Archive of Our Own

I wouldn’t exactly say I have the best relationship with Sam and Dean. They’re great people and all, don’t get me wrong…

Actually, scratch that. They’re kinda dicks, even at the best of times. And it’s not like I don’t get it. They’re a little too preoccupied with saving the world and all to worry about my mental health. But it’d be nice for once, just once, to feel like I’m valued as a member of the team. Or as their equal. Pretty much anything close in level to a human being.

No such luck, so far. I’ve been living in a boathouse owned by their hunting “buddy” Garth, which has probably been filthy since he first got it. My last shower was around two days ago, and I’m ripe enough that the smell would be too overwhelming for even me if my nose wasn’t constantly stuffy. My diet’s been a healthy mix of hot dogs, coffee, Adderall and Advil. I stopped vomiting after the first few weeks of only meat, and now the smell of burning pig fat is just fine to my vegetarian nose. The Advil helps with my headaches about as much as a glass of ice water helps put out a forest fire, and the Adderall might help me focus but it’s also the equivalent of dumping gasoline on the aforementioned forest fire that is my headache.

None of this has lit a fire under the ass of either Winchester. The best I’ve gotten from Dean is a long talk about how they need me to suck it up and take one for the team. Sam’s been even less help. The only advice he’s managed to give is some spiel about how “it gets better”, like the issue at hand is small enough that it can be resolved with some helpful words from Dan Savage. In fact, since that moment we had in the church, I haven’t been alone with Sam - if I get company, it’s either both brothers or just Dean. Which is fair, I guess. Nothing less than I expected. After all, he couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger to help me at all last year when I was on the run from Crowley, so I guess the thought of interacting with me is just that repulsive to him.

I know I’m not being fair, and my empathetic side reminds me about this whenever I think about Sam. Unfortunately, the constant headaches and urge to vomit every time I fry up some hot dogs give Asshole-Kevin the upper hand. And anyway, this argument’s pointless. It’ll only stop me from translating the Demon Tablet. The sooner I get this done, the sooner the Winchesters can carry out the trials, and the sooner I never have to see either of them ever again.

I’ve been poring over the tablet for 5 hours straight, since I got up. So far, it’s been going great. Really. I’ve reread the same line for twenty minutes, unsure whether it’s a reference point for how Hell forms its hierarchy or a really complicated Proto-Assyrian cocktail mix. Context clues would point to the former, but sleep deprivation and the vagueness of these tablet-reading powers have me unsure at this point.

A loud knocking saves me (I think) from this dilemma. Getting up from the table, I make my way toward the door and look through the peephole. The image of the person on the other side is distorted a little, but the flannel and long hair leave little doubt in my mind.

Fuck.

Of course, it would have to be Sam. Cause why wouldn’t it be. Seems having the shittiest possible outcome in every situation is part and parcel in being God’s Prophet. Dead girlfriend - check. Ruined future - check. Weird conversation with the more socially awkward of my two shitty protectors - check.

“Hey, Kevin,” Sam greets when I open the door. “Brought you some food.” He hefts the plastic bag in his hand up in indication. Wordlessly, I let him enter. The hunter scans the room before placing the bag of food on the table, before pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down.

I walk up and cautiously untie the bag. The food the Winchesters have brought me in the past few weeks is even worse the hot dogs. Dean’s “gift” of baby back ribs and loaded fries the last time he stopped by had me popping Antacid pills like they were Altoids for half a day.

For the most part, the takeout looks harmless. A Styrofoam cup containing what’s most likely soup delicately perches on top of a larger square-shaped container. There’s no guarantee it will taste good, but it beats Oscar Meyers.

As I open the soup container, the overwhelming scent of familiar spices hit me, even through my clogged sinuses. Looking down in shock, I see scallions, basil, mint and sprouts floating around a broth that I’d recognize anywhere.

“Pho?” I ask, almost surprised.

“We made a pit stop in Kansas City and I thought I’d check out the Vietnamese food.” Sam explains. “It took a few tries to find a decent vegetarian option, but this place seemed nice.” I give him a dubious look. Neither Winchester seems the type to consider my dietary restrictions when picking up food. Then again, I usually assume the worst of them, just because it saves time. Lifting the soup up to my lips, I sigh in relief at how good it tastes, even lukewarm. “It’s been sitting in the car for a while. I can warm it up for you if you want to shower quick.”

I take Sam’s offer as a subtle indication I smell bad. He’s not wrinkling his nose or looking on in disgust, but I suppose he’s smelled a hell of a lot worse. As Sam grabs a pot and pan and places them on the stove, I head toward the bathroom and strip down before getting into the shower.  The hot water is a balm, easing the tension in my shoulders and back. I wash off any grime with the dollar-store bar of soap in the shower, suddenly grateful I no longer have hair long enough to make shampoo and conditioner a necessity rather than a privilege. By the time I finish the water’s bone-chillingly cold, and the air’s heavy with the familiar spices of Vietnamese cooking.

Once I change into something less dirty, the pho is waiting for me in a steaming bowl on the table. Beside it is a plate full of the tofu-fried rice and egg roll that must have been in the square container. The scent of the food sends a rumble to my stomach, and I practically dive head-first into the bowl. There’s about a minute’s worth of me noisily slurping the broth up with a spoon and making shameful noises while Sam just watches silently.

“So how’s everything been going?” He asks. I pause in my hunger, giving a small shrug.

“I’m halfway through cracking the second trial, I think, so –” Sam shakes his head, cutting me off.

“No, I mean like emotionally.” A frown etches into my face. Sure, Sam gives off a more sensitive vibe than Dean, but am I seriously having an impromptu therapy session with the guy who left me at Crowley’s mercy?

“Doing what I have to do.” This doesn’t give him the satisfaction I thought it would, because he gives an audible sigh.

“Kev,” Sam looks up with sad soulful eyes. “Look, I know you want to get this over with. I get it, trust me. But burning the candle at both ends is just gonna get you burnt out.” Wow, he’s seriously going there.

“Yeah, I know. ‘It's a marathon, not a sprint. You got to take better care of yourself.’ I know,” I say, barely refraining from rolling my eyes. “I don’t think you understand. The longer it takes to finish this, the longer I’m stuck here.”

“I understand a lot more than you think. And I know closing Hell seems like it’ll be the end of all this, and trust me, I want to believe it is, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up in case it’s not.” He says, leaning forward in his chair. “There’s times I’ve felt like I was out of hunting for good. But one way or another, it’s always managed to drag me back in.”

“Like when you didn’t answer my calls for a year?” It’s an asshole comment, but I don’t have time to tiptoe around other people’s feelings.

“I wasn’t trying to leave hunting.” He says softly. “I know I deserted you, and no amount of apologizing can make up for that, but I wasn’t doing it on purpose.” I try and fail holding back a sigh. We fall into an awkward silence.

“Why are you here?” I ask suddenly. “No offense, but you guys don’t exactly pop in for a visit when you don’t need something.” Sam huffs out a weird half-chuckle, smiling slightly.

“We caught a case in Chicago. It’s definitely out of the way, but it was too good for Dean to pass up.” He explains, amusement in his voice. It’s disturbing how much these guys delight in this kind of stuff, but I guess it’s part of the job description.

“How can you be sure it’s a case?” I ask, morbidly curious. “A lot of people die in weird ways in big cities.” Sam nods, as if acknowledging my point.

“Blake Marston, Northwestern student, victim of what authorities are saying was a freak animal attack two nights ago.” I mentally tick through all the monsters I’ve learned about from the Winchesters and Garth, and what their attacks normally manifest as on the news or police scanners.

“Werewolf?” Sam shakes his head.

“We wouldn’t run all the way to Chicago for werewolves right now. The victim was right outside a club, so there were a ton of witnesses.” He scoots forward in his chair. “According to the twenty-ish people who were there, Blake was attacked by a herd of vicious rabbits.” I give a weird involuntary laugh.  Sam’s lips twitch at my reaction. “Like I said; Dean couldn’t resist.” Sam pauses for a moment, pulling out his phone, most likely to check if he has any messages from Dean. “I was checking to see if maybe you wanted to come along? Get some fresh air for once?”

I take a while to consider his offer. Getting to leave the cesspool of this boathouse is promising, but a hunting trip doesn’t exactly sound like an ideal break. It might even be worse than being stuck here. Being around one Winchester for long periods of time is awkward enough, but combined they suck all the air out of a room. Plus, it’s not exactly like I’m rushing to finish translating the Demon Tablet so I can jump headfirst into becoming a hunter. I’m trying to get away from their life.

