Golden light streamed through the kitchen window, turning the small dust particles in the air into tiny, lazy fireflies drifting carelessly in the warmth.
Sam smiled as the rich, comforting aroma of baked, buttery brown sugar and vanilla overcame his senses, and a glance to his right revealed the source. Several rows of cookies waited atop a cooling rack, with chunks of chocolate peeking out from the perfectly browned dough. A mixing bowl and spoon waited in the sink, like evidence of a crime.
He should probably take care of that—he took a step toward the sink, then stilled.
A frown twitched his brow, and his smile faded.
Where… where was he?
"Hey, Babe," a familiar, female voice called from behind him. He turned and—
No.
That… no, that was impossible.
He was dreaming, he had to be. That was it. This was a dream.
"Close the door, would you?" Her voice was tinged in amusement, a hint of confusion in her raised eyebrow.
His mind whirring, still too stunned to speak, he did as she asked but didn't shift his gaze—the door clicked closed behind him, and he felt for and twisted the lock.
She glanced up at the sound, then chuckled softly with a shake of her head and moved toward the oven. After sliding on a pair of mitts, she withdrew another large sheet of cookies and set it on the stovetop, bumping the oven door closed with her hip.
Finally, a word managed to escape his clenched throat, "Jessica?"
She flashed a bemused smile over her shoulder, "Who else would it be?" When he didn't react, she tilted her head, and her expression sank in concern. She closed the distance between them—unconsciously, Sam retreated a step, and his back hit the door.
Hurt rippled across her face, then worry overtook it. "Sam, what's wrong?"
She stretched out a hand, and he forced himself into statue-like immobility. Her hand was soft, gentle on his skin. So, so familiar. Her doe eyes searched him, framed by her curly, blonde hair. Her scent, like fresh vanilla and cinnamon, enveloped him. She tried a careful smile, her lips curling gently. Her hand snaked to the back of his neck, and his breath caught as she tenderly drew his head downward, toward hers, pausing a heartbeat as though to grant him an out, if he wanted it.
She was everything he remembered.
Before he could stop himself, he abolished the inch and pressed his lips to hers. His fingers found themselves tangled in her hair. He let himself fall into her, into her touch, into her nearness.
She was love and happiness incarnate.
Gosh, how he missed her.
The feeling of belonging that swelled in his chest, just in her presence. His racing thoughts stilled as she became a familiar anchor in the sea of his confusion.
Jessica placed a hand on his chest and slowly pried away. His hands trailed loosely down her neck, his eyes skating over her somewhat bittersweetly.
"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"
Her smile returned easily, and she snagged a cookie from the cooling rack, delicately fitting one end into his mouth. He grabbed the cookie as he took a bite, reflecting her expression. "Does this feel like a dream?"
The sweet, gooey cookie practically melted on his tongue. He swallowed down the bite, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to catch the melted chocolate left there. "No," he managed in answer, shaking his head. He couldn't help but stare. She was so beautiful. "It doesn't." It felt real. Curse him, it felt so real.
She chuckled, her laughter like a forgotten melody that even the birds would pause to hear. "Well… what makes you think you're dreaming, then?"
You. He caught the word before it departed his tongue. You're dead. You were dead. Killed.
Because of me.
Because I didn't save you, didn't warn you, didn't stop it.
The demons killed you to get to me. They put you in my life just to take you away. You were condemned from the moment I first saw you.
You're dead.
You're here.
"I dunno," he shrugged, shaking his head as he stared at the uneaten half of his cookie. It felt real, it tasted real. He took another bite, as though in test. Should he tell her that he hasn't been able to eat a cookie without thinking of her, not since that night? And when he did, he couldn't help but compare them to her master recipe, wondering if he'd inflated their perfection in his mind. Tasting them now… he hadn't.
"Are you feeling okay?" She asked carefully, her eyes narrowing somewhat in concern.
He wanted to respond yes immediately, just to banish the worry from her face. But she'd see through that, and he hated lying to her. "I dunno. I guess, I just…" He pressed a hand to his forehead, "I'm feeling a little out of it, I guess." Maybe that was putting it lightly—maybe that wasn't much better than lying.
Sympathy twisted her face, "You need to lie down?"
"Yeah, maybe." He paused, eyes skating over the kitchen once again. Where was he?
