[Fic] John Dies at the End, 1/2 -- Sam (POV), horror/angst, S2 AU
Title: John Dies at the End
Writer: kalliel [prefer AO3?]
Artist: quickreaver [ masterpost - contains fic spoilers!]
Genre: gen, angst, horror/thriller, S2 AU (John lives)
Characters: Sam (POV), John, Dean, Gordon Walker, Jo & Ellen Harvelle, Pamela Barnes, Nora Havelock (the witch from 7x15 "Repo Man"), Bobby
Rating: R
Word Count: ~16,600
Warnings: [Spoiler (click to open)]disturbing imagery, character death, major character death, familicide, abuse
Summary: If John can't save Sam, then he's going to have to kill him--and Sam, with the dubious gift of demonic foresight, already knows which road John's chosen.
Dean, though? Dean's the swing vote.
Notes: A special thank you to jaimeykay, sistabro, and vie_dangerouse, who gave me the idea for this fic a truly embarrassing number of years ago. Let's just say there's now twice as much canon to defile than there was then. XD And most profuse thanks to caranfindel and amberdreams for their thoughtful beta-reading, and to quickreaver for her tremendously atmospheric and delightfully creepy artwork. Check it out at her masterpost! (Contains spoilers for the fic.) Go team!!
"Before he... before, did he say anything to you? About anything?"
(2x02 "Everybody Loves a Clown")
Sam wakes to the hum of Breakfast at Tiffany's on the TV. The whole house smells like coffee.
Then Sam remembers what he has to do today.
--
Rule No. 1: Don't torture yourself by living your past like a VHS--rinsing, rewinding, repeating. It's unbecoming.
--
It's cold for April. But then, this isn't California anymore.
Sam remembers the solid press of Dean's hands into his chest that night in Palo Alto, and the way he'd sprouted chill rivulets--California slowly trickling away, even then. He remembers the dig of Jess's french tips at his ankles, only moments before. Pretty toes, in sandal weather.
Now, South Dakota drops a thunderstorm on them. The pyre's found its heart, though; the rain doesn't douse, just hisses and pops.
They were supposed to get away: They had the Colt. They'd saved John from Meg. They'd saved John from Yellow-Eyes, too--Sam hadn't shot John dead, the demon had fled; they were all in the car; they'd all made it out; they were all breathing.
They'd been so close.
Did he say anything? Sam asks. His question is directed at the pyre, its dry heat like a rash against his lips.
He keeps replaying the crash in his head. Floodlights, tearing metal, adrenaline pain like he's never felt coupled with pain that, too often, he has--his side slams into the Impala, ribs snapping, organs jangling.
They'd been so fucking close.
About anything? Before he-- Sam chokes.
I mean, to you. Did he--
And John says, Dean never woke up.
--
There is a window of time after Dean's death where Sam would not have hesitated, would have done anything, to walk out those doors and hit the road with John. There's a fight song in his veins and he will go any distance, forge any alliance, to make his world feel right again. He doesn't care what it will take.
But when Dean's death becomes a bureaucratic pain in the ass, the fight song wanes. The stupidity suppresses.
Death is a lot of paperwork. And wherever John was during this window, it was not with Sam. Sam crosses all those Ts alone. Every one of them feels like a crucifixion.
After the doctors file away and their lives gear up towards things beyond the traffic vic in 324, deceased, Sam brings out the ouija board again. He needs--something. He needs anything. He mumbles something about a prayer and 'kind of a pagan thing' and gets the room to himself for five minutes. (After that, the nurse says, they would have to come back for the body. They need the space.)
Sam's only just put his hands to the planchette when he hears a voice--from behind him, not beyond the Veil.
Ouija board's crap, John says. You know that.
That's what you said about vampires, Sam snaps. This worked before.
He's gone now, says John, softer.
It's done.
Sam waits for the justification then, the backpedaling, an apology. Some recognition of how wrong John had been, how wrong the world is, how wrong it is that Dean should die--that something, somewhere, was wrong. That something had gone wrong, and Sam was not alone in feeling it.
Instead, John steps out of the room, and that's the last Sam sees of him for some time.
John doesn't return for their Xeroxed paperwork (for your personal use, says the nurse, as though they are the pages of a useful enchantment). Bobby makes no mention of him when he arrives at the hospital, pulled up to a red zone.
It's dark out and Dean has burned almost to bone and cinders when John returns from his oblivion. Dean has been dead for thirty-six hours, and Sam's window has long since passed.
Does Bobby know you're here? Sam asks.
I got permission, John answers.
Sam chuffs. Permission--as though this were the kind of thing with a guest list and a coat check.
He almost wishes it were.
Dean's is actually the first funeral Sam has ever attended. Strange, but true; he's buried more bodies than he's honored. Mary hadn't had one and Jessica's, he'd missed. (Got dressed for it. Was in town for it. Still missed it.)
If there were any deaths in between, Sam's not aware of them. Up until that striga case, he'd thought his father had a perfect track record.
Did he say anything to you? Sam asks finally, chill April having settled into him. His voice creaks as though it's been weeks since he's spoken, and not hours. It feels like weeks.
Sam stares into the flames, willing them to extinguish; to release him; to let him go inside, pass out, and never wake again. He stares into the flames, willing them to never die.
Then April skips over the roofs of bent cars and broken windshields and, with a gust, it puts Dean out.
--
Rule No. 2: Seriously, don't do it. Reruns--terrible idea.
--
Did he say anything to you?
--
Rule No. 3: And don't scowl when I say I told you so.
--
It's Bobby who shoves him into the truck in the end, shotgun to John. He'd been trying to get through to Sam near a week, make something spark. Sam just fixes the past in the truck's rearview.
The way Bobby had gone about his attempted resuscitation makes Sam think Bobby's dragged Dean off the floor a time or two. But Sam's not Dean.
Maybe if Dean were here, they'd have the comparison to help them remember that. Because suddenly he's in a bar full of bodies, badly washed. It smells like smoke, sweat, blood. This is not how Sam prefers to mourn.