But then Sam’s words about the trials not necessarily being the end stick in my head. He’s usually been the optimist of the two, but if even his attempts to leave hunting haven’t worked, that can’t bode well for me. I might as well prepare just in case he’s right.

“Sure. What do I need to pack?”

The gravity of my mistake begins to weigh on me. Between the strobe lights and the deafening music around me, I feel like I’m about to have a seizure. In my stupid naivety, I figured my first hunt would involve me sitting in an air-conditioned hotel room, behind wards and locked doors and hunters armed to the teeth.

Instead, I’m standing in the middle of a gay club in downtown Chicago, with a guy 10 years older than me, who I’ve known for barely over a year.

The worst part is that this isn’t a hazing ritual, a prank planned in advance by the Winchesters. Sam and Dean woke up this morning having as little clue as I did that whatever we were hunting would require going to a gay bar. It was only this afternoon, with some Pad Thai lunch (seriously, is Sam just going through a list of vegetarian Asian foods that he thinks I might like?) that we managed to get a read on the culprit.

I don’t consider myself judgmental. I know most people would like to consider themselves nonjudgmental, but the only person I used to look at critically was myself. My first reaction to anything horrible is usually sympathy for the person affected by it, and this case was no exception. But after finding out more about Blake Marston, I can’t help but think he deserved to get torn apart by savage bunnies.

We managed to gather a lot of information on Northwestern’s campus, both from Sam and Dean posing as FBI agents and me posing as a writer for the student paper. According to the members of Sigma Alpha Epsilon, he was a loyal brother and friend throughout his years at Northwestern. To absolutely everyone else, he was an asshole.

He was every terrible stereotype people believed about fraternity brothers – drunk, rowdy, sexist, coercive, bullying, and most importantly, wealthy. The only way he hadn’t been written up, or suspended for that matter, was because his parents had no scruples using their position as very affluent donors to throw money at any of the messes their son had created.

In fact, he’d just very recently gotten off on community service for assault. Apparently, Gay Panic Defense is still a recognized legal argument in Chicago, at least when your Dad knows a friend of a friend of the judge and can stop the case from reaching a jury. Of course, Malik Perez, the guy who mistakenly thought Blake was open to flirting from other men, barely got enough out of the settlement to cover his first round of medical bills.

By some bizarre miracle, all Sam needed to do was google “homosexuality rabbits mythology” for us to find our culprit. Tu’er Shen, the Chinese god of Homosexual Love and affairs, who according to legend took the form of a baby rabbit.

And that’s how we ended up here, in The Rabbit Hole, the bar Malik visited the night of his attack. Well, also because Dean coerced me into “keeping an eye on Sam”. Yeah, cause if anyone wants a piece of 6’4 hunter, you know who will make them reconsider– the twenty-year-old Asian who barely comes up to his chest.

I’m far outside my comfort zone, in so many ways. On a more basic level, I’m terrified that I’m the only backup for Sam. If we have any unwelcome encounters, Sam’s pretty much on his own. The Winchesters didn’t think it pertinent to give me any training before throwing me to the wolves, because their method of fighting the supernatural seems to be “Get used as a punching bag until you get a killshot”.

Then there’s the atmosphere of this place. Growing up in upper-middle class suburbia, I didn’t have a heavy exposure to gay people. Gay was an insult kids in my middle school threw around to hurt each other. By high school, the only people still using it were the numbskulls who picked on the people everyone else had placed in a category mentally marked as “outcasts”. And I didn’t fit into that category, usually, because I already occupied the “Preppy Nerds” category, and in high school there was no such thing as existing outside of the box people had already placed you into.

I’ve tried convincing myself that I didn’t have anything in common with the few representations of gay people that I’d been exposed to in High School and on TV  – guys who were into musical theater and painted their nails and spoke in a manner considered effeminate, girls who shaved their heads or dyed their hair every color of the rainbow and wore jeans and leather. Any time I’ve stared at a guy longer than what could be considered a glance, any time I’ve appreciated the way he looks, I’ve told myself that it’s normal. It doesn’t make me gay. After all, how could it? I dated Channing. I’ve found girls hot. You can’t do that and be gay.

“Relax,” Sam says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re way too skittish – you stick out like a sore thumb.” Looking around, I realize he may have a point; a few nearby people are glancing at our table.

Not entirely sure if it’s because how I’m acting though. We already stand out as a pretty odd couple (not like a couple couple – well, actually, I’m pretty sure they already think we are a couple couple). Even with the stubble I’ve started to grow, I barely look twenty. The difference in our age is even more exaggerated by the difference in size. I might be just an inch below the height of the average U.S man, but next to Sam, I look like a child. I must still look uneasy, because he gives an understanding smile.

“Try taking your mind off things. Think about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like what you’re going to do once the trials are over.” The question throws me.

“What?” Sam gives a weird half-laugh.

“You haven’t been subtle about how much you want to finish them and get back to your normal life.” He points out. I turn a bright red. As much as I’ve seen both Winchesters as lacking when it comes to caring about other people’s needs, Sam’s proven much more aware then I gave him credit for. Now I look like a dick.

“It’s not, umm….” I try to think of a way to explain away how I’ve been behaving. Sam just shrugs it off.

“It’s okay. Hunting’s not the greatest lifestyle choice, and Dean and I aren’t exactly the best company in the world.” He says. “I don’t blame you for wanting out. I’ve tried.” That’s the second time Sam’s brought up trying to quit in two days. I kind of shut him up the first time with my dismissive comment, not even stopping to ask him what had happened.

Well, no time like the present.

“What happened?” The hunter exhales sharply, the lines in his face becoming harsher and more pronounced. For a minute, Sam looks a thousand years old.

“I hated the life when I was younger.” He says, staring off into nothingness. “I walked out when I was 18, thought I was finally out of it, that I could go to college and live a normal life.”

“You went to college?” I shouldn’t sound so surprised. Sam’s shown that he isn’t exactly a slouch, but I just assumed all his book smarts had been from independent reading. The hunter gives a slight smile at my reaction, nodding slowly.

“Yep. Spent four years at Stanford.”

“Stanford. Like, the Stanford.” Sam nods again, smiling further. “That’s uh…” I walk back my statement. Apparently, I haven’t been subtle hiding my opinions about the Winchesters, and no matter how I phrase it, he might think I’m implying he’s too dumb to have been at Stanford. “That’s amazing. What were you studying?”

“I was majoring in Public Policy, was pretty much guaranteed a spot at Stanford Law, but I managed to take a few fun gen eds.”  Looking up, he still sees he has my attention, so he continues. “I almost had an art history minor. My girlfriend was really into that.” Sam’s voice becomes much more somber, answering any questions I was about to ask about her.

The conversation is dead almost as quickly as it started. We continue scanning the room in silence, and I struggle to hear myself think over the club music. The information I’ve found out is a lot to wrap my head around. It’s making me almost woozy.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom.” I say, nearly running away from the table before Sam has a chance to follow. Winding in and out of the crowd, I manage to walk down a narrow hall with almost black walls, the graffiti on the sides illuminated by the black light overhead. Pushing open the door with a little male symbol on the front, I enter a stark white bathroom with harsh lighting overhead. It’s thankfully empty.

Walking over to one of the sinks, I crank the faucet on and cup my hands to catch some of the ice-cold water, before throwing it on my face. Goosebumps erupt all up and down my arms, and a shiver runs down my spine. For good measure, I splash my face a couple more times.

Lifting my head up, I look into the mirror to see a stranger staring back at me. It’s been a few months since Crowley shaved my hair, but I’m still not used to it being this short. My hair’s always been long. Had always been long. I haven’t stopped shaking my head to toss nonexistent hair out of my face. Still reach up to run my fingers through air when I need to calm myself down.

It isn’t just the hair, either. My face has lost all the roundness it had when I was in high school. Bullying wasn’t really a big problem, but I did get teased for having a baby face. I was afraid that I’d be stuck with it forever, looking far too young for my age group. Now it’s all harsh angles and shapes. The dark stubble growing into a facsimile of a beard makes me look even older. It was barely a year ago when I shaved every other day to stop the appearance of facial hair I couldn’t grow. I’m lucky if I remember to shave once a month now, and I’ve all but given up on trying.

Is it possible that it’s been less than a year since I got dragged into all this? Has hunting aged me so much that I can’t even recognize myself? The dark circles beneath my eyes might be the only thing I recognize, but these bags are from heavier burdens than pulling an all-nighter on an exam I’d been prepping for for over a month.

I had a feeling that Sam was a little closer to my personality than Dean. That’s probably part of the reason I took so much notice of him. But it’s scary to see how many similarities we share, dreams of escaping hunting, dead girlfriends and ruined Ivy-League aspirations just to name a few (Stanford’s not technically an Ivy, but the point still stands). And apparently this is a long-going battle for Sam, ever since he was my age. I’m starting to wonder if the way he distanced himself from me was on purpose, a means to make sure we don’t end up sharing the same bad luck.

