Chapter Text
This is a love story.
Maybe it’s the one you expect. Maybe not. But the end result is the same. And isn’t that the most important part?
You’re father had not expected to have children, and your mother was dead. He had killed her. He had to. She was sick. That's what he told you. She was already gone. He was wrecked.
It had always confused you why the boys called him Bobby. His role was so integral and undebatable that the fact that only you called him ‘Dad’ was mystifying. They called him uncle. They never stayed for long. And they were brothers in the way only two people with only each other for company can be. Dean was always running his hand through Sam’s hair and making it stick up. Sam was constantly chasing after Dean, yelling to slow down, yelling that it was time for dinner. It was impossible to try and wedge your way between them, but you tried.
Because this is a love story, let’s skip to the good part. The real juicy bit. Or in this case, the time Dean died. (The first time, or is it the second?)
The year is 2008 and Sam is drinking again. Not a few beers at the bar before crashing in a motel. But real, hard-core, never-far-from-the-bottle drinking. Jim and Jack are his new best friends, one in each hand. He’s angry, oh-so angry. Furious at the world and everything in it. Which in this case, includes you. But he's also sad. He was devastated. The booze that once made him giddy and childish now leaves him empty. It’s hard to watch. And harder to look away from.
Some part of him wants to try and make it better. But it’s him versus the apocalypse and he’s realizing that the odds are stacked against him. And yeah, you’re beside him after all of this, but Dean is still being torn limb from limb in a place he can never be free from. Endless torment. For both of them.
Dad calls: “Hey, kid, how’s things?” as if you have a charming but insignificant anecdote to tell him.
“Same old,” you respond in the same tone. It sounds more forced on your lips. Sam yells at you to leave him alone again. But you don’t trust him to be alone. Not right now.
“Where are you guys?”
He hasn’t asked before. Or maybe he has and you refused to answer. He knows Sam is with you and that is the only reason he’s not driving through the night to find him. As long as you are safe and Sam is safe with you, he must remain steadfastly on the other end of the phone.
“Illinois.”
Then it’s dead air.
“Look, kid-”
“Dad, we’ve been over this-”
“Dean is back.”
You almost drop the phone. Your gaze immediately latches on to the door. Behind it, Sam is pacing, angry at something again.
“How?” Your mind is in overdrive. You were there when the hellhounds closed in. You were there when Sam and your dad fought about whether to burn his body. You were there when Sam had pleaded with the demon at the crossroads. He tried every possible way to get his brother back, but all were blocked and barricaded. No one would let him in.
And for months you held his hand. Dad called. You didn’t tell him about the bad stuff and you didn't tell him about the good. You hold your cards close to your chest. You didn’t want him to worry, but you didn't want him to get his hopes up.
“You’re guess is as good as mine.”
Your voice is hollow. “And he is there with you now?”
He makes a sound in gruff affirmation. Then the line is garbled as he hands the phone to Dean.
“Hey there, sweetheart.”
Your heart hits a pit. It’s his voice. “Oh my God.”
“Nah, it’s just me darlin’.”
You want to cry. But you also want to scream at him for making your heart ache every day for four months. Those stupid, foolish Winchesters. Idjits, as Dad would say. But first, let’s focus on the miracle.
“I hope Dad boxed your ears for all the stress you put us through.”
“He did you one better. Holy water, silver knife, the whole nine yards. Put me through the wringer with the interrogation, too.”
“Did he splash it in your face?”
“Nah, he was tricky. He put it in my beer.”
You laugh, but it turns into a sigh that lets out an entire year of tension.
“So it's really you?”
“It’s really me,” Dean chuckles. “Look, is Sammy there?”
It’s a snapback to reality. “ Yeah, he is. Give me a minute.”
You press the phone to your chest and call to the other room. Sam doesn’t answer. You go for the door.
“I told you to leave me alone!” He whirls around, chest heaving, his eyes wild. He’s wearing that awful pink paisley shirt as if flannel alone reminds him too much of his brother.
“It’s Dean,” you say, not knowing any other way to break the news, “He’s alive. He’s with my Dad.”
Sam's expression breaks in half and rebuilds into terrified hope. You hold out the phone. Then you close the door behind you, leaning against the wood as Sam’s voice echoes through it. You never thought this day had come. You had not prepared.
The drive takes all night. Sam won’t let you drive. You joke that he’s acting like Dean. Dirt and gravel fly up as he blows into the salvage yard. He slams the car door behind him.
Sam doesn’t fully trust it yet, doesn’t trust what Bobby says or what the voice of his brother over the phone assured him. He has to see it with his own two eyes - whatever this thing is that thinks it can get away with pretending to be his brother. He has the Impala’s trunk stocked and a gun in his waistband. He forced a hex bag into your pocket, claiming it was for protection.
Dean is in the doorframe. You want to run up and let him scoop you into his arms. Let him be your big brother again. Sam puts a hand on your arm and holds you back.
“It’s him, Sammy,” you urge.
Sam’s jaw is still clenched. Behind Dean, you can see your dad with a tense expression. You smile at him.
“Listen to her, Sam. I’m back. And I don’t know what stupid deal you made but it's got to have some serious consequences.”