Pulled your stitches, John says, sound lost in an eruption of raucous bravado a few chairs away. He taps his temple.
Sam touches his own, feels wetness.
John! exclaims a woman. She's punching knuckles with the loud guys, rag launched over her shoulder. Big brown hair, bigger smile. Sam would say bartender, but no one hustles like that for $2 an hour, not even for better tips. Owner, he thinks.
Ellen, says John. There's pain in the word. For a moment Sam's furious, because whatever he's done to Ellen, it can't possibly match what he's done to Sam. But here they are, in some crap-ass roadhouse, like any other day. Like it didn't even matter.
You know better'n to come in at happy hour, Ellen admonishes, still shouting. Just 'cause I have something juicy to tell you don't mean you don't have to wait your damn turn! Jo'll fix your drinks, though. You remember Jo.
Something prods Sam's shoulder. He starts, and there's a girl behind him, shoving a First Aid kit into his hands.
You're gonna wanna talk to Ash, not me, Jo says to John, sweet as can be. But she's got a knife rolling across her knuckles and a look in her eyes like she wants to throw it hard and fast.
John's not looking, though.
As he slides from his stool he whispers to Sam, Play nice.
Play nice? Sam scoffs.
It makes him wonder whether John's forgotten they're not actually strangers; that they actually did have eighteen years of history together, and every single one of those years is screaming at Sam, John Winchester never plays nice. And chasing tail in dive bars isn't exactly Sam's style.
But maybe the only thing John knows about Sam is that Jess is was blonde. And so's this random girl.
Jo, Sam corrects. Her name is Jo. Play nice.
My mom said you were at Stanford, Jo says, not sweetly. She's learned how to talk to this kind of crowd, this crowd Sam is now a part of, and she doesn't play games, nice or not.
You must be pretty smart, then, she says.
Um, says Sam.
Good, says Jo. She's still staring past him, shooting daggers at John's back. She's pissed as hell about something, that's for sure.
Maybe she knows about Dean, Sam thinks. Hell, for all Sam knows, she knew Dean. She apparently knows plenty about him.
Jo puts a drink in front of him and hunkers down conspiratorily. For a moment Sam thinks they're about to mount a coup: Drag John into a back alley and put her little knife through his eyes. The drink's certainly strong enough--tastes like water, but Sam's only three sips in when he starts feeling it. Girl's a pro.
I'm not-- Sam starts. He's not going to kill his father.
He's not a fucking lunatic.
I just gotta ask you one question, Jo insists.
One. Come on.
Reluctantly, Sam acquiesces.
What's it gonna be? John's sleep schedule? GPS log-in on his phone? (Ha.) Drink of choice? Height, weight, blood pressure?
Jo leans toward him, so close her hair--blonde, it's blonde--kisses his lips.
If your TA says you're not allowed to write a 5-Paragraph Essay, then what the fuck do you write? she whispers urgently.
--
Rule No. 4: Don't project. Just because you're crazy doesn't mean everyone else is, too.
--
Pull him down. Slit his throat with a tiny little knife. Carve letters. Send a message.
Go ahead.
--
So, you're a college girl, says Sam. He's not sure how he got her so wrong.
It's hard to get the words out. He's still thinking about knives.
It had just felt real--that there'd be people out there in the world who'd want to kill John Winchester. Of course there'd be. People he'd hurt, or disappointed in the deepest possible way.
Maybe Sam's just bracing himself, waiting for enlistment. He's sure they'll find him eventually; the demon would have killed him long ago, if that weren't the case. He wouldn't have let power go running lose in Sam's head. Because that's what the visions are, aren't they--a power.
Sam looks at Jo, definitely not killing anyone, definitely not planning to, and rethinks his angle.
Maybe he won't be enlisted. Maybe he's already commander-in-chief.
The thought makes Sam feel sweaty and short of breath.
Jo seems to mistake this for horniness.
Road legal and everything, she replies, a sardonic cant to her tongue. I'm over eighteen, if that's what you're wondering.
She's printing neatly in a spiral-bound, squinting in the dim bar light. The noise doesn't seem to bother her. The only time he's seen her break character since he and John walked in that door was when he'd offered up his laptop to her, at which point she'd succumbed to minor panic; Jo doesn't do computers.
Sam really wishes everyone would stop reminding him of Dean. Or he wishes--
Sam wishes everyone else were a little bit deader than Dean. He'd choose Dean over anyone here. He'd damn them all.
Sam tries to shake the thought. He says, I guess that must've been an adjustment--the whole college scene, I mean. I know it was for me.
Jo replies, Not really. I know a lot of the people and all, running around with 'em since ever. They're all going back to their farms after, of course; but you can make a lot more cash if you got a degree says you know something about hydrology. There'll be a few nurses. Maybe even a vet, if she can get that scholarship. Good crowd; like family.
Jo keeps writing.
I'm beginning to think I picked the wrong school, Sam admits, but Jo ignores him.
Are you sure I can just write 'I argue that…'?
Yes, I'm sure, says Sam. But your mom--obviously she knows something about hunting, if she called my dad to--
This time Jo cuts him off, goes stone cold. She hisses, disjunctively sultry: Honey, there's a lot of people in this house right now. Don't make me remind you that you're mostly not among friends. So do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up.
Jo picks up her notebook and dances away. Sam expects instructions for a rendezvous, some kind of clue, but there's nothing before him but an empty table.
A thick hand claps him on the shoulder.
My sister was like that, too, says its owner.
Sam looks up.
Gordon Walker, says, well, Gordon Walker. Apparently.
Sam opens his mouth to reply.
Oh, no need, says Gordon.
I know who you are, Sam Winchester.
--
You are not among friends, Sam thinks.
You are not among friends
you are not among friends
you are not among friends.
--
Rule No. 5: Choose your enemies wisely. Choose your friends even wiser.
--
John's hot on some vampire nest the next state over, which figures.