“Hey.” Coming back to reality, I suddenly realize I’m not alone. Staring back at me in the mirror is a second stranger. This one is too different, too alien to possibly be me. Maybe we’re both hallucinations.

She’s almost as tall as Sam, with incredibly dark skin. Her makeup is overdrawn to an absurd extent with bright neon colors, matching her gaudy rainbow dress. Her hair falls down from her head in long black curtains.

“You okay, sweetie?” She asks. Her voice is dark and soft, carrying all the comfort of a kindergarten teacher.

“This is the men’s room.” Is all I manage to blurt out. She gives a gentle laugh.

“Yeah, I’m aware. I’m flattered, but I only get paid to dress as a woman.” I must look bewildered, because the stranger clarifies further. “What, you never seen a drag queen before?” I shake my head slowly. Laughing yet again, she approaches the mirror, till her shadow hovers over me. “Always happy to be someone’s first. Name’s Shawn. But here it’s Helen Highwater.”

“You’re not a woman?” Shawn laughs again, and I mentally slap myself.

“No. If you wanted a woman, you should’ve come an hour ago. Sheerah Lamb’s a regular at this club and she’s one of the hardest-working queens in the city. Except of course yours truly.” He winks, a miraculous feat considering the length of his eyelashes. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Ke – Alvin. Calvin…Cho.” I need to work on having more fake names to come up with on the fly. Shawn raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say contradict me.

“Well, Calvin , I won’t rat you out, even though I’m sure you’re not old enough to be in here. I just wanted to make sure that big fella out there isn’t giving you any trouble.” I frown slightly, and Shawn elaborates. “The guy you were standing with? Tall, long hair, lumberjack fantasy-sexy, just a few serial killer vibes?”

“Oh.” Almost immediately, my face heats up. Someone actually did think we’re a couple- or, rather, someone thought Sam was a creepy older man taking advantage of me. “He’s not.. he’s my ..” I try to come up with a lie on the spot. “He’s my friend’s older brother.” I’m met again with a face of disbelief. “He didn’t want to bring me but I begged him to. I wanted to know what it’s like. He knew I’d try to find a way in anyway and it would be safer with someone to look out for me. Especially after what happened to that one guy, the one who got beat up.” Shawn’s face softens somewhat (at least I think it does – I can’t really tell through the makeup).

“Well, I don’t blame him. We all come here to be safe, but it’s not really safe at all, is it? My trans friends get shit all the time. The kids who come in are easy pickings for old pervs who make the rest of us look bad. A gay bashing happens right outside our door, and the fucker who did it gets off scot-free.” Shawn stares off into nothingness for a moment, before turning back to me. “You might want to stick close to your friend. He’s big and pretty masc. I don’t think anyone will be giving you trouble with him around.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Even if you aren’t together, maybe play it up a little. The creepy old men won’t bother with you if you’re climbing that tree.” My face heats up even more, but the drag queen just winks once again. I mutter my thanks and exit the bathroom, making my way out of the long dark hall back to the table I left Sam at.

It’s not like I haven’t noticed that Sam’s good-looking. I mean, I haven’t thought about it, but I’m observant enough to realize he looks attractive. To other people. Maybe. It’s not like I want to date him or anything. Because I don’t.

As I make my way back to the table, I see that Sam isn’t alone. The other guy is around his age, and the most notable thing about his appearance is that his jaw seems to be constantly in motion. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but Sam’s face is mastered into that of a person who’s trying to hide the fact that they’re annoyed. He looks almost relieved when I come into view.

“Hey, babe, where’d you go?” I start at the endearment. Hearing Sam call anyone ‘babe’ is off-putting, especially me. His face has broken out into a smile, eyes pointing in the direction the stranger at our table, who’s stopped his incessant jabbering. After an embarrassingly long moment, I pick up on the unspoken message.

“Bathroom.” Of course now is the moment Sam decides we have to fake being a couple. I don’t have to kiss him, right? Couples may kiss, but like, when they come home from work, or something. Not when one of them returns from the bathroom at a club. Is it different for gay couples?

The stranger looks put out, sizing me up. He doesn’t seem all that impressed. The feeling’s mutual. He looks a little like if G.I Joe stole Ken’s wardrobe and was left a little too long in a tanning booth.

“This is your boyfriend?” He asks, almost offended. It’s not clear which one of us he’s talking to, but Sam just nods and wraps an arm around me. I say a silent prayer of thanks for the club lighting, because I can feel my face burn up.

“Yeah. Babe, this is Kyle,” Sam gestures to the stranger, before pointing back to me. “Kyle, Daniel.” Kyle looks a little like he sucked on a lemon when he turns to me.

“You’re dating him? Does he even have a signed permission slip to be here?” Sam doesn’t say anything, because really I shouldn’t be here, but he can’t exactly admit that.

“Look, thanks the drink and all, I’m flattered,” Sam says. “But uh.. as you can see, I came here with someone, so the answer’s gonna be no.” Kyle doesn’t seem calmed down by that at all. If he holds the drink in his hand any tighter, he might end up with shattered glass in his palm and a trip to the emergency room. Hopefully he doesn’t throw the glass or something. If this becomes a bar fight Sam for sure will win. We might get charged with assault, but he’ll win. But if Tu’er Shen or whatever else killed Blake Marston decides we committed a hate crime, we also might end up as rabbit food.

“I’m not used to getting turned down.” Clearly ‘no’ isn’t an adequate answer in Kyle’s mind, because he seems to be doubling down. “You’re making a big mistake if you’re passing me up for Short Round here.” Okay, maybe I’m the one that’s going to start a bar fight. My fists clench, and I can feel Sam’s arms weigh down on my shoulders.

“Get over yourself, Kyle.” Out of nowhere, another stranger appears at our table. He’s only a little shorter than Sam, and much bulkier and more toned all over. His age is impossible to tell, but he’s very clearly Asian too. I want to say Chinese or Korean, but I can’t be sure. He’s dressed in the same black outfit as the rest of the servers, so I at least can be sure that he’s probably an employee of the club. His eyes narrow in on Kyle. “From what your regular trade says, your bedroom manners aren’t shit. Now, leave the nice couple alone.”

“Or what, Hu? You’ll throw me out?” Kyle asks, sneering. The waiter’s expression doesn’t change at all.

“Don’t tempt me.” He says. “Go. Now .” Kyle gives us one last glare before walking away, head held high. Hu watches him leave for a moment, before turning back to us.

“Sorry about him. He’s an asshole - more so when he’s drunk. Didn’t want him to start anything with you.” He apologizes. Sam gives a shrug.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” An awkward tug reminds me that his hands are still resting on my shoulder, and suddenly I’m nodding in agreement. Hu smiles.

“Let me just get you some drinks for the table.” He says. “I’d be a shitty bar owner if I didn’t, after that awful encounter.” I hold back a groan of frustration. I’ve been dragged into three separate conversations in the last half hour with utter strangers. Miraculously, I’m kind of longing for the conversations just between us. Then at least we wouldn’t have to have this awkward ‘posing as a couple’ thing. Shawn mentioned using Sam to fight off predatory older men. Never thought Sam would flip it around to ward off men who couldn’t tell he wasn’t gay. By some miracle, the hunter speaks up.

“We were about to head out, actually,” He starts to explain. Hu chuckles.

“I don’t think so, Sam. It would be so rude of me to let you just up and leave, after you came all this way to find little old me.” The music and shouting decrescendos into nothingness. People on the dance floor start falling and rising in slow motion, as if swimming through syrup, before eventually freezing completely. I feel Sam tense up, and try to pull me away, but we’re both rooted to the spot.

Trapped. With nowhere to go.

“Let me guess - Tu’er Shen.” Sam says. The Asian man gives a chuckle. Grasping his black v-neck, he tugs it down towards his chest. Resting right beneath his collarbone is the silhouette of a lone rabbit.

“You know, for two very smart people, you have to admit that tracking me down here was pretty stupid.” The god says, sitting back in his chair. “A less forgiving god would probably kill you where you stand.” I suddenly feel infinitely smaller, which is only exaggerated by the fact that Sam’s hovering over me. My heart’s pounding out of my chest, leaping up into my throat. I might’ve been close to death many times in the past year, but the Leviathans or even Crowley have nothing on the fear a god can strike into you.

“Why don’t you, then?” I ask, much more bravely than I feel. Tu’er Shen stares me down with his endless dark eyes, lips quirking up into a smirk.

