Archive of Our Own

“Does it hurt, Sam?” Cas demanded, catching him as his knees buckled under him.

The giant rolled his eyes. What kind of a question was that? He’d just been stabbed in the back by a jawbone. Yeah, it hurt. “I’ve had worse,” he informed the angel. It wasn’t actually a lie. He gritted his teeth hard enough that it probably cracked the molars but hey – it wasn’t like he had to worry about dental hygiene. Not anymore.

“Try not to move more than necessary,” the trenchcoated angel directed. He plunged his hand into the wound in Sam’s side, coating it with blood, and took off. Sam was alone.

Sam’s head and neck dropped into the mud. He could feel the blood pumping out of his injuries and supposed that he should be upset or something. He’d been stabbed twice by his own brother; it was the sort of thing that usually got a person riled up. Of course it wasn’t like it was a surprise or anything. He’d known Dean was going to do this. It was the whole reason he’d shown up here in the first place. A brother’s blood, eons ago, had created the First Blade and the First Knight. Nothing but a brother’s blood could free Dean from the curse of the Mark. As far as Sam was concerned it was a pretty small price to pay. So the Winchester couldn’t really complain.

Maybe it would have been nice to go out with a little more dignity than wallowing in the mud like a stuck pig but at the end of the day there isn’t really a lot of dignity to death, and Sam was in a position to know. At least this time he wasn’t left lying on a sidewalk for strangers to trip over like that time with the wishing well or impaled on a piece of plumbing like that time they’d time-traveled to visit their parents. Cas would burn the body when he was done with the ritual to cure Dean. Probably. And if not Sam would be dead and gone anyway.

At least chances were that it would be permanent this time. The First Blade was an impressively arcane weapon. None of the victims that were attacked with it were really intended to be brought back. Abel had apparently gotten a straight shot to Heaven, although Sam would have been very curious to know the younger brother’s side of the story. Had he really been groomed to be Lucifer’s “pet?” Was it possible that it had been so simple, or that someone associated with Lucifer could actually go to Heaven? He’d been once, but that had been a scam, a charade, a stunt Zachariah had pulled to try to pull Sam and Dean further apart. Funny how the mind could wander while the blood poured out of a body like that.

Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Lego-land – wherever his spirit wound up, it didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was ensuring that the stain that was Sam Winchester would be bleached from the fabric of the universe. That no one else, ever, could be harmed because of him. The best that you could say about Sam Winchester was that he’d managed to stop the leak when he broke the world once. And really, what else was there to be said about such an unclean thing as him? Maybe when they laid him on the pyre and his corpse was finally reduced to the finest ash some part of him would finally be pure. Or maybe the char mark where the pyre had been would forever scar the earth and render that spot unhallowed. Whatever. Even a Sam-sized chunk of land wasn’t much in the greater scheme of things, when all was said and done.

He relaxed into the dirt, letting the muck and darkness engulf him. It couldn’t be long now.

“Hiya, Sammy. What’cha got there?”

Sam didn’t know who the man was or how he’d gotten into the motel room. The door was locked, he’d locked it himself. “Who’re you?” he scowled at the stranger, dropping the book about Sir Galahad. He wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. Dean said so, and Dean knew things. Then again, Dean wasn’t here. Dean had broken his arm doing “big boy stuff” with Dad and Dad had taken him to the hospital with strict instructions for Sam to stay in the room and not let anyone see him.

The man sat down on the bed. “You can call me Az. I knew your Mom.”

Sam edged backwards, toward the phone on the nightstand and away from the creepy stranger. Mom was a bad subject, and this guy had sickly chartreuse eyes,. Even though Sam wasn’t supposed to judge people because of how they looked, he was pretty sure that eyes like that were bad news. They looked like Mountain Dew. Should he call the police? Dad was usually pretty against calling the police. He was also pretty against strangers. Either way Sam was sure he was in trouble. “I’m not supposed to talk about her.”

“Well that doesn’t seem very fair to me, Sammy. I mean, she was your mom too. It was pretty important to me that she was.” He smirked. “Where’s your father, Sammy?”

“Around.” Maybe if Yellow Eyes didn’t know Dad was away he’d get scared and leave Sam alone.

“I have to say that I’m not too impressed with the job he’s doing here. I mean, he’s supposed to be looking after you, not leaving you alone in a sleazy motel while he’s gallivanting around in the wilderness looking for pixie dust or whatever. When’s the last time you ate?”

“I had some cereal yesterday morning. I’m not hungry.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “And my brother takes care of me. Dad keeps us safe while Dean looks after me.”

“Well I can tell you for a fact that Dean has eaten more recently than you have,” Az informed, arms crossed over his chest in a mirror of Sam’s expression. The corners of the boy’s mouth began to twitch and he tried not to laugh, but it was actually pretty funny to see a great, big grown-up acting like a six-year-old.

“Dean’s getting big,” Sam defended. “He’s hungry. He has to eat. He’s ten!” He’d made it to the phone by now. He shot his hand out to grab at the handset only to have it fly out of his hands of its own accord.

“Now Sammy, if I managed to get into this fetid little room while the doors and windows are locked how much good do you really think the police would have done anyway?”

The boy’s pulse pounded in his ears. “How did you do that? Are you a wizard?” Okay, wizard didn’t seem like a terribly likely explanation. Sam knew the difference between real and pretend. He was six, after all. He also knew that real people couldn’t pull a phone out of someone’s hand from across the room, but Merlin probably could, and Merlin was a wizard. And the phone had just flown out of his hand, which was real. So… wizard.

Az laughed. “Wizard. Nice. No. I’m not a wizard, Sammy, but I’ve known a witch or two. Like I said, I knew your mom. And I’ve known you for a long time, although you didn’t know it. You’re special, Sam.”

He shrank back further as the stranger put a hand on his knee. “I – I’m not special. I’m dirty.”

“Being dirty doesn’t mean you’re not special, kiddo. Look at me. I’m as dirty as they come, and I am very, very special.” He bared his teeth in a wolverine smile. “I’m here because you’re not safe. You need someone to watch out for you. Milkshake?” He extended a hand. In it was a thick, frothy chocolate milkshake.

Sam drew back. “I’m not supposed to take things from strangers.” Especially when the things they offered hadn’t been there a moment ago he added mentally, although he didn’t think that saying that out loud was a good idea.

“Oh, but Sam, we’re not strangers. I told you, I knew your mother for years before you were born. And I’ve known you your whole life. And your stomach is growling like a tiger. You need this, champ.”

It was true. Sam was feeling pretty ravenous. He accepted the glass, even though he knew he shouldn’t. From the first sip he could tell that it was different. Of course it was different – the wizard had magicked it up from out of nowhere. He could taste a deeper, richer chocolate flavor than he’d ever tasted, with less of the cloying sugar sweetness that had never appealed to him much. He could detect a hint of almond, and maybe a faint taste of smoke. And something else? Maybe a bit of… that smell that came when you lit a match? And the taste of a shiny, new penny? It wasn’t exactly bad – the delicious chocolate mostly covered up the copper and sulfur. “Thank you, Az,” he said, remembering his manners. “It’s good.”

“”It is, isn’t it?” the wizard replied affably, stroking his hair gently. For a brief moment the sound of a thousand, a million screaming souls cried out in Sam’s head. He almost expected the entire motel to have heard them, but the sound was over with so quickly that maybe it just didn’t register for them. He blinked and shook his head. Suddenly everything seemed so much clearer. The colors were so much more intense, the sounds of the motel so much louder and Az –

There was something inside Az. There was the face he wore but it looked more like a mask, like something stretched out over a form that was pulsing chartreuse smoke. “What the –“ he demanded, standing up.

“Relax, Sammy,” Az told him soothingly. “It’s mostly temporary. Drink your milkshake.” Sam found himself drinking from the glass even though he tried to stop himself. He could hear the housekeeping staff in the room on the right, speaking in Spanish between themselves. The buzz of the electricity was like the Imapala’s engine.

“Is this what Dean sees?” he wondered. Az didn’t seem at all surprised by any of it so it had to be part of being a grown-up, right?

