A soft, gentle breeze tickled his skin, cold, but kind—safe. Sam released a careful, measured breath, focusing on the light scent of… roses.
"You ready?"
Sam opened his eyes, blinking as he turned. Dean, in what looked like an expensive tuxedo, stood beside him, smiling, brimming with pride. His older brother's face softened in sympathy, and he clapped Sam on the shoulder, "Relax, Sammy. You've got this."
Where…?
When he swiveled back around, he found a sea of faces staring—smiling at him, lined in pews—chairs. White chairs with white ribbon bows tied at the end of the aisles. Sam's heartrate climbed steadily as he looked down, finding himself in a black tuxedo much like Dean's but with a white rose boutonniere. Behind him, an elegant arbor stood with flowering vines weaving between the carved wood, and beneath it, Bobby, groomed and garbed in a handsome suit. He nodded at Sam as though in encouragement or support, his hands folded before him, waiting.
Mom and Dad sat in the front row, their expressions bright with joy and pride. Mary noticed the water filling John's eyes, not unlike her own, and wrapped his hand in hers, squeezing it tight.
The arrangement stood in a beautiful meadow, where a few trees bent to cast their shade over the crowd. Not that it was needed now, given the heavy clouds looming overhead.
"Everything's gonna go perfectly," Dean assured, apparently reading Sam's rising apprehension.
This… this couldn't be…
Then, the notes of an organ began humming a familiar tune, and she appeared at the end of the aisle. Her white gown was like snow, glistening and glowing in the light. Her thin veil, adorned with lace around its edges, concealed her face, though strands of golden hair peeked out. Her smile danced between nervous excitement and raw joy.
She was beautiful. She was everything he'd imagined she'd be. She was perfection.
Every step closer fell as heavy as a heartbeat. Sam held his breath, finding himself terrified that if he released it, everything would vanish. He wanted this so bad. It tortured his thoughts for years, taunting him with what he could never have. And now, here, staring into her eyes, he couldn't help but feel he didn't deserve this.
She was so close, stopping before him, her gaze entirely fixed upon his as though they were alone, as though nothing else existed. The world around her seemed to blur, but he focused on her face, on her smile, on the comfort and love she exuded.
Bobby cleared his throat, "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to witness the union of Sam and Jessica in holy matrimony." Under his breath, he muttered, "It was about time, ya idjits."
Sam barely tore his gaze away as he chuckled softly, grateful when he glanced back up to catch Jessica's glowing laugh. And yet, as he looked upon her, a faint tear of unease peeled along his heart. Should he be doing this? He wanted it so bad, but…
"If you want to say a few words," Bobby invited, and Sam took a moment to register the implication. His heart stopped. Right—vows. Panic seized his mind. He didn't have anything prepared—he'd tossed around a few lines here and there in his head before, sure, but nothing concrete, nothing worthy.
"Sam," Jessica's voice was tender, calming. Perhaps noticing his freeze, she continued, "I'd been waiting for you for so, so long. I still remember the night we met—though that feels like forever ago." She smiled, gently taking his hands in hers, "We're made for each other, Sam. This was the way it was always meant to be. Two halves made whole."
A shudder screeched up Sam's spine, but he blamed it on the chill wind.
"You're stuck with me now," Jessica teased, squeezing his hands. The crowd chuckled along with her, their gazes turning to Sam in the subsequent pause. His eyes flicked about the area nervously, scouting for whatever would surely try to strip everything away.
"Jessica… I've missed you so much." Sam started, then winced internally at the furrowing of Jessica's brow. "I, uh… I think about you all the time. Being with you… it was the first time I thought that I could finally be normal… y'know? All my life, I felt like a disappointment and a burden and a freak. But you make me feel loved and safe and you don't need me to be…" he bit his lip, took a deep breath, and tried again. "When we met, I was pretty messed up. Hell, I was a train wreck. I was alone, I didn't know what I was doing, I was just trying to make it to the next day. But then you showed up and helped me put my life together. You showed up, and suddenly, I didn't feel so alone anymore.