She seemed to notice his pause, her voice freckled in amusement, "Want me to tuck you in?"
After another heartbeat's hesitation, he nodded, offering a weak smile of his own, "Lead the way." She had clearly been joking, but he didn't know this place. Didn't know where to go. He needed a moment—a moment alone—to think this through, to decipher what was going on. But there was no need to panic in front of Jessica. No need to worry her any more than he already had.
She glanced over him again in concern, but she said nothing and led the way through the house, navigating through the living room, up the stairs, down the hall, and into what must be the master bedroom. As they walked, Sam scanned the rooms for any clues, and his heartrate accelerated steadily. Pictures lined the walls—pictures of the two of them. Some he recognized, most he didn't. The couple in the frames… they brimmed with joy. Gazing into each other's eyes almost as often as they looked into the camera. Their arms almost always around the other, or their hands intertwined. A full smile that looked etched into each face.
By the time they reached the bedroom, heavy emotion panged in his heart.
What was this?
Jessica stood near the bed, clearly waiting for him to slide under the sheets. He couldn't help the soft smile as he obeyed, once again struggling to tear his gaze away from her perfection for even a moment.
She rested a hand on his forehead, her tender touch electrifying. Her mouth scrunched to one side, "You don't feel warm."
His breath caught as she raised her hand, and something glinted in the light. Immediately, his gaze flicked to his own hand. To the golden ring on his finger.
"We're married?" The question escaped before he could stop it. The confusion and worry on her face urged him to shakily try to convert it from a question into a statement, "I mean, uh… we're… we're married."
"Yep." She tugged the covers up to his shoulders, cheekily fulfilling her offer to tuck him in, "You're stuck with me." Still, she eyed him in clear concern. "Why don't you get some sleep, huh?" She suggested, "You'll probably feel better when you wake up."
Again, he nodded, replying absently, "Right. Yeah, good idea."
Jessica flashed another soft, heart-stopping smile before she exited into the hallway, leaving the door open a crack. As soon as she was out of sight, he swung his legs off the bed.
Married?
He stared at the ring on his finger. It was simple gold. And worn. Not old, but not new, either.
Married?
How had he gotten here, what had happened? It had to be a dream, right? But none of his dreams—not even his premonitions—had ever felt like this.
He tried to trace his memory backwards but found it hard—like his mind was stuck in sand. Like his brain resisted the scrutiny, defied the investigation. Alarm flared in his chest at that realization, and he plowed further, scrambling for anything—anything at all.
His name was Sam Winchester—that was right. He knew Jessica had died. He remembered her suspended on the ceiling, staring down at him in accusation before flames claimed her body. He winced at the image but gritted his teeth and tried to trail the memory anyway. She died, and he… he went hunting with his brother, Dean.
Dean.
Flashes of his brother's face swirled before his eyes, and his memories seemed to unfold before him in a mad rush, the recent ones finally falling in line.
He'd started the Apocalypse, released Lucifer, and was trying to remedy his mistake. He'd said yes. The last thing he remembered was falling…
Oh gosh, he'd killed Bobby. He'd felt his neck snap, watched as the life vanished beneath the twist of an archangel's will. He'd obliterated Castiel. Felt the atoms tear apart beneath the mere snap of his fingers.
Then, Dean… was he okay? He'd pulverized him—and Dean… Dean kept saying it was okay. That he wouldn't leave him.
Sam tore at his hair, standing from the bed to pace about the room. He had to be alright—he had to be.
He forced himself to take another shaky breath. He'd find Dean. But the first step was figuring out where he was, and how he'd gotten here.
There was Dean… then he was falling.
Falling.
Falling…
He couldn't remember anything else. Had he ever reached the bottom?
A slow, wobbly realization crept through his mind. His gaze slid back to the wedding ring on his finger, then the beautiful house around him.
Had he… died?
Was this… heaven?
But then… why was he here? He didn't deserve… unless… unless putting Lucifer away had been enough. Had his sacrifice changed the destination of his soul? Had God chosen to spare him the Cage? He had barely even mustered the hope that he might die, to just cease to exist, instead of suffering the Cage for eternity.
He hadn't ever dared to think he'd reach heaven.
Disbelievingly, he stumbled his way to the bathroom, running his hands along every wall along the way to ensure their existence. He flicked the light on without looking—distantly wondering how he'd known exactly where it'd be on the wall—and turned to face the mirror.