Dean marches down the steps. Sam takes a step back, his hand hovering near the small of his back, still unsure if it's really him.
“You think I made a deal?” Sam demands.
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.”
They are almost nose to nose now. It’s my turn to place a hand on Sam’s arm.
“So what now, I’m off the hook and you’re on it? You’re some demon’s bitch-boy? Why didn’t you stop him?” Dean glares at you, then back at Sam “I didn't want to be saved like this.”
He has Sam by the shirt now.
You push them apart, hissing, “He didn’t do shit, Dean. Neither of us did.”
Sam breaks from his brother’s grip. “I tried everything. That’s the truth. I tried opening the Devil’s Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, we both did. But no demon would deal, ok? You were rotting in Hell for months and we couldn’t stop it. So I'm sorry it wasn’t me, all right? Dean, it wasn’t me.”
Dean looks between you and Sam. He almost suffocates you in a hug. Then he claps his brother on the back, a softened expression on his face. That's how it was with those two. Always one second away from throttling each other. Always one second away from forgiving it all.
“It’s okay, Sammy. You don’t have to apologize, I believe you.”
Dad joins the little group, squeezing you with his usual reassurance. Then he faces the boys. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m gladdened that Sam’s soul remains intact, but it does create a sticky question.”
You all look at Dean who has begun to show a different kind of fear.
It’s your turn to speak again. “If we didn't pull him out, then what did?”
“I think that question is best solved over a few beers,” Dean says and your dad shoves his hands in his pockets with a nod. The four of you, still muddled by tension, wander back into your father’s house. Mixed with the feeling of returning home, is a deep bodily dread of anticipation.
Sam pauses in the hallway and you are stuck behind him. He has a hand up on the wall so you can't pass and he stares you down and says three words low but with perfect clarity: “Don’t tell Dean.”
You narrow your eyes. “He’s going to find out.”
“He doesn't have to.”
“Fine, but when this bites you in the ass - which it will - I'd better have ‘I told you so’ privileges.”
Sam frowns but relents. His arm falls.
“It’s going to be okay, lawboy, we will get through this. Dean’s home.”
He ducks his head at the old nickname. “Yeah.”
You know that some part of him wants to reach out for you, tuck your head under his chin as your arms press into his back. But your dad calls from the kitchen and the moment passes.
You won’t tell Dean. Just to be sure, you won’t tell him any of it because Sam could have been talking about a lot of different things.
Four months drag on when they are drenched in grief. It felt like a year. But one thing, one person - if that's what you can call her - stands out. Ruby. Especially the time she took you for a test ride and used your meat-suit to almost kill Sam.
It was sometime in month two, after all the usual avenues had been pursued and there was little hope left in either of your reserves. No crossroads demon would entertain your pleas, no matter how hard you begged. Often, you awoke in the middle of the night to find Sam gone and you would know instinctively that he had gone back down to those abandoned streets to pray.
One day, on the way back from a walk to pick up dinner, a terrible, volatile, frigid thing overcame you. It pooled in your limbs, releasing your hold on the controls. In your mind, you could still see and feel everything - the weight of the plastic bag cutting into your palm, the itch on your arm you can’t quite scratch. It only takes a second to understand what has happened.
The needles and ink were in the bag. Your tattoo had received a slash, an encounter with a vampire, no need to dwell on it. You knew you had to fix it and were going to stick and poke it yourself that afternoon since the cut had finally healed. You were possessed. And the demon in question was Ruby herself. The scheming bitch.
Another demon appears, possessing the body of some guy in his thirties. They know where Sam is. They are going to use your body to kill him. You are screaming and thrashing but no one can hear you, not even Sam. He looks at you, or rather Ruby, with a confused expression. He fights, and it’s painful to watch from inside your own head, but they overpower him. His eyes are pleading and desperate. He’s terrified, caught between danger and fear and boiling anger.
They have a hold on him easily. He doesn't fight. It’s you. It’s you in there, It's your body she's piloting.
Ruby, using your hand, your fingers, plucks the knife from his grip.
“Thanks for keeping this warm for me, Sam.”
His expression turns hard. You can feel him looking straight at you.
“Ruby,” he seethes.
She uses your face to smile. “It’s nice to be back. Where I was, even for Hell it was nasty. I guess I really pissed Lilith off. Imagine my relief when she gave me one last chance to take it topside. And all I had to do was find you and kill you. Taking this body for a spin was just one of the perks.”
“Fine, Go ahead! Do it. But leave Y/N out of this.”
The knife in your hand is not being wielded by you. It aims sharply for Sam’s heart. You are powerless and it hurts as much as you know the knife will in his chest. Your entire being shudders, attempting to coerce the blade away. Helpless. Trapped. Watching Sam die by your own hand. This will be what finally shatters you.
But then the light shoots out of the demon instead and your voice yells out the words “Get your keys, We got to go. Now!”
“Not before you get out of that body.”
You hear yourself sigh. “I thought this would be a fun surprise. I guess not.”
Sam holds up an arm, his fingers like a claw ready to snap into a fist. Something starts to shift inside. A slippery, volatile feeling. “Let. Her. Go.”
“Fine! Okay. Quit it.” He does.
