When his eyes reopened and began to blink the sleep away, Sam didn't think before he rolled over. He wasn't sure if he'd been here long enough to expect to find Jessica, but he certainly didn't expect the sight that greeted him. Ruby, her eyes wide open and blatantly untouched by drowsiness, smiling lazily at him. Right, because demons didn't need sleep. Had she spent the whole night there, watching him?
"Hey," she murmured, gently brushing the hair from his face. He tensed beneath her touch. "How'd you sleep?"
He worked his jaw, "Fine." His body was slick with sweat, and it ached horribly as though whatever nightmare he couldn't remember had infected his waking hours.
"Feeling better?" Ruby propped herself up on one elbow, dark eyes flicking over every inch of him for an answer before he could reply.
He didn't, though. He rolled to his back, and his gaze shifted to the ceiling—when his lungs seized, and his heart stopped.
Jessica. Burning. Her eyes pleading, accusing. Her blood welling at a wide gash in her stomach. The torture on her face from the slow, prolonged death. Held helpless and terrified as she waited for Sam to turn his head. Perhaps never realizing that was the trigger for the guillotine to fall.
Startled and horrified, Sam shoved himself upward, scrambling to his feet. But in a blink, she was gone.
"Sam?" Ruby swung her legs off the side of the bed. Her hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched, prompting her to retreat a step. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Again, he couldn't form an answer. He held out a hand to allot distance between them and limped toward the bathroom, finding himself grateful when Ruby didn't follow.
Still, after a moment, her voice called out through the door, "It's Sunday… you think you're up for church?"
Church? He barely caught himself from snorting a chuckle when he realized her tone was sincere.
"I told Dean he could drive with us, if that's okay."
Dean, going to church? Ruby going to church? Honestly, he wasn't sure which was more of a surprise.
"Yeah…" he answered absently, "Okay."
He heard the bed creak as she crawled off it, then the closet door as she swung that open. Were her clothes inside it? Did she live here? Or were they Jessica's? Had Jessica ever been here, or was that all a dream too?
Sam turned the faucet and splashed water on his face, gripping the corners of the sink as he tried to steady himself through the wave of vertigo that threatened to overtake him. It felt like everything was falling apart. What was he supposed to do? Find the demon-killing knife or an angel blade and kill Ruby? Would Dean try to stop him? Would it even work? The exorcisms hadn't.
He'd have to go along with it for now, at least until he found a demon-killing weapon and an opportunity to use it. And maybe, just maybe, he'd wake up from this nightmare and roll over to find Jess at his side.
He wiped his face dry with a towel and forced a measured exhale before pushing open the door.
A black button-up shirt, still on the hanger, flew from the closet onto the bed, followed by a pair of dark dress pants and a scarlet tie. After a moment's pause, he snatched up the clothes and turned away from the closet, not daring to look inside. He'd seen Ruby… intimately before, but it felt wrong, now. Implicating.
Sam tugged off his t-shirt and found an undershirt in a dresser drawer, quickly pulling it over his head. It felt strange. Somehow, donning his Sunday best almost felt more like donning a costume—more like a lie—than his FBI guise. The attire may have been the same, but now it made him feel… unclean.
"Zip me up?" Ruby appeared from the closet, pulling her hair over her shoulder and turning her back to Sam. His fingers twitched. If he had the demon-killing knife, he could finish this, here and now. He could stab her in the back, or maybe drag the blade across the curve of her neck, free her blood…
He squeezed his eyes shut to try to purge the fantasy. Ruby was still waiting when he reopened them. Exhaling, he closed the distance and gingerly drew the zipper up her back. He wouldn't have exactly expected to see her in a dress, but it still suited her. Simple, short, and black. She looked—
No. Sam severed the thought before it could proceed any further.
Ruby brushed her hair back over her shoulder as she turned to face him, a soft smile on her face. Her fingers immediately went to finish buttoning his shirt. "How are you feeling?" Her eyes flicked up to his face as she worked, betraying the serious tone of the casual question.
Sam couldn't quite meet her gaze. Awful. Normal. "Fine." Like someone was haphazardly sewing his chest back together after playing with the heart inside. After ripping it out, maybe. Had they remembered to stick it back between his ribs? He almost glanced down to check.
She tilted her head, then proffered a wrist and asked quietly, "Do you want more?"
Yes. "No." The word was surprisingly sticky in his mouth, reluctant to leave. He did want it. He really did. He shouldn't be craving it this much after only a night. At this point, he'd still normally be riding the sensation of invincibility. Maybe his tolerance had just grown more than he'd thought. Regardless, he needed even that slight surge of strength. Of relief. Anything.