"I love you, Jessica." He smiled softly, "What would I do without you?"
Her lips curled, "Crash and burn."
After a pause, their gaze finally broke, and they turned to Bobby.
"Now, as a symbol of your love, you may exchange rings," he directed, his eyes glistening in unusual joy.
Sam's hand fell to his pocket, where he knew he'd find a small, black box. Its weight felt so familiar, despite the years. He'd walked for weeks with it weighing in his pocket. His fingers raised the lid, and gently rubbed the familiar diamond ring. He'd stared at it so many times, wondering if anything would've changed, had he found the courage to ask the question. Wondering if she'd still, somehow, be alive.
"Sam," she whispered, snapping his attention back upward. He replied in an apologetic smile, removing the ring from its case and slipping the box back into his pocket.
"Jessica," Bobby began, "Do you take Sam Winchester to be yours?"
Sam's brow twitched at the incomplete phrasing, but Jessica didn't seem to notice, holding out her hand for Sam to slide the ring on her finger—a perfect fit. He couldn't help but notice how cold she was—no, she was warm, she was safe. She smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. She was Jessica, and she was here, and she was alive. Her dark eyes glittered, "I do."
"And Sam, do you also accept this unity?"
Jessica eased the simple golden band onto Sam's proffered hand as he replied, "I do."
She chuckled at that, leaning close to whisper, "You're supposed to say 'yes.'"
Bemusement furrowed his brow, but he acquiesced, "Yes."
She beamed, but ice filled his veins at the word—perhaps delayed cold feet? No, he suppressed the rising apprehension in his mind. This was safe, this was Jessica, this was everything he wanted.
"You may kiss the bride," Bobby directed, joining in the applause.
He gently guided the veil over her head, and Jessica's hand snaked behind Sam's neck. She pulled him down into a kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck. Instantly, he knew she was right. They were made for each other. He could almost hear his very soul sing out in response to her nearness.
Eventually, she parted the kiss but only spared an inch between them. She whispered low, her arms still draped over his back, "You're mine."
"I'm yours," he agreed, daring to steal another kiss, despite the audience. He felt her smile in her lips and reflected it, his hands cupping her face. This was right. He knew it as sure as the night would fall—they were made to be one.
Thunder clapped in the distance, applauding the union along with the crowd.
Finally, he broke the kiss and breathed, his hand intertwining with hers immediately.
Despite the elation like fire in his veins, fear speared through his heart. This was dangerous—what was he thinking? She was better off as far away from him as possible. He got her killed—he couldn't do that again.
The sky growled in another peal of thunder, and the clouds began to spit rain like confetti.
He glanced down at his white suit as a few droplets hit his shoulder, then another pelted the blood-scarlet rose pinned to his chest. As he began to shrug off his jacket to offer it to Jess as a shield from the rain, fingers crawled up his arm, clasping his shoulder. He turned, then stumbled backward.
Ruby.
"Congratulations," she smiled, her dark eyes glittering as her hand snaked around the back of his neck, "I knew you'd say yes."
Sam swatted her arm aside, his voice sharp, "What are you doing here?" Panic sparked along his veins in chord with the lightning—she couldn't be here. What would Jess think? What would his parents, what would Dean think?
"I wouldn't miss this for the world," Ruby chuckled at his appall, undeterred, "I told you you'd be rewarded."
"Sam?" Jessica's voice carried a weight of concern, of confusion and perhaps even a note of distrust. As if she could see the emotions inside him that he wished he could carve out.
"Oh, Sam, you should've listened." Ruby's face fell in sympathy, "This would've been so much easier if you had."
"Leave," Sam hissed.
She laughed again, "Do you really want me to?"
"Sam?" Jessica repeated—he could feel her stepping closer. He could hear the wariness rise in her tone.