Something to do with the Colt, Sam assumes; John won't even sleep in the roadhouse. Slept like the dead in the back of the truck, lockbox for a pillow, Colt so close it could've heard John's heartbeat.
(Sam would think that was pathetic, but Sam slept in a bunkroom in a too-small cot, joined on either side by a nameless drunk and Gordon Walker. When he got out of bed, springs straining, Gordon asked, a voice from the darkness, Did you know you talk in your sleep?
Sam shook his boots out--no spiders--and said nothing.
Entire soliloquies, said Gordon. You must lead an interesting life, Sam Winchester.)
I don't care about vampires. I've never even seen Buffy, Jo says, as she lets Sam's bowl down with a clatter. It's corn flakes swimming in translucent nonfat milk.
What about you, Sam? You gonna fight over this nest, too?
Can I fight for a different breakfast cereal? Sam responds, attempting levity.
Jo frowns. She says, Look, I know you're-- With what happened to your brother and all. It's okay; you don't have to do the whole clown dance.
Sam hadn't realized his joke was that bad.
He'd actually forgotten Dean was gone, for a moment--there hadn't been that crushing dread in the pit of his stomach. Dread about what, Sam's not sure; Dean's already dead. Long dead.
Sam capsizes a few corn flakes with his spoon. He won't be eating now.
You didn't answer about the vampires, Jo reminds him.
Sam doesn't give a damn about the vampires. If he thinks about vampires, he'll think about Dean.
He's already thinking about Dean.
We've put down a nest before, Sam says casually.
You and your dad?
I guess, says Sam.
You hunt with him often? Jo asks.
Since before I had teeth, Sam answers shortly. But Jo's not fazed.
He keep you safe? she asks.
The words sound almost hesitant, like doubt's holding them back.
When it becomes clear that there will, in fact, be a vampire hunt tonight, and John and Sam will, in fact, be going, Ellen calls him over privately.
You probably know, your daddy usually hunts solo, says Ellen, swishing a rag around the bottom of a glass. She regards him seriously, then continues: That don't mean that arrangement was always his choice.
I don't need anyone to defend him to me, Sam replies.
Oh, I'm not defending him, says Ellen, but she doesn't elaborate.
He's probably the best hunter in the whole roadhouse right now, Sam suggests, hoping to prompt a fuller narrative.
Real good hunter. No doubt about it, agrees Ellen, telegraphically. She's not one to fall for tricks.
But she does say this: Sam, I'm gonna tell you this once. Once, and then God help you. You can't go down that road.
Sam nods, sympathetic; but he's not sure how much choice he has in the matter. These days, it seems like most of his roads have already been chosen--and he has the visions to prove it.
Sweetie, listen to me, Ellen says. Her timbre's right at the edge of severe and loving, which makes him miss Dean.
She says, John Winchester is dangerous to everything and everyone around him. So you leave that alone, you hear me?
And that makes Sam miss Dean more.
--
Rule No. 6: Don't blame me.
--
But would you be upset if I told you Dean wasn't meant to die?
--
Yellow-Eyes is smack in front of him.
Right here, right now.
Sam reaches for the Colt but of course it's not there he tries to back away find cover but his legs won't move he can't even attempt an exorcism he--
Relax, Sam, says Yellow-Eyes. Pull up a chair, eat some popcorn. We're in your head; I can't hurt you, you can't hurt me. Just think of me as your own personal Princess Leia.
You are our only hope, you know, he says, without gravity.
How are you here? Sam asks, guardedly. You've never done that before.
Yellow-Eye smiles.
Because you're getting stronger, Sammy-boy. You're rolling out the red carpet! I'm just here to dust it off before the big event.
Suddenly they're chest to chest. Yellow-Eyes twists him like a corkscrew and points into the distance.
Here's what I mean about Dean, Yellow-Eyes whispers into Sam's ear. The words sting like an infection.
He says, Dean wasn't meant to die--or stay dead, in any case. Now that! That took us by surprise. So if things up in your noggin get a little… strange, you have our sincerest apologies. But really, you can only blame yourself.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Sam rasps. He tries to shout but Yellow-Eyes has a hand at his throat, forcing his vision straight ahead, toward a bunch of trees.
All Yellow-Eyes says is, Watch and learn.
Then he's gone.
There's a reservoir. Far below, Sam can see a girl on the wrong side of the barrier. She's wearing white, and that alone makes Sam want to save her. It's stupid.
She's going to jump.
In the trees, where Yellow-Eyes directed him, there's a man with a rifle. He's too far away to touch, too far to even shout at and be heard, but Sam knows instantly it's Dean. There's just something about the way he moves while he's waiting there, however infinitesimally. There's something about his carry. Sam hasn't felt those cues in too damn long and the sight of them now unthreads him.
Dean! Sam shouts, even though he knows it doesn't matter.
Abruptly, Dean pitches the rifle to his chin and before Sam realizes what's happening the trigger's pulled and Dean is only the force of metal ripping through his skull, bone brain bullet blood shooting a thin jet from the crown of his head.
Nothing more.
--
Sam wakes up on the floor, with a lump on the crown of his head. He hit the nightstand on his way down.
Vision, John asks? He's already lacing his boots at the foot of his bed.
Nightmare, Sam replies sourly. The normal kind.
Of course, says John, neither credulous nor overtly suspicious. The middle ground feels patronizing.
My brother fucking died; I'm allowed, Sam snaps.
Of course, says John.
They don't speak for another hundred miles.
--
The truck shambles through the pits of the Midwest, empty mines and enclosed, close-quartered farms--land no longer sure what it stands for, or what it would like to become. Agrarian republic or industrial giant? ask these dusty roads, as though they have a choice.
Sam falls asleep and he watches Dean get torn apart by the long, thick claws of some terrible, invisible force.
--
When Sam wakes, the weather's Mid-Atlantic, and John won't stop talking about Mary.
