Nihil Inherit, Chapter 2: Wyoming
Chapter 1
Master Post
Chapter 2: Wyoming
*
It's dark. Maybe he's blind. He feels as though he's floating off into space, the only thing keeping him anchored the firm pressure of fingers on his wrist.
“You are sure you want to do this?” the voice asks.
“Yes.” It's the only way.
“You know what is likely to happen.”
He knows, but his heart starts beating faster anyway. “I can put things right. Just... just do it.”
*
“Sam, wake up!” He comes awake with a jolt, Dean thumping his shoulder unceremoniously. “Sam!”
“What?” he grinds the palm of his hand into his eye, trying to remember a time when his damned head didn't hurt. He glances out the window of the Impala at the passing scenery, almost surprised to find that it's still daylight. “Where are we?”
“Just past Edgemont,” Dean tosses a small white paper bag in his lap. “Take your meds. The doctor was all gung-ho about keeping you on a 'schedule,' and if I never have to see you look like a dying fish ever again, it'll be too soon.”
Sam grunts what he hopes sounds like agreement, then rummages under the front seat until he comes up with a plastic bottle half-filled with water. He pulls open the bag. “God, did he prescribe the whole damn drug store?”
“Quit bitching and take your pills.”
Sam squints into the morning sun. “Have you been driving all night?”
“Yep. Gonna stop for coffee next town we hit. How you feeling?”
“Fine.” The only medication he recognizes is amoxycillin and the Tylenol 3s. The rest are all new to him. There are pink pills ―Depakote, he reads on the label― and blue ones ―Lamictal. He remembers being told about them, but can't for the life of him recall a single word. “I don't remember what these do.”
“So you'll look it up later, Geek Boy. Right now all you need to know is that they prevent seizures, so just be a good patient and take your damned meds before I pull over, hold you down and pinch your nose shut so you swallow them.”
“Geez, grouchy,” he forgoes the painkillers, washes the rest of the pills down with a swallow of stale water, reminded by the gesture of the two women who stopped by the road and probably saved his life. “I never got to thank them.”
“What? Who?”
“Amanda and her friend. Kristy, or Chrissy, or something.”
“You mean the girls who found you?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't worry about it. You were out of it, but I thanked 'em for you.”
“Even when you thought I was an evil shape shifter?”
“Yeah, well, they didn't know that, and it was easier to say thank you than to give them the whole truth-is-out-there spiel.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “Fair enough. Thanks for that. I'm kind of glad there are still people like that around. Gives me hope for humanity, you know?” And hope for me, he thinks. Thoughts are crowding in his head, each more confusing than the last, and he feels vaguely nauseous.
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“You need a break? Apparently I've been asleep for the past seven hours.”
Dean shakes his head. “I'm okay. Besides, Seizure Boy, I'm not letting you behind my baby's wheel until I'm sure you're not going to send us crashing to a fiery death. I just got her up and running again, after all.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam leans his head back against the seat, glad enough for the excuse not to drive. He's not sure how he can have been asleep all night and still feel as though he's run a marathon while carrying a boulder on his shoulders. “How long until we get there?”
“Another six, seven hours? Maybe five if I floor it the whole way, but I don't think Bobby's truck can handle that much rough usage. Besides, if I don't get coffee in me soon, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”
“Coffee sounds fantastic,” Sam agrees, but Dean shakes his head with a grin.
“Nuh-uh. No coffee for you. No alcohol, either. You're going cold-turkey, I'm sorry to say.”
“Funny how you don't sound sorry.”
“I bet you won't even miss it. That crap you drank barely qualified as coffee anyway, Francis.”
“Bite me.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.” Sam grins. He can't remember the last time he and Dean talked like this. It's been years. No, months. Something. His head throbs.
“Make yourself useful and call Bobby, why don't you? Let him know we're stopping for breakfast at the next exit ramp I see.”
“Sure.” It takes less than thirty seconds, and he flips the phone shut again, glances over at his brother, who's got both hands on the wheel, obviously tense. Sam sighs and shifts in his seat. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“It's just―”
“Just what?”
“You don't seem fine.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “I said I'm fine, Sam.”
“Dean...” This is the part Sam suspects they both hate. Dean is stonewalling him, putting up the same old barriers between them, and Sam finds he has to make an effort not to hit the car door with his fist in frustration. Why does he always have to make it this damned complicated to have a simple conversation.
“Oh, God.”
“Come on! I can tell you're not fine. Dude, why do we have to do this song and dance each time? You're barely holding it together. I get it, Dean. I died, and you thought... you thought you were alone, and I get it. I understand.”
Dean smacks the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Do you understand, Sam? Really?” he says nastily, turning his head long enough to give him a look that makes Sam's heart clench in his chest. “Because I don't think you do.”
I understand all too well. I lost you too, and for longer.
“Then tell me. Help me understand.”
“I am not doing this. Not now. I don't know if you noticed, but we've kind of got an apocalypse on our hands that we need to stop.”
It's more than Sam can take. He coughs, trying to mask the hysterical laughter that's bubbling up in his chest, but it's no use. He clamps a hand over his mouth, snorts in spite of himself.
Dean looks over again, appalled. “Are you laughing?” he asks incredulously. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Holy shit, Sammy. It's the end of the world, and you're laughing.” He turns back to the wheel, and through the tears that are threatening to blind him, Sam can see his brother's shoulders are shaking too.
“You can't stop an apocalypse, Dean,” he manages to gasp finally, wiping at the tears streaming from his eyes. “The best you can do is maybe put it off for a while. But, really, the only thing we can really do is get out of its way, and hope the end isn't too fucking terrible for words.”
He keeps laughing, barely notices when Dean goes silent, hands locked on the wheel.
*
The afternoon light is just beginning to filter past the clouds as Jake pulls off the highway. He's following hastily-written directions on the back of a gas receipt, trying to decipher his own handwriting. The directions are to the point, make use of natural land marks more than anything else. The white station wagon bumps its way along a dirt road that follows a creek, surrounded by dense brush, dead and dying saplings. Even the grass along the bank is sickly-looking. He pulls up just short of a railroad crossing, steps out, the dirt and dry leaves crunching under his feet, the call of wild birds loud in his ears. Crows and carrion-eaters.
Jake goes to stand under the sign, made up of two planks in the shape of an X nailed to a post, the paint long since flaked off. He stares for a moment at the rust-eaten tracks, overgrown with weeds after decades of disuse, and tries to stand his ground, waiting. After a moment he turns to find the demon standing behind him, makes a visible effort not to flinch.
“Howdy, Jake,” the demon saunters toward him, elaborately casual, hands in his pockets. “So, did you have a nice trip?”
“I'm here, I did what you asked. Now what?” Jake's posture screams of tension and fear, the set of his mouth uncertain.
The demon points nonchalantly away from Jake, across the railroad tracks. “Fifty miles thataway. There's a cemetery. A crypt. You're going to open it for me. Think you can manage that, sport?” he asks, inflecting the last word with as much irony as he can muster. It's not really a question.
A surge of anger runs through Jake. “You know what? Screw you and your freaky orders!” he blurts. “Go do it yourself.”
“Oh, I can't,” the demon tilts his head in a gesture that would look rueful on a human being, and shrugs. “I can't go that way ―not yet.”
“Why not?” Jake knows nothing of demons, up until four days ago, he didn't even know they existed. He knows nothing of their rules. His voice cracks with nervousness and anger.
“I just can't,” is the sharp reply. “But if you're going to open that crypt for me, you're going to need a key,” he reaches past his jacket lapel, draws the Colt from a concealed holster with an exaggerated flourish, the barrel pointing toward the vast grey sky.
“A gun,” Jake can't keep the scorn and incredulity out of his tone.
“Oh, this isn't just any gun, Jake. This is the only gun in the world that can shoot. me. dead.” The demon points the gun at his head for emphasis.
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Here, take it,” the demon says cheerfully, and hands over the Colt. He smirks as Jake cocks the gun and aims it a few inches from his face, raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Oh, my. I am shocked at this unforeseen turn of events. Go ahead Jake, squeeze that trigger. Be all you can be,” he challenges, still mocking. “and this will all be over: your life can go back to normal. Of course, the Army won't take you back 'cause you're AWOL, but I'm sure you could get your old job at the factory back. But then, on the other hand, the rest of your life, and your family's, could be money and honey, health and wealth, every-day-is-ice-cream-Sunday. And all you got to do is this one. little. thing.” His tone turns subtly coaxing, reasonable.
“Why me?” It's the cry of everyone put into an impossible situation. This time, though, the demon has an answer to the question that never has one.
“Oh, Jake,” he says, suddenly serious. “It's got to be you. I've been waiting for you for a very long time. You're my leader. You open that crypt, and you will have your army.”
“You're talking about the end of the world!” Jakes eyes are so wide the whites are showing all around the irises.
“No, not the end ―the beginning. A better world where your family will be protected. More than that: they'll be royalty. Buddy boy, you have the chance to get in on the ground floor of a thrilling opportunity. What'd you say? It's your call.”
Jake is shaking his head, but his hand trembles. The gun wavers, drops as he brings his hand back to his side, and the demon grins at him. This was a foregone conclusion. There is no other way this discussion could have turned out, and they both know it.
“Attababy.”
*
Apparently it's not in the cards for Sam to not wake up confused and in pain. At least this time it's not dark, he consoles himself. He's lying on the ground on his uninjured side with a really good view of the asphalt, which means they're in the parking lot outside of the diner they stopped at for breakfast. He can smell leather and motor oil (at least it's not burnt rubber anymore), feels something soft under his cheek, and realizes that Dean's jacket is folded up under his head. He shifts his weight, thinking he ought to get up, but his limbs don't seem to work the way he remembers they should, and he can't quite bite back a groan of discomfort. He is getting way too old for this sort of crap, except that he's only twenty ―something. He wonders if it's a bad sign that he can't remember his exact age. He thinks he might throw up.
There's a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Sammy.”
“God,” he groans quietly again. “I take it I had another seizure?” At least, that's what he means to say. It comes out more as a mumble that includes the word 'seizure.' He feels as though his head is stuffed with cotton wool.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“You don't remember? You started doing that weird shit about half an hour ago, woulda gone down hard if...” If I hadn't caught you, Sam hears. Dean always catches him. “You don't remember any of it?”
