The Impala roared down the road, her contentment audible in the purr of her engine. As though to accentuate her zeal, AC/DC blared from the stereo, and the dashboard lurched almost visibly beneath the volume. Sam glanced over at his brother, who beat against the steering wheel in line with the drums. Somehow, he still managed to steer without missing a beat—he'd probably had a little too much practice in the art.
Whereas the house he'd awoken in had been a stranger's—foreign and unfamiliar—this… this was home. One of the few things that that hadn't really changed since they were kids. Since they'd carved their initials into it.
His eyes flitted back toward the ashtray, where he could still glimpse the green head of an army man protruding out. The image of Dean's face, bloodied, swollen, and desperate, flashed through his mind, and he winced, rubbing his forehead.
"Did you get any sleep at all last night?"
Sam forced his gaze upward, undeniably relieved to see his brother utterly fine—cheery, even. "Shut up." His tone was light, his lips curling in an unavoidable smile.
"Hey, you deserve it man." Dean grinned, hazarding a glance away from the road to look over Sam, "The wife, the house, the job. Seriously." He held Sam's gaze as though to highlight the sincerity of his words, "You deserve everything coming your way."
"Thanks, man." Sam dropped his gaze. He didn't feel like he deserved any of it. He started the freaking apocalypse—he didn't get to be happy. But… that didn't make him want it any less.
Still, he found himself constantly terrified it would all slip away from him at any moment. Yet, when he'd woken up that morning, Jessica was still there, in bed beside him. Not burning on the ceiling. Not dead and buried. Just there—inches away. Staring at him adoringly, smiling softly, stroking his cheek, kissing his lips.
He wasn't sure how he'd managed to survive so many years without her.
"So, uh… anything come back yet?" Dean prodded carefully as he twisted the volume dial, his eyes wary—warily hopeful?
Sam shook his head, "No… nothing." He couldn't help but share Dean's hope that it would. As if that would prove this was all real—that it wasn't going anywhere.
He caught the momentary falter in Dean's expression, before Dean replied in reassurance, "It will. Just give it time."
Sam forced himself to nod, more in acknowledgment than agreement, then hazarded a question of his own, "Dean… what happened to me? If this is…" If it was real. For Dean's sake, he didn't verbalize the doubt. "Why can't I remember anything about… this?" He gestured ambiguously to everything.
Dean's face immediately tightened, his jaw working as he clenched the steering wheel. "Maybe it'd be better to just wait until your memories come back."
Frustration needled into Sam's veins. He kept his voice level, but firm. "You promised you'd tell me everything last night."
Dean stared at the road as he contemplated a way out. "You might not want to know."
Concern weaved through his chest, but he replied nonetheless, "I have to, Dean."
His older brother sighed, relenting, "Alright… um… a good while back, a demon possessed you."
Sam's brow furrowed.
"He made you do things… to other people, to yourself… he tortured you, Sam. It was bad. Really bad." Dean spared only a glance to evaluate Sam's reaction, apparently unable to bear a longer look, "He wanted to use you to lead a demon army, destroy the world, or maybe just 'cause he could. I dunno.
"We tried to hunt him down, to find you for so long, but he kept moving. He was playing with us. And, honestly, we didn't even know what we'd do if we did find you. We just kept praying it wasn't already too late.
"Then, we got a lead, and we managed to catch him in a devil's trap, tie him down. Mom had found some kind of incantation to force the demon into a dead meatsuit we'd snagged from a morgue, so he couldn't get away once we exorcised him. Dad would be ready to kill him right after."
Sam searched Dean's face, his concern and confusion rising at the solemn sorrow he found there.
"But, uh… it was what we were worried about," Dean continued, his voice low, "The demon showed us that… at some point, he had stabbed you in the chest, over your heart. He said if we exorcised him, it'd kill you." Dean's words wavered with the emotion of the memory; his knuckles paled. "But I couldn't leave you like that. I knew it wasn't what you would've wanted. So… we told you to hang on, and we exorcised him. Mom's spell worked. Dad killed him the second he entered the meatsuit. And then we did everything we could to save you." Dean breathed an exhale, shaking his head, "I always knew you'd pull through, Sammy. It was touch and go there for a while, but… you're strong enough to get through anything."