All his life, Sam's known nothing of his mother but a few silent photographs and, of course, the nature of her death. For some reason now John's seen fit to change that. They're between the legs of West Virginia, and the entire time, it's Mary, Mary, Mary. Like he's had no time to grieve for her before now.
He doesn't talk about Dean.
And then he still doesn't.
John is halfway through yet another story about virtuous perfect Mary changing belligerent Sam's poopy diapers when Sam loses it.
Sam's not sure what he shouts, exactly, but he knows he doesn't stop. He makes himself an opening and he goes at it for all he's worth. He speaks as fast as that bullet through Dean's head, the claws through his chest, and aims to replicate the carnage. John shouts too, but Sam's not listening. He shouts, he shouts, he shouts.
When they reach a stoplight off the Interstate, John turns and slaps him hard across the face. Sam feels the tickle of skin breaking.
Don't you dare--doubt the presence of my grief, John says, murder soft.
Don't you dare.
--
The spring of their junior year, one of Jess's uncles disappeared in a riptide off the coast of Mexico. Jess was understandably stunned, though Sam knew they hadn't been close. But one of Jess's friends--The Empath--had heard, and felt, and cried, and then came to come and cry with Jess; and Jess comforted her and they'd hugged and it had been stupid.
There's no telling what grief will look like. Sam knows that.
But sometimes he sits next to John and they drive to Baltimore and get ready to hunt some ghosts--not the demon, not anything--and Sam needs proof.
He needs more proof than he's been given.
--
Rule No. 7: Go after what you want.
--
See? Not all my rules are about keeping you in line.
--
They don't even get inside the house. This is a testament to the true toilet that is his and John's team spirit, because tonight in Baltimore is the first time in John Winchester's illustrious career of criminality that he's ever been caught. Fingered, sure--but never caught.
Maybe if he hadn't been slapped, Sam wouldn't have thrown that first punch. If he hadn't thrown the first, maybe the second wouldn't have come so easily. But John said something about having learned his lesson, and being sorry, and them needing to focus on the present and not the dead, and Sam decided his father wasn't going to rectify twenty years of shit parenting by letting Dean vanish.
Sam cannot let his brother go without a fight.
And apparently, if you start a brawl in a driveway in suburbia, people call the cops on you.
This goes double if that driveway was already a crime scene.
They're taken in separate squad cars to separate rooms in the precinct, but in the halls Sam hears an officer ask John if his 'friend' has a history of this sort of abusive behavior, and then Sam wants to kill every goddamn uni in the building. He's not even sure if it's because they're so goddamn wrong, or because maybe they feel more than they realize.
Sam Winchester is destined for dark things, and even Baltimore knows it.
John, for his part, offers only variations on a theme: That's my son, he's my son. It's fine, it's just my son.
Mr. Bonham, says their lead arresting officer, That's not the question we asked.
Just before Sam steps inside holding, he braces his hands on the doorframe. He feels the cop behind him swing to orange alert. Sam lifts his hands above his head.
I'm not his son, he says.
He says, My name is Sam Winchester. Go ahead--look me up, book me. I don't care. But I am not Mr. Bonham's goddamn son.
It's the first time Sam's seen John in the ballpark of shock.
--
This is supposed to be Sam's big break--his dramatic, insane finale. Stanford, would-be '06--Sam Winchester with jail on his very real, very permanent record. Sam Winchester, right where he belongs.
But all Baltimore does is forget about him. Someone holds up a convenience store, shots get fired--and well, this is Baltimore. Things escalate. Some dumb white kid throwing punches had only ever been the least of their problems. One thing leads to the next, and Sam gets forgotten about.
He sits in holding for twenty-six hours before the next shift of officers even realize that he's there.
A uni, about his age, asks sheepishly, Who are you?
Who are you?
What did you do?
--
Sam Winchester, what did you do?
--
Bent the rules of physics, replies Sam. It happens. He's not talking about the psychic stuff, except maybe he is.
Specifically, right now, he means Newton's Laws. Actions and their equal and opposite reactions. Sam's found himself a piece of space and time where he is so invisible, so alone, that he can't even self-destruct.
Loser.
--
Rule No. 8: So figure out what you're going to break instead.
--
Loser!!
--
Another twenty-six hours and Baltimore is a thing of the past. He and John are hunting hellhounds--or their crossroads demon. A doctor died, and an architect. A husband's next; he's going to die because he was afraid of being alone. Because he saw a shot at saving someone he loved, and he took it.
You are not alone, Sam reminds himself. There's Jo and Ellen, and Bobby, and, well, there's John. But all Sam can think is, So where was my shot, huh? Where's my fucking shot?
(Colt in his hands. John and the demon, point-blank. That was his shot.)
You need to pull yourself together, he thinks. You can't just tailspin, bounce around the country like this. You know what's out there in the dark, and you can't let it catch you. You need to be better than this. You need to be stronger than this.
And you need to figure out what the fuck you're going to do.
Then Sam watches Evan Hudson split into red streamers, like his skeleton's undressing for the night. Muscle wriggles and arteries overexcite. Bones bend like trampolines, but he doesn't scream. His vocal cords went first. At least his wife's not home, and Sam and John are there to clean him out of the pool.
Sam doesn't think, doesn't figure. He just does.
--
The hellhounds take Dean that night, too--again. Of course they do. This time, Sam sees them catch Dean's boot and put him on the ground, though the blood in the dream is Jo's.
Sam makes himself think, Whatever. Whatever, it doesn't matter. He is better than this, and he is stronger than this.
Is that all you've got?! Sam shouts, as the scene goes up in flames.
What are you gonna do? You're gonna kill Dean a hundred times, drive me crazy? Well, newsflash--Dean's fucking dead already. You can't hurt me; and I've had it with your shit.
In the far distance, there's a hill turned to silhouette by low, full moonlight. A man on the hill, with the shovel.
Slowly, his head turns.
--
He is better than this, and stronger than this. He is. But Sam's still thinking about Evan when he unlocks the door to his motel room, one day later and three states north. John is waiting inside, cell phone on the coverlet beside him.