The feeling of Ruby leaving is ten times worse than when she entered. It’s the feeling you have after coughing your lungs dry, that painful scorch in your throat. Except this time, it comes alongside the sensation that you are being flipped inside out and your organs will be yanked out through your mouth. It's absolute hell.
Sam has you by both shoulders when you are finally released.
“You okay?”
You squeeze your eyes shut and open them again. There is still a lingering feeling, akin to a hangover.
“I’m fine,” you croak. “Just regretting not fixing my tattoo earlier.” Then, with the sort of hangman’s humour reserved for when the first wave of adrenaline passes, you ask, “Do I look hot as a demon?”
Sam smirks, “Not any more than usual.”
“Really? I thought the knife aimed at your throat would have added a little je ne sais quoi .”
Sam lets out a sound somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a laugh. “Ruby sure likes the theatrics.”
He bends down and yanks the knife out of the former demon. He looks dejected for a moment. He wipes the blood off the blade with the man’s shirt.
“She’s like a middle schooler with a crush. She can’t help but yank your pigtails.”
Sam does a double take. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means Ruby may be a demon but she also has a major hard-on for you and your little psychic skills. Dean and I-”
“What?”
“Just… stay on her good side, ok? I don’t know what she’s planning but I do know we probably need her to stop Lillith.”
Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah.” Then his hands are back on you, “Let’s fix that tattoo, okay?”
You groan. “I can’t believe I fucking forgot.”
You sit down and yank off your shirt. Underneath, you are wearing a simple sports bra, ratty with age. But when Sam turns around with the needle and ink in hand, he lets his eyes wander. You fluster underhis gaze before he kneels between your legs, a hand on your thigh to balance. He sterilizes the needle with Dean’s lighter and then dips it in the ink.
“Ready?”
You nod and clutch onto his left shoulder as he begins to poke the needle into your upper chest. The scar splices the pentagram in half so Sam focuses on filling in the border and the interrupted lines of the middle. It’s slow and meticulous work, the sort of thing he excels at. You just hold onto him and watch, biting your lip. At one point, when you let out a sharp exhale, he looks up, his lashes dark and his eyes murky.
You want to ruin him. Or do you want him to ruin you? He could do it so easily, you are already in shambles with one smile.
His hand moves from your thigh to your chest, bracing as he begins the detailed section. He’s holding you steady, your heart thumping under his touch. His torso is so long that when you slump, your faces are almost level. Can he sense the sweet agony he is putting you through? Before you can muster up the courage, he's wiping off his work with the sleeve of his flannel and saying “All done” and the moment that passed is just added to a growing collection.
Dean is halfway through his beer when you and Sam rejoin them in the kitchen. He is sitting at the table while Bobby is fixing up some food. You slide into the seat next to Dean, cracking open your own can. Sam refuses to sit and hovers behind your chair instead.
“So what were you two doing in Pontiac if you weren't digging me out of my grave?”
You take a deep gulp, big enough to force Sam to speak. If he doesn’t want you spilling secrets then he’s going to do the talking.
“Well, once I figured out I couldn't save you, I started hunting down Lilith, trying to get some payback.”
We , you want to amend. When we couldn’t save you. We hunted Lilith.
Your Dad drops the knife he was using to chop. “Who do you think you are, your old man?” It’s a low blow and you give your dad a pointed look. He brushes it off. “And you dragged my daughter along with you? She’s the only reason I knew you were still fucking alive!”
“Dad,” you chastise.
“Uh, yeah, I'm sorry, Bobby,” Sam says. “I should have called. I was pretty messed up.”
His hand is clenched on the back of your chair. You place your own atop it, reaching behind your shoulder. Messed up was putting it mildly. You catch Dean eyeing where your thumb rubs soothing circles on Sam’s skin. You answer his question since no one else has.
“We were checking these demons out of Tennessee, and out of nowhere they took a hard left, booked up here.”
“When?” Dean leans forward in his seat and looks up to his brother.
You and Sam exchange an agreeing glance then say, “Yesterday morning.”
“When I busted out,” Dean thought aloud.
Bobby slams some plates down on the table and you leap from your seat to grab cutlery before he has to remind you. You may have been raised by a hunter but you had manners.
“You think these demons were there 'cause of you?” your dad asks Dean as he brings over the food; bacon and eggs, toast and home fries—your mouth waters.
Sam is finally seated when you return with forks and napkins. He takes them from you and asks, “But why?”
Bobby pats you on the shoulder when you finally return and sit beside him. Sam is across the table and Dean lays claim over the end. It's an old configuration. But now the table is taken up by a hefty computer and stacks of papers. It took up the centre of the room when your mother was alive. Like many things since her death, it's been pushed to the side.
Dean is ravenous and speaks with his mouth full like he’s five again. “Well, I don't know – some badass demon drags me out and now this? It's gotta be connected somehow.”
You ask how he’s feeling, considering he was just in Hell yesterday.
“A little hungry,” he says between bites, matching your sarcasm.
“Do you feel like yourself? Anything strange, or different?”
Dean holds up his hands in surrender. “Or demonic? How many times do I have to prove I'm me?”