“Uh-uh. Saw Jake, though. Where's Bobby and Ellen?”
“Right here, kid,” Bobby's voice filters from somewhere to his left, outside of his field of vision.
“Sam? You feelin' okay, sweetie?” Ellen's voice, filled with concern. It's the tone she usually reserves for Jo. He thinks she might be kneeling on his other side, just far enough away to give Dean space to work.
Sam makes a noncommittal sound, shuts his eyes. “Feel shitty. Think 'm okay.” He hopes to God he's not lying.
“You saw Jake?” Dean is rubbing his arm. “So it was a vision?”
“Mm.” Dean's jacket is soft, and right now the thought of sleep is more than tempting. Let the world drift away for a while. Except, of course, it's the damned end of the world. “He's going to the cowboy cemetery.”
“When?”
“Dunno. Soon. Afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
He shakes his head, trying to push himself upright, and his stomach lurches. “Gonna be sick,” he manages, and quick as lightning Dean's pulling him up onto his knees so he doesn't throw up all over himself as he doubles over, rubbing circles on his back like when Sam was a little kid.
“Okay now?” he asks, when Sam's done.
“Define 'okay,'” he says weakly, and is rewarded with a grim smile.
“Dean, we need to take him to a hospital,” Ellen says quietly, maybe hoping he won't hear.
“No,” Sam keeps a tight grip on Dean's arm, trying to keep his balance. “They can't... can't help. Not with this.”
“We have to keep going,” Dean says, and Sam senses it's directed at him rather than Ellen, a question disguised as a statement.
“I know.”
“Think you can sleep in the car?”
“Better than listening to your music.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
“You boys are warming the cockles of my heart. Are we goin', or what?” Sam can practically hear Bobby's eyes rolling. He nods, reaches for Dean's arm to lean on, gets unsteadily to his feet, and feels his face heat up with embarrassment as he realizes his jeans are soaked through.
“Uh, I should clean up first. Sorry.”
“'s okay, Sammy. Doctor said it could happen.”
“Right.”
He's hard-put to see how his life could possibly get worse right now, but he doesn't dare voice the thought aloud. He's learned better than to tempt the universe like that. He manages to stay upright while Dean gets his duffel bag from the car and shepherds him back into the thankfully-mostly-deserted diner and into the bathroom, where he sits him unceremoniously on the nearest toilet, lowering the lid with his foot. Sam lists against the khaki-coloured wall of the stall, the metal cool against his skin, and watches tiredly as Dean starts pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. The clean-up is a kind of half-assed job, accomplished with paper towels and the liquid soap from the hand dispenser, but by the end of it he's feeling mostly presentable again, and the important part is that his clothes are dry and clean. Dean shoves the wet jeans into a plastic bag and ties a knot in it.
“Think of it this way,” he offers generously. “If the world ends tonight, we won't have to worry about laundry.”
“Awesome,” Sam rolls his eyes. “But the world won't end tonight.”
“That's optimistic of you. We're four people, well, three and a half, given your current state of functionality―”
“Bite me.”
“I call 'em like I see 'em, Sammy. Like I was saying, four people going up against the demon ―the demon that has soundly kicked our asses every time we've encountered it― along with that Jake guy and possibly all the legions of Hell behind 'em. I'd say our odds of the world ending are, what, sixty-forty in our favour?”
Sam laughs. “Sure. But the world isn't ending tonight,” he repeats. “It's the beginning of the end.”
Dean's face scrunches up. “Sam, if you don't shut up with that freaky pseudo-Nostradamus shit, I am going to punch you. My hand to God. You're freaking me out.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just... quit it.” Dean grabs him under the arm. “Ready?”
“As I'll ever be, I guess.”
He manages to leave the bathroom under his own power, feeling considerably less shaky. The waitress who serves them gives him a friendly but distant smile, as though she doesn't really want to get involved in whatever she thinks just happened. He's happy enough to let her slip away to serve her only customer, a man in a trench coat with wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes that seem to pierce right through to Sam's soul when he looks up. Sam starts as a feeling of recognition hits him, and apparently the feeling is mutual, because the man nods once in his direction before returning his attention to his cup of coffee.
“You know that guy?” Dean asks as they leave. Sam shakes his head.
“Don't think so. He looks familiar, but I can't place him.”
“Right. Well, one mystery at a time. Come on, we're burning daylight.”
*
In spite of Sam's protests, Dean insists on stopping at a motel about thirty miles outside of Rawlins and booking a room. To his surprise, Ellen and Bobby side firmly with Dean on this, and he's not in much shape to do anything but acquiesce and crawl into one of the two queen-sized beds, not even bothering to do much more than toe off his boots. The motel is a decent one, the sheets clean, the carpet relatively new and unstained. Unheard-of luxury for them. He figures Ellen and Bobby may have something to do with the quality of the place. Still, he can't get rid of the butterflies in his stomach, the sense that they're running out of time, that they should be sprinting as fast as they can toward the cemetery.
“We're not far now,” Dean tells him, “and we're going to need you there. Three of us isn't going to cut it, and you're the only one who won't be affected by Jake's freaky Jedi mind-tricks. So you get to take a nap, and we'll be there in plenty of time. You said it was late afternoon in your vision?”
“Hard to say, exactly, but yeah. It's my best guess.”
“That means he won't be there before nightfall. Plenty of time for you to get some rest. And don't tell me you're fine. Four seizures in two days is pretty much the opposite of fine.”
“Can't argue there. Feel like death warmed over.” Sam snorts with sudden laughter.
Dean swats him on his good shoulder. “That's not funny, Sam.”
“Oh, come on. It's kind of funny.”
“Okay, enough you two,” Ellen interrupts before Dean's head explodes from sheer frustration. “Do we have any idea what we're getting into? What's this guy going to do in that cemetery?”
The crappy motel pillow feels like the softest thing Sam's ever put his head on. “Uh... he's going to open a crypt. He has a key. Demon gave it to him.”
“Any idea what's in the crypt?”
Hell.
Sam shakes his head. “Not really. Something bad, I'm guessing.”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, I could have guessed that, Einstein.”
“Shut up. Brain-damaged, here. Cut me some slack.”
“There are so many things I could say, but it's just too damned easy.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “I swear, it's physically impossible for you two to go for a minute without bickering. What else did you see, Sam?”
He shrugs, fighting the urge to just let his eyes slip shut. He feels like he's been doing nothing but sleep or sleepwalk for the past couple of days. “Not much. Demon was there. Gave him the key, told him to cross the tracks, open the crypt. Fifty miles. Crypt must be dead center.”
“Makes sense,” Bobby nods, flipping through his own notebook and scrawling something on a blank page in his habitual chicken-scratch. “Why don't you turn in? The rest of us will come up with a plan, fill you in when you're awake.”
“Tired of sleepin',” he knows he sounds like a petulant two-year-old, can't bring himself to care.
“Well, tough,” Dean whaps him lightly on the forehead. “Sleep some more. I promise, we're not going anywhere without you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
*
It's dark, but he can feel a hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers probing at his pulse point.
“Dean?”
“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.”
“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”
“I am sorry.”
He thinks his eyes might be gone. Why else would he be unable to cry? He remembers a light so bright it felt like every nerve in his body was singing and screaming. Then darkness. He tries to swallow, can't feel his body. Thinks that might be a blessing in disguise.
“I couldn't save him.”
“No.”
“Neither could you.”
“No.”
“Is it too late?”
“It is now.”
“What if it wasn't?”
*
It's still light out when Dean shakes him awake, gently by Dean's standards. “Up and at 'em, Sammy. I brought food. You, uh, have a little...” he gestures to the corner of his mouth, and Sam wipes his own mouth with his sleeve, grimacing.
“Awesome.” He props himself up on his elbows, wishes he had about a gallon of mouthwash.
Dean drops his pill bottles in his lap, hands him a glass of water. “Pills first, then food.”
“Right. Isn't it early for the pills?”
Dean shrugs. “We're half an hour off, maybe, and besides, I think you puked up most of them the last time around. I brought chicken soup and toast, figured that'd probably go down better than the usual stuff. And dude, no, I didn't bring salad. You have to eat protein some of the time.”
“Right,” Sam repeats. “Gonna brush my teeth first. Feel like a skunk died in there.”
“You're not far off. I wasn't gonna say anything, but since you bring it up...”
“Shut up.”
It only occurs to Sam that he hasn't seen Bobby and Ellen since he awoke once he's done brushing his teeth, has splashed water on his face, and run a comb through his hair until it no longer looks as though squirrels have been nesting in it. The room is still silent beyond the bathroom door except for the occasional sound of Dean shuffling around, moving things. Sam stares balefully at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly understanding why Dean's been looking so worried. It's the first time he's managed to catch a glimpse of himself since... since he dug himself out of the ground, frankly, and he's not exactly easy on the eyes. The bandages on his fingers are soaked through with water, so he just peels them off and tosses them away, then carefully removes the sling keeping his arm immobilized and rotates his shoulder gingerly. He winces a bit ―his shoulder and back still hurt like a son of a bitch― but he manages to do it without too much trouble. Whatever is going on, his body is functional at least. He twists to look at his back in the mirror, pulls his t-shirt over his head mindful of his arm, but the angle is wrong for him to be able catch more than a glimpse of the scabbed-over wound, the edges still red from inflammation.
“Sammy?” Dean opens the door without knocking and sticks his head in, then jerks up in surprise, and it's all Sam can do not to flinch away, his instinct to cover up, as though it's something shameful. “Jesus, Sam.” Dean pushes the door all the way open, and steps up behind him, traces a finger carefully about half an inch away from the wound. Sam shivers at the touch, can hear Dean's breathing echoing harshly against the bathroom tile. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as bad, now. It kind of pulls if I move wrong,” Sam pulls his t-shirt back down. “It's weird. I can't figure why it's not either worse or better than this. Except I sort of know why, or I think I should know why... God.” He rubs at his head.
“You're not making much sense, dude.”
“I know. Sorry. Things have been pretty confusing the past twenty-four hours or so.”
“You done in here, or what? 'Cause, y'know, this standing around in bathrooms is a bit awkward.” Dean is clearly done with the conversation, switches back into business-as-usual mode in the blink of an eye.