Oh, says Sam. I forgot.
He says, I didn't get anything for you.
He reaches into his plastic bag, and there are still two burgers.
I forgot, he says again, his words slipping now from sound and into sketchy whiteness. Like imprints in sand.
He's still thinking about Evan. He's thinking about Evan making that crossroads deal to save his wife.
He's thinking about Evan's wife.
If he goes back outside and opens the door again, maybe Dean will be waiting inside.
John raises his eyebrows. He says, Are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.
Sam says, Shut up.
But he drops a burger on John's bed. The second he puts in front of the TV, shrine-like. He's not hungry anymore. He is not stronger than this, and he definitely isn't better. He doesn't know what he's going to do except hurt, and hurt. He drapes himself corpse-like over the empty bed and puts a pillow over his face to block out the light. He listens to the crinkle of aluminum foil as John unwraps the burger.
Dean used to feed you the pickles out of all the burgers, when you were little, John says eventually. Do you remember that?
No, says Sam.
Do you remember the time they were cucumbers? John asks.
No, Sam says again.
John chuckles.
So Sam sighs and sits up, pillow in his lap.
John glances at the burger by the TV, then turns back to Sam. He says, We can share this one.
Sam half-expects John to hand him a wrapper filled with pickles, but it's a whole half of a burger. He wills himself to chew.
Sorry about Baltimore, says Sam.
Sorry about Baltimore, too, John says. The apology sounds foreign to Sam's ears, un-native on John's tongue.
Do you remember calling me your first winter vacation at Stanford? John asks.
Sam shrugs noncommittally.
And I shouted at you? About how I was busy bailing your brother out of jail?
Sam bristles. My brother? he repeats.
You saying he's not? John asks.
Try your son, snaps Sam.
John considers this. Then he says, I'm just trying to get through to you.
Sam sinks the pillow against his chest. He'd stuff it through his emptiness if he could.
Did you know in Baltimore you took a streetlight out? John asks. You tore a few bricks out of the ground.
With your mind is the unspoken critical detail. And no, Sam hadn't realized. He's surprised John's made it this long without confronting him about that. Or just shooting him in his sleep.
I don't know what you want me to do about that, Sam says simply.
Nothing drastic, ideally, answers John.
So what other options are there? Sam wants to snap.
Then he asks: With Evan, though--is that seriously something demons can do? Bring people back to life?
(Not that he's thinking about anything drastic.)
So it would seem, says John.
Then he says, We're putting this one in the ground where she belongs, Sam.
Sam says, I know.
I know a white witch who's express mailing us some oil of Abramelin, says John. We'll have to find the acacia. But we'll get the bitch, mark me; and we'll send her back to Hell.
Oil of Abramelin, Sam thinks.
Oil of Abramelin. Acacia. Six candles.
Sam at John's bedside, being handed a list. Sam at Bobby's, and the crawl of his face when Bobby told him what sort of ritual that shit was for. Your son is in there, dying, and you want to summon the demon? he'd shouted when he got back to the hospital.
He'd been empty-handed.
Dad, Sam starts.
His throat aches. He swallows effortfully then says, In the hospital, when you wanted me to get those--things. Were you trying to-- Would you have tried to--
No, says John.
Did I--? Is it my fault?
No, John says more forcefully.
No, Sam.
They sit in silence.
John glances at the burger by the TV again.
Finally, Sam speaks.
I guess it'd be pretty shitty to call someone down from Heaven. Especially if it's someone who deserves it.
John says, There is no Heaven.
I think you're wrong, says Sam.
I'm not, says John.
Yes, Sam says firmly.
Yes, you are.
--
It's been about six hours when Sam cleans up the burger by the TV. John's asleep.
It's swamp season in Indiana and the lettuce is wilted, cheese pale. The tomato slice has drained white and the bread is soggy. Already decomposing.
Which is what things do, Sam acknowledges--particularly things left out in weather like this. It's just weird to think it had rotted away while he'd been in the room.
--
Before he goes to bed, Sam tells himself that he is better than this, and he is stronger than this, and he is not alone. It's him and John. It's the family business. And they have vengeance to exact.
But all that, and the moment his head hits the pillow he still falls straight into a vision. He can't stop it, stave it off. So Sam sits back and waits for Dean to die again.
It goes like this: John has a gun in his hand.
It's pointed at the floor and the safety is on, but it's more than enough to scare the woman in front of him.
John, says the woman; she knows him. John, she says, looking at the gun. My kid's in the back.
He might want to stay there, is all John says.
It's a storefront--crystals and sage, smudge kits. Potions and serums in fanciful glass vials. There's a devil's trap hidden in the shag rug and holy water in the humidifier. Sam just knows.
Dean is nowhere to be seen, though. There's no Yellow-Eyes to cue his gaze. This is different--like the old dreams.
Sam's first thought is that this woman is a psychic, just like him. No, her kid--she said she had a kid in the back. And if anyone were going to be prepared for a nursery fire, this is she. She looks like the kind of woman who'd live to tell the tale.
You know why I'm here, Nora, says John, which only confirms Sam's theory. What John thinks he's going to do here remains a mystery.
This woman--Nora--she's clearly in the business, but she's got white witch wiccan written all over her. She wouldn't know how to summon a demon any more than John does. And Sam can feel the fear in her, all because John has a gun. That's how he knows that she doesn't have the juice. Not for Yellow-Eyes.
But Nora unlocks her cash register and pulls out a slim, strange bottle. Sam's not up on his glassblowing terminology, but even he knows the vial is strikingly odd. Under lock-and-key odd--and this in a shop with more than one jar of Spanish flies.
Who's it for? Nora asks.
John says, without hesitation, My son.
He says, I told you why.
Nora shudders. And for all she's afraid of John, Sam can't help but feel she's more afraid of John's son--whichever one he means. Deep down Sam knows it's him, but maybe this is more of the usual. Maybe it's just another way Dean dies.