He gritted his teeth. He wished he had the demon-killing knife. He needed it—he needed Ruby dead and gone so maybe—maybe—he could stop thinking about her, so he could stop feeling this, so he might just—
His fingers curled around the wooden hilt, then he frowned, paused, and looked down. The demon-killing knife, ready in his hand, smiling up at him. An offer, an invitation, a vow.
Ruby slinked closer, "I've waited so long for this."
It'd be over. He'd live with Jessica, his family would forgive him, eventually, he'd go back to the life he had—the life he would have? Everything would be okay…
He grabbed her shoulder and plunged the blade upward, beneath her ribs, angled toward her heart.
She gasped, and Sam's eyes shot upward to her face—then he nearly collapsed as he stumbled backward.
"Sam," Jessica grasped at her stomach, where the knife protruded in a growing swarm of crimson.
"No," he tried to force himself forward, so he might stem the bleeding, but his legs wouldn't cooperate, "No, no, no. Jess."
She stared at him, jaw agape and face twisted. Then, orange flames engulfed her, coiling to the sky in acrid black smoke. Her flesh melted as she stared at him, slowly dripping away to reveal the scorching bone beneath.
"You could've stopped this," Jessica's voice was somehow still distinguishable, though scored in agony and terror.
He wanted to tackle her to the ground, to smother the flames even though he knew it was already far too late. At least she might not die alone. But his body still refused to move.
"But you didn't," her head dropped, as though she'd long since abandoned hope, "You killed me, Sam."
"Jess," her name was a protest and plea. But as her eyes oozed from their sockets, she didn't revoke the condemnation. He choked, barely breathing the words, "I'm sorry."
She didn't acknowledge his apology, merely standing in judgment as the flames grew brighter—until her statuesque corpse was nothing more than a silhouette.
The wretched smell clung to his mouth, the taste of ash and scorched flesh drowning his sinuses. He couldn't breathe.
Whether by will or instinct, his legs dragged him away from the living pyre and somehow carried him into a sprint.
The smoke must have annihilated his vision—he could hardly see anything in the fog of utter darkness, but for the occasional crash of lightning.
He knew he had to keep running because if he didn't, he would find him and when he did…
His phone buzzed. His phone? His fingers fumbled in his pocket as he slowed somewhat, and upon finally extracting it with shaky hands, he read the name. Dean. Dean. His family was still at the venue—he'd stabbed his wife and ran. There'd be no denying it now—he'd well and truly lost his mind. It took a few attempts to accept the call, holding the phone to his ear.
"Heyya, Sammy." Dean's voice—nonchalant, relaxed.
"Dean," Sam's voice posed a completed inverse, fluxed with extreme unease, "I, uh… I—I'm sorry, I don't know—"
"I found us a case," Dean interrupted, apparently not catching Sam's tone. "Where are you?"
"…a… case?" Sam frowned, expression still creased in panic and guilt.
"Yeah. Where are you?" He repeated, "I'll swing by, pick you up."
"I, uh…" Where was he? Sam blinked, trying to focus his eyes in the darkness. Where would he have gone? Home, probably. Lightning lit up the sky once more, and Sam winced at the bright flash. When his eyes reopened, he glimpsed the silhouette of his house and hastened toward it, "Home. I'm, uh… I'm at home."
"Right," Dean remarked, as though it made sense, "I'm not far. I'll meet you inside."
A beep signaled the termination of the call, and Sam barely managed to return the phone to his pocket without dropping it. He focused on the shape of his front door, beelining for it resolutely. What was Dean talking about, a case? Hadn't he seen…? Maybe… maybe he was just trying to pacify Sam—maybe he knew his younger brother had completely and utterly cracked.
He pushed open the front door and stepped inside, his eyes darting about the dark space. It was almost impossible to see. He cursed the storm and started toward the adjoining wall, hand reaching blindly for a light switch. Or at least… he tried to. After a few steps, his legs froze, refusing to allow him to advance. Heartrate rising, he stumbled back and tried again—his feet went no further.
A light flicked on overhead—abrupt, bright, like the furious lightning outside. He flinched, raising a hand to shield his eyes as they tried to adjust to distinguish the hazy figure before him.