No. He couldn't. Jessica. He needed to be clean for when he found Jessica. He needed to be clean to figure out what was wrong with Dean. He needed to be clean so when he looked at Ruby, his first thought was to kill her instead of kiss her.
Ruby's eyes lingered on him for a moment, but mercifully she decided not to insist. Instead, she snatched the tie off the bed and roped it around his neck, smiling cheekily at the leash—the noose—she'd created. He merely watched her, wary but motionless, as if it had already starved the air from his lungs. She looped the tie and tightened it, her fingers clearly practiced in the motion. When it was secured around his throat, she patted it twice for good measure, then her dark eyes slid upward to his. Gently, she kissed his cheek, whispering, "Let me know if you change your mind."
He found himself replying in a slight, single nod before he could catch it—she smiled at that, as if it was a promise he would. Maybe it was. He knew how bad the cravings would get—he knew he'd reach a point where he wouldn't be able to say no. If things proceeded as normal. Normal. Was there a better antonym for him?
Ruby pulled on a pair of heels, balancing with a hand on the wall. When both feet were back on the ground, she smoothed out her dress and tousled her hair, then awaited Sam's assessment, "What do you think?"
Stunning. Dead. He cleared his throat, "We're going to church, right?" She might stand out as overdressed—or perhaps underdressed, given the cut of the dress.
She merely chuckled at that, "Come on, we're gonna be late." Ruby started into the hall but notably waited to ensure Sam followed, not letting him out of sight. Somewhat hesitatingly, he obliged.
"Morning," Dean greeted from the bottom of the stairs, working his tie with one hand as he gripped a mug of coffee in the other. His white shirt was wrinkled, as if it'd been stuffed in a duffle bag for weeks.
"Good morning," Ruby beelined for the kitchen, barely pausing to offer Dean a smile.
"Hey," Dean sipped his coffee, staring at Sam over the mug, "You feeling better?"
Now that I drank demon blood? He shrugged off the question—he wasn't sure of the honest answer anyway. He returned with a query of his own, "So, church?"
Dean frowned, "Yeah? It's Sunday, Sammy." His gaze raked over Sam this time, "You sure you're feeling alright? We can get you some more blood if—"
"I'm fine," Sam interrupted. This couldn't be Dean.
Ruby's footsteps announced her return from the kitchen, and Sam turned to find her extending a cup of coffee in his direction. He tipped his head in gratitude and gulped down a mouthful, then he winced at the sharp burn in his throat and tang on his tongue. Had she spiked it with… whiskey? She shrugged with a playful smile at his questioning glance—an answer in the affirmative. His gaze drifted back to the coffee, ensuring it hadn't acquired a darker, crimson hue, and he took another sip. He might need all the help he could get to survive the morning.
A familiar ringtone blared out from the phone on the coffee table, and Dean exchanged his mug for the phone, glancing at the caller ID and holding the phone to his ear, "Hey, honey." He stepped out the front door before Sam could catch any more of the conversation.
Honey? He couldn't help his glance at Ruby, but she chuckled dismissively. He downed another draught of spiked coffee.
"Want any breakfast with that?" Ruby leaned against the back of the couch, "I could whip you up something real fast."
Sam shook his head, staring into his mug.
A moment later, the door swung open, and Dean appeared in the crack, "You kids ready?" His voice was touched with impatience.
"Everything okay?" Sam asked carefully, setting his cup on the table.
"Dandy," Dean replied curtly, "I'll drive."
He disappeared, leaving the door ajar. Sam followed him out, with Ruby close behind.
The Impala waited resolutely in the driveway, as perfect and familiar as he'd remembered from… he winced. He couldn't quite recall the last time he'd seen the car, but for some reason, his heart twinged. Ruby moved ahead in his pause, glancing back in concern.
Dean spun the keys on his finger and grabbed the passenger's door, holding it open for Ruby to step inside before he slid into the driver's seat. Sam lowered himself into the backseat, rubbing a hand over his forehead at the headache accumulating there. It was like someone had begun chiseling away at his skull like they might a stone sculpture. Were they demon blood withdrawals already? He wasn't sure—but he gritted his teeth and tried to keep the pain from his face. He didn't need Ruby or Dean offering him more blood. The hunger might not be commandeering his body yet, but he wasn't sure how much longer he'd manage to refuse.
The car rumbled to a start and rolled backward onto the road before Dean shifted it to drive and accelerated down the street. Sam leaned against the car door, staring out the window. It was dark outside—not because of the hour, but because of the clouds swarming the sky. It looked like the heavens might burst into an ugly lament at any moment.