Sam shakes his head, dizzy from trying to keep up with his brother's mood swings. He makes his way back into the room and sits on his bed, folds up the sling and puts it away. He figures he never really needed it. “Yeah, 'cause we do so much of that,” he grins.
Dean isn't listening, is feeling around for something in his bag. He produces a package wrapped in newsprint, rubs at the back of his neck with one hand and holds it out, not meeting Sam's gaze. “Uh, okay. So I'm not usually one for the last-night-on-earth thing, unless I'm trying to get into a chick's pants, but I missed your birthday yesterday, and tonight's gonna be kind of big... so I figured you ought to have this now. Y'know. Just in case.”
“Dean, you didn't have to―”
“Yeah, I know. But it's not every day you turn twenty-four, and, uh... look, I thought you weren't ever going to see your birthday and―” Dean falters, thrusts the package at him. “Just open it, already.”
“Twenty-four?” Sam takes it mechanically, staring at his brother.
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, dude. Don't tell me you're going senile already.”
The number seems wrong, somehow, but he doesn't tell that to Dean. Instead he slides a finger under the edge of the paper, works the scotch tape free, enjoying his brother's impatience. Dean's always been more the type to rip the wrapping paper off what few presents they ever get, and it drives him nuts when Sam does this. This time, though, Dean apparently makes an effort to sit on his hands and not make smart-ass remarks to hurry Sam along. The paper comes off pretty easily once he's past the two pieces of tape ―apparently Dean has figured out how to hurry things along― and he grins.
“You got me an external hard drive.”
“You're always bitching about how you don't have enough memory on that computer of yours, so I figured short of a whole new laptop...”
“It's awesome, Dean. Thank you. But you couldn't have gotten it since... since I got back. You bought it before.”
“Yeah, well, let's just hope we survive long enough for you to fill that thing up,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, doesn't meet his gaze, and Sam laughs quietly.
Sam gets to his feet. “C'mere, you big softy,” he reaches for Dean with his good arm.
“Aw, dude, come on, no!” Dean grumbles as Sam pulls him into a hug.
“You started it by getting a thoughtful present. Besides, I figure I deserve a chick-flick moment. I totally came back from the dead,” Sam squeezes him hard, and Dean doesn't resist, presses up tightly against him.
“Yeah, okay. You get a freebie this time, you big girl,” he mutters into Sam's collarbone. “Now let go so I can go find Bobby and Ellen. Sooner we hit the road, the happier I'll be.”
“You got it,” Sam releases him. “But we're not dying tonight. None of us. That's not how this ends.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, then closes his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Then he turns on his heel and stalks out the door, leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room.
*
For a moment Sam thinks he's dreaming. There's no other reasonable way that the guy in the trench coat from the diner can be standing in his motel room when a second ago he was entirely alone, waiting for Dean to come back.
“Hello, Sam.”
The guy's voice is gravelly, deeper than he would have expected from someone of his size and build, the tone even and composed, which is more than Sam can say for himself right now. He gapes, all his words deserting him, sits down heavily on the bed, feeling it sag beneath his weight.
“You... you were in the diner,” he says finally. “I saw you.”
The man tilts his head to the side, and although his expression doesn't change he manages to convey a sense of mild confusion, maybe even dismay.
“You don't know who I am.”
Sam shakes his head. “I should, though, shouldn't I?” He stares hard at the man, feels the same sickening, fracturing feeling in his head, as though his thoughts are ripping themselves apart at the seams. “I know you.”
“I thought this might happen.”
“Do you know what's going on?”
“I do.”
“Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“No.”
Sam huffs in exasperation. “I suppose that would be too easy.”
“I think it important that you remember on your own.”
“Figures.”
The man crosses the room in the blink of an eye, stands uncomfortably close to Sam. “How are you feeling?”
He squints up at him from where he's sitting on the bed, unused to having to look up at anyone, trying to figure out if the guy is serious, if his intentions are okay. He's not sure if he's lost his ability to read people along with everything else. Every instinct tells him he can trust him, but his instincts have been way off lately. Maybe it comes from having been dead.
“What do you mean?”
“You have been through a ―traumatic experience.”
“That's putting it mildly. I was dead.”
“You were,” the man confirms with a brief nod. “But no longer.”
“Is that why everything's all jumbled up? Why I feel like I know how things are supposed to go, even when they don't work out that way?”
“Not exactly.”
“Could you please stop being cryptic? My head hurts enough as it is.”
“I'm afraid not. I wish it could be otherwise. It is important that you remember on your own. If I interfere, it will change too much, too quickly. Some things are meant to happen just as they did.”
“Figures.” If Sam wasn't feeling put-upon before, now he's definitely getting there. He buries his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his fingers so hard he can see spots of red behind his eyelids. “Why do I feel like all this has already happened?”
“Because, in a way, it has. Though not exactly like this.”
“Then what am I―”
“Hey, Sammy, you ready or what?”
Sam's head jerks up as Dean throws open the door. “Wha'?” Predictably enough, the man has disappeared. “Where―”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Where do you think? Come on, princess. Take the curlers out of your hair and let's go. Day's not getting any younger―” he hesitates. “You okay?”
Sam shrugs, looks around one last time. “Sure. I'm coming.”
*
The cemetery is bathed in the moonlight streaming through a small break in the storm clouds above. The moon was full last night, Sam thinks. Good thing we're not hunting a werewolf. He laughs quietly, shakes his head at the curious look Dean shoots him before ducking behind one of the large stone grave markers that seem to abound in this place. Shadows stretch out before him, huge and ominously still, flickering slightly whenever one of them seeks to change position, gain a better vantage point. It's only a matter of time, now.
In the distance Sam can hear the questioning who-who-who-who of an owl, and a shiver runs up his spine. Only western cultures think anything good about owls. All the others have reason to fear the night predators. His heart is lodged in his throat, and there's a bitter taste on his tongue which feels a lot like fear. The cemetery is filled with the sweet, earthy musk of rot and decay overlaid with grass. He switches his gun to his left hand, wipes his palms on his jeans, leaving a damp smear behind. Tries to breathe through the anxiety that's building just beneath his ribs.
He catches Dean's eye and exchanges a nod with him just as the gate nearby creaks open and Jake Tully walks through. His gait is steady, each step sure: he knows exactly where he's going, heads directly for the crypt that Sam located earlier, the Colt in his hand. Dean ducks around another gravestone, easily flanking the soldier, all lithe grace and poise, like a cat; Sam waits for his cue, waits for precisely the right time, gripping his pistol so tightly he's amazed his fingers haven't left imprints in the butt. He sees Bobby and Ellen move quietly into position, their movements swift and sure, and Sam feels like the only one in this cemetery who doesn't really know what he's doing, an impostor in an ill-fitting body. He steps out next to the crypt.
“Howdy, Jake,” he says, echoing the yellow-eyed demon, knowing what effect it will have. He trains his pistol at Jake's forehead, just between the eyes.
Jake stops short, eyes wider even than when the demon was threatening his family. “Wait... you were dead. I killed you.”
A thrill runs through Sam, all the fear and uncertainty gone in a surge of adrenaline as Dean, Bobby and Ellen step out, guns levelled at Jake's head. “Yes, yes you did. Looks like it didn't take.”
“You can't be alive. You can't be! I cut clean through your spinal cord.”
Sam glances over at Dean, half-expecting to see him glance back, guilt written all over his face, but Dean's gaze is trained on Jake, his gun steady, no sign that Jake's words have struck a chord with him. Sam's stomach churns with that same queasy feeling he always gets when things stop going exactly the way he remembers (thinks?) they should be going. He blinks hard, tries to keep his own weapon from shaking.
“Okay,” Bobby holds up his other hand in a placating gesture. “Just take it real easy, there, son.”
“And if I don't?”
“Wait and see,” Sam says evenly.
Jake scoffs. “What, you a tough guy all of a sudden? What are you gonna do ―kill me?”
Sam shrugs. “I'd rather not. If I have to, I will.”
“You had your chance. You couldn't.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
Jake's face twists into a terrible leer, and Dean's gun twitches. “What are you smiling at?” Dean challenges, but Jake doesn't acknowledge that he's even spoken.
“Hey lady,” he calls out, looking at Ellen with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Do me a favour and point that gun at your head.”
God, not again.
“No! Ellen, drop your weapon!” Sam barks, and to his surprise she drops the gun as though it's turned white-hot in her grasp.
Jake's eyes widen a bit, but the manic look doesn't leave him. “That's right. You give yourself over to it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn. Except, you're behind the learning curve, Sammy-boy. Think you can keep up with me?” he twitches his hand, curls his fingers into a fist, and Bobby's pistol goes sailing in an arc over their heads, collides with a gravestone, and Dean staggers, pushed back by an invisible force.
“Shoot him!” Ellen gasps, dropping to her knees, reaching for her gun with trembling fingers. “Shoot him, Sam!”
“Come on, Sam. Think you can beat me at this?” Jake mocks. “You'll be mopping up their insides long before you can pull the trigger. I can rip them apart before you'll have time to think it” His head whips back around toward Bobby and Dean. “You two: Don't. Move.”
Sam hesitates. It's a couple of seconds at most as he tries to figure out if he can break the hold Jake has on Bobby and Dean, but it's long enough for Jake to step forward, draw the Colt from his belt, and insert it into the pentacle-shaped lock on the crypt.
“No!”
It's too late. Even as Sam pulls the trigger on his pistol, watches the bullet lodge itself above Jake's collarbone, knocking him back, he knows it's too late. The lock is already turning, clicking as the gears and tumblers lock into place.
*
“Take cover!” Bobby grabs Ellen by the arm, hauls her with him to shelter behind a tombstone.
Sam doesn't move, keeps his pistol trained on Jake's chest. Kill him. Pull the trigger. Do it! He shakes his head minutely, watching Jake's lips move.
“No... please...” Jake is begging, his blood soaking into the earth. “Don't.... please...” he chokes, gasps, fingers digging into the ground by his side, nothing but a scared kid now, heels scrabbling against the ground as he struggles to pull air into what might be a collapsed lung.
“Sammy!” Dean's voice is high, desperate, but Sam ignores him. Behind him, the crypt is rumbling, the ground beginning to quake beneath their feet.