It's painless, Nora assures him, and then Sam shudders too. Nora continues, It does evaporate if you hang onto it too long. So don't dilly dally.
Dilly dally? John repeats. He doesn't believe her.
Obviously, there's a time limit, she says.
Why? John asks. It seems like meaningless red tape. The plot device of fairy tales.
But Nora doesn't shake her head, and she doesn't sympathize. This time, she stands her ground. She says, It's hard to kill a child; most people change their minds. If the poison neutralizes, it helps them forget they ever tried.
It's hard to kill a child, Sam thinks wildly. To kill a--
I'm a white witch, she reminds him. I'm good at my job, and I'm not usually in the business of helping people murder their babies. It's just that right now you have me at gunpoint.
He doesn't, not really; but Sam knows what she means.
So why do you know the recipe? John asks. It's not really a question; John just likes being right.
Because I believe in assisted suicide, Nora says stiffly. And the courts here don't.
She means, This is not what you are doing. This is not a mercy killing. This I do not condone.
Here, she says. You might want these too.
Nora hands him a film cannister.
What are these? John asks.
Sleeping pills, answers Nora. For him or for you, it doesn't really matter. I've heard it helps.
John turns to leave, but Nora speaks up again.
I heard about your boy, she says. The other one. After the crash.
I'm sorry, she says.
She means, Don't do it. Don't do it again.
Don't go down this road.
But in the end, she is afraid of him. White with or not, she can't be this child's savior.
--
It's hard to kill a child. John Winchester will be two for two.
--
Sam's eyes snap open. It's dark, all a crepuscular orange-gray; the curtains don't quite block out the flicker of neon or the burn of downtown. A sleepy wheeze issues forth from the bed beside him. Not a Dean sound--his father, it's his father.
His father, not with his gun to a witch.
Yet.
Sam wonders if John sleeps with a gun under his pillow, like Dean did. He wonders, if John doesn't, did that make Dean bigger and badder, or just more terrified?
Not that it matters. It didn't save Dean.
If this were any other vision, him and Dean would be hitting the road. Making sure it never came to pass. Once upon a time, they'd saved that woman and her six-month old, after all. And right now this vision, whatever it's from, is telling Sam how to save himself. It's telling Sam to save himself.
Shoot him as he sleeps, Sam thinks to himself. You remember what happened with Max Miller: Every time, you waited, and you waited, and you got three people killed.
This is your head's up.
But Sam doesn't even need to cock the gun to know that he can't shoot a man dead in his sleep. And he cannot kill his father. If he could, he would have done it. (And there's that thought again--)
He's already had his chance--dad, demon. If he'd taken the shot then, Dean would still be alive; it'd be him in that bed, it'd be them on this road. It'd be--
Sam's the one who signed those hospital reports. He knows Dean was dead before he hit the ground. Sure, maybe he was breathing, but after what Yellow-Eyes had done, he never would have made it. Semi truck or no.
If he'd killed John then, now it'd be just Sam alone.
It's already Sam alone.
You are better than this, he tells himself. You are stronger than this.
Slowly, Sam sits up in the dark. Hinges at the waist and imagines levitation--small girls in white gowns, hovering above their beds. He wills death on bed springs.
He slides one foot from the sheets to the ground, then the next.
His vision hasn't settled any--dark is dark is dark--so he faces the sound of John's breathing and feels around the dusty edge of the bedside lamp. His fingers crawl downward, clasp plastic.
John's phone is like a scarab beetle--the kind you're not supposed to touch, unless you want the cave you're in to swallow you.
Sam wonders if John would see him, if he woke--his body a piece of shadow that didn't quite fit in with its surround. Chthonic black against some different and innocent darkness.
John probably wouldn't enjoy this--someone standing over him like that. Sam wonders again if John sleeps with his gun.
He wonders if Dean was scared at all when he came to get Sam at Stanford. Probably not, given his lack of quietude, and the lack of monsters. But how could he possibly know what Sam would do? What if Sam had called the police--and how would Dean know that he wouldn't? they hadn't spoken in years, and they hadn't broken well before that. Or what if Jess had woken, and not Sam? What, would he have taken her hostage? Banked on Sam being able to calm her down? (Did Dean know Sam had never once gotten away with telling Jess to do anything, and definitely not "calm down"?)
A different visitor: What if it had been John in his nursery, and not Mary?
Sam lifts the scarab and backs away, fluid. He feels safer when he doesn't loom. He doesn't like the idea of giving John a reason to kill him, however thinly justified.
He doesn't want to die and let John call it self-defense.
Then maybe you shouldn't be psychic, he thinks. Maybe he shouldn't have visions.
But there's John with a gun to a witch with a vial and a kid she's willing to protect. She'll help kill Sam to keep her own son safe.
Sam can't just pretend he isn't psychic. He's not some civilian, being burnt at the stake; he can do something about this. He should do something about this. Witches that could tell the future probably never burned.
This is how you save yourself, he thinks.
Sam retreats backward, silent and unhesitant. He doesn't stop until his back presses against the closet wall, luggage rack digging into his thigh and hangers teasing at his shoulders. He bows his head to fit, and pulls the door almost shut.
(This is, incidentally, the reason so many doors are left just slightly ajar. There is something inside, and it didn't want you to hear the latch click.)
Sam knows the bathroom hinges squeak--closet's as good as he's gonna get.
If John were not his father, and were a little girl instead, maybe John would open his closet and find Sam inside, on fire.
Sam pries John's phone open, and his fingers wash green with liquid crystal light.
He lowers the sound to nearly silent, and hits redial.
The woman on the other end of the line, volume-controlled, sounds like she's speaking from another dimension, or from from across the Veil. She may as well be.
I sent the Oil of Abramelin flat-rate, she says. She says, It should be there in two days.
She says, I'm not sure how much faster you want me to be, John.
So it's true, then. She's the white witch who's helping them with this crossroads demon.