“When I saw that it was you two coming in, I thought we could come to an understanding.” He says. “If it had been the other one, your brother, it’d have been a fight to the death for sure. And as much satisfaction as it would give me to be the one to defeat the Winchesters, ‘consumed by herd of vicious rabbits’ is hardly the Hero’s End you two deserve.” Sam gives a huff of something that might be laughter, tinged with a little fear.

“What, you figured demon blood means I’m more prone to roll over for a monster than Dean?”  The pagan rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Winchester. Despite what you’ve had drilled into your head, being an individual, apart from your brother, is not a such a bad thing. And no, I wasn’t referring to the demon blood.” That is something to file away for later for sure. Not that Sam or Dean will give me a straight answer if I ask them. “Do you even know what I do?”

“You’re the god of gay love.” I say, trying to recall the information from the Wikipedia article as best I can. Tu’er Shen considers this for a moment, making a ‘kind-of’ gesture with his hand.

“Yes. Between men.” He clarifies. “Nothing against lesbians or bi women, of course. It’s just that my dominion as a deity only covers the affairs of men. Which means any man, romantically or sexually attracted to other men, falls under my protection. Including you two.”

I make a sound that’s halfway between a squawk and a meep. My instinct is to hide, but I find myself pinned between an immobile Sam and the table with nowhere to run. A thousand protests come to my lips, but the pagan holds up a dismissive hand.

“Save it, kid. Your thoughts are incredibly loud, so I’ve already heard everything you could be about to say. In summary, sexual attraction is not a binary, and you and I both know you’ve just spent the last five minutes having the gay crisis to end all gay crises about Mountain Man here.” He glances up at Sam, and back down to me, before smirking once more. “You’re practically sitting in his lap.” Every muscle in my body is trying to help catapult me out from where Sam is defensively hovering over me. The gesture might’ve been protective at first, but now it’s not only humiliating but puts me in smiting range of the god.

“Let him go.” Sam growls. And that almost makes it worse, considering he’s as stuck as I am. He feels the need to defend me, like some little kid. Tu’er Shen appraises the hunter.

“Not a word of denial from you, though. Interesting.” He says. “Especially considering your older brother is the personification of ‘No Homo’.” Raising a finger, he makes a flourishing gesture. Almost immediately, I feel motion flood back into my body and practically jump away from Sam. Looking around, I see the rest of the club is still at a standstill. Tu’er Shen raises his hands in a pacifistic manner, looking highly amused. “I already told you boys. I’m not here to harm you, or anyone.”

“Tell that to Blake Marston.”

“Anyone except homophobic little shits who come to my turf and attack men under my protection.” The deity amends. Sam seems unconvinced. “Oh come on. He came to a gay club with his frat buddies to prey on women, then beat up Malik for thinking he was gay. He got exactly what was coming to him.”

“Guess you kinda suck as a protector, then.” Sam says coldly. “You couldn’t protect Malik. And if you’re supposed to be protecting us, you’re doing a piss-poor job at it. You enjoy doling out the punishments, but you’re not helping anyone.” Tu’er Shen looks stricken at the statement, stepping back slightly.

“This is about Brady.” Almost immediately, Sam’s body clenches up. It mimics the way he shut down earlier when he brought up his girlfriend. But her name couldn’t possibly be Brady. Could it? “You have every right to be angry, Sam, but you know Heaven and Hell wouldn’t have sat idly by and let me fuck up their plans. I wanted desperately to protect your boyfriend. And your girlfriend, for that matter. But they would’ve stopped me if I’d tried. You’ve seen first hand that we old gods aren’t so bulletproof when it comes to angels.”

“Some god.” Sam responds, in a tone that’s forcedly calm. Tu’er Shen dips his head slightly, perhaps in admission. “Still doesn’t explain why you wanted us to find you.” The god laughs.

“What is a god without a little petty meddling in the affairs of you humans?” He asks, punctuating the question with a theatrical swirl of his hands. I frown a bit in confusion, looking to Sam in hope that he has some clue of an answer. No such luck, as he looks equally confused. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the deity offers some muttered Chinese that’s probably ancient. And probably not things you’d say in public. “Are you two always this dense?” We don’t answer, and he gives another groan. “Well, at least you’re a match for intellect.” There’s another pause, this time broken by Sam.

“That’s not gonna happen.” The god rolls his eyes. “You can’t honestly think we’re going to be a couple just because you say so.”

“Why? What’s wrong?” Tu’er Shen asks. “You get someone to come home to, someone to make life just a little more worth living, and Closet Case over here can come to terms with who he is with someone experienced, who won’t hurt or take advantage of him.” He shrugs his shoulders slightly.  “Killing two birds with one stone. One of my better arrangements, if I may say so myself.” The implications of what Tu’er Shen’s trying to do sinks in. Any more blood rushes to my face, and my head might explode.

“It’s just a suggestion.” Tu’er Shen says finally, when he sees he hasn’t won us over, holding his hands up in a placating manner. “Take it or leave it, do with it what you will. Just know that any love that may blossom between the two of you has the official ‘god of the Gays’ stamp of approval.” At this point I’m hoping the floor will just swallow me up. Sam, who’s usually pretty hard to read, looks almost as flustered as I am. If the club’s lighting wasn’t so dim, I’d be able to say for sure whether he’s flushing as well.

“You think we’ll let you go because you make some big show of, what, matchmaking?” Sam challenges. Tu’er Shen just gives another roll of his eyes in response.

“You honestly still think you’re going to kill me. Why? Your brother’s perfectly fine dictating who you do and don’t have to save, as long as they’re his buddies. To the point of traumatizing you with a fake distress call.” I have no idea what the god is saying, or whether his taunt has any base. But it sure gives Sam pause. Perhaps sensing that he has the hunter caught, Tu’er Shen chuckles. “Come on, Sam. Even the score a little. You don’t have to tell Dean about me, the same way he clearly didn’t feel the need to tell you about his vampire friend.” I can tell about a thousand things are going through Sam’s mind right now. Even though I’m way out of my depth here, I have to say something.

“Sam, you’re not actually going to trust him, are you?” I ask. “What, you’re letting him go just to get back at Dean for some stupid petty reason?” From across the table, the deity gives me an unimpressed expression.

“Don’t get it twisted, I could kill you both with a snap of my fingers. I’m giving Sam here the option to back away now, and not be stupid.” Those endless black eyes fixate on me, seemingly boring a hole into my soul. “This is me choosing to save your life, Kevin Tran.” A shudder runs down my spine, but the phrase doesn’t sound threatening. It seems more like a warning. The god looks to Sam, before turning back to me. “I think we’ll finish this conversation in private.”

I’m enveloped in darkness before I can protest. The sensation of free-falling overwhelms me before I land hard. Everything around me is spinning, light blinding in contrast to the overwhelming darkness I was just through. When the spinning stops enough for me to manage sitting up, I blink and observe my surroundings. It takes a bit, but I recognize this as the shoddy motel room the Winchesters decided to set up camp in for this hunt. I’m on the bed that was declared mine, because Sam and Dean handled the idea of getting me another room to sleep in almost as poorly as they handle their own separation anxiety. But of course they’d never admit that. They’re too wrapped up in the image of their masculinity that they can’t even share a bed. The couch in the corner could barely fit either of them, and yet Sam was curled up on it last night as best as he could.

Sam.

My stomach drops as I remember Tu’er Shen still has him. I reach grab the phone Dean  gave me for emergencies, only to find my pocket’s empty.

Fuck. We’re so screwed.

Okay, maybe there’s no need to panic. I mean, Sam and Dean have fought Pagans before. They’ve been separated and held hostage before. It’s nothing they haven’t dealt with. We’re just dealing with a god.

Who managed to stop time around us. And teleport me away. Right onto the mattress I’ve slept on, in the motel we picked out, which meant that he’s been watching us since we got to Chicago.

Yeah, we’re beyond screwed.

Come on, Tran, Focus. Don’t break under pressure. Think.

I can probably ask to borrow the lobby phone downstairs end to let Dean know it was a setup. Thankfully I was smart enough to memorize his phone number. Well, both of their phone numbers. Though Sam’s isn’t gonna be useful much longer if he ends up dead. He can’t be dead, though. Tu’er Shen said he didn’t want to harm us. I hope he’s not dead.

I grab the emergency pen and pad Sam left on the nightstand between the two beds. It’s a weird place to put it, almost like they’ve been in this exact situation before. If they have, it means Sam’s gotten out alive. That leaves hope for him making it out alive this time too.

I think.