He kneels next to Jake, gun still in his hand, leans over and places a hand on Jake's uninjured shoulder. “The last time this happened,” he whispers, “I killed you. I shot you four times in the chest, and when you were on the ground and already dying, I emptied the rest of my clip into you. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
Jake nods. “I think so,” he says, and coughs.
“We have a chance to make this right, Jake. If we both stay alive, then the demon loses. There's no one to lead his army.” Sam's grip tightens on Jake's shoulder, his thumb digging in below the clavicle.
“Sammy! For the love of― get back!”
“Last time, I thought leaving you alive was a mistake. Don't make me regret this.”
The rumbling stops, and for a moment, everything goes still, as though the world is holding its breath. Then everything erupts in a blast of air that's ice-cold and flaming-hot all at once, and Sam is thrown forward onto his hands and knees on top of Jake. He rolls onto his back in time to see a huge, roiling cloud of thick black smoke pour through the open doors of the crypt, coiling and swirling before it rushes up to mingle with the grey storm clouds up above.
There's no time to think, no time to consider options. Sam grabs Jake's arm and drags him away, crab-crawling along the ground, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder and back. Overcoming his initial surprise, and no doubt a considerable amount of his own pain, Jake scrambles partway to his feet, holds on, and the two of them stagger to take shelter behind another tombstone.
“Bobby, what is that?” Dean yells, his voice thin and reedy-sounding in the cacophony.
“It's a Devil's Gate,” Ellen yells back, not giving Bobby the time to answer. “He's opened a goddamned door to Hell!”
“We have to get it closed!” Bobby's voice rises over the rest of the noise. “Come on!”
“Oh, God,” Jake moans, halfway trapped under Sam's weight. “What've I done?”
“Stay here,” Sam shoves him down. “Don't move, if you want to live.”
He springs to his feet, staggers after the others and throws his weight against the crypt doors. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean pull the Colt out of the lock, staring at it with a wondering look on his face, and check the cylinder for bullets.
“Dean, watch out!”
It's too late. The demon has already snatched the Colt from Dean's hands with a flick of his wrist. “A boy shouldn't play with Daddy's guns,” he says, and Sam can hear him as well as if they were completely alone in an empty room. Another flick of his hand, and Dean's feet are swept out from under him, and Sam's heart seizes in fear as he sees his brother flung through the air, landing several yards away. His head slams against a headstone with an audible crack, and he slumps to the ground, limp as a rag doll.
“Dean!” He throws himself after his brother, instinct overruling the common sense that tells him to make sure the gate is closed first. Ellen yells a protest, but he's already gone and running, hurling himself at the demon, who whirls to face him.
“Well well well, look who's back in rotation!” he gloats. “I always knew you had it in you, champ. Now, wait your turn. I'll get to you in a moment.” He brings his arm up, and Sam remembers the feeling of being slammed against a tree, an invisible force pressing up against his throat, and he resolutely stands his ground, feels the familiar power coursing through him. The demon stops short, eyes flickering yellow-blue-yellow in surprise. “Well, aren't you the fast learner?” the demon murmurs, then flicks a hand back, pinning Dean to the headstone. “You, sit a spell. Our little conversation is going to have to wait until I've dealt with Sammy, here.”
“Let him go!”
“Or what?” the demon sneers, stalking toward him. “Everything you have, you have because I gave it to you.”
“Let him go, or I'll end you.” Dying wishes be damned. In this lifetime, Dean is alive, and that's all that matters. He can see Dean struggling weakly against the unseen force restraining him, blood streaming down his face from the gash near his hairline. He raises his hand, and clenches his fist. Pain flares in his skull, but the flicker of fear on the demon's face makes it worth it. He can sense the demon's blood pumping through borrowed veins, and for a terrible, desperate moment he wants...
Then the demon laughs. “Go ahead and try, champ. You haven't got the juice to exorcize me just like that. It took little Ava months to learn to control even the most minor of demons.”
There's blood trickling from Sam's nose, black spots forming in front of his vision. “I don't... need to exorcize you,” he gasps, feeling his legs start to tremble from the strain. “Just... distract you long enough...”
He doesn't even have time to finish his sentence before the demon goes tumbling to the ground, tackled at full speed by Jake. Sam staggers back, watches the two men go rolling over the ground, the Colt landing in a pile of dead leaves. He drops to his hands and knees, his vision swimming, tries to crawl forward as Jake and the demon come to a stop. The demon, unharmed and pissed off, is the first to recover. He springs to his feet while Jake is still struggling to his knees, his left arm hanging limp and useless by his side, and in a movement too fast for Sam to see, snaps Jake's neck.
“I'm disappointed in you, bucko,” he murmurs, though Sam can hear him as easily as if he's shouting directly in his ear. He's not sure if the demon is talking to him or to Jake, who drops to the ground, eyes sightless and dull. The demon turns to Sam. “Your turn, Sammy-boy. It's time for you to fulfil your destiny.”
This is it.
A shot rings out, so loud that Sam thinks he might be deaf. When he looks up, the demon is looking in disbelief down at his chest where the last bullet from the Colt has ripped a hole in his chest, right where his heart should be. The demon's chest splits open, red and gold light pouring from the wound. The light spreads, spills from his eyes and mouth, and a terrible shrieking, tearing sound fills the air. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hands over his ears, curls into a ball on the ground. When he's able to open his eyes again, the screaming has stopped, and the demon is gone, leaving only Dean standing a few paces away, the Colt still held level in his hand. Sam tries to speak, coughs instead, can't find words for what he wants to say; sees that Dean is staring behind him, mouth hanging open in wonderment, his eyes shining.
Sam knows what he's going to see, but he can't help the tears that spring to his own eyes anyway as he catches sight of his father. He wants to cry out, to throw himself into his father's arms, to beg him for forgiveness, anything. John Winchester's eyes are filled with tears, too, and he nods to Dean, smiling. Then he goes down on one knee, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and although Sam can't feel it at all, just the knowledge that it's there is comforting.
“I'm so sorry, Sammy,” his father says softly, joy mingling on his face with regret and relief and a thousand other emotions Sam can't begin to identify.
“Dad, what―”
Sam finds his voice, but his father is already pulling away, his form flickering, filling with light, and he's gone.
Dean covers the distance between them in two bounds, pulls Sam to his feet. Braced against each other, they look at the empty vessel of the demon lying crumpled at their feet. Dean clears his throat.
“Well, cross that off the to-do list.” He stares at the corpse for another moment, then leans forward. “That was for our Mom, you son of a bitch.”
Sam chokes, clamps down on the hysteria that keeps threatening to come back and overwhelm him. “You did it.”
“Didn't do it alone,” Dean nudges him with an elbow. “What the hell did you say to that kid?”
“Not much. He wanted to do the right thing, he just didn't know how.”
Dean laughs, slings an arm over Sam's shoulder. “I can't believe it's over.”
The words echo strangely in Sam's head, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up again, his mouth filling with saliva. He swallows desperately, shakes his head, just as a massive fork of lightning splits the sky above them, a roll of thunder close on its heels. He feels Dean stiffen, looks up to see the man from the diner standing before them, his silhouette illuminated by another flash of lightning as the storm that's been threatening all day finally breaks over their heads.
Dean groans. “Now what?”
*
The man steps toward them, the wind whipping his trench coat around his legs, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the storm that's been unleashed like a howling, mad beast around them.
“You are too late,” he says.
“What the hell is going on?” Dean ignores what he's just said, as if it's of no consequence. “Who are you?”
The man ―although Sam's no longer sure that word is accurate to describe him― tilts his head and stares at Dean. “I no longer have an answer that will make sense to you, Dean Winchester.” He looks back at Sam. “You are too late. The First Seal has been broken.”
Sam feels his legs turn to water, and it's only Dean's quick reflexes that prevent him from falling. “Woah, Sammy. I got you. Easy, now. You okay?”
Sam nods, looks at the man. “Are you sure?” Rain is soaking through his clothes, plastering his hair to his head, running into his eyes.
“Yes.”
“It couldn't be changed.”
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean's tone is angry, a sure sign that he's afraid. “Who is this guy?”
He falters, feeling his thoughts trying to tear themselves apart as time blurs in his head. “I don't... I know him, I just can't... I don't know how. It was supposed to change.”
“Some things cannot be changed. You know this.”
Sam laughs, has to lean harder on Dean to keep from collapsing. “You know how it goes. California sunlight. Sweet Calcutta rain.”
“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean turns and shoves his hands under Sam's arm to hold him up. “What's going on?”
He grins, at his brother, feels rainwater mingled with blood on his tongue. “The song. It's the goddamned end of the world, and I still can't...” It's too much effort for his legs to hold him up anymore, and Dean eases him to the ground. Sam clutches at his arm. “It was Dad. Dad broke. Instead of you. Not his fault. I made him do it, to save you. I'd do it again. It can't be changed.” He knows he's babbling, but he can't make all the different worlds in his head make sense anymore.
Dean looks up at the man in the trench coat. “What did you do to him?”
The man doesn't move, stands still in the midst of the storm, unearthly. “I raised him. Nothing more, nothing less. Some things can be altered, some cannot. He knows this.”
“Dean, it's Zeppelin. Remember? Honolulu starbright. You play it all the time.” His mind is splitting open, he can feel it trying to spill into the storm, soak into the bloodstained ground. “Hate that song.”
“You're not making sense.” Dean is panicking, but there's nothing Sam can do to stop that. The ground is freezing cold, his teeth are chattering. He's not entirely sure he's not dying. Again.
The man takes a single step forward. “The Seals are breaking,” he says. “It has begun.” Then he's gone, as suddenly as he appeared.
Sam clings to the ground as it tries to open and swallow him whole. “The song,” he gasps, trying to make Dean understand. “Remember? The song remains the same.”
Then everything goes dark.
*
Chapter 3
Master Post
Chapter 2: Wyoming
*
It's dark. Maybe he's blind. He feels as though he's floating off into space, the only thing keeping him anchored the firm pressure of fingers on his wrist.
“You are sure you want to do this?” the voice asks.
“Yes.” It's the only way.
“You know what is likely to happen.”