Bobby interjects. “Yeah. Well, listen. No demon's letting you loose out of the goodness of their hearts. They've gotta have something nasty planned.”
Beneath the table, Sam’s foot slides up against yours, his thigh a hair's breadth from touching yours. His shoulders are sagging and he's blinking back sleep. The long car ride is taking its toll. You want to tuck him into bed with a kiss on his forehead.
Dean dismisses Bobby, “Well, I feel fine.”
Sam runs a hand over his face and through his hair. “Okay, look, we don't know what they're planning. We got a pile of questions and no shovel. We need help.”
“Pamela?” you mutter to your dad. He nods. Dean tilts his head, waiting for you to fill in the rest of the group. “We know a psychic. A few hours from here. Something this big, maybe she's heard the other side talking.”
Bobby decides to track down her number, so he excuses himself to rummage in the library. You want to find a way to leave the brothers alone, but Sam squeezes your leg. Then he reaches into his collar. He’s giving Dean back the amulet.
“You probably want this back.”
Sam wore it solemnly these last four months. Sometimes, out of the corner of your eye, you would see him rub absently at where it hung under his shirt. At one point you knew where it came from and why, but now it is so absolute that seeing it in Sam’s hand and not around Dean’s neck sparks an odd feeling.
Dean takes it. “Thanks.”
You stand and begin to clear the plates. At the sink, you run the taps and dunk the dirty dishes under the hot water. Behind you, the brothers murmur.
“Yeah, don't mention it,” Sam says. Then after a short pause, ‘Hey Dean, what was it like?”
You keep scrubbing.
“What, Hell? I don't know, I must have blacked it out. I don't remember a damn thing.”
A shiver runs down my spine but you don't turn around. You don’t acknowledge them.
You can hear the relief in Sam’s voice. “Well, thank God for that.”
“Yeah.”
The last plate is done. “Coffee?” you ask. Sam nods, glad to be relieved of the situation. But then Bobby returns with an address book and a call to arms, asking “You coming with me, kid, or the boys?”
Sam and his puppy-dog eyes leave little room for disagreement. “I’ll go with them. I want to see Dean’s reaction.”
“My reaction to what?” Dean demands. Sam groans.
It’s well worth it. You lean into the front seat well to get the full experience of Dean losing it over an iPod jack.
“You were supposed to take care of her, not douche her up.”
“Dean, I thought it was my car.”
Dean sneers and you let out the biggest laugh in months, which only doubles when he switches it on and “Vision" by Jason Manns plays. You’d tried to remember what you last played on that thing and it did not disappoint. It would have been even better if Sam had let you download some Alanis Morissette.
Dean yanks it out with vindication and hurls it back where the poor music player lands with a thump beside you.
“Hey!”
“Sorry, bad aim. I was trying to hit you,” Dean says as he puts the car into gear and roars after Bobby’s car.
“Asshole.”
They don’t say their lines. There is no “Jerk” or “Bitch” to lighten the mood. Instead, you suffer in their brooding silence. There is so much in the air between them, so much left unsaid. It is palpable.
“Fuck this,” you say. “I don’t care if you don't like ‘chick flick moments’ Dean but they happen for a reason. You guys need to talk this out before one of you explodes and gets your weird broody sickness all over me.”
Dean grumbles. Sam turns in his seat with a warning look. You stop him in his tracks. “Don’t you dare look at me like that Winchester. Come on, talk it out.”
You wave a hand as if orchestrating.
“Fine, there is still one thing that is still bothering me,” Dean admits. “Yeah, the night that I bit it. Or... got bit.” He laughs at his own little joke. You roll your eyes. “How'd you make it out? I thought Lilith was going to kill you.”
The question is for Sam, you weren’t there in those final days. You only remember the call. You were at home, the smell of gasoline and rust omnipresent in the salvage yard. You knew today was the day. One year since Sam died. You remember that day too with shocking crystal clarity. And now that heartbreak would be relieved. Except this time there had been an entire fucking year to fix it. But nothing had changed. It was as if the Winchesters were cursed to die.
You couldn’t face it. In this great hour of need, you were a coward. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why you cling to Sam even when it hurts so much. You couldn’t be there for him when it mattered.
Dad called in the aftermath. Once the blood was dry. They were going to bury him in the morning. “Get your ass down here, kid.” Then he hung up.
You arrived to the image of a broken man. Sam was lost. With one caress of his shaggy hair, you knew you could never leave him. This was your sacred calling—a saint whose job is to hold together the pieces of a fractured soul. For him, for sweet Sammy, it was all worth it. Dean may have died for his brother, but you would live for him.
“She tried,” Sam says to Dean’s question with a shrug. “She couldn’t.”
That’s one way to put it.
“What do you mean, she couldn’t?”
“She fired this, like, burning light at me and… didn’t leave a scratch. Like I was immune or something.”
“Immune?”
“Yeah. I don't know who was more surprised, her or me. She left pretty fast after that.”
“Huh. What about Ruby, where is she?
Good question. She is probably waiting for the moment when Sam can sneak away. Waiting for when he comes begging for her blood.
“Dead,” Sam lies. “For now.
Dean bites his lip, hedging his bets on whether he should ask. “So you've been using your, uh, freaky ESP stuff?”