When they did, a faint wave of relief washed over him, "Dean?"
"Hey, Sam." He replied somewhat curtly, immediately icing Sam's solace.
Sam tried another step, but his foot might as well have been caught deep in quicksand. He looked down, and his pulse escalated further. "Dean?" Sam's voice now carried his alarm, "What's going on?"
Two other figures appeared from the shadows, their shoulders taut with tension, their hands gripping a shotgun and a long knife. They stepped to Dean's side, and Sam's heart struck louder. His parents loomed before him, their faces offering no warmth or solace—not even a flicker of recognition. Merely pure, cold, distant disdain.
"I told you—I found us a case." Dean explained slowly, almost patronizingly. He gestured toward Sam, "You."
A devil's trap, painted in red, encircled the floor beneath him. His legs refused to travel beyond its edge, no matter how fervently he urged them onward.
"I'm not a demon," he protested, voice loud with panic.
Dean laughed at that—a genuine, full, mocking laugh.
He glanced between their faces for support, "I don't know what's going on, but I'm me, okay? I'm Sam."
"We know who you are," Mary replied, glaring at him sharply, "We know what you are. You're not my son."
Sam couldn't help but wince, though he tried to remind himself she didn't mean that—she just didn't understand what was going on. He was caught in a devil's trap—what were they supposed to think?
"Look—try to exorcise me." He wasn't possessed, was he? But he couldn't leave the devil's trap. Was it the demon blood? But he'd barely had any… comparatively, anyway. "I'm not possessed."
"No, you're not possessed, Sam." Dean chuckled again as he shook his head disbelievingly, "You are the monster."
It felt like a blade in his chest. "No," he protested, "Dean, you don't mean that."
"I don't?" Dean began circling the devil's trap casually, confidently, "You're a freak, Sam. A blood-sucking, demon-loving, black-souled freak. Everything you touch dies. First Mom, then Jess, Dad, Ellen and Jo, Bobby. And so, so many more. Who knows how many more." Dean stepped to the edge of the trap, jabbing his finger at Sam's face, "How many daughters, how many sons stolen from their parents because of you? How many children did you make orphans? How many sisters and brothers did you kill? All because you had to be the one to save the world."
"It wasn't like that, Dean," Sam rebutted feebly, unable to help his stumble backward in retreat.
"Oh?" Dean cocked an eyebrow, "You don't think thousands died in the apocalypse that you started?"
Unmoving silence, but for the clenching of Sam's fists and the welling of his eyes.
Dean scoffed, shaking his head, "You know it was exactly like that. You had to prove to yourself, to me, to the universe, to God, that you weren't the monster that deep down, you always knew you were."
"That's not true," Sam refuted again, but the tears streaking down his cheeks felt like evidence against him.
"You know, when I learned you were drinking demon blood, I kept asking myself why. Why would he do that to himself? He knows it's evil. He knows it's poison." Dean paced a few steps, "But I eventually realized—you've never felt better than when you're drinking that blood, have you?" Sam couldn't reply, couldn't force out an objection. "And honestly? I shouldn't have been surprised. Because why wouldn't a monster enjoy sucking down pure evil?"
"Stop," Sam's voice was a mere whisper, "Please, stop."
"All your life, you thought this family was cursed. But you're not cursed. You are the curse." Sam twisted his head away, but Dean wasn't finished, "Even—no, every time try to do the right thing, Sam, look at what happens! You can't run from what you are."
"You're worse than the vile things we hunt," John ground out, glaring at Sam, his eyes oceans of contempt. "At least most of them accept what they are."
"Just look at where it's gotten you. Look around." Dean flung his arms out to the side, "Look at where we are!"
Sam could hardly see through the hazy blur of colors, but he caught a glimpse of the flashing lightning amidst the bars. No—
He was at home, and he was safe, and Dean would smile and say, "It's gonna be okay, Sammy," in that fragile tone that meant he'd give everything to make it true.