I scribble down the numbers as they appear in my mind, broken down into smaller groups. One group of three, then another, and then one group of four. Double- and triple-checking, I try to feel confident, but my mind’s set in hard panic mode. Maybe I replaced one by accident, or am just ever so off that every number’s one spot further than it should be, or maybe this is just the completely wrong number.

It’s almost funny that I’m getting test anxiety about this. But back in high school it was maybe just a question wrong on a test. Now my mind is treating me with images of Sam torn into a bloody mass of unidentifiable body parts or burned alive.

I don’t pay attention to where I’m walking, and quite collide face-first into solid mass. Looking up, I come face to face with a very puzzled-looking Sam. From instinct or relief or a combination of the two, my arms shoot out to wrap him into a hug. It’s been a while since I’ve hugged anyone – surprisingly, Sam and Dean aren’t the types to offer up physical affection, or affection of any kind for that matter.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for me to come to my senses. Sam’s not exactly soft, but his heartbeat is a nice steady beat. Andante . I’m just starting to calm down, but my little hyperventilation really sent my heartrate soaring. A cough from Sam snaps me to my senses, and I pull away from the hug.

“You okay?” I ask. Sam looks relatively shaken, but I can’t see any physical injuries. At least, nothing fatal.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He says, looking around the hotel room. “Was I gone long?” I shake my head.

“No, I only got here a few minutes before you did.” Looking at the alarm clock, I see that it’s only been an hour since Dean dropped us off at the club. I guess we hadn’t been talking to Tu’er Shen for long, but it seems like it should’ve been longer. I look back to Sam, whose expression is pretty much unreadable. “Why, how long has it been for you?”

“Few minutes sounds about right.” He says, nodding slowly. I can tell he’s lying, or at least hiding something, but I let it pass.

“So, what’s the plan?” Sam looks at me, confused. “Tu’er Shen. We need Dean’s help to take him on, right? We definitely can’t let him go.” He pauses, turning to look at me. It’s kind of unnerving – I swear that Tu’er Shen gave me the exact same look before he whisked me away. Pulling his phone out, Sam presses a button and holds it up to his ear. After maybe half a minute of waiting, he perks up slightly.

“So, Kev and I scanned the club. No godly activities going on. If Tu’er Shen really was behind Blake’s death, I think he’s cleared out by now.” Sam goes silent for a bit, expression blank. I can’t make out what Dean’s saying, but after another minute goes by, Sam lets out a sigh of frustration. “Look, we have no clue if Marston’s death was even caused by a god. Some of the people there are definitely weird enough to be dabbling in magic. We could be dealing with an entire coven – that’s something I don’t want to take on alone, especially with Kevin at risk.” Dean’s voice comes through the phone speaker more audibly this time. I still can’t make out what he’s saying, but Sam’s expression is looking more and more grated. “Look, this was a bad idea. The trials are the priority. Whatever’s here probably only wanted to punish one asshole for a hate crime, it’s not exactly preying on innocents. Let’s leave it alone, this time.” After a much briefer pause, Sam gives a nod. “Kay, we’ll meet you back at the hotel.” His phone snaps closed, before he looks to me. “We’re gonna head out soon. I’d shower while you can, Dean will probably want to make it a straight drive.

“So, that’s it?” I ask. It’s a shock how calm my own voice sounds. And how strong my restraint is at avoiding punching Sam in the face.  He gives me an indiscernible look, but doesn’t say anything. “You’re going to lie to Dean and let Tu’er Shen go?” I’m met again with silence. “Look, if you’re doing this out of spite, then I’ll tell Dean myself that you lied to him. I don’t care what petty bullshit drama this is about, I don’t want anyone else getting screwed because you decided to let a god, or a demon, or some other all-powerful monster do whatever it wanted, again, because you couldn’t be bothered.” After a measured sigh, Sam looks back to me.

“We can’t take down Tu’er Shen, even with Dean. He’s not your run-of-the-mill god. Most of them couldn’t have stopped time in its tracks like that. Finding ways to work around his powers, to take him down, that takes time. And with Crowley on one side and Heaven on the other, that’s time we just don’t have. He’s too powerful, and not important enough right now for us to take care of ourselves. But Dean’s not gonna want to leave this if he knows Tu’er Shen’s still running around.”

“So you’re okay with him going free, and hurting someone else?” I challenge. Sam takes a moment to consider.

“Heaven and Hell don’t care how many innocent people they hurt.” He says after a beat. “You, your Mom, Channing, Jess, Brady – to them people are just flies to swat. Anyone that Tu’er Shen chooses to hurt isn’t blameless. They might not deserve to be eaten alive by rabbits, maybe, but they sure as hell aren’t innocents.”

I can’t exactly fault his argument. Sam probably would’ve made a damn good lawyer. I’m not entirely sure if he had the time to compete in any forensics debates in high school, but it’s almost as if he perfectly balanced the ethos , pathos and logos in that whole little speech of his.

“You really want to finish the trials.” I say. He gives a slight shrug in response.

“You said it yourself. The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get out of hunting and get on with your life.” I don’t have any solid rebuttle. Sensing that the conversation is over, Sam pulls out a second phone from his pocket, which I immediately recognize as the one he and Dean gave me. “You left this on the table at the club. Thought you’d want it back.” He places it back in my hand, before walking toward the door. “I’m gonna talk with the front desk, let them know we’re checking out. See you in ten.” The door shuts behind him, and I’m alone again.

Phone in hand, the urge to call Dean is overwhelming. I don’t know whether it’s the inner Goodie Two-shoes wired into me, but even with Sam’s reasoning, it feels wrong to lie to him. Anyways, it’s not like I have some kind of loyalty to Sam that means I have to lie to his brother on his behalf.

Well, unless Tu’er Shen’s comments about us becoming a couple are to be believed.

I wake up to a harsh piercing light. I lie still at first, unsure of where I am. Squinting, I look to the source of the light and realize that it’s coming from the bathroom. I’m in Sam’s bed, which isn’t so surprising, except that it feels so big and empty. A loud coughing pulls me out of the bed and over to the source of the noise, which just so happens to be the bathroom.

Stumbling through the darkness in an oversized purple shirt and pajama bottoms – both of which were Sam’s at one point – I make my way over to the harsh doorway of light and peer inward.

Almost as soon as my eyes adjust to the light, they start watering from the rancid smell of puke. The coughing is much more audible now. It’s harsh and wet, wheezing almost. Forcing myself toward the source of both the foul smell and the cough, I find Sam wrapped around the toilet bowl.

The slight panic of the unknown is replaced by a bitter familiarity. These past few weeks, Sam’s health has been getting worse and worse. It’s been on a downward slope ever since we started….whatever this could be considered, but in particular these last few weeks have been really bad. It’s gotten to the point that Dean’s stopped letting Sam hunt, or even leave the Bunker. Sam being Sam, he’s taken to it as about as well as you could expect, which is to say, not well at all. But between me and Dean putting our feet down, he had no choice but to relent.

The second trial was a mess from start to finish. I wanted to go with Sam to help, but both he and Dean decided the only thing worse than giving Crowley a Winchester up on a silver platter was giving him a Winchester, and the Prophet. Once it had actually been finished, though, I thought we were in the clear.

And then Sam started vomiting up blood.

Giving him an awkward half-hug over the toilet, I can feel how frail he’s gotten over the last few weeks. Though it’s hidden right now by the loose gray shirt he always wears to bed, his ribs stands out, like Sam’s body is a prison they’re trying to break free of.

It’s not the first time Sam’s been hunched around the toilet these past few weeks. Needless to say, the constant hurling and sickness has put a damper on any budding romance between us, especially since I’ve realized that I can do virtually nothing to help him. Not as his sorta-kinda-boyfriend, and not as the Prophet of the Lord who set him down this path.

“I’ll go put on the tea.” I whisper softly to him, giving his back a gentle pat. Sam doesn’t respond, except to start another round of violent coughing. With that, I make my way out of the bathroom and Sam’s bedroom into the long dark hall of the Bunker. Maybe a few weeks ago I would’ve taken a while to find the kitchen, but I’ve become so accustomed to the endless maze of the Bunker I can’t imagine getting lost.

My body’s almost on autopilot when I enter the kitchen, filling the kettle up with water and removing a packet of the Throat Coat tea from the box on the counter. In my old house, and my old life, the box would’ve been in a container with others, in a cabinet both Mom and I could reach. But Sam and Dean don’t drink anything other than coffee, alcohol, and occasionally water, and the only reason this tea is in here in the first place is because Sam needed something to calm his throat down. I’m sure the Biblical disease tearing apart his body has more to do with it, but Sam is incredibly grouchy without his coffee.