“No.” Another lie.
“You sure about that? Well, I mean, now that you've got... immunity, whatever the hell that is... just wondering what other kind of weirdo crap you've got going on.”
“Nothing, Dean,” Sam sighs. “Look, you didn't want me to go down that road, so I didn't go down that road. It was practically your dying wish.”
“Yeah, well, let's keep it that way.” Dean turns around while the Impala stops at a light. “Is that what you wanted, sweetheart?”
“It’s a good start.”
After an hour or two of driving, Dean’s stomach growls. He pulls off the highway, practically pushing Sam out of the car to get food.
“What the fuck man?” Sam demands.
“I just got out of Hell, dude. Go get me some fries.”
A moment after Sam shuts the door behind him with a huff, Dean meets your eye in the rearview mirror. “I heard you were looking after him.”
You school your features “Yeah, like he said, he was in bad shape.”
He nods with a sharp uptick of his jaw. “Thanks .”
You stare out the window. “I’m glad you're back, I really am. But things are different now. Sam’s different.”
“I can see that.”
“You gotta be patient with each other.”
“What are you implying, sweetheart?”
“Nothing. Just…” you don’t know how to explain all that has come to pass without telling the truth. The truth that Sam wants to avoid.
Dean barks a laugh. “Don’t tell me going to Hell finally got you two together.”
“I-”
Dean grins and pumps a fist. He is alight with glee. “Is that what you have been keeping from me? Don’t deny it, you said it yourself, things have changed. You don’t need to spell it out for me sweetheart. I have eyes. I knew he liked you but I never thought he would act on it. Always said you were too important to screw up.”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want me anymore. Not in that way, anyway”
“Dammit Sammy!” this time he slams a hand on the steering wheel, then follows the curve until he is gripping it tightly.
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry kid.”
You let out a pitiful laugh. “I should have known that the only man I have ever loved wouldn’t love me back. I just thought… maybe just this once things would work out. Guess I was asking for too much.”
You hang your head. Outside, it has begun to rain. When Sam scrambles back into the car, he sprays water everywhere like a dog. He distributes the snacks. He bought you your favourite, because of course he did. You feel bad for throwing him under the bus like that.
After Dean switches back on the music and peels back out onto the highway, you take out your cell. All your recent texts are to Sam. You have him saved as Lawboy.
Dean thinks i love you but you don’t love me back
You send it and hear the quiet buzz of it arriving.
Just so we have our story straight , you clarify.
Sam shifts in his seat to angle the screen away from his brother. The rain is coming down harder. The windshield wipers are frantic.
Did he ask?
No, i said things had changed and he thought that meant between us. So i told him that i had confessed my everlasting love to you. Lucky for you tho, you didnt reciprocate. Although he did say something weird.
You hear sam typing. Then it pings on your phone. What?
That you ‘liked me but would never act on it’
He doesn't reply. In fact, he turns off his phone and puts it back in his pocket. When Dean asks him what he is doing, he just says he was checking the weather, seeing if the rain had a chance of stopping soon. Dean believes him. You are left staring at the back of their heads.
Pamela is just like you remember her. She is wild with joy to be seeing you again. She scoops Bobby right off his feet then swings you around also. The brothers watch, dumbfounded.
“Baby, you are so big now!” she exclaims once she sets you down. She smooths out your hair and pinches your cheek. “Gorgeous as always. Making these poor boys stiff in their jeans.”
Pamela steps back and takes them in. Sam shifts awkwardly under her gaze but Dean grins confidently. She winks at you. You grin back.
You introduce them, her energy is infectious. “Sam, Dean. This is Pamela Barnes, best damn psychic in the state.”
Dean bats his eyes at her. Sam just says “Hi.”
Pamela is only getting started. “Mmm-mmm-mmm. Dean Winchester. Out of the fire and back in the frying pan, huh? Makes you a rare individual.”
Dean swipes his tongue over his teeth. “If you say so.”
Pamela straps back into her house, beckoning you in. You all traipse after her. The place still looks and smells the same - like patchouli and smoke and her delicious ginger tea. It’s dark inside and warm, comforting like a womb. You want to crawl into a corner and nap. You dozed in the car but it wasn't quite enough.
Bobby gets straight to business. “So, you hear anything?”
Pamela is leading us into her seance room and says “Well, I Ouija'd my way through a dozen spirits. No one seems to know who broke your boy out, or why.”
Sam is right on your heels. You can sense him towering over you in the dim hallway. You want to either push him off or tell him to commit to what he is stopping himself from fully doing.
“So what's next?” you ask.
“A séance, I think. See if we can see who did the deed.”
Your dad is apprehensive. “You're not gonna... summon the damn thing here?”
Pamela chuckles and begins to collect the necessary objects. “No. I just want to get a sneak peek at it. Like a crystal ball without the crystal.”
“I'm game,” Dean says with a dopey smile. Sam looks like he wants to disappear into the wallpaper.
Pamela throws the tablecloth to you and you spread it out on the table in the centre of the room. It has white symbols painted on it. You smooth it out with your hands while Pamela bends over to rummage in a cupboard, exposing her tattoo. Jesse Forever . If you remember correctly, it lasted less than a year. She just liked that she could blare Jesse’s girl everywhere she went.