When Sam says nothing, doesn't even breathe, she keeps talking (and Sam hears a kettle whistle, and liquid pouring. Whatever timezone she's in, it's late there too. Or early).
About the other thing, she says.
John, you're going to have to see me in person.
I don't send things like that to the post office.
--
She's the white witch who's helping John with Sam.
--
Sam hangs up.
(You should have shot him when you had the chance. Heat of the moment, right? That's what you could have told yourself. But now--)
He can't pack a bag without John waking; Sam just grabs his own phone from the dresser (and replaces John's--idol switcheroo). He grabs his coat from the ground and slinks from their room in unlaced shoes. He risks the tiny click of deadbolt, latch. The slurp of the door sucking against its weather seal.
He can't take the truck; John will hear it.
Lightly armed and barely dressed, Sam looks for an alley without cameras.
He needs to boost a car.
--
Rule No. 9: Oh, calm the fuck down.
--
He's not sure why he's so nervous. It's not as though he's never run away before. And it's not as though he's never been chased. Sam's put things in the ground eighty times more menacing than one John Winchester.
But that's the thing--if there were a spell, he'd cast it; a curse, he'd lift it; a demon, he'd exorcise it. But Sam watched John walk through all those witches' safeguards and he knows: This is John, human. This is John, father. John, only.
And Sam's not sure he can get away this time. Jess is gone--he has no goals to run toward. Dean is gone--Sam has no lifelines.
He just thinks, My father wants to kill me.
He tries to think of a plan, and it's My father wants to kill me.
my father wants to kill me
my father wants to kill me
my father wants to kill me
Why that's so powerful, Sam doesn't know; he's been disowned for four years. He'd told himself he'd find a family; he'd make one. That blood alone is not a reason for loyalty. But maybe he'd believed Dean, after all. Maybe he does believe; maybe he can't help it.
And my father wants to kill me.
So yeah, maybe Sam has a fair idea of why his stomach won't keep shape. Still, his hands are shaking so bad he's muffed Jo's number twice, and he wishes he could be just a little more professional about this.
He owes himself that much.
Sam? Jo's voice crackles over the line, loses its tone, and Sam thanks God. She won't be able to hear how fucked he is.
Sam? Jo repeats, when Sam misses his cue. She says, It's 4AM. What's wrong?
How's your paper coming? Sam asks breathlessly.
Jo sighs. She says, Look, Sam, I'm kinda--on a job right now, so... Did you need something?
Sam pinches hard at the bridge of his nose.
Of course she's busy. Sam's not sure what he's thinking. It's not like people are just waiting around to jump into the middle of his family business, right? Suddenly he feels pulled out of his body, out of his own urgency, and this all feels stupid.
Sam can deal with his own goddamn father.
In the end, he just asks Jo for her school's VPN. He wants to dig up as much as he can about the demon, that's all. And did she have Ash's number?
Ash doesn't have a phone, says Jo. Then she rattles off her log-in info. And she says, Look, if you wanna talk to Ash, I can guarantee you he's at the Roadhouse, so just call my mom. But not at 4AM, Sam--she doesn't even answer my calls at 4AM, so don't you dare.
Sam promises.
He takes a deep breath. Because it's fine, everything's fine. He'll just hole up, do some research, and it will all be fine. It will all be fine.
He's not going to call Ellen. Not at 4AM.
At 4:27AM, he calls Ellen. She answers immediately.
Jo-bird?
It's Sam, Sam answers.
Is she with you? Ellen asks. From the staticky rustle on the other end of the line, Sam gathers she's already out of bed and putting clothes on. And fuck, she's just so--ready. Ready to be there for her daughter, and to do whatever it takes to keep her safe. She's so--
Quickly, Sam assures her that it's fine, it's fine, Jo's fine. He just talked to Jo, everything's fine with Jo.
Ellen settles. Then she says, Sam, did something happen to your father?
Sam holds his breath for a moment, because he feels so, so stupid again. Because if he's the one making the call--if he can call anyone at all--then he's okay. Because it's past 4AM and no one's bleeding out and no one's actually being chased and Jesus, Sam, you're okay. You're okay. (But how the fuck is this okay?)
Everything's fine, Sam answers.
Sam, says Ellen with a note of warning.
What if this is all for nothing? Maybe John's not even trying to kill him. Maybe all of that is just insurance for if the demon finds Sam first, and they can't stop him. Frankly, if that's the case, Sam hopes John does have some contingency plans. He'd rather be dead than demonic.
And maybe it was just a dream.
Maybe Sam's just psyching himself out.
He's probably just being a paranoid idiot. He never did pull it together; not after those vamps, or Baltimore, or the hellhounds. Not after Evan's gallbladder, bobbing perfect and unmolested in a sea of pink and bloated tissues. Maybe this is just that mental pit where you end up, and it seems like everyone's out to get you.
But there's that vial, in searing detail, and the clammy tinge to the witch's palms when she sees John's gun. John with the gun. John with the gun, with the vial. And Sam knows the difference between a vision and a dream.
He knows what's coming.
Boy, you need to tell me what's going through that head of yours, says Ellen, and brooks no argument.
Pocket-dial, Sam says swiftly. Sorry; I know it's late. It won't happen again.
Did you pocket-dial me after you also pocket-dialed Jo? And Sam, if you hang up on me, so help me, I'll keep calling you back 'til the sun rises, so save us both the phone bill and spill.
I think--I could use some backup, maybe, says Sam, in a voice smaller than he's ever known himself to be.
Where are you? Ellen asks. And what are you up against?
Lafayette, says Sam.
Lafayette, Indiana, I mean.
Shit, says Ellen. Only hunter I know who's for sure out that way is Gordon--and don't even think about it, Sam.
She's silent for a moment.
What is it? she asks again. Is it a two-man job, or would you be willing to step down and just let Gordon take it? Does it have your scent?
Well, it's--
He pinches the bridge of his nose again and adjusts his perch on his retaining wall.
I really don't think I should have called you, Sam finishes.