I can’t remember even putting the stove on, but a sharp whistling snaps me out of my reverie and lets me know that the tea’s ready. Tearing the tea bag out of its packet, I place it in a large mug before dumping the boiling water unceremoniously on top of it. With a whopping spoonful of honey mixed in, the tea is on the kitchen table, ready to go for whenever Sam manages to come out. I’ve already migrated to the library, a cup of cold coffee from the night before in tow.

When we came back from Chicago, it wasn’t clear what was going to happen. I’d moved into the Bunker with Sam and Dean, after Crowley made a shitty attempt to abduct me and steal the tablet. He’d probably have been successful, if an angel lady with brown hair hadn’t stopped him. It was a little awkward at first, especially around Sam, knowing what Tu’er Shen had said.

We didn’t rush into it. At first, I wasn’t entirely sure ‘it’ was even a thing. It started out simple. He’d make sure I wasn’t spending 4 hours straight at the table in the library staring at the tablet, enforcing the nice study habits he used Stanford – 30 minutes translating, 10 minutes breaking. As ridiculous as it seemed, that pretty much managed to dull the pain of heaven-sent migraines. I managed to breeze through the translations much quicker than I had before. I also got a much better nights’ sleep, because Sam would be sure to cut me off at about 10, and wind down for about 2 hours, and also stopped me from getting up much before 8.

By the first week of my living there, Sam started cooking for me. Breakfast would be eggs or oatmeal, lunch would usually be a salad, and some kind of vegetarian dish for dinner. I was originally afraid when Sam making food, because if Dean was to be believed he was terrible in the kitchen. But most of the meals were a success, except that one pitiful time Sam tried his hand at making vegetarian Pho.

I didn’t think much of these small hints of kindness at first, but Dean took note of it right away. He would make throwaway comments like “damn, Sammy, I wish you played housewife like that for me .” or “Okay, lovebirds, don’t get too cozy.”

Once I realized that Sam was going out of his way to be nice to me, I started reciprocating as best I could. Granted, I can’t cook for shit. But I make a mean cup of coffee, and the odd time I made Sam a salad or bowl of fruit, he would smile. Considering how rarely I’d seen Sam smile, I deemed my efforts worth the emotional labor.

It progressed from there to sharing the occasional touch. Sam would go stiff and uncomfortable at first. But considering that his and Dean’s touching is usually limited to punching each other’s faces in, I brushed it off as having little to do with me. Eventually Sam gave into the casual contact, before eventually initiating it. This was another thing I’d been missing from my normal life – having my hair gently ruffled, soft pats on the back, warm hugs. They all felt different coming from Sam then coming from my Mom or my friends or even Channing. But I guess in a way, Channing and I were really just good friends. Sam is something different.

The real triumph was getting to share a bed. Again, I was the one to suggest it, but surprisingly enough Sam wasn’t as opposed to it as he had been to the idea of casual affection. Then again, it wasn’t like we had this big discussion about it. I just knocked on his door one night and asked to stay, and he let me in without much arguing. Of course, that was about as steamy as it got. Sam wasn’t entirely comfortable with doing anything more, and neither was I to be honest. We were just happy to be there, lying next to one another. For a brief moment, everything was perfect.

And then everything went to shit.

I hear jokes about how every relationship has its Honeymoon phase. Where everything is perfect for a brief period of time before the people tire of each other and slowly drift apart. Even though I’m sure it’s mostly a joke, I’d take growing apart over watching Sam slowly crumble under the weight of the Trials.

Once Sam’s health started waning, so did any and all routine we had built up in the previous weeks. I went back to translating the tablet for four to five hours straight without stopping, desperately searching for any way to alleviate Sam’s pain. This brought the migraines back with a killer vengeance, which in turn brought back my two good old friends Adderall and Advil. Any food we’ve eaten in the past month has been microwaveable, take-out, or the tomato-rice soup that Dean whips up in his vain attempts to make his brother’s health better.

I managed to finish translating the last of the trials about a week ago. Which is good news, at least.

At least it should be.

Looking at the legal notepad that’s been left on the Bunker table, I read over the translation for what feels like the hundredth time:

“And last among the Trials of God is this: That to seal forever the doors to Eternal Damnation, a soul marred and twisted by the Infernal Flame be offered salvation, and made pure once more. With this act, all the damned and discarded shall return the Pit, ne’er to traverse the Kingdom of Man again. And with this, a soul is carried onto Heaven’s gate.”

The task was pretty straight forward. We have to turn a demon back into a human soul, somehow, and after that the Trials are over and every last demon gets zapped back to hell, permanently. Thank God (or someone, I guess) for the Bunker, Giant Deus-Ex-Machina that it is. Because Sam had already managed to find a series of film reels from the 50s that happened to contain the process for a demon curing ritual. Which meant that the last Trial was going to be a cakewalk.

It’s the last line that fills me with uncertainty, though. “And with this, a soul is carried onto Heaven’s gate.” That’s as vague as a line could be. My automatic assumption was that a demon-curing ritual would cause the formerly demonic soul to be ejected from its host, like an exorcism. Instead of going to Hell, the soul ascends up to Heaven. It would make sense, in a way.

Except the demon in the footage didn’t leave its host. It stayed in the body it had taken over, newly human. Pretty shitty deal for the vessel, especially when it’s not clear what happened to the original soul.

I’ve tried convincing myself that the line just means that the cured demon soul will go to Heaven eventually , when it dies. As far as lies go, it’s a pretty convincing one.

But I can’t ignore that the dreams I’ve been having. Every new one more terrifying than the last, filled with worlds burning in flame with blood raining down from a blackened sky. Sam’s in every last one of them, except it’s not Sam. He’s healthier than he’s looked in months, and the gentle energy that he exudes is replaced by something cold and unfeeling. I can tell he’s possessed, but not by what. Certainly not a demon. Maybe an angel.

Every time I ask him what’s going on, I’m met with silence. More often than not, we’re surrounded by dozens of bodies, silent and still. I can usually spot my Mom among them. I keep asking Not-Sam what’s happening, where are we, how we can help these people. After a consistent loop of getting no answers, I resort to yelling at him. He looks to me in rage, reaching out to choke the life out of me. Sometimes, he succeeds, and I wake up in a cold sweat, my dream-murderer sleeping by my side. Other times, I dig my hand hard and deep into his chest and tear his still-beating heart out. As soon as I feel his pulse stop, the hellish landscape around us transforms. Sam’s blood spills out, nourishing the Earth. The sky turns a piercing blue, and grass and flowers sprout out of the ground. Everything that made the dream frightening has gone away. Except for the fact that Sam’s body is laid out in front of me, and his heart is in my hand.

Even if I were a normal person, a dream that can only end when my boyfriend and I kill one another would be a very bad omen. But unlike a normal person, I can’t just dismiss the reoccurring nightmare as just a dream. I’m not even sure what it means, but I know in my gut that it’s about the trial. Which leads me back to that ominous final line.

“Rough night?” Looking up, I see Sam nursing his mug of tea. His voice is shot to hell, and he looks more haggard than yesterday, but at least he’s not hunched over a toilet.

“You could say that.” I say, gesturing to the seat across from me. Sam pulls out the chair, placing the mug before he sits down. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

“Worried about the last Trial?” He asks. I shrug, staring down at the notepad in front of me. This is another conversation I don’t want to have. But it might literally be now or never.

“More like what happens after.” Sam doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits back in his chair. His expression is calm, understanding. I hate that.

“Well, leaving the life is hard. Didn’t exactly stick for me the first two times, but you won’t have secret plotting demons around to pull you back in.” He says. “It’s normal to be scared, but I know you’re smart enough to make it work, Kev.” This relationship wouldn’t be so awkward if I didn’t feel like I was spooning my guidance counselor. Sam always seems to have some piece of advice, and it’s frustrating. For once I’d like it if he didn’t have an answer. It’d make me feel more like we’re equals, and not like Sam is condescending to talk with me.

“That’s not what I meant.” I say through gritted teeth. Sam gives me a confused look. Coupled with his long hair and the blanket he’s wearing like a cardigan, he seems almost like an oversized puppy.

“What, then?” Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sit up straighter.

“I’m worried about what happens to us .” Sam’s expression becomes significantly less confused. Emboldened, I carry on. “I mean, are we still going to be together after this all? Or are you going to go off and do your own thing.” Sam sits in silence for a minute.

“I haven’t really thought about it.” He admits. “Before I started the Trials, I was just thinking in terms of me and Dean. I never anticipated that I’d end up having anyone else to worry about, who mattered in that way. It’s kind of surreal, honestly. But now that we’re so close to the end, I haven’t really given the after much thought.” That’s not exactly the heartwarming answer I was looking for, but I move ahead unimpeded.