Dean takes notice and you can see him cock his head at Sam. Then he pipes up when he doesn't get the reaction he wanted. “Who’s Jesse?”
“Well, it wasn’t forever,” she jokes.
The men are sitting, squished into too small chairs around the table. Pamela hands you some candles that you begin to place atop the tablecloths.
Pamela is still flirting with Dean when Sam asks you, “How do you know what to do?”
You are bending over his shoulder to light the wick. You look down at his soft expression. “I stayed with Pam for a while when I was eighteen. She thought I had the gift. Turns out I didn't.” you shrug, sitting beside him.
“I didn’t know that.”
“There is a lot you don’t know about me, Sam Winchester. I’m a mystery,” you tease. But it’s true, he missed a lot while he was at Standford.
Pamala settles into her chair. “Right. Take each other's hands.” Sam’s hand slips into yours, your dad’s in the other. “And I need to touch something our mystery monster touched.”
Pamela gives you a devious look before she slides her hand along Dean’s thigh under the table. He coughs.
“Whoa. Well, he didn't touch me there.”
You want to bury your head in your hands. Sam is shaking a little from laughter.
“My mistake,” Pamela says not so innocently.
In typical hunter fashion, pun intended, Dean is wearing several layers. We all watch as she strips off his outer layers until he is left in just his t-shirt. Then he pulls up the left sleeve. On his shoulder, in the shape of a handprint, his flesh is scorched and red, raised up from his skin. Sam’s hold on my hand tightens as he stares at it. You gawk. Pamela wastes no time in laying her hand on the mark. She settles into her role and begins chanting once everyone's eyes are closed.
“I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle,” she repeats. Over and over again until the television turns on, the sound of static filling the room. It feels even warmer now, with pressure on all sides, like a storm about to burst. You feel your dad begin to sweat.
“I invoke, conjure, and command... Castiel? No. Sorry, Castiel, I don't scare easy.”
This sounds bad. You want to tell her to stop, but Dean asks “Castiel?”
“Its name. It's whispering to me, warning me to turn back.”
“Pam-” you start but she shushes you. The white noise is screaming. The entire table shakes, I had sat in on several of her seances, but none had ever gotten this volatile. I held on tighter.
“I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face. I conjure and command you, show me your face.”
It feels like the entire room jolts.
Bobby mumbles, “Maybe we should stop,” barely audible over the screeching of the television.
But she’s close and Pamela doesn’t back down. Not even when the candles flicker violently. Not when they begin to hover in the air. Not when they rise several feet up.
“I almost got it,” she says. “I command you, show me your face! Show me your face now!”
What comes next is utter terror and confusion. You hear Pamela scream, wailing like you have never heard before. It’s blood-curdling. It stays in your nightmares for years to come. You open your eyes to see her eyes burning white, filled with white-hot flame. She saw something. Something powerful enough to burn her eyes out of her skull. You leap from your seat and rush to her side just as her body loses all weight and collapses. Your dad is there to catch her, yelling “Call 9-1-1!”
Sam jumps into action and runs to the next room. You remain frozen by her side. You squeeze her hand and she clenches back, desperate but weak. She’s conscious. Blood drips from her sockets.
“I can't see! I can't see! Oh god!” she sobs and you feel another part of your heart fracture. You brush back her hair. There is nothing more you can do until the ambulance gets here. So you hold her hand and tell her it will be okay. In the distance, a siren wails and this time you know exactly where it is going and why.
They strap her into the gurney and lift her into the back. You climb in after her, your dad says he will meet you at the hospital. They fuss over her and it’s not until they have her hooked up in the hospital that you have a chance to let your tears fall.
You sit beside her bed. They have her on heavy painkillers. Pamela twitches her fingers, reaching for you again.
“Y/N, baby?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell him.”
Your chest tightens. What does she know? She takes your silence as an answer enough.
“Sam. You don’t need to be a psychic to see it.”
“That obvious?”
She laughs, broken but earnest. “Oh, honey. Remember what I always told you. If you want heaven, you gotta get a taste of hell first.” The pit in your stomach deepens even further. “I wouldn’t mind a taste of that boy myself.”
“I think his brother is your most likely bet. As for Sam… I know.”
“Good. Now go find that dad of yours and figure out whatever damned thing did this to me.”
Bobby is easy enough to find. He’s in the waiting room on the phone yelling at someone. But when he catches sight of you, he hangs up abruptly and opens up his arms. You sag into him, the high emotions and adrenaline of the last day no longer holding you up. He is soft but sturdy. He is your father, with all the stoicism of his usual distance knocked out of him when you sob against his chest and deliver the news.
“The doctors said she will be okay. But her eyes are completely gone. Fried right out the sockets.”
“That fucker.”
You pull away. “Do you have any idea what or who Castiel is?”
He clears his throat. “Not a god damned clue. Something mighty powerful. I just hope that bringing Dean back is a sign it's on our side.”
You nod. “Where are they?”
“Said they were grabbing grub.’
Sam picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”
“Where are you guys? Dad’s finding us a motel for tonight.”
“We just left a diner full of demons. They are as scared as we are about whatever the thing that got Dean out of hell.”