The ride was silent—disconcerting. The Impala should've exuded a sense of safety, a sense of home. But right now, it only felt… cold. He couldn't help a glance to the back driver's door, then a frown. He leaned over and his fingers dug into the ash tray. Empty. Immediately, his head twisted toward the back of the car, but the dash was smooth, unblemished. No, not quite. He brushed over the surface—where a pair of old, blocky initials should have been carved. It wasn't quite as smooth as the surrounding area. It was faintly textured and painted just off-tone—the difference barely noticeable.
Sam went still, his mind stalling, his vision blurring somewhat. He sat back in his seat, numbly catching Ruby's lips curl in the corner of the rearview mirror.
A few minutes later, the car eased to a halt in the grassy parking lot in front of an old, white church. Dean immediately stepped out of the car, approaching the building without a word or even glance back.
Ruby glanced over Sam, then looped her arm around his, offering him a smile. Maybe he should've pulled away—maybe an hour ago, he would've. But he allowed her to lead onward, toward the church.
"Good morning," a woman greeted at the door, barely glancing up as she readjusted the bulletins in her hands, then performing a quick double-take when she did. Her eyes immediately widened, but she seemed to catch herself, and her gaze dropped sharply to her toes.
Sam frowned, "Morning."
Ruby gently guided him through the doors, answering his questioning glance with another mere, perhaps slightly amused, smile. They passed through the foyer, each step announced with the quiet creak of the old hardwood. The power must have been out—if the building had power at all. Dozens of candles lit the space, flickering dutifully and casting the room in an orange glow.
"I couldn't leave him like that." Dean's voice, carrying from the sanctuary, "Honey, it was bad."
"It was bad the last time, too. And the time before that." A female voice—one Sam recognized. But no, that didn't make sense. Dean had said… "When's it gonna stop, Dean? He's a grown man; he's gotta learn to take care of himself. You shouldn't have to drop everything to run to his rescue."
Sam had slowed considerably at her words, dropping his arm to free it from Ruby's hold. She walked a couple steps before looking back, "Come on, Sam." She gave no sign that she'd overheard the conversation, but it was difficult not to hear.
After taking a breath to recompose, he nodded, following her through the open doors. He couldn't help the glance to his right, blinking when his eyes confirmed what his ears had told him. Lisa. Lisa? Dean's back was turned—in the dark, shifting candlelight, Lisa didn't seem to notice Sam's entrance, either.
Still, her words echoed in his skull, stung in his chest. He worked his jaw. She was right, of course. Dean had his own life—he didn't need Sam constantly dragging him down.
His gaze slid back across the old pews, but it froze before it reached Ruby. He exhaled softly in relief and started toward the couple sitting together, garbed in a matching soft white, smiling gently at something whispered between them.
"Sam," Ruby's voice interjected distantly, her tone tight in warning. He ignored her—whatever she wanted could wait.
"Mom, Dad," Sam greeted lightly, causing both to turn immediately. When their expressions sank in recognition, their features assembling into a frown, Sam faltered.
"Sam," Mary's voice was cold, rigid, as if it took a strength of will to force out such a vile word. John, on the other hand, seemed too disgusted to condemn his eyes to even glance upon the creature before him.
"I…" Sam couldn't help but wince backward. What did I do? Did they know about the blood? Could they see the crimson stains on his soul?
"Sam," Ruby's voice repeated at his side, warm, insistent, concerned. Part of him wanted to fall into her, into the care she promised. She tugged gently at his arm, "Let's go sit, okay?" But right now, he just wanted her gone. She was making everything worse. She had to be the reason his parents looked upon him with such disdain. Sleeping with a demon. He couldn't blame their disgust. He almost shoved her away, almost professed his hatred of her, almost avowed that drinking the blood hadn't been his choice. This time.
But then, Mary glanced at Ruby—and Sam barely caught it, but her expression eased. A slight, sympathetic note of gratitude. John still couldn't look up; with Ruby hanging on Sam's arm, he couldn't risk looking upon her, else his gaze might accidentally touch the abomination.
With that, Sam's legs surrendered to Ruby's direction, allowing her to lead the way to the front of the church. She planted them on the first, center pew, though it took Sam a moment to realize it.
"You, uh…" he cleared his throat, trying to shake the constriction, to distance himself from the interaction he still didn't understand, "Front and center, huh?"
Ruby replied with a soft, amused smile, brushing his hair from his face with her index finger. Her expression fell somewhat in sympathy, and her eyes flicked back towards his parents, "What did you think was gonna happen, Sammy?"