“No, Sammy. Like I told you, you’re special. I needed to check something and seeing as how you’re my favorite I figured you’d be the best candidate of the bunch. Besides, it gave me a chance to see how you were doing around those two shaved baboons.” He laughed. “Now for the fun part. Me, I’m a stranger, and let’s face it I’m pretty awful. But there’s another fellow who’s even worse staying on the other side of you. He’s a pedophile, Sammy. Do you know what that means?”

“He likes to touch little kids.” He moistened his lips, uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he knew it wasn’t good.

“That father of yours wouldn’t know a monster if it bit him on the ass. The guy’s had his eye on you for weeks now. He knows your dad hasn’t been around and is ready to make his move.”

Sam almost choked on his milkshake. “Are – are you – is that why you came?”

“Are you worried that I’m going to help him or you?” Sam shrugged. “Good thinking, kid. Must have gotten your brains from my side of the family. “ He laughed at Sam’s confused face. “For now you can think of me as the very creepiest of creepy uncles. But don’t worry about that just yet. You’ve got enough going on in your little life that I don’t need this to add to it.” He gave a sick grin. “He’s going to kick the door down. You’re going to make him stop.” He brushed a hand over Sam’s forehead.

“How’m I supposed to do that?” Sam was small for his age, and he knew it. Whoever Az thought was going to be bursting in on him was probably going to be a lot larger than Sam. He could hold his own against third grade bullies on the playground, but that was about it. Dean always said he needed protecting, how was he supposed to protect himself?

“Instinct, son. Instinct. Your blood will know what to do even if your brain doesn’t. Just let it do the thinking for you.”

Sam was not in the habit of letting parts of his body do his thinking for him – it didn’t sound like a very smart way to go through life – but the strange man didn’t explain himself further.

Just as Az predicted, a horrible thudding sound cracked against the door once, then twice. The door splintered and crashed in, followed by a man. This man wore his hair in a mullet with the long portion hanging down to the center of his shoulder blades in greasy tendrils. “Hello there, boy,” he grinned. “It’s just you and me now.”

Sam glanced at Az, who put a finger to his lips. Could the stranger not see the yellow-eyed man? “Go away!” Sam told him.

“You don’t get to talk to grownups that way,” the stranger told him, approaching with bright eyes.

Sam scowled. “I said, ‘Go away!’” he yelled.

The stranger had reached him by now. He grabbed Sam by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “You’re coming with me, kid. Your daddy ain’t coming back.”

Sam’s breath came in little pants, and he threw a hand out. Logically there wasn’t much that a short, scrawny six-year-old could do against an adult man, but Sam was operating on instinct, and instinct was vicious. When his hand made contact with the stranger he felt a massive surge run through his body and leave through his hand. It felt like electrocutions looked in cartoons, although he didn’t think it had anything to do with electricity. They’d given out a comic book about not sticking forks in the sockets or something a couple of schools ago, and he was pretty sure this was different. The invader’s eyes bulged. His nose and ears bled, and he staggered backwards, releasing Sam. The boy scurried back to the relative safety of Az’s shadow as the pedophile took another couple of steps back and fell over onto his back, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

Az kept a reassuring arm around Sam’s shoulders until the invader’s chest stopped moving. He wouldn’t let him look away. “Excellent work there, Sammy,” he praised. “Guy like that was headed downstairs anyway. You did the world a favor.”

He felt hot tears behind his eyes but wouldn’t shed them. Not in front of Az, who still seemed like a stranger even though he said he wasn’t. “I didn’t do anything,” he lied. He knew that it had been him, even though he didn’t know what he’d done or how. And now that man was dead.

“Sure you did, Sammy. You protected yourself and probably dozens of little boys besides. And you proved me right, so thanks for that. I’m afraid I’m going to have to hide most of those powers from you again though, kiddo. Can’t have you zapping someone every time you don’t get your way when you get a little older, though the thought is tempting.” He passed a hand over Sam’s forehead again. Some of the intensity of the world around Sam dulled, although it didn’t seem quite the same as it had before Az’ appearance. “Now Sam, your father and brother should be back in about an hour. They’ll want to move on when they see the body. I’m afraid my little visit here is going to have to stay between us for now, but that’s okay.”

“I’m not supposed to keep secrets from Dad,” he objected, although in reality he kept secrets from Dad all the time. It was Dean that he didn’t like keeping secrets from. Dean was the one who told him what was right and what wasn’t; how was Dean supposed to help him tell right from wrong if he didn’t know the truth?

Az grinned. “Aw, Sammy. You know what your dad would do if he knew about us.” He gestured between their chests, and Sam nodded. “Besides, you’re not going to get much choice.” The man – wizard – whatever – drew his finger across Sam’s lips. “Now I want you to make sure that you eat, Sam. I’ve done what I can but you need to grow up big and strong, do you understand me? You’re going to be a hero to our kind, Sam.”

“I can’t be a hero,” he objected. What could he mean by “our kind?” Drifters who lived in motels? “I just… What I just did. What does that make me now?”

“It proves you’re special, Sammy.”

Az left, and Sam was alone with the body for an hour until John and Dean returned. Dean had a shiny new cast. John was furious at the sight of the open door and the corpse and started bellowing at his younger son for opening the motel room door and talking to strangers before Dean pointed out that the door had in fact been kicked open. That was when John rolled up Sam’s sleeve and noticed the bruising from when the man had grabbed his arm. He still wasn’t happy about having to duck out of the motel room so suddenly and escape to a new location at the drop of a hat, and Sam had to go to bed without dinner that night as a punishment, but the boy understood even without Dean having to explain it to him. After all, John hadn’t finished the job he’d come there to do and they had to switch schools and now it was a big pain. Sam should have tried harder to not get noticed, and it must have been his fault. He probably looked out the window or something. He was always screwing up important stuff like this; he needed to try harder and be better. Maybe then he wouldn’t be “special.” He could just be “good.”

Sam kept his body still and his eyes closed. He’d known better than to drink the bottle of water his father had passed him in the car. He wasn’t stupid, whatever John Winchester might believe. Two straight days of driving, barely stopping for the night, and John could hardly be bothered to let him get a drink, but suddenly an hour outside of Sioux Falls he’s not only handing him a spontaneous bottle of water but opening it for him? Right. It might not be drugged. John might paint the Impala red too. And it would have been nice to say that Sam was shocked at the idea, but the truth was that it wouldn’t have been the first time that John made use of “chemical babysitters” when he’d decided that it was in Sam’s best interests to not be aware of things. Now Sam made sure he saw where everything came from.

Of course, that left him with two possible courses of action. John was drugging him for a reason, and that reason probably had something to do with whatever had them hauling ass halfway across the country from Hurleyville, New York to Sioux Falls so Dad could dump Sam on his old frenemy Bobby Singer instead of letting Sam be part of the search for Dean. Pastor Jim, when Sam had spoken to him, had told Sam that Dean was safer where he was than he would be with John, but John had told Sam that Dean was lost on a hunt. It wouldn’t have been the first time John lied. Lies were kind of John’s stock in trade, another weapon that he used like the shotguns or machetes–or Dean. But there were a lot of places that were safer for Dean than being with John, and Sam felt pretty strongly about narrowing them down.

Dad would never give him a straight answer. He didn’t like it when Sam wasted time thinking, would have preferred a Sam that just turned off his brain and sat in a corner somewhere. So Sam had two choices. He could be open about not falling asleep, which would let John know that he was onto John and keep him tight-lipped and suspicious the whole time. Or he could pretend that the drugs had taken effect. It was dark enough that he’d been able to fake having drunk the water and Sam’s insomnia was of long enough standing that he wasn’t worried about actually falling asleep while pretending to do so. This way he could hear anything his father said to his temporary guardian with the added bonus of avoiding conversation with John. It was a win all around.

Maybe it was a little dishonest. Okay, it was definitely dishonest. Sam was okay with that. Dean had the luxury of being honest with their Dad. He was sixteen and he was the golden child: reliable on hunts, big, strong, and, everything that a father could want in a son. Sam was none of those things. He was twelve and sized more like he was nine. He didn’t have many weapons at his disposal and besides – he wasn’t a hero or anything. Not like Dean. Not like Dean kept telling him John was. He was dirty, disgusting, and had been for as long as he could remember. John Winchester would never be honest with him or anyone like him; why should he use honest methods with John?