“They didn’t attack you?”
“No, just wanted a chat,” he scoffs. “Text us the motel.”
“Will do.”
But as soon as you go to find wherever your dad has gone off to, your phone buzzes. It’s Sam. Going back for the demons later. Meet me at 10.
You groan, but message back sounds good. You need practice. Should i bring my knife?
Yes.
He hates that he needs it. He hates himself and you're scared he might start to resent you as well. Although it stings and the blood loss leaves you lightheaded, you keep justifying it in your head. He doesn't do it often. But you asked anyway. And he said yes.
You discovered it a week after you were possessed by Ruby. A bad encounter with a —- left you bleeding heavily on your upper arm. Sam was acting weird. He always got fussy when he bandaged you up, but he was extra shifty.
“Sam?” You reached out and guided his face so you could meet his eye. His pupils were blown wide and he was breathing through his mouth.
“I can still smell her in your blood.”
It sends a tremble through you. But also an ache in your bones for more. His fingers are stained red with your blood and he raises one to his mouth. He darts his tongue out. It's intoxicating, the heady vision that overtakes his features as he sucks your blood off his hands.
“Does it-?”
“Yeah,” he pants. “Can I?”
You nod and Sam peels back the gauze. His mouth hovers for a moment, unsure. But then you slide the hand on his cheek up and into his hair and he latches onto the wound. You wince but hold his head there when he pulls away to check you are alright.
“Take what you need,” you whimper. It’s painful, but as you stroke his hair and see the desire bright in his eyes, it hardly feels like much of a burden.
His muscles are taut, reflexes dialled in when he pulls away, crimson coating his jaw. He’s flushed and ragged.
“I’m sorry,” he confesses.
“Don’t be.” you smile as he wraps your arm back up again. “How does it feel?”
Sam stands up, his body flexing. He holds out a hand and narrows his eyes at where an ashtray sits on one of the side tables. The ashtray wobbles, jerking towards the edge. He grunts and it tumbles to the floor, landing with a thud on the scratchy carpet. He grins.
Just one more thing to lie to Dean about.
Sam is already in the driver’s seat of the Impala when you close the door behind you at 10. You slide in beside him. He's silent the entire drive until he finally pulls into a parking lot. The silence holds steady for a moment until Sam’s phone rings. Caller ID reads: Dean. Sam looks unsure if he should answer it so you take things into your own hands and hit accept.
“Hey, Dean.” You put on your most casual tone, hoping it doesn't sound forced. Sam sucks in a breath beside you. You put the call on speaker.
“Y/N? Are you with Sam?”
“Yeah, why else would I answer his phone?”
“What are you doing?”
Sam’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head.
“I was craving a burger,” you say, eyes locked with Sam’s. “Sam couldn’t sleep and offered to drive me.”
“In my car?”
Shit. Sam rests his forehead on the steering wheel.
“Sorry, force of habit,” you answer. “Why, what are you up to?”
“Your Dad and I, we are uh, grabbing a beer.”
“Alright. Well, don’t let talk him into having more than a couple. And tell him I’ll crash with Sam when we get back.”
“Will do. Guessing that means I’m with Bobby?”
“I don’t want to be woken up with him stumbling in stinking of a dive bar.”
“Right. Catch you later.”
You shrug the bizarre feeling off. Of course, Dean is acting weird. He just got back from Hell of all fucking places.
The empty diner is cavernous and dark. As Sam picks the lock, you press your face to the widow and peer inside. It looks unsuspecting aside from the man lying on the floor unmoving.
Sam gets the door open and you follow him in. The place is eerie and it only gets more unsettling when Sam flips the man over and his eyes are burned out. It’s a horrifying sight that makes you shake a little thinking of Pam. There is dried blood running down his cheeks like tears. He’s dead as a doornail.
“Shit,” you say under your breath.
Sam mutters, “He was one of the demons.”
All at once, something lunges. It’s a woman, still wearing her waitress name tag She’s the other demon, although you wouldn’t tell. Her eyes aren’t dark, they are also burned and empty and absolutely haunting. Sam pushes her off. She looks both terrifying and terrified.
“Your eyes,” you say with a gasp.
She sneers at Sam, the two gory holes where her eyes should be invoking unimaginable dread. “I can still smell your soul a mile away.”
“It was here.” Sam steps towards her. “You saw it.”
She’s sobbing, “I saw it.”
“What was it?” you ask, scared of the answer.
She just mumbles to herself. “It's the end. We're dead. We're all dead.”
It is haunting, like a desperate child. A hollow, voiceless plea. Sam rolls his shoulders like he is gearing up for battle. You grasp onto your knife and begin to drag the blade across the pad of your finger until a bead of blood perches on it like a raindrop. Sam is still confronting the woman, demanding “What did you see?” She’s not going to tell him.
“Go to hell,” she spits. It doesn’t land.
Sam grabs you by the wrist and brings your finger to his lips. He slips the cut into his mouth, sucking out the blood with gentle pressure. It's not near what he needs, but it’s enough.
“Funny,” he taunts. “I was going to say the same thing to you.”