For the hairsbreadth of a heartbeat, his breath caught at the sight of the face that stared back, and sheer terror jolted down his spine. Then, it was gone. He tilted his head faintly as he tried to steady his breathing, staring at the reflection to try to decipher what had sparked such raw panic.
The man before him was the same one he'd seen in the mirror yesterday… was it yesterday? It didn't matter. It was exactly the man he'd expected to see. So why…?
Disturbed, he turned the faucet handle and splashed cold water on his face, then wrung his head. He was wired, that was probably all. He couldn't worry about that until he'd ascertained what was going on.
He steadied himself with both hands on the edge of the countertop.
If this was heaven, how would he know? He supposed he'd been to heaven before. That felt real, too. But… hadn't heaven been composed of mere memories? And this… He glanced down at the ring on his finger. This couldn't be a memory. This was more like… a wish.
Dread breathed down his neck, and his grip on the counter tightened. Was he caught in a djinn's spell? They'd encountered a djinn before, and Dean said it had spun him an idyllic life based on his single greatest wish: that Mom hadn't died.
Was this Sam's greatest wish? That Jessica was alive? He… he couldn't be sure.
His gaze flicked to the razor sitting on the counter.
If this was a djinn, there was one sure way to wake up. Die.
But if he was wrong… He clenched his jaw, lip curling with the dilemma.
How would a djinn have gotten hold of him anyway? The last thing he remembered was falling. Heaven—and death—seemed more plausible, even if it wasn't a perfect explanation. Maybe… maybe he'd only seen glimpses of heaven, before. Maybe it wasn't all memories. Maybe dreams counted too.
It made sense. Sort of.
With one last, pensive look toward the razor, he punched the light switch and exited the bathroom, trying to distance himself from the blade before the unnerving thought could needle itself any further into his brain.
His mind whirred in search of his next move—then he felt like an idiot for not checking sooner. Unfortunately, when he patted his pockets, he found them empty. No phone. Where was his phone? Maybe he could call Dean. Would Dean pick up? Did he want Dean to pick up? Would that mean he's dead too? Or maybe it would just be an illusion—nothing more than a puppet playing its part in the play that was Sam's heaven. A frown wrinkled his brow. What about Jessica? Was she real? Was it really her, her soul, or just another manifestation of Sam's memories? If this truly was heaven at all.
He found himself breathing hard and pacing again. He stretched his hands, forcing a slow exhale from his lungs.
Sam glanced around the room, hoping to spot his phone, but his eyes landed on a leather-bound book on his bedside table instead. Curious, he reached for it and carefully opened the book to a random page.
In familiar handwriting, thoughts, notes, fragments of hunts, research, and reflections covered the soft paper. The journal felt right in his hands, like it had been there countless times before. Unlike his father's, the writing here was organized, ordered. A few pages stuck out—later additions or corrections, fit inside where relevant—but the margins at least weren't crammed with nearly-indecipherable scrawl. He thumbed through the pages, staring in growing unease.
This was his, but… he didn't remember writing it. Some of the stories were familiar—a vengeful spirit in a lake, a wraith in a mental hospital—but some… a shapeshifter who replaced a governor? A werewolf that turned a whole team of cheerleaders? But… it was all his writing.
A headache throbbed with gradually increasing intensity behind his eyes.
Pressing the palm of his hand to his brow, he flipped to the last page with writing. It wasn't a hunt—it was just a short paragraph, separated from the previous entry with a single blank line and the mark of a date.
Jess is planning on baking tomorrow. I think she wants the house to smell like a bakery or something when they arrive… It's been a little while since we've all been under the same roof. Jess has been an angel, of course. She wants everything to be perfect… I think it already is. What would I do without her? Ha—crash and burn, probably.
Emotion wrenched his chest, but his hands worked the pages back to the cover, and though his buzzing mind wanted to flit about the page madly, he trained his eyes on the first lines. Perhaps he should've been interrogating Jessica or leaving the house to try to deduct what was going on—where he was. If it was heaven after all. And yet, he found himself tracing the script on the paper. Just a few pages, at least. They might give him a clue. It was research—that was all. With a single glance toward the still-ajar door, he curled over the book and slowly began pouring over every word.