He felt the Impala’s engine slowing down before she pulled onto grass and purred to a stop. A door opened, followed by heavy footsteps. John’s door creaked open slowly. “Singer,” he called.

“Hush, Winchester,” Bobby Singer retorted. “You’ll wake your boy.” His voice had been lowered to a stage whisper.

“He’s out like a light,” Sam’s father dismissed. “He wouldn’t wake up if you threw him in a lake.” The boy wondered if the thought had occurred to his father and decided not to dwell on it.

The senior Winchester got out of the car and slammed the door shut, circling around to Sam’s door. He lifted Sam out and carried him up the steps and into the house. The child made sure to let his body go completely limp, head and limbs lolling and flailing. “I got the guest room ready,” the other hunter grunted. “You want to carry him up there?”

John dropped him unceremoniously onto the couch. “Nah. Couch is good enough for him. Don’t want him getting soft.”

“Yeah, it would be a shame if he started thinking he was entitled to a bed and a little privacy.” It had been years since Sam had actually seen Bobby, but he could picture the eye roll from the man’s voice.

“Sam doesn’t need privacy, Singer. He needs watching. If he could be trusted with privacy I wouldn’t have to take four days I can’t spare to leave him with you. He’s a runner. If he didn’t have Dean around to watch him like a hawk he’d be off to God knows where. He thinks he’s got a choice in this, Singer.” Dad’s voice came from across the room, as though he was putting as much distance between himself and his younger son as he could. “Last year he took off even with Dean watching him. Took us three weeks to find him.”

Bobby grunted. “Did he ever say why?”

“Who cares why? In my day if you deserted your post you got shot, end of story.”

“He was eleven, John. He’s not supposed to have a post.”

“Sons are soldiers, Singer. You know that. Anyway, he’ll probably try to make a break for it at least once or twice. If you need to lock him up then you do what you need to do.”

“John, he’ll hear you!”

“He’s drugged to high heaven, Singer. Don’t worry about him.”

“You roofied your son?”

“I needed to talk with you and make sure he didn’t hear me. You got a better way? The kid’s a sneak. It was the only way to make sure. I did what I had to. Anyway, I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, so if you need to enroll him in school there’s the paperwork. He needs to keep up with his training; I’m not going to have him getting fatter just because Dean and I aren’t here to stay on his ass about it.”

“There’s nothing fat about that boy, John Winchester. Maybe if you let him gain a little weight he’d grow more.”

“If he had his way he’d sit around eating bon-bons with a nose in a book.” It took an heroic act of willpower for Sam to not snort at that. He couldn’t have identified a bon-bon in a police lineup. “Minimum of five miles of running every day, rain or shine. Sparring, strength training, shooting, bow hunting, knife fighting – you have to test him, Bobby, or else he’s just going to be lazy.”

“Does he have any favorite foods, John? Anything I can use to reward him with?”

“He doesn’t need to be rewarded,” John retorted. “Saving lives is the reward. He doesn’t need a favorite food, he’ll eat what’s put in front of him or he’ll be hungry.”

“Okay,” Bobby exhaled, and that was weird. It sounded like he was pissed at John. “Tell me something, John. Why did you bring Sam to me? He’s already close with Pastor Jim. With Dean gone he’d probably be happier with someone he knows, don’t you think?”

“Jim’s too soft on him, Bobby. After Dean got busted the dumb kid got us evicted from our motel room, couldn’t even scrape up the cash to cover the rent until I got back to town. I mean, what the hell kind of kid can’t raise a little cash at twelve, huh? Dean could’ve done it.”

“Dean’s the one who got busted trying to raise food money, John.” Oh. Okay. So Dean hadn’t been lost on a hunt. Interesting. But it was true – Dean could have scrounged up more cash to get them by when he’d been twelve. Dean was good at that kind of thing. Sam made a mental note to get better at theft – he’d done okay at stealing food between the time Dean disappeared and the time John had finally come to get him but Dean would have done better.

“I left them plenty of cash. I have no idea what could have happened to it. Anyway, there’s something else.”

“Of course there is,” Bobby sneered. “What do you need, Johnny?”

“It’s Sam. In a way, Dean getting arrested is an opportunity. There’s something… there’s something about Sam. Something different. Something…” Something filthy, Sam supplied mentally.

“He’s just a kid, John,” the local told his father with more than a hint of firmness.

“He’s always fighting me, every step of the way. I’m teaching him to be a hero, and it’s like that doesn’t even matter to him.” John sat down with a heavy thud. “That’s just… that’s not right. I mean, Dean was my little man from the day he was born, you know? But Sam, Sam’s never wanted anything to do with me. He pushed me away from the very start. And he’s never missed Mary; it’s like he doesn’t even care that she’s gone.”

“Well, he’s never known her,” Bobby pointed out reasonably. “’Mother’ is just a word to him. He never experienced it.”

“But he’s still supposed to mourn her,” John spat back. “It’s not right that he doesn’t even care! She is – she was his mother!” Sam kept his body still and slack but in the privacy of his own head he shrank. Mary was a forbidden subject for him. Even bringing up her name around John or Dean was certain to result in shouting or worse. But yeah – he should miss her. He’d known her for six months, and she was his mom, right? So why didn’t he miss her like a normal kid? Why wasn’t he sad that she was dead? Why couldn’t he be like Dean and wish things were back to the way they used to be? He knew the answer already. It was because of who–or what–he was. He could only destroy; he knew it. He’d seen it, even if it hadn’t happened again. Even if he tried to fix things he would only make them worse.

“Okay,” Bobby said after a moment. “What is it that you’d like me to do about that? I never knew Mary either.”

“That’s just one example. Every time we have a run-in with anything demonic or semi-demonic they keep talking about Sam. That hell-bitch, his teacher all those years ago, she kept saying that Sammy was ‘special.’ And then that psychic of yours – you remember? Silas? He said Sam was ‘special’ too. Anderson said Sam killed Silas.” Sam remembered those incidents. Dad didn’t think he did, thought he’d forgotten them as soon as they happened because apparently seven year olds had no long-term memories.

“John, nothing human killed Silas.”

“Kind of my point, Singer.”

The men were silent. Sam had to remind himself to breathe normally or else his ruse would be noticed. “You’re joking,” Bobby said finally.

“I need to know if there’s something wrong with Sam.” John’s voice was weird now – half desperate growl, half pleading whine. “I need to know if he’s even my son at all, or if whatever killed Mary did something to him, or if he’s some kind of changeling or what. I need to know if it’s safe to keep him around Dean or if…”

“Or if what?” Bobby’s tone was dangerous now.

“Or if I need to separate them,” Dad replied finally. “He doesn’t talk to me, he doesn’t trust me.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Singer told him drily. “I figure that if you can get him to open up a little to you maybe you can figure something out, see if there’s anything ‘special’ about him or if he’s just a spoiled little brat who needs to knuckle down harder.”

Bobby sighed. “I’ll see what I can find out, John. But I’ll tell you now. I ain’t exactly seeing horns and a tail. I’m seeing a kid whose own father drugged him because he’d rather not have to actually talk to him himself. Come on, let’s get his stuff.”

The two men left the room. They reappeared within moments. Sam’s father took the guest room and went to bed. Bobby covered Sam with a scratchy wool blanket before turning in himself, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts. He had no illusions as to the stakes here. John – his father – knew. He knew about Sam’s uncleanliness, about the filth just underneath the surface. Sam knew his father didn’t mean ‘special’ in a good way. He meant dirty, disgusting, wrong. The only real consolation was that his dad only had vague suspicions. He didn’t know how dirty Sam really was. If he did, he’d make sure Sam never saw Dean again. He’d make sure he never saw anything again. Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think that “separating” him from Dean would mean abandoning him in a field somewhere.

He’d been dropped off with Bobby because Bobby knew how to get answers. If Sam wanted to survive, he needed a plan. He needed to know how he was going to handle the older hunter’s queries.