Sam's gaze slid downward slowly, toward his chest. Curiosity itched at the back of his mind, and he undid the top few buttons of his flannel and pulled down his black t-shirt. A thick scar marred his flesh, rooted over his heart, as promised. And, now that he looked, he realized it wasn't alone. Dozens of ugly scars littered his body—both lacerations and burns. How had he not noticed those before? He'd never exactly been scar-free, but these… they weren't his. He didn't remember collecting these, not this many, not so severe. Surely last night he would've noticed… right?
Dean's eyes flicked over him in concern, perhaps as though noting Sam's doubt, genuine ignorance, and surprise.
Sam finally lifted his gaze from the would-be fatal scar. It was hard to be sure, but Dean was right—a scar this wide meant the blade had probably gone deep enough to pierce his heart. He couldn't have survived that. A demon wouldn't have taken half-measures—there'd be no reason for that. "How did I survive? Was it an angel?"
Dean chuckled halfheartedly at that, "Yeah, maybe. We sure prayed enough."
Sam's brow twitched at Dean's dismissive amusement, "So it wasn't Cas?"
"What's a Cas?"
"You don't know Cas?"
"Does that stand for something?" Dean cocked an eyebrow, as though attempting to gauge the seriousness, or perhaps the sincerity, of the question, "We didn't all go to Stanford, Sam."
Sam bit his tongue, his mind whirring, "What about Bobby? Is he here?"
"Yeah, Sam, he was supposed to get back last night." At the prompt of Sam's clear confusion, Dean added, "Ellen and Jo somehow convinced him and Karen to finally go on that cruise with them."
Hearing the names of friends who had all died—many of them because of his actions—made him wonder if this truly was heaven after all. Ellen and Jo had died futilely trying to buy the Winchesters a shot at Lucifer—who was only free because of Sam. And in the end, their deaths had been in vain—sure, they had bought the brothers time to escape the hellhounds and face Lucifer, but the Colt hadn't worked. And even if the hellhounds had killed the brothers, the angels—if not Lucifer himself—would've just resurrected them anyway. They'd proved that when Walt and Roy sought revenge against Sam for launching the apocalypse, killing both him and Dean.
As for Karen, Sam wasn't involved in her initial death, but he suspected he was the reason she'd been resurrected and condemned to become a bloodthirsty zombie. Lucifer had ordered Death to target Sioux Falls so he might indirectly kill or demoralize Bobby—it didn't really matter which. He needed to cut away Sam's support, his reason for resistance. Maybe it was a demonstration of what would become of those who were closest to Sam, should he continue to say no. Or, perhaps, Lucifer had wanted to show Sam a glimpse of what he could offer, of the reunions and the joy he could bring to those Sam cared about, if Sam said yes.
And then Bobby… oh gosh, Bobby…
Clearing his throat, Sam tried to distance himself from the awful feeling. "So I survived, somehow, and now… what, I remember everything wrong?"
"It, uh… it wasn't like that at first. When you finally woke up, you remembered everything. Everything that demon did to you, and everything it did while in your body. And I wanted to kill that thing again. We all did. It didn't take long, and… yeah, you started—" Dean cut himself off, forcing himself to take a slow, measured breath, "I don't know if the demon managed to scramble your brain before he flew the coop, or if everything he did to you just took a toll. But, I've been thinking, Sammy… I don't know how much you do or don't remember right, but maybe it's better if you don't remember everything." Dean glanced over, clearly anticipating Sam's immediate bristle, "Look, that was all you wanted once you came to. Maybe you shouldn't try to dig around. Maybe you should just… let it be."