He didn't have an answer, finding himself asking the same question.
Footsteps on his left—loud—made him glance up to find Dean, leaning over the pew, his face contorted, "What was that, man?"
He'd seen Mary and John's hostility too? "I… I don't know."
"What are you, trying to start something?" Dean scoffed, shaking his head. Sam winced—this was his fault? A spear of guilt immediately followed—who else's would it be?
"Dean…" Ruby cautioned softly, her hand still on Sam's shoulder, as though to convey her support—her presence, maybe.
"Look, I've got enough fires to put out already. Lisa's mad about last night, and she's probably right to be. I don't have time to deal with this too."
Sam's gaze slid back toward the woman near the back of the sanctuary who tousled her son's hair, murmuring to himself quietly, "So you do know Lisa."
Dean raised an eyebrow, "Well, I should hope so. She's my wife."
Immediately, Sam's eyes darted to Dean's hand, surely finding the promised gold band. Then, they fell to his own. Nothing. Gone—it was gone. He rubbed his finger. Had the ring ever truly been there?
"Just… try to keep it together, would you?" Dean released the back of the pew, "You're not my only responsibility, Sam."
Sam's face tightened. He wanted to apologize, but he couldn't convince the words from his tongue before Dean had already started toward the back of the room. Ruby rested her head on his shoulder, her arm snaked around his back as her thumb rubbed gentle circles into his skin absently. He didn't move, except to squint to control the sudden blurring of his vision.
A few minutes later, the holy notes of an organ began singing out throughout the church, and the buzz of conversation rapidly quieted, everyone finding their seats like students at the tardy bell.
The organ played for nearly a minute before a man, dressed in white robes, appeared in Sam's periphery, bearing a chalice in cupped hands. He moved steadily down the aisle until he reached the simple wooden altar, where he carefully rested the cup in the center. He bowed his head and murmured a few unintelligible words, then reached into his coat and removed a dagger. The man stretched out his arm and, before Sam could react, drew it across his wrist, his blood drooling into the cup. After a few seconds, he raised his arm and wound a handkerchief around the cut. Without another word, he ambled back down the aisle, head remaining bowed and posture solemn.
Sam glanced backward over the church to find the parishioners slowly filing forward from the back of the church, a row at a time. The rest of the congregation's heads were bowed low, including his parents', Dean's, and Lisa's. If anyone saw the act at the altar, they didn't reveal any surprise or concern.
Dean's row, near the back, stood next, their gazes locked on the ground as they moved down the aisle. Dean led the way, with Ben and Lisa immediately behind, both in matching white. Sam tracked their progress, eyes flicking forward toward the parishioner at the altar, bleeding into the cup. Dean reached the front and extended his hand for the dagger, his face calm, focused.
Sam moved to stand, but Ruby rested a hand on his knee as he shifted to rise, her head still lowered as she shook it and whispered, "Wait."
He frowned, replying in her hushed tone, "What are they doing?"
She didn't move, repeating with greater intensity, "Wait."
He turned back toward the altar in time to see Dean cut his forearm, allowing his blood to drain into the chalice. Apparently satisfied with the quantity, Dean lifted his arm and beckoned Ben to approach.
"Dean," Sam hissed, even as his brother took Ben's arm and held it over the cup, placing the dagger in Ben's hand and guiding it over his skin. Dean ignored his call, just as he ignored Ben's grimace. Still, when he released the kid's arm and tied up the cut in a bandana, he slapped Ben on the back in praise. Ben straightened, his face brightening. Dean waited at the front as Lisa followed suit, bleeding her share before the three started back toward their pew.
"Dean," Sam tried again, but none of the three so much as glanced at Sam as they passed a few feet to his left. The three found their seats and mirrored the rest of the congregation in bowing their heads.
Sam's heart pounded, and again he started to rise, prompting Ruby to intertwine her hand with his, "Sam. It's not our turn yet."
His leg bounced subconsciously, his gaze darting over the crowd, the ambling line. His parents had joined it, now, as resolute as the rest. They too slit their forearms and offered their blood to the chalice.
What was this? Some kind of sick, reverse communion? He hadn't been to many church services, but he was certain they didn't normally involve this.
After several minutes, the line reached its end and when he turned, Ruby was standing. She tilted her head faintly in invitation, leading the way toward the altar. With his pulse in his ears, he rose and shakily followed, eyes still flicking about.
She lifted the dagger, a thin, crooked knife, and drew it gracefully across her wrist, watching unperturbed as her blood streamed into the cup. Then, she stepped back and gestured him onward.