He knows, but his heart starts beating faster anyway. “I can put things right. Just... just do it.”
*
“Sam, wake up!” He comes awake with a jolt, Dean thumping his shoulder unceremoniously. “Sam!”
“What?” he grinds the palm of his hand into his eye, trying to remember a time when his damned head didn't hurt. He glances out the window of the Impala at the passing scenery, almost surprised to find that it's still daylight. “Where are we?”
“Just past Edgemont,” Dean tosses a small white paper bag in his lap. “Take your meds. The doctor was all gung-ho about keeping you on a 'schedule,' and if I never have to see you look like a dying fish ever again, it'll be too soon.”
Sam grunts what he hopes sounds like agreement, then rummages under the front seat until he comes up with a plastic bottle half-filled with water. He pulls open the bag. “God, did he prescribe the whole damn drug store?”
“Quit bitching and take your pills.”
Sam squints into the morning sun. “Have you been driving all night?”
“Yep. Gonna stop for coffee next town we hit. How you feeling?”
“Fine.” The only medication he recognizes is amoxycillin and the Tylenol 3s. The rest are all new to him. There are pink pills ―Depakote, he reads on the label― and blue ones ―Lamictal. He remembers being told about them, but can't for the life of him recall a single word. “I don't remember what these do.”
“So you'll look it up later, Geek Boy. Right now all you need to know is that they prevent seizures, so just be a good patient and take your damned meds before I pull over, hold you down and pinch your nose shut so you swallow them.”
“Geez, grouchy,” he forgoes the painkillers, washes the rest of the pills down with a swallow of stale water, reminded by the gesture of the two women who stopped by the road and probably saved his life. “I never got to thank them.”
“What? Who?”
“Amanda and her friend. Kristy, or Chrissy, or something.”
“You mean the girls who found you?”
“Yeah.”
“Don't worry about it. You were out of it, but I thanked 'em for you.”
“Even when you thought I was an evil shape shifter?”
“Yeah, well, they didn't know that, and it was easier to say thank you than to give them the whole truth-is-out-there spiel.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “Fair enough. Thanks for that. I'm kind of glad there are still people like that around. Gives me hope for humanity, you know?” And hope for me, he thinks. Thoughts are crowding in his head, each more confusing than the last, and he feels vaguely nauseous.
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“You need a break? Apparently I've been asleep for the past seven hours.”
Dean shakes his head. “I'm okay. Besides, Seizure Boy, I'm not letting you behind my baby's wheel until I'm sure you're not going to send us crashing to a fiery death. I just got her up and running again, after all.”
“Uh-huh.” Sam leans his head back against the seat, glad enough for the excuse not to drive. He's not sure how he can have been asleep all night and still feel as though he's run a marathon while carrying a boulder on his shoulders. “How long until we get there?”
“Another six, seven hours? Maybe five if I floor it the whole way, but I don't think Bobby's truck can handle that much rough usage. Besides, if I don't get coffee in me soon, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”
“Coffee sounds fantastic,” Sam agrees, but Dean shakes his head with a grin.
“Nuh-uh. No coffee for you. No alcohol, either. You're going cold-turkey, I'm sorry to say.”
“Funny how you don't sound sorry.”
“I bet you won't even miss it. That crap you drank barely qualified as coffee anyway, Francis.”
“Bite me.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.” Sam grins. He can't remember the last time he and Dean talked like this. It's been years. No, months. Something. His head throbs.
“Make yourself useful and call Bobby, why don't you? Let him know we're stopping for breakfast at the next exit ramp I see.”
“Sure.” It takes less than thirty seconds, and he flips the phone shut again, glances over at his brother, who's got both hands on the wheel, obviously tense. Sam sighs and shifts in his seat. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
“It's just―”
“Just what?”
“You don't seem fine.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “I said I'm fine, Sam.”
“Dean...” This is the part Sam suspects they both hate. Dean is stonewalling him, putting up the same old barriers between them, and Sam finds he has to make an effort not to hit the car door with his fist in frustration. Why does he always have to make it this damned complicated to have a simple conversation.
“Oh, God.”
“Come on! I can tell you're not fine. Dude, why do we have to do this song and dance each time? You're barely holding it together. I get it, Dean. I died, and you thought... you thought you were alone, and I get it. I understand.”
Dean smacks the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Do you understand, Sam? Really?” he says nastily, turning his head long enough to give him a look that makes Sam's heart clench in his chest. “Because I don't think you do.”
I understand all too well. I lost you too, and for longer.
“Then tell me. Help me understand.”
“I am not doing this. Not now. I don't know if you noticed, but we've kind of got an apocalypse on our hands that we need to stop.”
It's more than Sam can take. He coughs, trying to mask the hysterical laughter that's bubbling up in his chest, but it's no use. He clamps a hand over his mouth, snorts in spite of himself.
Dean looks over again, appalled. “Are you laughing?” he asks incredulously. A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Holy shit, Sammy. It's the end of the world, and you're laughing.” He turns back to the wheel, and through the tears that are threatening to blind him, Sam can see his brother's shoulders are shaking too.
“You can't stop an apocalypse, Dean,” he manages to gasp finally, wiping at the tears streaming from his eyes. “The best you can do is maybe put it off for a while. But, really, the only thing we can really do is get out of its way, and hope the end isn't too fucking terrible for words.”
He keeps laughing, barely notices when Dean goes silent, hands locked on the wheel.
*
The afternoon light is just beginning to filter past the clouds as Jake pulls off the highway. He's following hastily-written directions on the back of a gas receipt, trying to decipher his own handwriting. The directions are to the point, make use of natural land marks more than anything else. The white station wagon bumps its way along a dirt road that follows a creek, surrounded by dense brush, dead and dying saplings. Even the grass along the bank is sickly-looking. He pulls up just short of a railroad crossing, steps out, the dirt and dry leaves crunching under his feet, the call of wild birds loud in his ears. Crows and carrion-eaters.
Jake goes to stand under the sign, made up of two planks in the shape of an X nailed to a post, the paint long since flaked off. He stares for a moment at the rust-eaten tracks, overgrown with weeds after decades of disuse, and tries to stand his ground, waiting. After a moment he turns to find the demon standing behind him, makes a visible effort not to flinch.
“Howdy, Jake,” the demon saunters toward him, elaborately casual, hands in his pockets. “So, did you have a nice trip?”
“I'm here, I did what you asked. Now what?” Jake's posture screams of tension and fear, the set of his mouth uncertain.
The demon points nonchalantly away from Jake, across the railroad tracks. “Fifty miles thataway. There's a cemetery. A crypt. You're going to open it for me. Think you can manage that, sport?” he asks, inflecting the last word with as much irony as he can muster. It's not really a question.
A surge of anger runs through Jake. “You know what? Screw you and your freaky orders!” he blurts. “Go do it yourself.”
“Oh, I can't,” the demon tilts his head in a gesture that would look rueful on a human being, and shrugs. “I can't go that way ―not yet.”
“Why not?” Jake knows nothing of demons, up until four days ago, he didn't even know they existed. He knows nothing of their rules. His voice cracks with nervousness and anger.
“I just can't,” is the sharp reply. “But if you're going to open that crypt for me, you're going to need a key,” he reaches past his jacket lapel, draws the Colt from a concealed holster with an exaggerated flourish, the barrel pointing toward the vast grey sky.
“A gun,” Jake can't keep the scorn and incredulity out of his tone.
“Oh, this isn't just any gun, Jake. This is the only gun in the world that can shoot. me. dead.” The demon points the gun at his head for emphasis.
“Is that so?”
“Yep. Here, take it,” the demon says cheerfully, and hands over the Colt. He smirks as Jake cocks the gun and aims it a few inches from his face, raises his hands in mock-surrender. “Oh, my. I am shocked at this unforeseen turn of events. Go ahead Jake, squeeze that trigger. Be all you can be,” he challenges, still mocking. “and this will all be over: your life can go back to normal. Of course, the Army won't take you back 'cause you're AWOL, but I'm sure you could get your old job at the factory back. But then, on the other hand, the rest of your life, and your family's, could be money and honey, health and wealth, every-day-is-ice-cream-Sunday. And all you got to do is this one. little. thing.” His tone turns subtly coaxing, reasonable.
“Why me?” It's the cry of everyone put into an impossible situation. This time, though, the demon has an answer to the question that never has one.
“Oh, Jake,” he says, suddenly serious. “It's got to be you. I've been waiting for you for a very long time. You're my leader. You open that crypt, and you will have your army.”
“You're talking about the end of the world!” Jakes eyes are so wide the whites are showing all around the irises.
“No, not the end ―the beginning. A better world where your family will be protected. More than that: they'll be royalty. Buddy boy, you have the chance to get in on the ground floor of a thrilling opportunity. What'd you say? It's your call.”
Jake is shaking his head, but his hand trembles. The gun wavers, drops as he brings his hand back to his side, and the demon grins at him. This was a foregone conclusion. There is no other way this discussion could have turned out, and they both know it.
“Attababy.”
*
Apparently it's not in the cards for Sam to not wake up confused and in pain. At least this time it's not dark, he consoles himself. He's lying on the ground on his uninjured side with a really good view of the asphalt, which means they're in the parking lot outside of the diner they stopped at for breakfast. He can smell leather and motor oil (at least it's not burnt rubber anymore), feels something soft under his cheek, and realizes that Dean's jacket is folded up under his head. He shifts his weight, thinking he ought to get up, but his limbs don't seem to work the way he remembers they should, and he can't quite bite back a groan of discomfort. He is getting way too old for this sort of crap, except that he's only twenty ―something. He wonders if it's a bad sign that he can't remember his exact age. He thinks he might throw up.
There's a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Sammy.”
“God,” he groans quietly again. “I take it I had another seizure?” At least, that's what he means to say. It comes out more as a mumble that includes the word 'seizure.' He feels as though his head is stuffed with cotton wool.
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“You don't remember? You started doing that weird shit about half an hour ago, woulda gone down hard if...” If I hadn't caught you, Sam hears. Dean always catches him. “You don't remember any of it?”
“Uh-uh. Saw Jake, though. Where's Bobby and Ellen?”
“Right here, kid,” Bobby's voice filters from somewhere to his left, outside of his field of vision.
