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The old nightmare wakes me up in the early morning hours: the lurching, bottomless horror of Sam falling away from me as life leeches out of him. I lay in bed as grey light bleeds in around the curtains and remind myself where and when I am, feeling the sheets beneath my palms, counting my breaths. The clock on the nightstand says it’s about quarter after five, and I can hear Sam moving around downstairs, feel his sleepy excitement as he puts the final preparations together for the trip he’s leaving for this morning.
But I’m not ready to move yet, and so I’m still lying there when I hear his tread on the stairs and across the hall. The bedroom door opens and he stops in surprise when he sees me there with my eyes open. His eyes flick to the clock and then back. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” He slides into bed and pulls me against him. I press my face into the hollow of his throat. This is part of his routine when he leaves for backcountry trips, waking me up just before he leaves to say goodbye. But today he’s too intuitive to miss the cobwebs of unease that must be lingering. “Everything okay?”
“Just a bad dream.”
“You haven’t had one in awhile,” he says, concerned, and kisses the top of my head.
I yawn and kiss him, then sit up. Usually, after languid kisses and a few minutes of snuggling, I’m drifting off again by the time he gets up to leave, but I feel too alert this morning. The dream is fading now, with it the anxiety it had brought. Nightmares are mostly a thing of the past; we’ve been out of hunting for five years, fully settled into our current civilian jobs for two. In that time, the scariest event was Ben’s sudden appendicitis last year. Sam comes home from his trips with the occasional bumps and bruises and once a sprained ankle, but there’s no longer anything to be afraid of but the occasional memory.
We go downstairs and the coffee pot is already full; I pour myself a mug and then fill Sam’s thermos as he checks, probably for the fifth time, his pack. He’s a park ranger, and while half of his job is standard, daily park work, the rest is trail maintenance on the backcountry trails, making repairs and clearing routes, checking and noting any traces of wildlife or irresponsible campers, scanning for any lost hikers or, more commonly, park violations. He usually camps two or three nights a week, but every so often, like today, he’ll be gone longer on more remote hikes.
He sits down to lace up his boots as I lean against the counter. “So,” he says, “I should be back next Monday, but give or take a couple of days as usual. But I’ll be checking in with the station, and they’ll call you if—”
“—if you fall off a cliff or drown in a river or get eaten by a bear. I know.”
He shakes his head and straightens, then hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Well, since you’re so blasé about it....”
“Hey!” I grab him by the elbow and he turns, laughing, and kisses me. “Just because I don’t worry worry doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”
“Uh-huh. You’re going to miss me so much I won’t come home to evidence of a party and the Netflix queue full of 90s romcoms.”
“It still doesn’t mean I love to see you go.”
He gives me a playful shove. I walk with him toward the front door. “Ten days,” he says, and then he kisses me before starting to turn toward the driveway.
My hand shoots out and grabs his collar, pulling him back. “Be safe,” I blurt.
His brows furrow and he rests his hand on my shoulder in concern. “What’s wrong?”
I open my mouth to answer him but can find no excuse for the sudden desperation to keep him close. The feeling that had come so quickly is already gone. “I don’t know,” I say. “Nothing, I guess.”
He’s unconvinced. “Is this an empathy thing?”
I think about it. The empathy has been quiet the last few years. I still feel Sam as I always have, and can tap into those close to us and even strangers if I want. The emotional side of it is as strong as it ever has been. I do still have that gut instinct, that prickle along my nerves that alerts me to something potentially amiss, but any sense of foreboding hasn’t reared its head in ages, since everything that happened with the Horn, really. There just hasn’t been anything to trigger it.
“I don’t think so. Just the nightmare and you leaving have me a little rattled, I guess.”
He nods. Despite my comfort with his job, my lack of real concern for his well being, he knows that every time he leaves for these trips it reminds me of before, when there was real danger I’d never see him again. “Keep yourself busy,” he says. “And I’ll be back before you know it.”