Sam stopped before the altar, staring down at the chalice, filled with deep crimson blood. The blood stared back, almost quivering in reflection of his uneasy tremble. What were they doing? Were they possessed? Was this some sort of spell? His fingers fumbled for the dagger, but when they managed to grip the hilt, a light hand closed over his. He looked up to find Ruby, her expression soft in bemusement. She shook her head gently, carefully easing the knife from his hand. She stepped back and waited.
He steadied himself against the altar, hands gripping its edges. His eyes refused to depart from the endless crimson depths.
With only a chalice of blood before him, and a sea of eyes behind him, Sam's brain was on fire, like his skull had become a furnace. Finally, he managed to tear his gaze away, if only to glance to the congregation at his back.
His breath caught as his gaze darted between each bowed head. He knew them. Bobby. Ellen. Jo. Pamela. Jody. Sean and Owen Mills. Meg Masters. Victor Henricksen. Nancy Fitzgerald, Steven Groves, Phil Amici, Calvin Reidy. Cindy McClellan. Steve Wandell. Adam. Brady. Cas—or maybe it was Jimmy Novak, given Amelia and Claire Novak at his side.
Jess. He wanted to run to her, to sweep her up and take her home, to forget this horrible nightmare. But she was rooted like the others, like a stone statue, without a whisper of warmth.
And there were so, so many more. Many whose names he didn't know, some whose faces he didn't recognize. They filled the pews, the aisles, they flooded out the open doors. Their shadows bore heavily over the stained-glass windows, unmoving, despite the thunder that began to shake the church's ancient walls.
Their heads were still lowered, but their eyes were raised, trained on him. Waiting. Accusing. Seeing. Knowing.
He felt their weight like stones on his back, crushing him in a heartbeat. The feeling twisted his head back to the altar, to the blood, still waiting, still full.
Trembling, his hands slid around the base of the chalice, gripping its neck tight.
Sam knew what was wanted. What he was supposed to do. He understood. This was justice. And they were here to see justice fulfilled. He couldn't deny them.
Sam raised the heavy cup to his lips, closing his eyes a moment too late—a single tear escaped down his cheek. He felt their gazes, their souls urging him onward. Demanding justice, pleading for retribution. With a shaky inhale, he let the blood fall on his tongue.
It was warm and thick in his mouth. It held only the faintest tang of sulfur—and that might've been his imagination. He'd grown so accustomed to its bite. Without that, it tasted… innocent. Pure. It flooded his mind with guilt and shame, a hundredfold worse than that which roiled beneath the high of the demon blood. Its condemnation was revolting, pushing him to gag, but his hands refused to lower the chalice. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't stop.
It felt like a thousand hands were tilting the cup back, and his own wouldn't release it. As though they weren't his at all, but mere instruments to carry out his sentence. They wouldn't let him shirk his task.
The demon blood felt right in all the wrongness. But this… the only thing right about it was the way it choked the air from his throat. His lungs began to seize, desperate for air, only to be flooded in a gorge of blood. It rained over his face, stinging his eyes, gurgling off his chin, racing down his neck.
There was too much. But he had to drink it all. He couldn't leave a drop. He did this. So he had to do it.
His lungs gasped a deep breath of air, his skin slick and sticky, his body trembling, and his head spinning. Struggling for oxygen, he barely managed to force his hazy gaze upward, his eyes still burning, his bloodied hands still clutching the chalice.
They were still there, their condemnation still heavy, their yearning for justice still unsatisfied.
Mom, blackened to little more than a smoldering skeleton, her flesh melted away, her bones brittle and crumbling. Dad, pale and gaunt, vacant holes where his eyes should be, boring accusingly as his skin sagged. Bobby, his head hanging limply along his shoulder, his spine severed, his glossy eyes vacant. Jess, a mirror of Mom, only she had no one at her side. Alone, abandoned. Dean, his face hardly recognizable in a swollen mess, blood oozing from gashes along his skin, his jaw hanging loosely and nose corked askew.
Sam tore his head away, sealing his eyes shut, but he couldn't escape the images now scored behind his eyelids—the faces he normally only saw when his eyes were closed.
They were all kneeling. Every single soul. The very image of reverence. They were all kneeling toward him, but… not to him.
Slowly, he hazarded the parting of his eyelids and turned. Immediately, he dropped to his knees, his body taking over even before his mind could issue the command. He prostrated himself low, every nerve alight in sheer terror.
They were kneeling to him.
He felt a cold hand brush his chin—gently, sweetly. Sam squeezed his eyes tight and forced himself to wake up.