“Sam? You feelin' okay, sweetie?” Ellen's voice, filled with concern. It's the tone she usually reserves for Jo. He thinks she might be kneeling on his other side, just far enough away to give Dean space to work.
Sam makes a noncommittal sound, shuts his eyes. “Feel shitty. Think 'm okay.” He hopes to God he's not lying.
“You saw Jake?” Dean is rubbing his arm. “So it was a vision?”
“Mm.” Dean's jacket is soft, and right now the thought of sleep is more than tempting. Let the world drift away for a while. Except, of course, it's the damned end of the world. “He's going to the cowboy cemetery.”
“When?”
“Dunno. Soon. Afternoon.”
“This afternoon?”
He shakes his head, trying to push himself upright, and his stomach lurches. “Gonna be sick,” he manages, and quick as lightning Dean's pulling him up onto his knees so he doesn't throw up all over himself as he doubles over, rubbing circles on his back like when Sam was a little kid.
“Okay now?” he asks, when Sam's done.
“Define 'okay,'” he says weakly, and is rewarded with a grim smile.
“Dean, we need to take him to a hospital,” Ellen says quietly, maybe hoping he won't hear.
“No,” Sam keeps a tight grip on Dean's arm, trying to keep his balance. “They can't... can't help. Not with this.”
“We have to keep going,” Dean says, and Sam senses it's directed at him rather than Ellen, a question disguised as a statement.
“I know.”
“Think you can sleep in the car?”
“Better than listening to your music.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
“You boys are warming the cockles of my heart. Are we goin', or what?” Sam can practically hear Bobby's eyes rolling. He nods, reaches for Dean's arm to lean on, gets unsteadily to his feet, and feels his face heat up with embarrassment as he realizes his jeans are soaked through.
“Uh, I should clean up first. Sorry.”
“'s okay, Sammy. Doctor said it could happen.”
“Right.”
He's hard-put to see how his life could possibly get worse right now, but he doesn't dare voice the thought aloud. He's learned better than to tempt the universe like that. He manages to stay upright while Dean gets his duffel bag from the car and shepherds him back into the thankfully-mostly-deserted diner and into the bathroom, where he sits him unceremoniously on the nearest toilet, lowering the lid with his foot. Sam lists against the khaki-coloured wall of the stall, the metal cool against his skin, and watches tiredly as Dean starts pulling fresh clothes from his duffel. The clean-up is a kind of half-assed job, accomplished with paper towels and the liquid soap from the hand dispenser, but by the end of it he's feeling mostly presentable again, and the important part is that his clothes are dry and clean. Dean shoves the wet jeans into a plastic bag and ties a knot in it.
“Think of it this way,” he offers generously. “If the world ends tonight, we won't have to worry about laundry.”
“Awesome,” Sam rolls his eyes. “But the world won't end tonight.”
“That's optimistic of you. We're four people, well, three and a half, given your current state of functionality―”
“Bite me.”
“I call 'em like I see 'em, Sammy. Like I was saying, four people going up against the demon ―the demon that has soundly kicked our asses every time we've encountered it― along with that Jake guy and possibly all the legions of Hell behind 'em. I'd say our odds of the world ending are, what, sixty-forty in our favour?”
Sam laughs. “Sure. But the world isn't ending tonight,” he repeats. “It's the beginning of the end.”
Dean's face scrunches up. “Sam, if you don't shut up with that freaky pseudo-Nostradamus shit, I am going to punch you. My hand to God. You're freaking me out.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just... quit it.” Dean grabs him under the arm. “Ready?”
“As I'll ever be, I guess.”
He manages to leave the bathroom under his own power, feeling considerably less shaky. The waitress who serves them gives him a friendly but distant smile, as though she doesn't really want to get involved in whatever she thinks just happened. He's happy enough to let her slip away to serve her only customer, a man in a trench coat with wavy dark hair and bright blue eyes that seem to pierce right through to Sam's soul when he looks up. Sam starts as a feeling of recognition hits him, and apparently the feeling is mutual, because the man nods once in his direction before returning his attention to his cup of coffee.
“You know that guy?” Dean asks as they leave. Sam shakes his head.
“Don't think so. He looks familiar, but I can't place him.”
“Right. Well, one mystery at a time. Come on, we're burning daylight.”
*
In spite of Sam's protests, Dean insists on stopping at a motel about thirty miles outside of Rawlins and booking a room. To his surprise, Ellen and Bobby side firmly with Dean on this, and he's not in much shape to do anything but acquiesce and crawl into one of the two queen-sized beds, not even bothering to do much more than toe off his boots. The motel is a decent one, the sheets clean, the carpet relatively new and unstained. Unheard-of luxury for them. He figures Ellen and Bobby may have something to do with the quality of the place. Still, he can't get rid of the butterflies in his stomach, the sense that they're running out of time, that they should be sprinting as fast as they can toward the cemetery.
“We're not far now,” Dean tells him, “and we're going to need you there. Three of us isn't going to cut it, and you're the only one who won't be affected by Jake's freaky Jedi mind-tricks. So you get to take a nap, and we'll be there in plenty of time. You said it was late afternoon in your vision?”
“Hard to say, exactly, but yeah. It's my best guess.”
“That means he won't be there before nightfall. Plenty of time for you to get some rest. And don't tell me you're fine. Four seizures in two days is pretty much the opposite of fine.”
“Can't argue there. Feel like death warmed over.” Sam snorts with sudden laughter.
Dean swats him on his good shoulder. “That's not funny, Sam.”
“Oh, come on. It's kind of funny.”
“Okay, enough you two,” Ellen interrupts before Dean's head explodes from sheer frustration. “Do we have any idea what we're getting into? What's this guy going to do in that cemetery?”
The crappy motel pillow feels like the softest thing Sam's ever put his head on. “Uh... he's going to open a crypt. He has a key. Demon gave it to him.”
“Any idea what's in the crypt?”
Hell.
Sam shakes his head. “Not really. Something bad, I'm guessing.”
Dean snorts. “Yeah, I could have guessed that, Einstein.”
“Shut up. Brain-damaged, here. Cut me some slack.”
“There are so many things I could say, but it's just too damned easy.”
Bobby rolls his eyes. “I swear, it's physically impossible for you two to go for a minute without bickering. What else did you see, Sam?”
He shrugs, fighting the urge to just let his eyes slip shut. He feels like he's been doing nothing but sleep or sleepwalk for the past couple of days. “Not much. Demon was there. Gave him the key, told him to cross the tracks, open the crypt. Fifty miles. Crypt must be dead center.”
“Makes sense,” Bobby nods, flipping through his own notebook and scrawling something on a blank page in his habitual chicken-scratch. “Why don't you turn in? The rest of us will come up with a plan, fill you in when you're awake.”
“Tired of sleepin',” he knows he sounds like a petulant two-year-old, can't bring himself to care.
“Well, tough,” Dean whaps him lightly on the forehead. “Sleep some more. I promise, we're not going anywhere without you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
*
It's dark, but he can feel a hand wrapped around his wrist, fingers probing at his pulse point.
“Dean?”
“No, it's not Dean. I am sorry.”
“Where is... did he make it? Tell me he made it.”
“I am sorry.”
He thinks his eyes might be gone. Why else would he be unable to cry? He remembers a light so bright it felt like every nerve in his body was singing and screaming. Then darkness. He tries to swallow, can't feel his body. Thinks that might be a blessing in disguise.
“I couldn't save him.”
“No.”
“Neither could you.”
“No.”
“Is it too late?”
“It is now.”
“What if it wasn't?”
*
It's still light out when Dean shakes him awake, gently by Dean's standards. “Up and at 'em, Sammy. I brought food. You, uh, have a little...” he gestures to the corner of his mouth, and Sam wipes his own mouth with his sleeve, grimacing.
“Awesome.” He props himself up on his elbows, wishes he had about a gallon of mouthwash.
Dean drops his pill bottles in his lap, hands him a glass of water. “Pills first, then food.”
“Right. Isn't it early for the pills?”
Dean shrugs. “We're half an hour off, maybe, and besides, I think you puked up most of them the last time around. I brought chicken soup and toast, figured that'd probably go down better than the usual stuff. And dude, no, I didn't bring salad. You have to eat protein some of the time.”
“Right,” Sam repeats. “Gonna brush my teeth first. Feel like a skunk died in there.”
“You're not far off. I wasn't gonna say anything, but since you bring it up...”
“Shut up.”
It only occurs to Sam that he hasn't seen Bobby and Ellen since he awoke once he's done brushing his teeth, has splashed water on his face, and run a comb through his hair until it no longer looks as though squirrels have been nesting in it. The room is still silent beyond the bathroom door except for the occasional sound of Dean shuffling around, moving things. Sam stares balefully at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly understanding why Dean's been looking so worried. It's the first time he's managed to catch a glimpse of himself since... since he dug himself out of the ground, frankly, and he's not exactly easy on the eyes. The bandages on his fingers are soaked through with water, so he just peels them off and tosses them away, then carefully removes the sling keeping his arm immobilized and rotates his shoulder gingerly. He winces a bit ―his shoulder and back still hurt like a son of a bitch― but he manages to do it without too much trouble. Whatever is going on, his body is functional at least. He twists to look at his back in the mirror, pulls his t-shirt over his head mindful of his arm, but the angle is wrong for him to be able catch more than a glimpse of the scabbed-over wound, the edges still red from inflammation.
“Sammy?” Dean opens the door without knocking and sticks his head in, then jerks up in surprise, and it's all Sam can do not to flinch away, his instinct to cover up, as though it's something shameful. “Jesus, Sam.” Dean pushes the door all the way open, and steps up behind him, traces a finger carefully about half an inch away from the wound. Sam shivers at the touch, can hear Dean's breathing echoing harshly against the bathroom tile. “Does it hurt?”
“Not as bad, now. It kind of pulls if I move wrong,” Sam pulls his t-shirt back down. “It's weird. I can't figure why it's not either worse or better than this. Except I sort of know why, or I think I should know why... God.” He rubs at his head.
“You're not making much sense, dude.”
“I know. Sorry. Things have been pretty confusing the past twenty-four hours or so.”
“You done in here, or what? 'Cause, y'know, this standing around in bathrooms is a bit awkward.” Dean is clearly done with the conversation, switches back into business-as-usual mode in the blink of an eye.