He releases you, pushing you back so you stumble. Then, with a squared position, he extends his hand. That same twisting motion. The same hard set to his shoulders. He’s sending her back to hell. The fear means nothing anymore. Sam is exorcising, ripping the demon from her body. This is what is holy. This is what should be considered divine. You can imagine his face, the contortions on his expression, the determination in his clenched jaw.
The black smoke billows from her throat. The vessel collapses. You scramble to her side, ready to reassure her, ready to call the ambulance, but you can’t find a pulse.
Sam shakes out his muscles and swallows. “Damn it.”
You stand up, ready to chastise or comfort him, when the door swings open again. Ruby. She’s grinning at him, a sick taunt.
“Getting pretty slick there, Sam. Better all the time.”
She doesn’t even look at you, she's too busy gloating under Sam’s gaze. You step up to his side, applying pressure to the still-stinging cut on your finger, a reminder of all you are to him.
“What the hell is going on around here, Ruby?” you spit.
She scoffs. “I wish I knew.”
Sam looks down at the two eyeless corpses and says, “We were thinking some high-level demon pulled Dean out.”
Ruby takes a step forward. She has a sultry smile, all for Sam.
At first, all those months ago, even after she possessed you, you wanted to hear her out. Sam was resistant, but you were realistic, you knew that you would need more help than ever. You told him to talk to her. You told him that her helping with his abilities was important. You told him to leave if he needed to. You told him to choose her. You told him.
So why are you so angry? It is anger without a definable name. Jealousy doesn't cover it, envy is insufficient. It's pure hatred, but it's not. Because you know the role she plays. You know the necessity of her guidance. Sam needs someone, someone that can give him all he needs. You are there, simply because you are there. Convenience. You bring consistency and kindness. She brings power, lust and destruction. Who could say no to that?
“No way,” Ruby says, her voice that familiar lurid candence. “Sam, human souls don't just walk out of Hell and back into their bodies easy. The sky bleeds, the ground quakes. It's cosmic. No demon can swing that. Not Lilith, not anybody.”
Sam is growing impatient. “Then what can?” he demands. “What the fuck is that thing?”
Ruby pauses, partly for dramatic effect, but you also notice that she is hesitant for the first time. “Nothing I've ever seen before.”
Sam runs a hand over his face with an exhausted groan.
“We should get some sleep, Sam,” you suggest quietly. “Dean will be wondering where we are.”
“Yeah,” he acknowledges but doesn't look at you.
“You can go if you want, Sam,” Ruby tells him. His eyes narrow.
“Sam?” it sounds pathetically pleading. But then he looks down at you and relief floods your senses. He is so beautiful, so unearthly with wonder. And a light shines through you when he smiles at you, even in that tight-lipped way. “Let’s go home.”
He nods. Ruby steps aside.
“Are you going to tell your brother?” She calls as you leave.
Sam pauses then half turns. “Yeah, I just gotta figure out the right way to say it.”
“Fine. But he’s going to find out. And if it’s not from you, he’s going to be pissed. You really think she will keep this secret forever?” she asks, tilting her head to motion to you.
“Hey!”
“Cool it, sister. I’m just saying,” she raises her hands in mock surrender. “Maybe I’ll take a step back for now.”
“Ruby-”
She puts her hands up in surrender. “Look, I didn't want to start a lover’s quarrel. You guys should be getting back. Get some sleep,” she mocks.
Without that final parting remark, you could imagine the drive back to the motel as almost peaceful, just the lingering desolation behind your eyelids. But now Sam drives with an iron grip. While Dean drives like he only cares about getting somewhere and getting there quick, Sam is precise and hyperfocused. And now that the blood lingers in his mouth, he’s practically in a trance. You should have offered to drive, but then that would have started an argument you didn’t have the time or energy for.
The motel room is cold and bare. Somehow your bags are on one of the beds. Sam toes off his boots and rolls onto the other bed. He stares at the ceiling while you changed and brush your teeth and wash your face. He is still there, lying with his arms tucked up behind his head like he’s stargazing. But all that is above him is the textured popcorn ceiling.
“Can I turn off the light?”
Sam grunts something that sounds like a yes. The sheets rustle as you bend to pull the cord. The lamp snaps off but the room is not dark. The curtains are thin and the lights from outside cast a yellow glow that lingers even when you close your eyes. So you roll over, facing away from the window towards Sam. His eyes are still open. He’s not going to sleep.
“Sammy?” you whisper into the tempered dim.
“What?”
“What do we do now?”
“I have no fucking clue.”
Finally, he turns his head. There is a glint of light in his eyes, like a cat in the dark. He sits up, unbuckling his belt as he stands. His jeans are kicked off and by the time he makes it to your side, the flannel is discarded. You pull back the blanket and he lets it enfold him.
Sam is always warm. You can feel the burn of his skin against yours in only his undershirt and boxers. You’re not sure who is soothing who. Sam has his lips and chin pressed to the top of your head, your cheek is on his chest ministering his every breath. So familiar. An omen of despair. This only started happening once the losses piled up. But you cling close anyway. Sam holds you like a life preserver, scared that you will slip from his grip and he will drown. But he is already drawing. Are you just delaying the inevitable, trying to bail out a ship that is already half-sunk?