Sam stared downward, face tight. He didn't know his own mother; to his recollection, his father had rarely shown him anything outside of disappointment, aggravation, or on lucky days, stone-cold indifference; he couldn't remember a thing about his own wedding. He had no proof that any part of this "life" was even true. How could Dean ask him not to try to remember? Maybe Dean just didn't understand the severity.
In the back of his mind, Sam bleakly wondered if maybe the reverse was true.
"Just think about it, alright?" Dean asked, and Sam nodded faintly, which seemed to satisfy him.
Dean flicked on his turning signal to follow the truck ahead of them onto a side street. Part of Sam wished they'd elected to ride together—his parents in the front seat, Dean and him in the back. The family vacation they'd never had. A hunting trip, albeit perhaps an unconventional one. He wondered what they'd talk about. What his mom was like—what John was like around her. One dinner wasn't enough. But… maybe it was better to take things slow. Dean could help fill in the holes.
"Are Mom and Dad… happy?" Sam looked over his brother, his question quiet, uncertain.
The furrow of his brow, then the natural smile that eased his face answered the question even before the words left Dean's mouth, "Yeah… yeah, they are."
"And, uh… is there anything going on right now I should know about?" Any world-ending disasters looming overhead? Any angry archangels threatening to annihilate humanity? Another demon training the Winchesters in its crosshairs?
"I mean… Mom and Dad's anniversary is coming up in a couple months or so. Jess said you had that trial coming up soon." Dean shrugged, "Life is good, Sammy."
It was hard to believe it could be that simple. Their family was cursed—how could their biggest concerns be anniversaries? But Dean seemed sincere. He seemed genuinely okay. Content. Happy.
Sam glanced over, "Hey, by any chance do you know someone named Lisa?"
Dean shook his head, "Should I?"
"I dunno," Sam dropped his head, mulling over the information. No Lisa… maybe no angels—at least, known angels. Maybe this was heaven, and Lisa just wasn't here because she wasn't dead yet. His gaze slid over to his brother as the car decelerated, his gut knotting at what that might mean for Dean. He couldn't help but check his hands, as though he expected to find the blood still stained there.
Dean shifted the car into park, and Sam glanced up, frowning when he noticed another car parked just ahead of his father's truck—a '71 Chevelle.
"You still remember how to hunt at least, right?" Dean prodded as he stepped out of the car, a teasing levity to his tone.
"That's feels like the only thing I do remember," Sam muttered, but his gaze didn't shift from the Chevelle even as he stood from the car.
Then, a familiar, grizzled old man stepped out of his car, and his eyes read amused exasperation, "About time you idjits showed up." Bobby shook his head, approaching the boys even as John and Mary exited the truck. "I was starting to think you four decided to take the scenic route to Timbuktu on the way. We got work to do, y'know."
Mary chuckled, "Well, I hope we didn't keep you waiting for too long."
Bobby's gaze shifted toward Sam, and he stretched out an arm as though to embrace him. Sam quickly returned the hug, gripping the man probably a little too tightly. He felt the snap of Bobby's neck, as if he'd wrenched his spine with his own hands. In a way, he supposed he had. It was as easy as breaking a twig, as effortless as the blink of an eye. He'd felt the very moment that life had fled Bobby's body, watched the light dissipate from his eyes. He'd felt Lucifer's utter indifference, then chiding amusement at Sam's helpless outrage and despair.
"Happy anniversary, Sam. Sorry I missed the party." Bobby smiled at Sam. That smile, while maybe not so common lately, was familiar. Not like John's. This one was far easier to trust, but for the uneasy guilt gnawing at his innards.
"No, no, it's fine. Don't apologize." Sam assured. He should be the one apologizing. But he got the sense Bobby wouldn't understand what for.
"Hey, you made it to the afterparty," Dean held out a hand toward an old barn, still several hundred feet away.
"How's Karen?" Mary asked as she moved toward the truck bed, where John had already started withdrawing a few machetes.