The first time Sam kissed anyone was Amy. He’d had something like that in mind from the start – well, not exactly like that. He’d met her at the library researching kitsune, and she’d kind of given him the cold shoulder and he’d accepted that. Why would she want him, after all? She was tall and blonde and gorgeous and he was short and poorly dressed and had more caffeine in his bloodstream than actual blood at this point. He was a freak anyway, the kind of guy who lived in a two-room apartment without hot water and wasn’t allowed to connect with people in case they got the “wrong idea” about the bruises or the fact that he’d gone for three days without sleep trying to read a book in a language that he didn’t actually know. Dean had tried to give Sam advice to help with Amy, but maybe she was different from the girls that he brought home and kicked Sam out of the bedroom to screw, because the pointers he gave Sam got him nowhere. After he’d beaten up those two bullies trying to get her attention though she’d been a lot friendlier. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been glad of that, even though he didn’t want to be that kind of guy. One thing had led to another. They’d bonded over having truly awful single parents and always feeling like a freak. And then he’d kissed her.

Dean, as it turned out, was not right about everything. Dean had told him that a guy’s first kiss was usually awkward and embarrassing and something that he generally gave some thought to not repeating. But this – this was nice. It wasn’t awkward, not really. It felt good, and she seemed to enjoy it. Of course, she’d turned out to not only be a monster but the monster his dad and brother were hunting. One of them, anyway. She’d saved his life (from her own mother!) and she’d wanted him to run away with her, and he’d wanted to go with her badly, so very badly but he knew what had happened the last time he’d run away, and he didn’t want to put Amy in danger. So instead of running off to “be freaks together” he helped her to get out of town safely and cover her tracks. Then he went back to the house and cleaned all traces of her from the scene, disposing of the body and erasing all possible evidence from the property so well that neither his father nor brother ever suspected that they’d been there at all. Dad and Dean were angry that they’d lost out on their hunt. Dad hit the bottle, and he made sure that Sam knew whose fault it was that a killer monster had gotten away. If Sam had just been faster with his research or less needy with the whole school thing or didn’t insist on wasting time thinking about a girl they’d have killed he kitsune and moved on by now. Sam gritted his teeth and took his punishment, secure in the knowledge that his silence was buying Amy time to get away.

Dean brought him an ice pack later on and tried to soothe him. “You just disappointed him, that’s all,” he murmured as Sam lay in the dark. “You let him down. He needs to be able to count on you. You show him that he can, and he’ll go a little lighter on you.” Sam nodded, biting his lip. “Come on, tell me about this girl who got your head all tied up, huh?”

That was the last thing Sam was going to do. He made some noises about dark hair and eyes but how she hadn’t been interested. Dean couldn’t know about Amy. He’d had one of his flashes of intuition – he got those sometimes, just like he got the dreams – and he knew that the farther he could keep Dean away from Amy the safer she would be.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t think about Amy, though. He thought about her a lot. Did it mean anything that he’d been so powerfully attracted to a kitsune? He wasn’t sure. The thought of running off together, of being freaks together and just accepting who they were, had been incredibly appealing, but so was the idea of living in safety. He wasn’t safe now, but if he’d run off with Amy they’d never have been safe. Dad would have even put his quest for revenge on hold to track him down and not because he’d have missed him so much. Sam wanted – he needed – safety, and he couldn’t have that or offer it to Amy if they were fifteen-year-old runaways. If he wanted to be safe he needed to be able to build a life for himself. That meant getting out of hunting, finding a real job somewhere. Probably college.

That kiss, though – that had been nice. It had been more than nice. Had it been nice because it had been Amy or had it been nice because kissing was nice?

The Winchesters moved on to Binghamton, New York and a poltergeist; Sam found himself approached by Marcella West who lived a few doors down from him (and whose family was probably squatting just as much as his was). He certainly wasn’t going to say no when her dark fingers carded through his hair and her bubblegum-flavored tongue slipped tentatively into his mouth while they sat on an abandoned couch on the front porch. In Martinsburg, West Virginia he got a job stocking shelves in the grocery store. So did Paul Raynor, which was how Sam learned that guys kissed very differently than girls did. He considered trying to talk about that with Dean, but Dean spent enough time calling him Samantha as it was. He loved his brother, but he didn’t need the extra teasing, and he definitely didn’t want to risk having his dad could hear it. John spent plenty of time watching him as it was; Sam didn’t need this added to John’s list of what was wrong with his youngest son.

Dean found him making out with Dani Tavares on the beach near Cranston, Rhode Island and gave him the sex talk. It was the single most awkward experience of Sam’s young life, especially since Sam had already gotten the sex talk from the guy running the free clinic when Dean had a brush with something unpleasant back in Bisbee. Sam had been about thirteen at the time, and ever since then Sam was the one keeping Dean’s wallet stocked with condoms. Still, it made him feel warm and a little safer when Dean explained, “Sammy, some people are going to try to tell you that sex is dirty or wrong. Don’t you listen to them. Sex is a beautiful and natural act between consenting adults. It’s about the connection. It’s about feeling good and making her feel good and making each other feel good and there is nothing to feel ashamed of about that. You hearing me?”

Dad caught him with his prom date, Rachel, on the couch in the front room of yet another two-room apartment in Biddeford, Maine. He and Dean had come home early from a hunt, completely without warning (or success), and he was a lot less supportive of Sam’s discovery of his sexuality. Maybe it had something to do with the way he was confronted with it as soon as he opened the door. He unceremoniously removed Rachel from the premises without a word and then turned to Sam. “Get your shirt on,” he snarled, flinging the offending garment at the boy’s head. “We’re leaving tonight. I can’t trust you alone for a second.”

Sam didn’t see why the rules were so different for him – Dean’s sexuality had been encouraged, while he was clearly to be punished for it. It almost made him wish his dad had caught him with a boy instead. He told himself that it was purely anger that colored his cheeks as he stalked off to his room to grab the bags that he’d never unpacked.

He met Jess on a Friday. He hadn’t really been looking to meet anyone. He hadn’t been looking to go out at all, and a party hadn’t really been high on his list of good ideas considering what Brady had gotten up to at the end of last semester. Still, he’d gotten the guy clean and mostly sober, and if he sometimes seemed like he wasn’t the same Brady that Sam had fallen a little bit in love with freshman year, well, addiction changes people. At least he was still mostly Brady, mostly a good guy and fun to be around, even if he wasn’t much into the romantic side of things these days. The problem was that any and all time with Brady really came with an ulterior motive these days. They couldn’t just go see a play; they had to go and sit in a box dressed up like monkeys because they had to Be Seen and Make Important Connections. Yeah, networking was important, but so was just watching Hamlet because it was a great show. They couldn’t just go to dinner; they had to calculate the optimal nutritional intake for Sam. (“What are you, my nutritionist?” “You need one, Sam. You don’t eat enough for someone half your size.”) They couldn’t just browse the bookstore for pleasure reading; it was all about textbooks, self-help books, and the latest crappy best-sellers. And now this – this party. It wasn’t a bio program party or a business program party, and it wasn’t a pre-law party (because they might not be involved like that anymore but that never did stop Brady from “helping” to manage Sam’s career too), but it was still a party with a purpose. “We’ve got to get you out more, Sam. You’re going to turn into a textbook if I let you sit in here all weekend,” he warned. “Besides, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

Of course there was. “Is this someone you want me to meet someone that I actually want to meet?” Sam demanded, ambling along beside his friend.

“Oh, yes.” The blond grinned easily. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Are they going to be particularly helpful with my chemistry final?”

“There will almost certainly be chemistry involved.”

The pair arrived at their destination, an apartment belonging to a guy Brady knew from the swim team. Brady got them both Solo cups and introduced his tall friend around a little. Sam made polite conversation and nursed one beer. It wasn’t that he didn’t approve of drinking, but he was still uncomfortable with Brady drinking, and he wanted to keep his own head on straight to make sure that the guy made it home safely. He found his way to a corner and kept one eye on Brady. If Dean could see him now he’d probably mock him for being a wallflower–well, once he got finished hating Sam for leaving. (God how he missed Dean, wished he could hear his voice or just spend an afternoon with him and a few beers, hanging out and just knowing he was okay.) Dean’s mental image of college had been formed by Animal House. He wouldn’t understand that college was a stepping-stone, a foundation for Sam. Parties weren’t a necessary part of the experience, and they weren’t exactly fun for him. Too many people, too much that could go wrong.