“The thing is,” I start, not trusting myself to meet his eyes, “I’ve been having this dream. It’s this nightmare. And it only ever ends when one of us kills the other. Normally I’d say it’s just some weird sleep deprivation thing, or too much ice cream before bed, but this last part of the tablet, here – I wasn’t clear about the meaning before, but I’m starting to think it means the person who undertakes the Trials has to die once they’re finished.” I finish hastily, sucking in a breath. There’s another period of silence. Confused at the lack of reaction, I look up. Sam’s expression hasn’t changed in the slightest. “Sam? You hear me?”

“No, yeah, I hear you.”

“You don’t really seem upset about this.” He shrugs slightly.

“It’s not exactly surprising.” The hunter says, staring down at his tea. “With the way my health is going, I came to that conclusion a while ago. I’d figured that you and Dean would catch up sooner or later.” The nonchalant way he says it sends a heat running through me.

“Really?” I say, aware of the biting tone in my voice. Every old grudge I held against Sam starts to resurface. “Were you planning on telling me, since you’re apparently so much fucking smarter than everyone else? Or were you just gonna let it be a surprise?” Sam looks almost shocked at my tone, which infuriates me even more. “What, you didn’t think it was worth telling me that I’ve been sending you off to your death? You thought I’d be fine watching you go off on a suicide mission?”

“Kevin – ”

“No!” Bolting up out of my chair, I move away from the table. Sam doesn’t get up, and it’s pretty satisfying to be able to look down on him for once. “I’m not going to fall for any of this heroic martyr crap.” Sam sighs, sitting back in his chair. That’s only making things worse, to be honest. I keep digging to get some sign of annoyance, or irritation. Instead, it’s the same resigned expression I’ve grown accustomed to.

“Are you going to let me talk, or are you just gonna keep shouting.” He asks calmly. Being around hunters must be making me violent by proxy, because I’m tempted by option C, punch something and walk away. Sighing, Sam gets up out of his chair with great effort. Once he’s up, he beckons me with a gesture into the maze of the bunker. Almost unwillingly, I follow him down the hall that leads to the room we share. Sam makes it to the bed in record time.

He gives me an expectant look. Even though I only woke up what feels like half an hour ago, I’m thoroughly exhausted, and the bed looks enticingly warm. Reluctantly, I make my way over, letting Sam pull me into his embrace.

Dean’s made some crude jokes about us sharing a room for the last few months. Which is a good sign, because both Sam and I were worried about how he’d react to this whole dynamic, especially considering that before Chicago, I thought that both Winchesters saw me as a little kid. But despite Dean’s implications, this is the farthest we’ve gone. I’d argue it’s more meaningful than just having sex. Falling asleep in the comfort of Sam’s embrace, listening to the steady thrum of his heart – it’s about as intimate as something can be.

Now, though, it’s hard to think of it as comforting. I can hardly hear Sam’s heart, and his arms are so weak that they’re not holding me tight so much as resting across my back. Even we’re right beside each other it feels like he’s slipping away from me.

The anger washes away as quick as it came, and I’m left realizing how scared I am. Sam’s more than half dead – he’s been dying slowly the entire time we’ve been doing… whatever this is, and neither Dean nor I had noticed. Sam’s realized he’s been dying slowly and decided not to say anything.

“I’m tired.” He says finally, after a long silence. “When I stopped looking for you? It wasn’t that I didn’t care. It was that I was tired.” For a moment, I almost forgot that we came here to talk. I’m sure Sam wanted to be out of Dean’s earshot before letting me scream at him some more. “It was shitty of me to just give up like that on you. But I just felt like there was no end to the hunting. Ever since I left Stanford it’s been like running a marathon that has no end. First it was finding Dad, and then figuring out what Yellow Eyes was doing, and then Lucifer and the Leviathans and Crowley.”

“So what? Next step: just lay down and die?” There’s a bite to my tone, but yelling’s beyond me physically at this point. Sam shrugs. “You’re giving up now? After everything?”

“There’s always something else, Kev.” He says. I know Sam’s tells enough by now to recognize when he’s trying to avoid an argument, and this is almost a textbook example. “It’s not like I thought killing myself was exactly an option.” He says it so casually, the same way you’d describe the weather.

I don’t trust myself to say anything. Not without throwing up, at least. Instead, I wrap my arms around Sam’s chest. My memories go back to all the talks about mental health we’d get in high school, and what to do to help a friend who might be suffering. It was all bullshit, but the thing that comes to mind is to let people with depression know they’re valued. I honestly don’t know how to do that for Sam. Maybe say “I love you” or something like that.

“You don’t get to leave.” I choose to say instead. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, but I’m at a loss. “We’re going to stay here, and figure out how to stop what these trials are doing to you, and come up with another plan.” I must not be very convincing, because Sam gives a wheezy laugh, which turns into a fit of coughing halfway through.

“And then what?” he asks, “I thought you wanted to get back to a normal life. If we don’t finish the trials, then Hell never stops. You never get to go home.”

“We’ll figure it out.” The lie already sounds sour in my mouth. Even at the beginning of the trials, when I resented Sam with every bone in my body, I couldn’t imagine sending him to his death. I was already worrying about whether we’d still be together after the Trials. But now I know the trials can never end. “We’re going to sit down with Dean and talk about it tomorrow. And we’ll figure out where to go from there.” Sam doesn’t say anything, but I feel his arms tug me closer. Feeling my consciousness begin to fade, I slowly lull off to sleep to the weak beat of Sam’s heart and a final promise falls from my lips.

“We’ll figure everything out.”

Sam wasn’t much one for waiting, as it turns out. When I woke up alone, my first thought was that he would be in the bathroom. The lack of vomiting made me think he might be in the kitchen, but after a quick check in there I had a sinking feeling of fear.

A quick check on the garage confirmed that the Impala was gone. Checking in the library, I couldn’t find a single page of any of the demon-curing ritual notes that we’d taken in the past few weeks. And that’s when the panic started to set in.

I’ve spent the hour and a half frantically calling every last one of Dean’s phone numbers in a loop. So far it’s been nothing but failure, but I’ve left a message on his answering machine every time. I’m sure that you can chart how I’ve progressively lost hope as one voice message faded into another faded into the next. The same old news about the trials and Sam, but to no avail. I’ve lost track of how many calls I’ve made, but my battery’s been close to dead a few times.

Maybe I’m too late. Maybe Sam’s already dead.

“Heyyo, this is Richard Tandy.” Dean’s voice reverberates out. “Can’t come to the phone right now, leave a message.” Gritting my teeth, I punch in the next number. It rings for what feels like over a minute.

“Hello?”

“Dean?!” I shoot up so quickly that the chair I’m sitting falls onto the floor.

“Gotcha! This is John Bonh –”

“Goddamnit!” The phone flies across the room from my hand. I hear a sickening crunch, and it doesn’t take a genius to know that it’s probably broken. I’m beyond caring on this point.

“Rough day?” Turning around, I come face to face with the same angel who saved me from Crowley. Her vessel is a white woman, probably in her forties, with reddish brown hair tied up in a bun. “Hello, Kevin. We haven’t been formerly introduced,” she extends her hand to me. “I’m Naomi.”

“What do you want?” Not the nicest tone, but with a boyfriend possibly about to die, I think I’m entitled to it. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem perturbed by my attitude or tone. She pulls her hand back.

“You’re the Prophet of God.” Naomi answers, as if it’s an obvious answer. “As an angel, on behalf of Heaven, I should be here to help.” For an angel, she seems to talk pretty normally. Condescending as hell, but only as much as a middle-school principal. Or Sam. At least her voice doesn’t sound like she just deepthroated some gravel. I still feel like I need a cough drop every time Cas speaks.

“It’s a bit late to be offering your help.”  I spit. “You weren’t around to help the year I spent running from Crowley. Or to stop Sam from leaving to finish the last trial.” Maybe if I piss her off enough, she’ll smite me. It won’t help Sam, but if it’s too late to save Sam, I won’t have to find out he’s dead. Instead, the angel just nods her head, accepting the criticism.

“You’re right.” Naomi says. “I’m not just here out of the goodness of my heart. And yes, it should’ve been sooner. But I can help now – I can take you to Dean.” She extends her hand once more.  I look at it, before glancing back up at her suspiciously.

“What’s the catch?” I ask. “Why help me now?” To my shock, she laughs.

“I need Castiel to trust me.”  She admits. “I want nothing more to see the Gates of Hell shut. But if stopping the Trials saves Sam, then I might be able convince Castiel that we’re on the same side. Before he does something self-destructive.” After a pause, she adds: “You want to save the people you love. I want to protect what I care about, too. But to do those things, we need to trust each other.” I consider what she’s saying. It’s not exactly like I have a lot of time. Or options. Sighing, I take her outstretched hand.