I'm sorry.
Sam, says Ellen. You listen to me. I need to know if you're okay. Where are you right now?
Sam hesitates, because 'I'm not wearing any socks and right now I'm sitting on a giant cinderblock wall above the car I just stole and I really wish I'd packed a box of ammunition' sounds way worse than it is.
In the end Sam says, I'm with my dad.
--
I'm with my dad.
--
Oh, says Ellen.
Sam feels like a fucking nine-year old, except he's pretty sure nine-year old Sam was a polished sociopath in comparison. Right now he's a mess. He's just never felt this alone before. He's never needed to not feel alone so bad before.
Then he realizes Ellen's still talking at him, and he's said everything's fine, and he's promised that when they're done in Lafayette, they'll swing by. And don't make that a John Winchester promise, all right? Ellen warns.
She says, I'm counting on you, Sam. You come to the Roadhouse, and we'll sort this out. I'm gonna wait to hear from you, okay? I'll be looking out, so don't leave me hanging.
When Ellen's voice and her static go quiet, and Sam's alone in his alley again, he does the math. They're probably seven, maybe eight hours from the Roadhouse right now. That's not so bad.
He could probably make it eight hours, if he had to run.
But Sam can't help thinking that if Dean were alive, and if Dean were here, he'd only have to make it eight seconds--if that.
Yeah, Sam decides. Eight seconds. Dean wouldn't have gotten up on this wall with him. He'd have kept both feet firmly on the ground.
But if Sam lets himself go hazy enough he can almost imagine Dean in the car below him, nursing a coffee, disparaging Sam's life choices, and getting him the fuck out of here.
Or maybe not.
Sam can just as easily imagine Dean insisting they stay. Pushing the family closer and closer together until Sam has one of two choices: Shut up or stop breathing. Dean's kind of a swing vote that way. And without him here, Sam will never know.
Dean, I really need you, Sam says to the darkness. He has Dean's amulet in his pocket, which he'd meant to melt and burn but Bobby had picked from the cool ashes, unmolested.
Sam squeezes it as hard as he can, until the horns threaten to bruise bone.
Dean left too many questions unanswered and fights unfinished. He left their brotherhood wanting. And maybe Sam can fill it with whatever he wants--isolationist self-pity, valorizing grandeur, sappy chick flick love--but the only way he feels it right now is loss.
Dean is gone, he is gone, and Sam is alone.
--
Rule No. 10: Remember what I've told you; because you know, I really feel like you're ignoring my advice. You're going to hurt my feelings.
--
Here's a secret: Sam knows Dean's always been a little afraid of him. Sam, after all, had the power to leave him.
Dean's not even a ghost, and his absence still feels vengeful.
--
Funny seeing you here, says Gordon Walker.
Sam's still blinking in the shop's bright light. Everything gleams and glows and Sam feels distinctly like he's stumbled out of world.
But maybe that's just what doughnut shops actually are at 5AM.
Ellen told me you were in town, Sam explains.
Thoughtful of you to check in, says Gordon. Is this a brunch date?
Sam takes a seat across from Gordon. He says, You killed your sister.
If it's pointers you want, I think you may have missed your window of opportunity, Gordon replies.
Why'd you do it?
I killed a monster, Sam, says Gordon.
Did she know you were after her? Sam asks.
Gordon says, She knew what she was.
Gordon flags the man behind the counter, and hot doughnut holes and small black coffees appear between them. He hisses as he plops a hole in his mug and his hand catches a bit of the splash.
Are you making a scale? Gordon asks, after he's mastered his confection.
He clarifies, Of pain, I mean. My-brother's-death-was-not-this-schmuck's-sister's-death-so-I'm-probably-not-that-fucked-up? Are you looking for counterexamples?
No, Sam answers honestly.
Gordon plops another doughnut in his mug. This time he doesn't flinch from the burn.
Sam, he begins. I never met your brother, and he has no reputation to speak of. But I don't need to know who he was to tell you this: He's worth more to you dead.
Sam feels instantly lightheaded with rage. Dean's worth absolutely fucking nothing to him dead.
But Gordon doesn't relent. He says, There's that hole, right? You can feel it. Grabbing at your marrow; it's in you. I know something about your family, Sam; I know about your demon, and I know that you've got a hell of a road ahead of you if you want that revenge. But I can see it in you, Sam--this is your tipping point, and Dean got you there. If you're gonna come out on top of this, this is what you've got. You can't change what happened. So right now, you look at it this way. The logical way: He is worth more to you dead.
Sam doesn't trust himself to take his mug without dropping it. This is, he knows, exactly opposite what Dean said--where revenge lay, and where family did. What the prize really was. But Dean's never been in Sam's shoes like this; he's never lost what Sam has lost. He's never felt hunted; not like this. And he's not here to know what this feels like.
Let go of your sentimentality, Gordon advises. Let go, and do what you have to do.
It seems dumb, coming from a man with a doughnut in his coffee; but Sam also knows what Gordon is like in the dark. He knows what the man is capable of. And he knows that if he's going to get John before John gets him, Gordon's the kind of man he needs by his side.
Where's your father, anyway? Gordon asks, like a mind-reader.
You could just ask him, Sam suggests. He's not sure how to broach the subject of patricide without also convincing Gordon that Sam's the one he wants to hunt. Frankly, Sam's uncertain he's not already on Gordon's To Do list; Sam knows nothing else is going down in Lafayette tonight.
Gordon smiles. John doesn't exactly talk to the fan club, he says.
Get on his level, Sam thinks. Bond with him. Bond with this… stone-cold fratricidal machine.
He doesn't talk to anyone, Sam says cooly.
Then Sam's phone starts trilling, and John's name flashes blocky and pixelated on the flip screen.
Sam lets it go to voicemail, but the damage is done.
Gordon smiles, bright white.
He says, Sounds like Lassie better run on home. You're late for breakfast.
--
you are alone
you are alone
you are alone
To Part 2...