After all, just because Stanford was far away from his family didn’t mean it was far away from the supernatural.

But here he was anyway, making Brady happy and keeping him safe. As safe as he could, anyway. He watched as Brady walked up to a woman – beautiful, tall, blonde. She was taller than Brady, actually, and tan with a little mole right on her forehead. She gave Brady an indulgent smile. His of course was bright and confident, everything Sam could never be. They chatted for a moment before Brady beckoned Sam over. “Sam,” he declared, gesturing at the woman. “I want you to meet Jess Moore. She’s a sophomore like us, pre-med. I met her in my organic chemistry class.”

He held out a hand and she took it, looking him over with an appraising eye. “I’m Sam Winchester,” he introduced. “I lived on Brady’s floor freshman year.”

She smiled then. “Pleased to meet you, Sam.”

“Likewise.”

“So Sam, Jess here was telling me that it’s impossible for anyone to really be fluent in Latin.”

Sam blinked. “I wouldn’t say it’s impossible. I mean, it’s probably not exactly common, but for some people I guess it’s not out of the question.”

“Sam here dreams in Latin,” Brady assured her, a hand on his back. “No joke.”

The former hunter glanced quizzically at his friend. If the blond was trying to start something with his classmate there were probably better ways to go about it than getting her to speculate about why he would know the languages in which Sam dreamed. “You’re reciting verses you memorized,” she challenged, tilting her head to the side.

“Um, no? Not usually?” He winced. “It’s… something my dad insisted on.” There, that made sense right? It didn’t give too much away?

“Your dad forced you to learn Latin so thoroughly that you dream in it.” She sounded doubtful but she had this incredible smile on her face, somewhere between teasing and just brilliant that made him want to reach out and kiss her.

“Pretty much.” “Why?” “He’s very… um, religious. In a really weird way. We don’t have contact anymore, but he was very intense about it when I was growing up.” He shrugged, and that’s when he noticed that she hadn’t dropped his hand yet. “Um, can I get you a drink?”

She accepted a beer in a red Solo cup although she nursed hers too, only drinking one through the night.. She told him about her roommate, about her hometown, about her family. They talked about baseball, about school, about ambition and defining success, and about safety. By the end of the night they’d not only exchanged numbers but set up a definite date for coffee.

Sam, of course, came very close to chickening out on their date. Jess was perfect. She was everything that a person could dream of. She was brilliant and she was sweet and she was charming. She was healthy and fearless and pure and human. She was everything that he wasn’t. By all rights he should run away and never darken her door again. Brady, being a very good friend, was having none of that. He picked out Sam’s clothes for the occasion (taking the time to bemoan the invention of plaid) and physically escorted him to the coffee shop lest he “wuss out and leave the poor lady to the tender mercies of the barista, who’s been after her since the semester started.”

Sam didn’t chicken out. Jess was early.

They’d just planned to have coffee, but they wound up having dinner. They met up again a couple nights later for a study break that turned into stargazing, and then again a few days after that for a run.

He knew he should back away. She did not deserve to be contaminated by him. He even resolved to back off, but that lasted about as long as it took to hear her voice again.

The first time they had sex he couldn’t help but sit up and watch her while she dozed afterward. How could she even tolerate his presence, never mind permit his touch? When she caught him looking she just laughed and pulled him back down to lie beside her, cradling him in her arms.

She moved in with him when the fall semester started. It was probably too soon, but neither of them really wanted to wait. She didn’t care that his family was screwed up – and she knew as much as he could tell her. She knew about Dad and Dean. She knew about Mom. She didn’t know about monsters and ghosts and demons, salt and silver and holy water, but she did know about the feeling of filthiness that never left him. She also knew that when she was around he felt cleaner, more at peace than he could ever remember feeling. The knowledge made her smile. She recognized the look on his face when he was thinking about it, too, and when she saw it she would reach up and ruffle his hair or kiss him, and his heart would feel so full it threatened to burst from his body.

For a while he even stopped thinking of himself as a freak. He was just Sam Winchester, future lawyer and very fortunate boyfriend of Jessica Moore. In October of 2005 he started shopping for rings. When Sam began dreaming of her burning on the ceiling he desperately dismissed them as “just” dreams. He’d had dreams that turned out to be forewarnings before, of course – but someone burning on the ceiling clearly defied the laws of physics and thus could be safely ignored, right? It was probably more symbolic than anything else, just nerves about graduation and his plans for engagement. Metaphorical fire representing a fear of dramatic change, right? Of course. He was safe here. He was normal. He was a college student, not a freak.

When Dean broke into their apartment she’d been kind of annoyed. She only knew him as the brother who’d cut Sam out, who’d cast him off like garbage when he rejected the life of a homeless drifter for himself. She hadn’t been impressed with the way Dean had immediately horned in on his brother’s girlfriend either. She hadn’t wanted Sam to leave with Dean, but he’d gone anyway. He’d been taken by surprise at the strength of the reawakened love and guilt he felt for his family, so he went without too much thought, assuring her that he’d be back soon.

Jess had made him feel almost clean for the first time in his life. He should have known that it was an illusion. He could only corrupt and destroy. He would never make that mistake again.

Sam slouched with his head in his hands. He barely felt Ruby’s stolen hands on his back. Her teeth on his neck were harder to ignore. He couldn’t help but scowl. “Aw, Sammy,” she objected with an exaggerated pout. “What’s got my favorite antichrist in a snit today?”

“Ruby –“ he warned, trying to put enough of a warning into his voice that she would leave him alone.

“I only get that voice because of one source of mangst. Let me guess. About six foot two, dirty blond hair, and so fresh from the pit that you can still smell the sulfur.” She smirked and leaned back against the headboard.

“He’s been through a lot, Ruby,” he pointed out. “And you get a lot more sulfur off of me these days. You should have seen – I mean, Alistair put him in the hospital.”

“And his little pet angel couldn’t freaking heal him, right?” She snorted. “Some great warrior of heaven. Did either of them ever acknowledge that you saved their asses back there?”

He glared. “It’s not about getting acknowledged, Ruby. Dean’s alive. That’s what counts. And the angel got him out of Hell when I couldn’t, so...” Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood. The words echoed in his ears, reverberated around his skull every time he closed his eyes. It didn’t matter who he rescued, how many lives he saved. The blood in him condemned him; it always had, and it always would. He’d been deluding himself when he’d hoped he could be redeemed or saved.

“And then he almost got him killed again. Bang up job. What the hell kind of angel can’t manage a devil’s trap?”

“The kind whose angelic partner is secretly working for the enemy.” He huffed out a bitter laugh when Ruby’s eyes bulged. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s not the only angel working to break seals, not save them.” He shook his head but let her coax him up the bed to slouch beside her. “I used to believe in angels, you know? I used to pray. Every night.”

“So you wait to get skeptical until they’re right there in front of you, manipulating your brother and not even trying to hide it? Unfortunately, they aren’t like fairies; disbelieving isn’t going to make them go away.”

“Oh I know. I know they exist. It’s just… it’s different, you know?” Her head rested on his shoulder. “I thought that they were these… beautiful and pure beings. Instruments of God’s love.” He huffed out a laugh. “Turns out they’re just as dirty as me.”

She frowned. “Hey. Hey!” She climbed up on top of him, straddling him. “Sam! Forget ‘dirty,’ okay? That’s all just self-righteous, judgmental bullshit.”

He smirked. “You mean to tell me that ripping Alistair out of his meat suit and ending him forever means I’m pure and human? How about the blood drinking?”

She shook him by the shoulders. “Have you forgotten why you’re doing this? You’re saving the world, brain trust. You’re doing what you have to do to save everyone. I mean, yeah. You’re doing things you’d rather not be doing, but somebody has to and you’re the only one who can. Do you really think that Dean could kill Lilith? Sure the angels are telling him that he’s the one, but how the hell is that supposed to work? I mean, he couldn’t even handle Alistair. You’re the only one who can take her on. It has to be your powers. It can only be you.”