"I hate you, Sam." Dean's fist collided hard with Sam's chin, knocking him to the ground. He grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him upward, spitting in his face, "You're nothing to me."
The golden light would filter through the window, and Jessica would be waiting there with a gentle laugh and unconditional compassion.
Dean and his parents grabbed Sam's arms and wrenched them upward, clamping cold, cold iron onto his skin. When they released him, his feet could barely brush the ground and his body weight dropped heavily onto his wrists, the rough metal cutting into his skin.
His parents were happy; his mother would embrace him in a hug so tight he'd feel its warmth in his soul long after it ended, and with glistening eyes and an overwhelming smile, his father would say he's proud of his boys.
"This is all your fault." A blade raked slowly down his chest, travelling from his collarbone to his groin. He screamed against the pain.
Dean would glance over at him in the Impala, he'd tease him until he drew out a smile, grinning smugly at his quick victory. He'd sing obnoxiously and unashamedly off-key to the same old cassette tapes they'd had since they were kids. He'd stink up the car with his extra-onion cheeseburgers and refuse to roll the windows down if he caught Sam making a face. He'd tell Sam it wasn't his fault, that sometimes bad things just happened, and he'd try to convince Sam to release some of the heavy guilt and remorse crushing him. He'd promise that no matter what, they'd be in it together. And that when it was time to go, he'd be right by Sam's side.
"You're a monster," John swung something heavy at Sam's leg, and his vision exploded in white and red as his kneecap shattered. His scream came out mutilated, caught up in its flight to escape with struggling gasps for air.
"A wretched abomination," Mary flung what felt like liquid fire over his body, splashing his face in roiling, hungry flames that swept down his body. He jerked away in agony, but the flames bit deep into his skin, madly seeking more to consume. The heavy stench of smoke and cooking flesh filled his senses as he struggled to breathe. The flames doused suddenly, but they neglected to take the pain with them. His ravaged skin stung horribly at the sudden kiss of air.
"You're not my brother," Dean approached, standing before Sam, barely visible in the awful, raw blur. His hands dove into the newly devised cavity in Sam's chest and rummaged around carelessly. He dug his hands beneath Sam's rib cage and suddenly, Sam couldn't breathe. His brain immediately seized in panic, but his lungs wouldn't—couldn't—expand. His limbs lurched involuntarily, causing his body to swing and reinvigorating the eager flow of blood, but the grip wouldn't loosen. His thoughts hazed into a blurry slush, colored only in panic, his body flinching on its own in a desperate, futile, foolish attempt to survive. Then, air flooded his lungs and he hacked for breath. Blood filled his mouth, flecked his throat.
Dean—he—hummed something merrily, tracing Sam's ribs one by one between his finger and thumb. He paused, withdrawing a hand to draw it gently along Sam's chin, leaving a trail of cold, thick blood in its path.
Then, he curled his fists around Sam's ribcage and ripped it apart with a sickening crack and explosion of pain.
For a moment, the world was only pain—nothing else could survive to steal even a whisper of a thought. Then, it was only pain and a dire instinct for escape—for death. But death wouldn't come.
"Not this time," he denied, a sneer in his voice. Barely, Sam was aware of hands rooting around in his now open chest. A hand slapped his cheek, then twisted his head to face whatever he cupped in his other hand.
"Sometimes, you'd make me wonder if you even had one of these," he noted with a grin, then an acquiescing nod, "Other times… well, your life probably would've been easier if you didn't." He shrugged, "Guess we can fix that."
Sam's gaze lingered drearily on the still-beating heart in his hand, pulsing unevenly. After a moment, perhaps to ensure Sam was watching, he yanked the heart free from the remaining ligaments, veins, and arteries. Sam couldn't even scream.
Die. Die. Die.
He just wanted to die. He should be dead, long dead. Why wouldn't he die?
"Please…" he wasn't sure he meant for the word to stumble from his lips.
"Aww," he mocked, "Has Sammy had enough?"