In a split second, my stomach twists into a knot, and my body collapses in on itself. In the next, I’m standing in the middle of a parking lot, hand in hand with Naomi. It’s night out, with the only lighting being a streetlight. I feel disoriented for a second, and worry that a psychopathic angel dragged me a random location in the middle of nowhere just to kill me. But my eyes fall on the two figures a couple feet from us.

“Dean!” Sam’s older brother around at the sound of his name.

“Kevin?” He turns to Naomi, then back to me in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Where’s Sam?” I say, running up to him. “We need to stop him, he can’t finish the last Trial!” If possible he looks even more confused.

“What? Why?” He demands. Almost immediately, I feel his authoritative side take over. “Kevin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“If Sam finishes the last Trial, he is going to die.” Naomi explains. Dean shoots her an ugly look.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He asks. The angel rolls her eyes in annoyance.

“The prophet asked for help, and I answered. But nevermind - we’re wasting time, time we need to save your brother.”

Castiel growls, drawing his sword.“More of your lies. You don’t help anyone but yourself.”

“No, Castiel.” Naomi says, a sad smile on her face. “I want to help Heaven. Which is why I came here.”

“More likely to try and get inside my head again.”

“Look, can you two just shut up?” I shout. It’s probably the panic, but I can feel my eyes start to sting. “The longer you argue the longer it’s gonna take to get to Sam!” He could be dead. We might already be too late.  My vision starts getting blurry, and my breath is more rapid and panicked.

“Okay, Okay, Hold it.” Dean says, grabbing my shoulder. “What do you mean Sam’s going to die?” Inhaling deeply, I wipe at my eyes.

“The tablet,” I say. “It said that the end of the final trial would deliver a soul onto Heaven. I thought it meant the cured demon at first, but then I realized it meant-” My voice cracks. The way Sam had just dismissed his imminent death stands out starkly in my mind. “I told Sam and he said that he’d known already. I didn’t realize he was going to go finish it – I thought we were gonna talk and just –” I don’t even try and stop the tears now. Sam decided to go with his suicide plan. He didn’t even care about what Dean or I thought about him dying.

A strong arm comes and pulls me in. It almost feels like Sam’s but I realize it’s Dean, trying to comfort me.

“Cas,” Dean’s voice carries a clear command with just a syllable. Footsteps approach, before the same sensation of stomach-turning and collapsing in myself returns. When I look up, we’re in front of a Church. Instinctively, I dash in, slamming the doors open.

Crowley is tied to a chair, looking sicklier than I’ve ever seen him. An even-more haggard Sam is jabbing a needle of blood into his neck. His arms look radioactive, emitting pure light and humming.

“Sam!” I shout. Looking up, Sam looks surprised to see me. But he smiles softly, laughing as he does. Neither are particularly happy. Removing the needle from Crowley’s neck, he tosses it aside. Looking from me to Dean, he starts muttering under his breath.

“Sammy! Don’t do it!”

“Sam.” I beg.

Sam stops, looking back up to us. His smile is wide with something I realize a little too late is relief.

“I love you.” He says. Almost immediately, the light radiating from his arms fades.

And then he falls.

Palo Alto in Summer is beautiful. It’s hot and clammy, sure, but a breeze carries in from the ocean. I’ve come to the park about every day since I got here, and the atmosphere is like nothing else. I hadn’t been to California before now, and now I kind of wish I had.

Mom wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about me going to the West Coast. After years of being separate and on the run, convincing her to let me go to a college that wasn’t down the road went over like a lead balloon. But Naomi and Cas stepped in, thankfully, and promised they would be watching over both of us, and I would be safe. Naomi was more effective than Cas, but I was grateful for them both stepping in. Not like there was much to be worried about – there were no demons left on Earth, and monsters would pretty much leave me alone.

Applying to colleges was much easier than I thought it would be. Thankfully SAT scores are valid for 5 years. There was a big gap from my high school years to my application, but when your personal essay is about being abducted by an extremist cult and living in isolation for 3 years, it takes a pretty big asshole to reject you.

By some stroke of luck, my options had boiled down to Princeton and Stanford. Princeton had been really tempting with their scholarship, and the opportunities they offered. And the idea of being a train ride home to Mom was certainly appealing, but in the end I went with Stanford.

I’m glad Crowley lived long enough to tell us where to find Mom. I’m sure he did it more as insurance to save his own life, but it turned out none of us needed to kill him. The stress of being newly human was too much for him after about 2 weeks, and we salted and burned him.

Inhaling deeply, I breathe in the nice air. I have a nice bit of real estate atop a hill that overlooks the public park, watching everyone enjoying their time. I’m sure there are some mandatory welcome-week activities that I’m missing right now, but I can’t really find it in me to care.

“Nice view.” Looking up, I’m almost expecting it to be an angel. And it might’ve been – I’ve seen at least some Asian vessels – if I didn’t already recognize the face.

“You again.”

Tu’er Shen smiles softly, sitting down next to me beneath the tree.

“You know, this is definitely an upgrade from Lebanon.” He says. “California is the land of the gays. And Palo Alto is where you find the rich ones. Close enough to San Fran but just suburban enough to feed Hetero-enforced, white picket fence fantasies.” He nudges his shades up a little. “Personally I would have gone with Chicago or New York, but this ain’t bad.”

“Please don’t interfere with my love life.” I say. “I don’t want anyone else to end up dead.” The deity laughs, leaning back.

“You think that’s on you?” When I don’t answer, he gives a disappointing tut. “I thought you were smart, Tran. I know the Winchesters weren’t exactly the most open and honest people in the world, but I thought you knew Sam’s love life had a body count. In the literal sense.” I’m surprised that his presence hasn’t alerted any guardian angels yet. That’s a shame, cause I kind of wish one of them would show up and turn him into an ugly splat on the ground already.

“So what, you’re saying I would have ended up dead eventually?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He says. “Remember the night we met?” Like I’d forget. If my brain were on friendly terms with me it would just block out every memory of Sam. Instead it just shows up at inappropriate times. Mom’s still concerned about my mental health after I broke down because of a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Yeah, not helpful.

Sam hadn’t been really clear about what happened during his chat with Tu’er Shen. He made it sound like it was only a minute long, but I didn’t believe it. Guess my instinct was right.

“Are you talking about the conversation you two had? After you sent me away?” The deity nods. “What did you tell him?” He gives a shrug.

“The truth – your two souls were bound, but your love was star-crossed.” My expression must be confused, because he elaborates more. “I’d known your fates for a while. I told him that there was one of two possibilities. If he failed to complete the trials, he’d be forcibly possessed by an angel who would murder you. If he finished, it would be at the cost of his own life.” The words are like a punch in the gut. Sam had known. He’d known that he was going to die from the minute he left that bar in Chicago.

“So,” I say slowly, not trusting my voice to stay calm. “He just… pretended? None of it was real? He was just being close to me so that he could save me?”

“You know, maybe you’re too dumb for Stanford.” Tu’er Shen groans. “It was all to save you, and your fear is that maybe it wasn’t genuine? Do you know anyone who would die to save someone they didn’t love?” I shake my head. “Sam did everything he did because he cared about you . He did it so you could have this.” The god gestures out to the field. “In a different life, you two would have still been in love. You’re about as similar as two people can be.” He looks up. “And if you don’t believe me you can check the tree you’ve been sitting under.”

Standing up, I turn around to face the tree. At first I don’t see anything, except endless patterns of bark. But squinting carefully, my eyes zoom in on a little indentation in the tree, a little above where my head is level. Looking closer, I try to make out the markings.

S W

Reaching out, my hand brushes over the lettering. It’d be a stretch to think automatically that that was Sam’s, but I recognize the rough carving from other etchings I’d seen him make on hunts.

“You have a full life ahead of you, Kevin Tran.” Tu’er Shen says. “A life Sam couldn’t ever have. He gave you this because he cared about you and wanted you to be happy. Make the most of it.”

A few moments pass, the ambient noises of cheers and shrieks and barks from the park below filling the silence. Glancing away from the tree, I notice that Tu’er Shen’s gone. Further off in the distance, a tiny black rabbit makes its way back into the forest.

Another minute passes. I have to be getting back to my dorm soon, I think. I agreed to meet up with some new friends for dinner.

Pulling out the tiny pocket knife Dean gave me, I tug the blade out. About a hundred cliché romance movie scenes pop in my mind, but that does nothing to stop me. When I’m done, I put the knife back in my pocket, taking one last look at the tree.

S W + K T.