He sighed. “I know.” He looked away, turning his head to the wall. “It’s just… Dean…”

She turned his head back so that he was facing her. Her eyes were black. “He was traumatized. I get it. We all were. Maybe when this is over we can all do some lovely art therapy. But this isn’t the time for dealing with that crap. There’s too much at stake. I’m sorry. Anyways, he could show a little gratitude for what you’re trying to do – for what you have done – instead of expecting you to just fall in line and obey his orders.”

His hands found their way to her hips more or less independently of his brain. Of course they were doing the right thing. Stopping the Apocalypse had to be right. He just wished it didn’t have to be in such complete opposition to Dean. “I just wish Dean could be more… I don’t know. Less in the dark.” He hated having to hide this from Dean, having to live a double life.

“Sam, if he had the first idea how you were getting your strength he’d flip.”

He sighed. “I know. Still, I don’t like keeping secrets from him. It was bad enough when he found out about Azazel’s blood. I don’t think he ever wanted to touch me again.”

She smirked. “I’ll just have to touch you enough to make up for it.”

He sighed. It wasn’t the same, and she knew it, but she was trying. He let her lean in and kiss him. She tasted like sulfur and French fries. He let his hands move over her back, through her dark hair. It didn’t take much effort to flip them. “Sam?” she blinked in confusion.

He gave her a slow grin. “I want to make you feel good, Ruby. Let me do this for you.”

She didn’t resist as he gently pulled her shirt over her head. “I thought that was my line.”

“Usually.” He shrugged. “But at least I can still make one person smile, right?” Even if it was more of a leer than a smile. After all, she was a demon. And he was… whatever it was that he was now. But if they were corrupt then at least they were together, and if their corruption could stop Hell on Earth it was worth it.

“To talk.” Her words were simple, almost conciliatory. Her voice did little to conceal her venom, and even she’d tried he didn’t think that she could have hidden it from his other senses. He could feel her hatred swirling around inside her. It called to something inside of him.

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested,” he scoffed. He wasn’t lying, either. He’d hoped to be able to end her tonight, once and for all. What was the point of drinking Ruby’s blood again, of turning himself into an even bigger freak, if he couldn’t kill Lilith?

“Hmm,” she sneered, “even if I’m willing to stand down? From the seals, from the Apocalypse, all of it?”

“You expect me to believe that?” He definitely wasn’t being arrogant to think she should have a higher opinion of his intelligence than that.

“Honestly? No. You were always the smart one. But it’s the truth. You can end it, Sam. Right here, right now. I’ll stop breaking seals, Lucifer keeps rotting in his cage. All you have to do is agree to my terms.”

It all sounded perfect, and Sam’s had lived long enough to know that nothing worked out perfectly. Not for the Winchesters. Especially not for him. “Why would you back down? Why now?”

She shrugged. “Turns out I don’t survive this war. Killed off, right before the good part starts.”

For a moment Sam was reminded of Christ in Gethsemane, begging that the poisoned cup be taken away from him, and he had to bite his cheek to hold back a snort. Lilith was no Christ figure no matter how she wanted to paint herself. “What do you want in return?” he demanded warily. He doubted Lilith was going to ask for a chocolate cake and a bus ticket out of town. Hell, even Ruby had some challenging demands.

“Your head on a stick. Dean’s too. Call it a consolation prize. So what do you say, Sam? Self-sacrifice is the Winchester way, isn’t it?”

Sam froze. On the one hand it all seemed so… easy. He could just say yes, and it would all be over. He wouldn’t have to worry anymore. He’d be free. There would be no more Apocalypse. The world would be safe – safe from Lucifer, safe from Lilith, safe from the evil inside of him that he’d never even been able to completely identify. He could just let go and she could have her gruesome trophy. It wasn’t as though there was anyone left to mourn him. Ruby, maybe, but she was a demon and demons didn’t really do love or affection. Dean – well, Dean could barely stand to look at him now that he knew what a stain he really was, what a monster he was.

Only, there was the problem: Dean. His own death had never been a problem, but Dean’s was another matter. He couldn’t bargain with Dean’s life, and he didn’t want to. Dean was a hero. Dean had given up everything for him. Dean was the guy that angels risked their existence for, the guy that angels harrowed Hell for, the guy who deserved to be saved and who Heaven had saved. Sam had no right to play with his life. Even if it would save the world. Of course, Lilith didn’t need to know that. “You really think I’m stupid enough to fall for all of this?”

“I make a deal, I have to follow through,” she reminded him severely. “Those are the rules and you know it. Are you really so arrogant that you would put your life before the lives of six billion innocent people? Maybe it’s all that demon blood pumping through your pipes. Man after my own heart.”

Her words were like a bellows to his temper, even though he knew she couldn’t have been farther from the mark. “You think I’m like you? I’m nothing like you.”

“Then prove it,” she sneered. “Going once. Going twice.” She turned and walked over to the bed as she spoke, slowly and seductively.

“Fine,” Sam grunted out, mind and pulse racing.

She sat down on the bed. “Swell. By the way, a contract with me will take more than a kiss. A lot more. Don’t worry. The dental hygienist in here? She wants it bad.”

Sam struggled not to vomit because there was nothing okay about that statement. He’d been possessed. He knew what it felt like to have one’s body stolen and used, abused and degraded. He had no intention of violating Lilith’s host that way, but the poor hygienist had no way of knowing that. She must be screaming in there. Sam might not be able to save her, but he could at least ensure she had a quick, clean death.

Sam approached. Lilith grabbed his collar and pulled him down on top of her, and he had to admit that his body reacted more than he wanted it to. Maybe it was the demon blood, maybe it was his freak nature, maybe it was just the feeling of her hand on his leg. Whatever it was, he could only hope that Lilith might overestimate its influence over him and be lulled into a sense of security and overconfidence. When he got close enough to the bedside table he reached out and grabbed Ruby’s knife. He must have telegraphed his move because she was able to block the attack and knock the knife away, flipping him over.

And that was the entirety of their fight. Before they could go any farther Dean and Chuck burst in, Chuck declaring in a ridiculously melodramatic voice “I AM THE PROPHET CHUCK!”

Sam and Lilith–still fully intent on killing each other–exchanged looks of disgust. “You’ve got to be joking,” Lilith spat.

That was when the room started to tremble, and Dean started to monologue. Sam bit back his frustration. He could have solved the whole problem tonight: he’d have gotten the knife back, he’d had a chance if Dean had just trusted him to do this. But of course he didn’t. Because Dean didn’t trust him. He didn’t entirely trust himself either. He knew he had darkness and evil inside, but at least he could try to use it to do something good, to spare Dean from having to fight Lilith. He could do this for his brother, no matter what an alcoholic prophet might suspect about his motivations, and no matter the supposed cost to his already tarnished soul.

There were no words in any language to describe this feeling. There was the exhilaration of having won, of course – of having seized control over an archangel, a freaking archangel. There was the hellfire of the demon blood coursing through his veins: burning and boiling, warring with Lucifer’s warped grace that was all ice and vapor. Lucifer strained against his hold but Sam held fast. “It’s okay, Dean. I’ve got him,” he vowed. His chest heaved, whether from exertion or from terror he had no idea.

He let go of Dean and walked a short distance away, pulling the rings from his pocket. Then he threw them onto the ground and spoke the words to the spell. A pit opened up beside him, and he could feel its pull. Inside him, Lucifer’s struggles increased. So did Sam’s grip. He couldn’t blame the angel – he wouldn’t want to go back there; he didn’t want to go there now. But, he couldn’t get complacent or afford to feel pity either. This was it – the end of everything.