"She's good. We were both more'n ready to be off that boat though. Ellen and Jo are fine too—they'd have come, but… too many hunters in the nest, and all."
"From what Rudy said, there'll be plenty still to go around." Dean popped the Impala's trunk, tucking a fresh bottle of dead man's blood under his arm, "Seemed to think they were starting to build an army or something. Said he saw at least six or seven out here. Might be more by now."
"We're working off a tip from Rudy?" Bobby asked incredulously, "I won't be surprised if we find a bunch of Twihards inside."
"Hey, Rudy's not that bad," Dean defended lightheartedly, passing a machete to Sam.
"The guy thinks the world is flat," Bobby retorted, causing Sam to chuckle under his breath. It felt like a long time since he'd had this casual, easy camaraderie. This felt right.
"Yeah, well, credible or not, we're gonna play this smart," John interjected, closing up the back of his truck, "Boys, I want you to head around back. Send me a text message when you're in position, and the three of us will start in from the front."
"Works for me," Dean rested a hand crossbow against his shoulder, its bolts already stained scarlet in dead man's blood. "You ready, Sammy?"
Sam nodded, tightening his grip on the machete as he offered a brief smile in Mary's direction.
"Good luck," she imparted with a half-wave.
"Whoever kills the fewest vamps is buying lunch," Dean warned, turning on his heel to start a wide circle around the barn. Sam followed, wading along the tall, unkempt grass and resisting the urge to glance back at his family to ensure they hadn't vanished in the seconds he looked away.
A faint breeze wisped along the field, rustling the grass and sending a slight chill across Sam's skin. He shuddered against it, wincing involuntarily. Perhaps beneath the breeze's encouragement, a cloud drifted over the sun, casting the world in shade. His eyes flicked upward, toward the still-blue sky spotted with a few lazy white clouds. Clear, direct sunlight would've been preferable—it'd better deter any cowardly vampires from fleeing—but it could have been worse.
As they approached the rear end of the barn, Sam's gaze trailed downward toward the machete in his hands, and his fingers itched anxiously, as though there was only one reason, one purpose for which they'd been endowed a blade.
…itched to what?
"Sammy? You with me?" Dean's voice tore his attention away, edged in concern. He had carried on when Sam had apparently stopped, now standing several yards ahead.
"Yeah… yeah, sorry," Sam lengthened his stride to close the distance, holding the machete stiffly at his side. He needed to focus. Even with the advantage of preparation, surprise, and maybe even numbers, one wrong move, a single heartbeat's distraction, could determine a hunter's last breath.
Dean halted when they'd reached the other side of the barn, his eyes scanning over Sam in evaluation, catching the tremor in Sam's hand.
"You sure you're up for this, man?" Clearly, his trepidation aligned with Sam's, "Dad, Mom, Bobby, and I can take care of these bloodsuckers. We can find another case to work together another time."
"No, I'm good," Sam readjusted his posture, trying to ease his grip, "I need this." Something normal, unlike dinner parties and careers.
Dean nodded, as though that he understood. He stared toward the barn, squinting, then pulled out his phone, "Ready?"
Sam inhaled, flexing his fingers over the machete, "Ready."
Dean punched out a message with his thumb, then with a final glance back towards his brother—as though granting him an opportunity to change his mind—he sent the message and shoved his phone back into his pocket.
"Alright, let's not keep them waiting," Dean readied his crossbow, advancing toward the barn. Sam stayed at Dean's side, allowing his body to fall into instinct. Despite the mounting anticipation, the familiarity was almost calming. He might've tried to run from the life before, but now, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to leave. It's who he was.
And yet, despite how much he willed himself to fall into the familiar rhythms of a hunt, he couldn't shake the sense of unease whittling down his spine.
Dean eased open the back door, sharing a glance with Sam to ensure he'd noted the busted padlock hanging ajar against the frame. Sam raised his machete in acknowledgement, stepping quietly through the door ahead of Dean and swiftly scanning the space. He held up a hand to signal caution as Dean silently pulled the door closed behind them.