The voice wrought a violent shudder, unbidden, along his spine. Blood showered from his open abdomen and streamed down his ruined body.
No. It wasn't him, he was safe and he was loved and everything was fine. When he closed his eyes, he could almost see the golden light.
Sharp agony yanked him back, forced him to see the face just inches from his.
"Bunky, you wound me," Lucifer mocked, then cocked his head, "You really think you'll be any safer in there?" He gripped the sides of Sam's skull, fingers squeezing until Sam heard awful cracks beneath the pressure, "You're mine, Sam. Say it with me: body, mind, and soul."
Sam mumbled along in concert, though it would be a disgrace to language to call the sounds that left his throat words.
"Very good, Sam." Lucifer twirled a long, oxidized, iron nail in his hands, his lips curled as he clearly mapped out his next brushstroke on his bloodied canvas, "We wouldn't want you to miss this."
The nail plunged upward through Sam's chin—immediately, his vision burst into a crimson haze. His jaw couldn't open, even the slightest reflexive motion for a cry of pain sent burning agony through his face. His brain distantly signaled that his left eye must be closed because his awful vision had halved, but it screamed for him to open it anyway to discover why it stung so wretchedly.
"You know, topside, you could've still survived this, even without me keeping your every nerve alight." Lucifer glanced down at Sam's gaping chest, "Well, the nail, anyway."
As Sam's body shuddered and lurched in pitiful, hopeless reflexes, Lucifer brushed Sam's sweat- and blood-soaked hair from his face. His voice softened, "Do you remember what I told you when we first met?"
Sam could only manage a faint nod, rivulets of blood rolling down his cheeks in place of tears.
"It's the real kicker in all this is," Lucifer cradled Sam's head in his hand, "I wanted to give you everything. I would've given you everything. I'd have brought back Jessica. Your folks. I'd have undone every death on your conscience. We could've given Dean the life he deserved. Everyone you love could've been safe and happy and alive."
Lucifer ran his fingers through Sam's hair gently, "You understand why I'm doing this, don't you?"
Despite himself, Sam struggled to meet the archangel's gaze.
At Sam's unmoving silence, Lucifer extracted the nail from Sam's skull, meticulously inserting it into the tender base of Sam's shoulder instead. Once the nail cleared Sam's jaw, he felt warm, thick liquid ooze across his body. He heard a dripping splatter and wondered if the sound was his brain leaking onto the floor.
"Do you understand, Sam?" Lucifer raised Sam's chin with his first two fingers, awaiting Sam's response expectantly.
Sam forced a single, feeble, shaky nod, his jaw quivering with agonizing tension as he struggled to form the words, "Because… because… I deserve it."
"That's right," Lucifer grabbed both sides of Sam's head and guided it down to plant a soft kiss on Sam's forehead. He didn't release his grip, but angled Sam's head so their gazes were level, staring into Sam's eyes—or eye, perhaps more accurately. As if he were peering into Sam's mind, gauging whether Sam believed the broken words. Sam was certain Lucifer could read the thoughts on his exposed grey matter. Certain the archangel could see—he believed every word.
Lucifer flicked his hand, and Sam's restraints disappeared. The abrupt vanishing of support caused Sam's body to crumple—or it would have, had Lucifer not caught Sam's body in an embrace, keeping Sam upright by holding him tight to his chest. Sam couldn't help but collapse completely into the archangel, utterly reliant on him for support, his body still weeping in the horrific torment that refused to abate.
"We could've had everything," Lucifer murmured into Sam's hair, his breath ice on Sam's bare nerves. Lucifer tilted his head to better view Sam's face, "Now all we have is each other."
Sam stared up at the Devil holding him tight, the Devil staving off his collapse while wreaking it all at once.
"Happy anniversary, Sam," Lucifer smiled endearingly, even while his hand plunged through the cavern of Sam's chest to squeeze the light from his very soul. The true, blissful, dark nothing finally crawled along Sam's skin and silenced every part of his existence, leaving only Lucifer's quiet farewell in its wake, "Here's to eternity more."