts, a lump in his throat, not knowing what her real name was. He lifts the torch up and settles it on her. She looks just the same, just as horrifying.

You'll never leave now, she says. She drops her head sadly. You're here for the man, I suppose. I thought it was strange, we never had a grown-up here before.

Sam nods frantically, crawling closer.

I'll take you to him, she says, and drifts away. Sam hurries after her, climbing to his feet, making his unsteady way through the Dark.

There is more flickering up ahead, a huddle of fading light. And in the centre, a heavy lump of shadow lies unmoving. Sam gets closer and casts the torch over his father's shape. He drops to his knees, hands moving unsteadily over pale, icy skin.

His heart hammers in his chest. Sam can't tell if his dad is breathing.

He taps John's cheek desperately. After a moment, John begins to rouse. Once his eyes are open, Sam buries his face into his shoulder, gripping onto him tightly.

Sammy? John says, his voice sounding loud and quiet in the vast Dark. Sam doesn't hesitate any longer, pawing at John, pulling him up. John lists a little to the side once he's sitting, and Sam holds him steady easing him to his feet. He hooks his dad's arm over his shoulder and hurries. Ghost girl floats ahead of them, leading them back the way he came.

Sam, I don't understand, John slurs. Is this real?

Sam grips his father tighter, a tear of relief making its way down his cheek. They're stumbling along together when the doorway becomes visible again. The light grows the closer they get.

Then there's shrieking so loud and high it pierces Sam's ears. He hears gunshots going off, he can hear Her screaming, and the doorway is suddenly shrinking, smaller and smaller.

John is standing on his own now, eyes wide and awake in the darkness. Sam grabs his hand and pulls, running for the door. It's closing, they're never going to make it.

It's getting darker.

It's getting darker

darker

darker…

Something shoves at him hard in the back and he goes flying forwards into the light, landing harsh and painfully on the wooden floor. The air is knocked out of him and he flops over onto his back, clutching his stomach, trying to sit up.

He can feel the blood on his knees, soaking his jeans. He rolls onto his side, catching his breath.

He sees Her then. He sees Her corpse. She's a heap of skin and bones, mouth hanging open impossibly wide, Her empty eye sockets are dark and surprised. She's dead.

He glances behind where the doorway to the Dark was. There's nothing there now but faded wallpaper. There's no sign of his dad.

He scrambles over to Her corpse and slams his fist down on Her broad, bony chest, again and again, willing her heart to beat. She needs to come back, She needs to open to door, She needs to.

Dean's arms circle him and wrestle him back.

"It's dead, Sam," he says in his ear. "It's gone. It won't hurt anyone again."

Sam struggles because Dean isn't getting it. Dad is gone. Without Her, there is no door, there is no dad. He swivels around to face Dean, to make him understand.

"We'll find another way to open the door," Dean is saying. "I promised we'd get dad back. I promised."

Bobby is lingering by the corner, covered in bruises, blood leaking down the side of his face, looking a little shell-shocked as he stares at the empty space where the doorway was.

"I'll find another way," Dean promises. "You know me, Sam. You know I will. Dad's not gone."

But he is. He is, he is, he is. He's never coming back. Dean doesn't understand, Dad is never getting out.

"I'll find another one of these things, I'll make it open the door for me. I swear, Sam," Dean promises. He holds Sam tightly in his arms, rocking him like a child fresh out of a nightmare.

Dad's gone.

"I swear, Sam. Do you hear me?"

Gone.

Sam opens his mouth a screams. The room is silent. Through the curtains, the sun begins to rise, casting morning light across the fields outside. It's no longer dark, but Sam's hands still shake.