Several bodies lay strewn across the floor, atop old, ratted blankets and rotting hay. Still a few yards away, it was difficult to determine if they were dead or alive—or undead, he supposed. Some of them looked young—teenagers, really. He gritted his teeth, trying to remind himself that they probably weren't kids anymore. That the vampires that turned them had already killed the teenagers, and that it was his job to prevent them from killing or turning anyone else.
The front barn door creaked open with a heavy rattle, causing Sam to wince. Dad stood in the cracked-open doorway, his face twisting in displeasure at the door's traitorous sound.
Immediately, Sam's gaze fell to the bodies. A few groaned and rustled about their makeshift bedding, but none seemed concerned enough to open their eyes.
Until a scream sounded from the rafters. The hunters' heads shot upward toward a woman staring down at them, shrieking a warning. Within a second, a crossbow bolt protruded from her chest, stilling her cries and causing her to sway and grasp at her wound clumsily. A glance toward Dean found his arm raised, the crossbow aimed in her direction as he reloaded another bolt. But it was too late.
Those scattered across the floor scrambled to their feet, revealing their fangs as they madly succumbed to instinct and raced toward their warm-blooded guests. By Sam's hasty count, there were at least a dozen—disorganized as they divided themselves randomly between the hunters in a rush to reach the closest intruder.
Chaos claimed the barn, and Sam's heart pounded loudly in his ears, though he tried to drown it out and focus on the two vampires surging toward him. A young woman reached him first, leading with her fangs bared. He banished his hesitation and swung for her throat—the machete cleaved through hair, flesh, and bone—and her head dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. He sidestepped the pooling gore and raised an arm to catch another vampire's wild swing. The weight of the blow forced him to brace his feet, and he drove the blade up through the creature's chin even as it lunged for his throat. It flailed, gurgling, and he shoved it away, withdrawing his machete and winding it back for another swift decapitation.
Then cold arms curled suddenly around his chest from behind, and a deep voice whispered disapprovingly in his ear, "Did you really think it'd be that easy?"
His whole body stiffened even as his mind screamed for him to fight. No, not fight—flee. But he couldn't move, he couldn't think; his brain was a swarm of paralyzing terror.
The arms dragged him backward, further into the shadows, before they tossed him to the ground effortlessly. Instantly, he scrambled away, his back finding the wall in an abrupt thump. Without those cold arms atop his shoulder, along his neck, around his chest, his brain seemed to remember its function and began whirring to regain some semblance of understanding, of control.
The blond vampire smiled cruelly as it stalked closer, apparently amused by Sam's primitive retreat, "You can't get away from me that easy, sweetheart."
His fingers tightened around the machete, but his arm refused to raise it. Dean. Where was Dean? He hazarded a mad glance around the space, yet only found shadows and emptiness.
"No one's going to save you," The blond chuckled, now a mere few feet away, towering over Sam. "You're all mine."
The vampire leaned forward, his breath cold as a blizzard, his movements slow, casual, and confident. His easy smile revealed his teeth, his body was on top of Sam's, his hands owning him, his horrible eyes gleaming, reveling in his power.
Sam's face twisted away unbidden, his eyes sealing shut—if the monster spoke another word, Sam couldn't hear it beneath the thunder of his heart.
Where was Dean? He isn't coming. He needed out. Never out. Only through. No, it needed to stop. You know how to make it stop.
His fingers curled tighter, and strength returned to his arm—not much, but enough. It had to be enough. Sam raised the machete and plunged it into flesh—deep, deep, deep—and managed to return the vampire a sick smile of his own as blood framed his mouth.
Despite the grievous wound, he thought he might have heard a cackle—or maybe that was the scuff of shoes on the floor. The weight lifted from his chest, and Sam gasped for breath, eyes struggling to clarify the world around him.
"Sammy?"
Dean's voice. Dean. Dean was here—he was safe. Everything would be okay.