Well, not really of everything. He knew that he wasn’t going to be granted any kind of peace or respite or anything. Maybe in a book or something, but that was for heroes. This was going to be the Cage, and it was going to be just him and Lucifer forever. There would be no mercy, but that was okay because he didn’t deserve any. He wouldn’t be cleansed, but the world would be, and that was the whole point, right? That didn’t make jumping any easier. Not until he looked at Dean’s face. He’d pulped that face, that beautiful face. He hadn’t wanted to, but it had taken him too long to get Lucifer under control. This was all his fault, really if he hadn’t let Lucifer out of the box in the first place he wouldn’t have had to say, “Yes,” to Lucifer, and Dean wouldn’t have been hurt. If he hadn’t gotten himself killed in in Cold Oak Dean wouldn’t have gone to Hell and broken the first Seal. If he hadn’t been a corrupt, demon-blooded abomination none of this would have been necessary. Maybe this was going to be an eternity of torment, but it was everything that he deserved.

He leaned back, ready to fall. A hand grabbed his jacket. It was Michael, trying to stop him, to force the Apocalypse. He could see Michael’s true form behind Adam’s face: bright light, swirling colors, and seething hatred. He spoke words that Sam barely heard, but at the end of the day they didn’t matter – nothing was going to change his mind. Sam grabbed the archangel’s arm, and they tumbled together. The light disappeared as the ground closed in above them.

This, he knew, was going to hurt. But it was nothing less than he had earned.

The old apartment building looked like one good wind would blow it down. It had been public housing once, so it wasn’t like anyone had exactly sprung for quality materials, and it had been abandoned for a good, long time. “Tell me again why the alpha rougarou would be hanging around in South Boston?” Dean demanded.

Sam shrugged. He wasn’t sure that having Dean behind him was a great idea these days. Getting knocked unconscious and having his face turned into mashed potatoes wasn’t his idea of a party and he wasn’t looking to repeat the experience. Of course it wasn’t like Dean was about to tolerate Sam bringing up the rear and arguing with him was definitely an exercise in futility so he took point and tried to keep an ear out for trouble. “Easy enough to find prey,” he commented. “Plenty of tourists that he can bring back here. And of course there’s the whole abandoned housing project thing. Plenty of places for him to hide away.”

“It,” Dean corrected.

Sam didn’t respond. It should bother him that his brother insisted on referring to the rougarou as “it,” as though making the transformation between human and not human had made him an object. It would have bothered the Other Guy, the one with the soul. Of course, lots of things bothered him. The guy was a nest of issues with legs. Even his issues had issues. “Reports say building five is the most likely candidate,” he said instead.

“Let’s head on in then,” Dean said.

“You don’t want to check the structural integrity of the building first?”

Dean scoffed. “If it can take a rougarou it can take us.”

“Because the whole 8.1 quake thing during the Apocalypse wouldn’t have affected the buildings.” And a rougarou’s body worked just like a human’s. Right. But Dean was already charging in. He started racing up the stairs. A face appeared around the corner of the stairwell, snarling and hissing. This was not a monster trying to maintain its humanity. Sam could see that he had some human features, like the eyes and the hair, but he had a beak for crying out loud. How did anyone in Southie seriously not notice the guy with the beak?

Not, of course, that it would matter even if the monster looked perfectly human. That was the kind of moral question for the Other Guy. Funny how Dean was so eager to get the Other Guy back. He didn’t have any more patience for all of the hand wringing about monsters’ humanity than Sam did, and Sam was a monster. He grabbed the tranq gun. It had been loaded with a specific poison Samuel had come up with, one that was unique to rougarou. He took aim, but the thing skittered out of the way. Dean gave chase, conveniently getting between Sam and the monster.

“Damn it, Dean,” he muttered, following. He could probably pass him, but he needed to decide if it was worth dealing with Dean’s ego.

An explosion rocked the building. Sam staggered with the blast, covering his head as cement and plaster rained down upon the pair. His radio squawked. “What the hell was that?” Christian demanded from the van outside.

His eyes surveyed the rubble. The stairwell in front of him had disappeared. “Rougarou detonated the stairwell,” he commented. “The building is compromised.” He glanced up. He might be able to give chase if he could jump far enough to reach the next floor – or if he could go outside and climb up the outside of the building, which was probably the better idea. The exterior would be better supported.

He heard a groan from below. Dean. Crap. The Alpha was getting away. But Dean was down on the stairs below, bleeding and unconscious. The Alpha was the reason for the mission. Logically he should tell Christian and Gwen where Dean was and go after the Alpha – he was the best suited for it after all, and if things went south he’d be the least missed. But it was Dean. Dean, who had turned his face into oatmeal when he’d asked for help. Dean, who was eager to turn him into someone he wasn’t and who hadn’t really liked the Other Guy much more than he liked Sam. And the Alpha couldn’t be allowed to escape and Sam knew – he knew damn well – that he could catch him. He was fast and he was strong and all that sulfur in his blood made him unpalatable to rougarou and most other things that liked to snack on human meat. He should go after the rougarou.

But Christian hated Dean. And Gwen wasn’t much fonder of him. What if they didn’t go get him? What if Dean died of his injuries? Sam might not be overly comfortable with Dean these days but he really didn’t think that he could afford to let Dean die. The world needed him. He was… well, he was Dean. He thought of things like saving people and not killing civilians and things like that, and apparently that was important. He knew on some level that he couldn’t afford to let Dean die. And if Dean were too hurt to call for that damned glowing featherduster of his it had to be Sam that got him out. But even before his train of thought reached its reluctant, logical conclusion he had turned himself around and gotten down to Dean’s location.

His brain squirmed as he moved toward the unconscious form of his brother. Why was he doing this again? The guy admitted that he wanted to kill Sam in his sleep, only stopped by the fact that Sam didn’t sleep and that without Sam’s body he wouldn’t have a way to get the Other Guy back. So why rescue him? It made no sense at all. Sam’s body and hands scrambled toward the still, freckled form like they weren’t even connected to his mind, like something else was driving them toward Dean. It wasn’t logical. Saving Dean wasn’t mission-critical. They were hunters. Things happened. They were replaceable. They were disposable. Why was he doing this, and why couldn’t he stop?

The building creaked ominously. They really needed robots or sniffer dogs or something. Dean was bleeding from cuts to his head and leg. Sam would be surprised if there weren’t some broken ribs at least to go with the concussion he knew his brother had. He stripped himself out of his shirts as quickly as he could, wrapping the most grievous wounds and picking Dean up bridal-style. It wasn’t the safest carry – they’d both be screwed if the rougarou came after them while his arms were full – but he didn’t want to invert Dean with a bleeding head wound. He raced for the exit, making it out just in time to clear the building before another blast brought it down entirely.

He made it to the Impala and laid Dean out on the seat before the van caught up with him. “You didn’t manage to catch the Alpha?” Christian wanted to know.

“No. He got away,” Sam told him evenly. “It was the explosions.”

Gwen was eyeing his torso like some kind of predator. “Damn, man. Do you wash clothes on those?”

He managed a small smirk. “No ma’am. I’m a lot better at dirty.”

Later, when he sat down and had a lot more time to analyze what he’d done (at about four o’clock in the morning as Dean gazed at the television and didn’t speak to him while he worked through the concussion) Sam was able to process what had happened. He had no soul but that didn’t mean he had no instincts. Dean was important – he’d been important to the Other Guy, but Sam found that he was important to him too on an instinctual level. He couldn’t pretend to understand why. It was like he was driven to protect and defend this man, this brother, regardless of his brother’s feelings toward him. He couldn’t fight those instincts, but he could try to analyze them so they didn’t get in the way of a hunt again. At the end of the day it was probably an animalistic thing, he decided.

It was more than that, though. Dean was clean. Dean was pure. Dean was everything that Sam could never be. His soul would never have been abandoned in the Pit; it had been rescued with loving care and polished up and shined. All of creation cherished Dean’s soul, his being. Why would Sam to do any different? And of course there was the ingrained behavior. He could recognize it now that he was removed from it. He’d learned it at the same time that he’d learned his own name, and he’d learned it just as well. “Listen to your brother, Sam.” “Dean’s in charge, Sam.” “Do what your brother tells you, boy.” He could no more abandon Dean than he could stop breathing. Even if it made the most sense. Even if Dean would have preferred anyone else.

“You can call Cas to help you,” he told him. “I don’t mind.”

Dean snorted. “Of course you don’t. Why would you?”

Sam left the room.