Sam shakes his head, dizzy from trying to keep up with his brother's mood swings. He makes his way back into the room and sits on his bed, folds up the sling and puts it away. He figures he never really needed it. “Yeah, 'cause we do so much of that,” he grins.
Dean isn't listening, is feeling around for something in his bag. He produces a package wrapped in newsprint, rubs at the back of his neck with one hand and holds it out, not meeting Sam's gaze. “Uh, okay. So I'm not usually one for the last-night-on-earth thing, unless I'm trying to get into a chick's pants, but I missed your birthday yesterday, and tonight's gonna be kind of big... so I figured you ought to have this now. Y'know. Just in case.”
“Dean, you didn't have to―”
“Yeah, I know. But it's not every day you turn twenty-four, and, uh... look, I thought you weren't ever going to see your birthday and―” Dean falters, thrusts the package at him. “Just open it, already.”
“Twenty-four?” Sam takes it mechanically, staring at his brother.
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, dude. Don't tell me you're going senile already.”
The number seems wrong, somehow, but he doesn't tell that to Dean. Instead he slides a finger under the edge of the paper, works the scotch tape free, enjoying his brother's impatience. Dean's always been more the type to rip the wrapping paper off what few presents they ever get, and it drives him nuts when Sam does this. This time, though, Dean apparently makes an effort to sit on his hands and not make smart-ass remarks to hurry Sam along. The paper comes off pretty easily once he's past the two pieces of tape ―apparently Dean has figured out how to hurry things along― and he grins.
“You got me an external hard drive.”
“You're always bitching about how you don't have enough memory on that computer of yours, so I figured short of a whole new laptop...”
“It's awesome, Dean. Thank you. But you couldn't have gotten it since... since I got back. You bought it before.”
“Yeah, well, let's just hope we survive long enough for you to fill that thing up,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, doesn't meet his gaze, and Sam laughs quietly.
Sam gets to his feet. “C'mere, you big softy,” he reaches for Dean with his good arm.
“Aw, dude, come on, no!” Dean grumbles as Sam pulls him into a hug.
“You started it by getting a thoughtful present. Besides, I figure I deserve a chick-flick moment. I totally came back from the dead,” Sam squeezes him hard, and Dean doesn't resist, presses up tightly against him.
“Yeah, okay. You get a freebie this time, you big girl,” he mutters into Sam's collarbone. “Now let go so I can go find Bobby and Ellen. Sooner we hit the road, the happier I'll be.”
“You got it,” Sam releases him. “But we're not dying tonight. None of us. That's not how this ends.”
Dean stares at him for a moment, then closes his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. Then he turns on his heel and stalks out the door, leaving Sam standing alone in the middle of the room.
*
For a moment Sam thinks he's dreaming. There's no other reasonable way that the guy in the trench coat from the diner can be standing in his motel room when a second ago he was entirely alone, waiting for Dean to come back.
“Hello, Sam.”
The guy's voice is gravelly, deeper than he would have expected from someone of his size and build, the tone even and composed, which is more than Sam can say for himself right now. He gapes, all his words deserting him, sits down heavily on the bed, feeling it sag beneath his weight.
“You... you were in the diner,” he says finally. “I saw you.”
The man tilts his head to the side, and although his expression doesn't change he manages to convey a sense of mild confusion, maybe even dismay.
“You don't know who I am.”
Sam shakes his head. “I should, though, shouldn't I?” He stares hard at the man, feels the same sickening, fracturing feeling in his head, as though his thoughts are ripping themselves apart at the seams. “I know you.”
“I thought this might happen.”
“Do you know what's going on?”
“I do.”
“Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“No.”
Sam huffs in exasperation. “I suppose that would be too easy.”
“I think it important that you remember on your own.”
“Figures.”
The man crosses the room in the blink of an eye, stands uncomfortably close to Sam. “How are you feeling?”
He squints up at him from where he's sitting on the bed, unused to having to look up at anyone, trying to figure out if the guy is serious, if his intentions are okay. He's not sure if he's lost his ability to read people along with everything else. Every instinct tells him he can trust him, but his instincts have been way off lately. Maybe it comes from having been dead.
“What do you mean?”
“You have been through a ―traumatic experience.”
“That's putting it mildly. I was dead.”
“You were,” the man confirms with a brief nod. “But no longer.”
“Is that why everything's all jumbled up? Why I feel like I know how things are supposed to go, even when they don't work out that way?”
“Not exactly.”
“Could you please stop being cryptic? My head hurts enough as it is.”
“I'm afraid not. I wish it could be otherwise. It is important that you remember on your own. If I interfere, it will change too much, too quickly. Some things are meant to happen just as they did.”
“Figures.” If Sam wasn't feeling put-upon before, now he's definitely getting there. He buries his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes with his fingers so hard he can see spots of red behind his eyelids. “Why do I feel like all this has already happened?”
“Because, in a way, it has. Though not exactly like this.”
“Then what am I―”
“Hey, Sammy, you ready or what?”
Sam's head jerks up as Dean throws open the door. “Wha'?” Predictably enough, the man has disappeared. “Where―”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Where do you think? Come on, princess. Take the curlers out of your hair and let's go. Day's not getting any younger―” he hesitates. “You okay?”
Sam shrugs, looks around one last time. “Sure. I'm coming.”
*
The cemetery is bathed in the moonlight streaming through a small break in the storm clouds above. The moon was full last night, Sam thinks. Good thing we're not hunting a werewolf. He laughs quietly, shakes his head at the curious look Dean shoots him before ducking behind one of the large stone grave markers that seem to abound in this place. Shadows stretch out before him, huge and ominously still, flickering slightly whenever one of them seeks to change position, gain a better vantage point. It's only a matter of time, now.
In the distance Sam can hear the questioning who-who-who-who of an owl, and a shiver runs up his spine. Only western cultures think anything good about owls. All the others have reason to fear the night predators. His heart is lodged in his throat, and there's a bitter taste on his tongue which feels a lot like fear. The cemetery is filled with the sweet, earthy musk of rot and decay overlaid with grass. He switches his gun to his left hand, wipes his palms on his jeans, leaving a damp smear behind. Tries to breathe through the anxiety that's building just beneath his ribs.
He catches Dean's eye and exchanges a nod with him just as the gate nearby creaks open and Jake Tully walks through. His gait is steady, each step sure: he knows exactly where he's going, heads directly for the crypt that Sam located earlier, the Colt in his hand. Dean ducks around another gravestone, easily flanking the soldier, all lithe grace and poise, like a cat; Sam waits for his cue, waits for precisely the right time, gripping his pistol so tightly he's amazed his fingers haven't left imprints in the butt. He sees Bobby and Ellen move quietly into position, their movements swift and sure, and Sam feels like the only one in this cemetery who doesn't really know what he's doing, an impostor in an ill-fitting body. He steps out next to the crypt.
“Howdy, Jake,” he says, echoing the yellow-eyed demon, knowing what effect it will have. He trains his pistol at Jake's forehead, just between the eyes.
Jake stops short, eyes wider even than when the demon was threatening his family. “Wait... you were dead. I killed you.”
A thrill runs through Sam, all the fear and uncertainty gone in a surge of adrenaline as Dean, Bobby and Ellen step out, guns levelled at Jake's head. “Yes, yes you did. Looks like it didn't take.”
“You can't be alive. You can't be! I cut clean through your spinal cord.”
Sam glances over at Dean, half-expecting to see him glance back, guilt written all over his face, but Dean's gaze is trained on Jake, his gun steady, no sign that Jake's words have struck a chord with him. Sam's stomach churns with that same queasy feeling he always gets when things stop going exactly the way he remembers (thinks?) they should be going. He blinks hard, tries to keep his own weapon from shaking.
“Okay,” Bobby holds up his other hand in a placating gesture. “Just take it real easy, there, son.”
“And if I don't?”
“Wait and see,” Sam says evenly.
Jake scoffs. “What, you a tough guy all of a sudden? What are you gonna do ―kill me?”
Sam shrugs. “I'd rather not. If I have to, I will.”
“You had your chance. You couldn't.”
“I could say the same thing about you.”
Jake's face twists into a terrible leer, and Dean's gun twitches. “What are you smiling at?” Dean challenges, but Jake doesn't acknowledge that he's even spoken.
“Hey lady,” he calls out, looking at Ellen with a feral gleam in his eyes. “Do me a favour and point that gun at your head.”
God, not again.
“No! Ellen, drop your weapon!” Sam barks, and to his surprise she drops the gun as though it's turned white-hot in her grasp.
Jake's eyes widen a bit, but the manic look doesn't leave him. “That's right. You give yourself over to it, there's all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn. Except, you're behind the learning curve, Sammy-boy. Think you can keep up with me?” he twitches his hand, curls his fingers into a fist, and Bobby's pistol goes sailing in an arc over their heads, collides with a gravestone, and Dean staggers, pushed back by an invisible force.
“Shoot him!” Ellen gasps, dropping to her knees, reaching for her gun with trembling fingers. “Shoot him, Sam!”
“Come on, Sam. Think you can beat me at this?” Jake mocks. “You'll be mopping up their insides long before you can pull the trigger. I can rip them apart before you'll have time to think it” His head whips back around toward Bobby and Dean. “You two: Don't. Move.”
Sam hesitates. It's a couple of seconds at most as he tries to figure out if he can break the hold Jake has on Bobby and Dean, but it's long enough for Jake to step forward, draw the Colt from his belt, and insert it into the pentacle-shaped lock on the crypt.
“No!”
It's too late. Even as Sam pulls the trigger on his pistol, watches the bullet lodge itself above Jake's collarbone, knocking him back, he knows it's too late. The lock is already turning, clicking as the gears and tumblers lock into place.
*
“Take cover!” Bobby grabs Ellen by the arm, hauls her with him to shelter behind a tombstone.
Sam doesn't move, keeps his pistol trained on Jake's chest. Kill him. Pull the trigger. Do it! He shakes his head minutely, watching Jake's lips move.
“No... please...” Jake is begging, his blood soaking into the earth. “Don't.... please...” he chokes, gasps, fingers digging into the ground by his side, nothing but a scared kid now, heels scrabbling against the ground as he struggles to pull air into what might be a collapsed lung.