The familiar sound prompted him to squint at the figure sliding to his side. He winced faintly at the brush of fingers across his face, but he willed himself to focus on the shape before him.
Dean's expression was contorted in worry, compounded in nervous relief and panic. "Hey, Sammy, you're gonna be okay." Sam's gaze followed Dean's hands toward his abdomen, then he frowned at the wet stain blooming across his flannel.
"That vamp got you good, huh?" Dean remarked with a weak laugh, tearing off his own shirt and wadding it into a mound that he pressed against Sam's stomach. His voice sounded far away, but Sam clung to it, his hands feebly gripping the sleeve of Dean's undershirt, mooring himself to the anchor that was his older brother.
"Don't worry, I've got you, Sammy," Dean promised, his voice thin. He glanced backward, toward the center of the barn where their parents slaughtered the last of the vampires. The trio scanned the space for any remaining threats—ensuring all bodies had been relieved of their heads—when their eyes landed almost in sync on the brothers curled in the shadows of the wall.
Mary rushed forward, her hands pushing roughly against the mounded fabric over Sam's stomach as she added pressure to the wound. Sam winced, but she didn't ease the weight, her glistening eyes flicking between her two sons. John and Bobby appeared at Sam's sides immediately after, gazes evaluating the amount of blood soaking through the cloth and sharing a glance as they silently agreed on their best course of action.
"We've got to get him out of here." Bobby noted quietly, "He's losing too much blood."
"Dean, help me with him," John slid an arm beneath Sam's, then looked back up at his unmoving, eldest son. "Dean!"
Dean flinched, glanced up, and jolted into motion, working his arm beneath Sam's shoulders.
"C'mon, on three. One, two," Dad and Dean hoisted Sam beneath his arms, bracing their grip over his shoulders, grunting with the effort, "Three."
Sam groaned, head lolling against his chest. His vision spotted, and he was faintly aware of Bobby shoving open the barn doors and his mother sprinting ahead, keys jangling in her hands.
"Hang on, man, we're gonna get you to a hospital." Dean assured, his fear blatant in his tone, "You're gonna be fine."
Sam nodded, a motion that sent stars to fill his sight. He tried to help support some of his own weight, but his feet wouldn't coordinate and half-stumbled half-dragged along the ground.
He thought he might be wavering between consciousness and the lack thereof, because he opened his eyes to find the Impala screeching to a halt in front of them. Bobby yanked open the back door, and Dean shifted his grip on Sam's shoulders to drag him into the car, onto his lap.
Sam tried to voice a protest—he'd get blood all over the backseat of the Impala—but all that came out was a strangled gargle. He coughed, and crimson spittle speckled his lips. Not a good sign, he thought distantly.
His father raised Sam's legs and sat in the rear passenger seat, immediately tearing off his own shirt and adding it to the wad of bloodied cloths on Sam's wound. Bobby twisted to watch from the passenger's seat, face contorting in concern.
Without need for a prompt, the Impala lurched into motion, surging across the grass and toward the road.
Sam began to shiver, staring dazedly up toward Dean. Gosh, it was cold. So, so cold. His eyes lingered on the familiar blond hair above.
"Boy's going into shock," Bobby observed, voice tight. He touched a hand to Sam's sweat-soaked, pale skin, "Here. Put this over his shoulders."
Don't move. It was better if he didn't move.
Something soft draped across his chest, and he felt hands rub his shoulders as though to generate heat.
He closed his eyes. It was better if he could close his eyes. That way he could—
"Hang in there, Sammy." Dean's ever-so-familiar voice returned, "Stay with me."
Sam tried nodding again, tried to open his eyes so he might see the lines of worry on his brother's face, but he couldn't manage the strength for either.
He couldn't die. Not when he'd just been given everything. What would be the point? No, he couldn't die—he couldn't.
He couldn't.
And yet, his eyes rolled back, and Sam fell away into the silent darkness.