Sam could barely stand. He could barely stand and he could barely breathe and the blood in his veins felt like it was on fire and if anyone was in a position to know exactly what spontaneously igniting blood felt like it was Sam Freaking Winchester. On the one hand there was a lot that was just… humiliating about this whole illness portion of the Trials. Dean already knew how weak he was: he’d seen him hallucinating; he’d seen him detoxing; he’d seen him dead he’d; changed his freaking diapers for crying out loud, but Dean wasn’t supposed to see him like that anymore. He was supposed to be seeing him as a man, a real man, a full person, and a goddamn human. But Dean didn’t see that because Sam wasn’t there yet. He wasn’t even close to being there, but at least he was closer, closer than he’d been while Dean was in Purgatory, and closer than he’d been when he’d killed that Hellhound. He’d get there. “I should be taking you to the ER,” Dean groused.

“They can’t do anything for me,” Sam reminded his brother. Not that he wanted the ER to do anything for him even if they could, because this–the illness, the weakness, and the humiliation–was all part of it. He had to be at the lowest point before it could be finished. He knew that now, and it was important, but it was also important to reassure Dean. “You know, I’ve been remembering things, little things, so clearly –“

“What, donkey rides?”

Sam scowled. The donkey ride hadn’t been important except that it had been, and he’d laughed for the first time in years. “You used to read to me, um, when I was little, I- I mean really little, from that – from that old, uh… Classics Illustrated comic book. You remember that?” He could still see the flimsy pages, feel the slightly damp paper under his fingertips and smell the vaguely moldy scent if he let himself. Where had they been – Colorado? He vaguely remembered a crappy motel room with brown carpeting, but that didn’t really narrow it down, and at that age it wasn’t like anyone would have told him where they were.

“No.” Did Dean look confused or distressed?

“Knights of the Round Table. Had all of King Arthur’s knights, and they were all on the quest for the Holy Grail. And I remember looking at this picture of Sir Galahad, and, and, and he was kneeling, and – and light streaming over his face, and – I remember… thinking – I could never go on a quest like that. Because I’m not clean.” Dean flinched, but why should he flinch? How could he not know? “I mean, I w- I was just a little kid. You think… maybe I knew? I mean, deep down, that – I had… demon blood in me, and about the evil of it, and that I’m – wasn’t pure?” This was important. It was important that Dean know these things, even though he surely had to have known back then because he’d known everything back then and if he’d known everything back then he had to have known about this. Dad had known about how filthy Sam was. That was why he’d always disliked Sam, and wanted to stay away from him. Surely Dean must have known as well.

“Sam, it’s not your fault.” Except Dean didn’t believe that. Sam could hear it in his voice, and he’d heard it in his words before. Or maybe it didn’t matter if it was Sam’s fault or not. It wasn’t what he did it was what he was: a monster, right?

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he promised his brother, gripping at the wall so he wouldn’t have to trouble Dean with his weight anymore. “Because these Trials… they’re purifying me.” This would make Dean feel better, that his brother would end as a human. It was what he’d always wanted, right?

Sam woke up slowly. He noticed the absence of pain followed by a general feeling of dizziness. He was warm but not burning; uncomfortable from thirst and blood loss but physically uninjured. Someone had healed him somehow–probably an angel, which meant Cas. No other angel would come near him and risk contamination.

He relaxed and extended his senses. He was alone in the room, whatever room it might be. The bed didn’t feel like his – the mattress felt like memory foam and the sheets had a higher thread count than he usually used. He felt like he was underground, still couldn’t hear much. Somewhere outside the room there were angels, probably not more than two. He’d never really focused on sensing angels; maybe he should have diversified a little. The room itself was free of other consciousnesses, though.

He opened his eyes. It might not have been his mattress or his sheets, but this was his room – or rather the room he used when he was at the bunker. He didn’t have a room that was “his.” That would mean he had a home, and he knew better than to think that. He glanced at his body. He still wore what he’d been wearing when he fell. When he’d been healed it had been cleaned of the blood and mud, but it still had that gross lived-in-for-three-days feel that he hated so much. He grabbed some extra clothes, an angel blade, and a gun and went in search of answers and a shower in that order. Instinct told him that the angels were in the library. He followed his instinct, hand on the hilt of the blade.

He found Castiel sitting at one of the tables, across from an angel with a dark-haired female vessel. “Sam,” Cas greeted, turning. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah, well. I’ve never been very good at sleeping.” He kept his eyes on the woman.

“I suppose that is an accurate observation. This is Hannah.”

“Your old mattress probably had something to do with that,” she surmised. “I replaced it with one more conducive to rest and good posture. Your old mattress was older than your grandfather, Sam. It was not healthful.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable. “It was free. It was here.” He wasn’t entirely sure why angels were talking about the quality of his mattress like it mattered. Maybe she worked at a mattress store in her spare time? Angels had strange hobbies sometimes. “Thanks, though. I guess that the spell was unsuccessful,” he hazarded.

Cas looked like an owl when he blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, you resurrected me. Or healed me. Whichever. I’m alive, so… yeah.” He shuffled stiffly. “Look, just tell me where Dean is and we can do this again until we get it right. I wouldn’t mind a quick shower first.”

Blue eyes rolled. “Is he always like this?” Hannah wanted to know.

“Essentially,” Cas replied. “Sam, sit down. Eat something. You have been asleep for three days.”

“I’m fine. I’m not hungry. Where’s – where’s Dean?”

“Then at least drink something, Sam. Water, at the very least. The spell was a success. The Mark has been erased from your brother – more or less. He can never pick up the First Blade again or else it will return in full force, but that is not unexpected.”

“Then he left.” “He is in the infirmary,” Hannah informed him, attempting to guide him to the table. He fought the urge to shake her hand off his arm; he wasn’t a big fan of angel touches. “He was distraught when he saw the damage he had done. It was extensive.”

“I’m pretty sure the First Blade isn’t a weapon anyone is supposed to survive,” Sam reminded her. “Especially not monsters. My life flashed before my eyes.”

“You’re not a monster, Sam,” Cas pointed out. “Not entirely.” The closest thing Sam had to a friend sighed. “The damage would not have been quite so extensive if it were not for your unique physiology,” he admitted. “But that gave us more incentive to work quickly. We could not afford to lose you.”

“Are you kidding?” He blinked. “Cas, something like me shouldn’t even be here in the first place. It would have been a perfect –“

“Sam Winchester, do not finish that sentence.” There was strength behind those words, power. “We have discussed this. Nothing is worth losing you.”

He sighed. Neither he nor Cas had convinced each other before, and they wouldn’t convince each other now. “Can I see Dean?”

“He is asleep. Sedated, for his own safety.”

“I just want to know he’s okay.”

The angels glanced at each other. “Very well.” They escorted him to the infirmary – an awkward dynamic in a place he’d been living for over a year – and allowed him to look on Dean’s still, slumbering form. Sam felt his shoulders relax. At least he hadn’t managed to destroy Dean too – not completely anyway.

They brought him back to the kitchen and put a bowl of soup in front of him. Cas had simply emptied it from a can and into a bowl but the tomato liquid was as warm as if it had been actually reheated. “It was easier,” his comrade shrugged. “I do not like the microwave. I do not trust it.”

“It’s just a kitchen appliance, Cas.”

“So they would have you believe. You have not had to clean one after a troop of middle-schoolers have passed through and tried to microwave their Gas-n-Sip burritos.” He shuddered. “I do not recommend Gas-n-Sip attendant as a career path.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Sam deadpanned.

“Sam,” Castiel told him, “I need for you to understand something about this whole mess. True, Dean is the one who slew Abaddon, but you are the one who saved the souls she stole from the living. You are the one whose blood saved your brother. Sam,” he continued, “You were the one who washed your brother clean of the Mark of Cain. Do you understand me?”

Sam sighed. “Sure, Cas,” he said, forcing a thin, artificial smile. “Listen, I’ve been in the same clothes for a while. I think I’d like to wash myself clean of the grunge, okay?”

And with that he went and fetched his shower things. The shower was no longer or shorter than normal. He might have spend slightly less time scrubbing and slightly more time appreciating the water pressure, but if so then that was no one’s business but his own.