“Sammy!” Dean's voice is high, desperate, but Sam ignores him. Behind him, the crypt is rumbling, the ground beginning to quake beneath their feet.
He kneels next to Jake, gun still in his hand, leans over and places a hand on Jake's uninjured shoulder. “The last time this happened,” he whispers, “I killed you. I shot you four times in the chest, and when you were on the ground and already dying, I emptied the rest of my clip into you. Do you understand what I'm saying?”
Jake nods. “I think so,” he says, and coughs.
“We have a chance to make this right, Jake. If we both stay alive, then the demon loses. There's no one to lead his army.” Sam's grip tightens on Jake's shoulder, his thumb digging in below the clavicle.
“Sammy! For the love of― get back!”
“Last time, I thought leaving you alive was a mistake. Don't make me regret this.”
The rumbling stops, and for a moment, everything goes still, as though the world is holding its breath. Then everything erupts in a blast of air that's ice-cold and flaming-hot all at once, and Sam is thrown forward onto his hands and knees on top of Jake. He rolls onto his back in time to see a huge, roiling cloud of thick black smoke pour through the open doors of the crypt, coiling and swirling before it rushes up to mingle with the grey storm clouds up above.
There's no time to think, no time to consider options. Sam grabs Jake's arm and drags him away, crab-crawling along the ground, ignoring the screaming pain in his shoulder and back. Overcoming his initial surprise, and no doubt a considerable amount of his own pain, Jake scrambles partway to his feet, holds on, and the two of them stagger to take shelter behind another tombstone.
“Bobby, what is that?” Dean yells, his voice thin and reedy-sounding in the cacophony.
“It's a Devil's Gate,” Ellen yells back, not giving Bobby the time to answer. “He's opened a goddamned door to Hell!”
“We have to get it closed!” Bobby's voice rises over the rest of the noise. “Come on!”
“Oh, God,” Jake moans, halfway trapped under Sam's weight. “What've I done?”
“Stay here,” Sam shoves him down. “Don't move, if you want to live.”
He springs to his feet, staggers after the others and throws his weight against the crypt doors. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Dean pull the Colt out of the lock, staring at it with a wondering look on his face, and check the cylinder for bullets.
“Dean, watch out!”
It's too late. The demon has already snatched the Colt from Dean's hands with a flick of his wrist. “A boy shouldn't play with Daddy's guns,” he says, and Sam can hear him as well as if they were completely alone in an empty room. Another flick of his hand, and Dean's feet are swept out from under him, and Sam's heart seizes in fear as he sees his brother flung through the air, landing several yards away. His head slams against a headstone with an audible crack, and he slumps to the ground, limp as a rag doll.
“Dean!” He throws himself after his brother, instinct overruling the common sense that tells him to make sure the gate is closed first. Ellen yells a protest, but he's already gone and running, hurling himself at the demon, who whirls to face him.
“Well well well, look who's back in rotation!” he gloats. “I always knew you had it in you, champ. Now, wait your turn. I'll get to you in a moment.” He brings his arm up, and Sam remembers the feeling of being slammed against a tree, an invisible force pressing up against his throat, and he resolutely stands his ground, feels the familiar power coursing through him. The demon stops short, eyes flickering yellow-blue-yellow in surprise. “Well, aren't you the fast learner?” the demon murmurs, then flicks a hand back, pinning Dean to the headstone. “You, sit a spell. Our little conversation is going to have to wait until I've dealt with Sammy, here.”
“Let him go!”
“Or what?” the demon sneers, stalking toward him. “Everything you have, you have because I gave it to you.”
“Let him go, or I'll end you.” Dying wishes be damned. In this lifetime, Dean is alive, and that's all that matters. He can see Dean struggling weakly against the unseen force restraining him, blood streaming down his face from the gash near his hairline. He raises his hand, and clenches his fist. Pain flares in his skull, but the flicker of fear on the demon's face makes it worth it. He can sense the demon's blood pumping through borrowed veins, and for a terrible, desperate moment he wants...
Then the demon laughs. “Go ahead and try, champ. You haven't got the juice to exorcize me just like that. It took little Ava months to learn to control even the most minor of demons.”
There's blood trickling from Sam's nose, black spots forming in front of his vision. “I don't... need to exorcize you,” he gasps, feeling his legs start to tremble from the strain. “Just... distract you long enough...”
He doesn't even have time to finish his sentence before the demon goes tumbling to the ground, tackled at full speed by Jake. Sam staggers back, watches the two men go rolling over the ground, the Colt landing in a pile of dead leaves. He drops to his hands and knees, his vision swimming, tries to crawl forward as Jake and the demon come to a stop. The demon, unharmed and pissed off, is the first to recover. He springs to his feet while Jake is still struggling to his knees, his left arm hanging limp and useless by his side, and in a movement too fast for Sam to see, snaps Jake's neck.
“I'm disappointed in you, bucko,” he murmurs, though Sam can hear him as easily as if he's shouting directly in his ear. He's not sure if the demon is talking to him or to Jake, who drops to the ground, eyes sightless and dull. The demon turns to Sam. “Your turn, Sammy-boy. It's time for you to fulfil your destiny.”
This is it.
A shot rings out, so loud that Sam thinks he might be deaf. When he looks up, the demon is looking in disbelief down at his chest where the last bullet from the Colt has ripped a hole in his chest, right where his heart should be. The demon's chest splits open, red and gold light pouring from the wound. The light spreads, spills from his eyes and mouth, and a terrible shrieking, tearing sound fills the air. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, hands over his ears, curls into a ball on the ground. When he's able to open his eyes again, the screaming has stopped, and the demon is gone, leaving only Dean standing a few paces away, the Colt still held level in his hand. Sam tries to speak, coughs instead, can't find words for what he wants to say; sees that Dean is staring behind him, mouth hanging open in wonderment, his eyes shining.
Sam knows what he's going to see, but he can't help the tears that spring to his own eyes anyway as he catches sight of his father. He wants to cry out, to throw himself into his father's arms, to beg him for forgiveness, anything. John Winchester's eyes are filled with tears, too, and he nods to Dean, smiling. Then he goes down on one knee, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder, and although Sam can't feel it at all, just the knowledge that it's there is comforting.
“I'm so sorry, Sammy,” his father says softly, joy mingling on his face with regret and relief and a thousand other emotions Sam can't begin to identify.
“Dad, what―”
Sam finds his voice, but his father is already pulling away, his form flickering, filling with light, and he's gone.
Dean covers the distance between them in two bounds, pulls Sam to his feet. Braced against each other, they look at the empty vessel of the demon lying crumpled at their feet. Dean clears his throat.
“Well, cross that off the to-do list.” He stares at the corpse for another moment, then leans forward. “That was for our Mom, you son of a bitch.”
Sam chokes, clamps down on the hysteria that keeps threatening to come back and overwhelm him. “You did it.”
“Didn't do it alone,” Dean nudges him with an elbow. “What the hell did you say to that kid?”
“Not much. He wanted to do the right thing, he just didn't know how.”
Dean laughs, slings an arm over Sam's shoulder. “I can't believe it's over.”
The words echo strangely in Sam's head, and for a moment he thinks he might throw up again, his mouth filling with saliva. He swallows desperately, shakes his head, just as a massive fork of lightning splits the sky above them, a roll of thunder close on its heels. He feels Dean stiffen, looks up to see the man from the diner standing before them, his silhouette illuminated by another flash of lightning as the storm that's been threatening all day finally breaks over their heads.
Dean groans. “Now what?”
*
The man steps toward them, the wind whipping his trench coat around his legs, but he seems otherwise unaffected by the storm that's been unleashed like a howling, mad beast around them.
“You are too late,” he says.
“What the hell is going on?” Dean ignores what he's just said, as if it's of no consequence. “Who are you?”
The man ―although Sam's no longer sure that word is accurate to describe him― tilts his head and stares at Dean. “I no longer have an answer that will make sense to you, Dean Winchester.” He looks back at Sam. “You are too late. The First Seal has been broken.”
Sam feels his legs turn to water, and it's only Dean's quick reflexes that prevent him from falling. “Woah, Sammy. I got you. Easy, now. You okay?”
Sam nods, looks at the man. “Are you sure?” Rain is soaking through his clothes, plastering his hair to his head, running into his eyes.
“Yes.”
“It couldn't be changed.”
“Sam, what the hell are you talking about?” Dean's tone is angry, a sure sign that he's afraid. “Who is this guy?”
He falters, feeling his thoughts trying to tear themselves apart as time blurs in his head. “I don't... I know him, I just can't... I don't know how. It was supposed to change.”
“Some things cannot be changed. You know this.”
Sam laughs, has to lean harder on Dean to keep from collapsing. “You know how it goes. California sunlight. Sweet Calcutta rain.”
“Sam, what the fuck?” Dean turns and shoves his hands under Sam's arm to hold him up. “What's going on?”
He grins, at his brother, feels rainwater mingled with blood on his tongue. “The song. It's the goddamned end of the world, and I still can't...” It's too much effort for his legs to hold him up anymore, and Dean eases him to the ground. Sam clutches at his arm. “It was Dad. Dad broke. Instead of you. Not his fault. I made him do it, to save you. I'd do it again. It can't be changed.” He knows he's babbling, but he can't make all the different worlds in his head make sense anymore.
Dean looks up at the man in the trench coat. “What did you do to him?”
The man doesn't move, stands still in the midst of the storm, unearthly. “I raised him. Nothing more, nothing less. Some things can be altered, some cannot. He knows this.”
“Dean, it's Zeppelin. Remember? Honolulu starbright. You play it all the time.” His mind is splitting open, he can feel it trying to spill into the storm, soak into the bloodstained ground. “Hate that song.”
“You're not making sense.” Dean is panicking, but there's nothing Sam can do to stop that. The ground is freezing cold, his teeth are chattering. He's not entirely sure he's not dying. Again.
The man takes a single step forward. “The Seals are breaking,” he says. “It has begun.” Then he's gone, as suddenly as he appeared.
Sam clings to the ground as it tries to open and swallow him whole. “The song,” he gasps, trying to make Dean understand. “Remember? The song remains the same.”
Then everything goes dark.
*
Chapter 3