He kisses me again, lingering this time until I shiver in the cold morning air, and soon he’s climbing into his truck and driving away. I watch until his taillights are no longer visible and then close the door against the chill. It’s May, but up here in the mountains, it hardly feels like spring.
It really is okay. I’m used to this by now, and ten days without contact with him doesn’t bring the panic it once did, especially since I can feel him and know he’s safe, trust the crew at the park to alert me of any true emergencies and handle the logistics of getting him out if needed. But mostly I trust Sam. The wilderness has plenty of dangers, especially out here, but Sam is careful, and smart, and capable.
I curl myself into the couch with my coffee and flip on the TV to the local news, half-listening to the forecast of rain and the potential for flash flooding as I mindlessly scroll twitter. It hasn’t always been this easy. When Sam first took the job and we moved west, I’d been elated and ready for adventure, but I hadn’t realized his first search and rescue mission would send me spiraling.
We had close to three years of civilian life under our belts: me working at the library, Sam taking classes, and then we’d uprooted from Hastings and come here, to the Northern Rockies. Initially Sam was training and doing local work in the park while I applied to my own positions at nearby libraries and universities, and for a time we were suspended in a new sort of energetic bliss and hope.
But one evening four months in, his team was alerted about a missing hiker up near Mount Wilbur, and he had to drop everything and go on what could be at best a rescue mission, at worst a body recovery, leaving me still processing the details as he sped off to be a hero.
He’d only been gone three hours when the panic attack set in. Unable to reach Sam, I dialed Dean, who’d moved out here with Lisa and Ben just a few months after we had, settling only a few miles away.
He burst through the front door ten minutes later and found me trembling in a corner of the living room, my head on my knees as I tried to steady my breathing and keep the room from spinning. He knelt in front of me and placed his hands over mine, and even just that seemed to help. “Breathe,” he said. “In and out. You’re okay. I’m right here.” He squeezed my hands and I squeezed back in time with my breath until I was no longer gasping and the dizziness had mostly passed. When I finally lifted my head and looked at him, he got up and brought me a glass of water from the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I said. I felt boneless.
“Sam okay?”
I closed my eyes, calm enough now that I could try to feel him. There was a sense of fear, but of a degree that should be expected for the job he was doing. He was fine. I nodded. “I feel so stupid.”
Dean shrugged. “Once you’re ready, pack an overnight bag. You’re staying with us tonight.” I hadn’t argued, was just grateful someone else was there telling me what to do, taking any thinking at all out of my hands.
Later, after making up the pull-out bed, it had been Lisa who’d said: “I think you should talk to someone.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like therapy?”
She nodded. “It helped me, after the Changelings.”
“How exactly did you talk about that without getting admitted somewhere?”
She shrugged. “I obviously….left out most of the truth.”
“Doesn’t lying in therapy kind of defeat the purpose?”
She combed her fingers through her hair. “Say Sam was in the military. Say he was MIA, that you thought he was dead for a year until they found him. Everything you’re dealing with now still fits that narrative, doesn’t it?”
I looked up at her, surprised and suddenly overwhelmed with affection. She seemed to sense it without me saying anything and patted my shoulder. “Just think about it, okay?”
She’d been right, of course. The details hadn’t mattered; I got the help I needed, managed to work through the worst of the anxiety and the trauma, and now I can stand at the door as Sam leaves and barely bat an eye.
The nights are always the worst, of course; it’s too quiet and too empty without him in the house, but there’s a peace to the daytime hours. Sam and I spent so much of our life together apart that we each crave our own solitude; it’s part of what drives Sam to the wilderness, and there’s a relief in having the house to myself once in awhile. I play music more loudly, watch the trash TV he loves to poke fun at, let the surfaces clutter with dishes and books and other odds and ends. Sam’s always been a bit of a neat freak, and I luxuriate in my own disarray.
He’s also been on a health kick the last few years. Removed from life on the road, he’s transitioned from gas station burritos to leafy greens and lean meats most of the time. That generally aligns with my palate, but there’s nothing like real bacon and processed junk food, and I indulge without him to silently judge me.
But I do miss him, and the silence of the house can be oppressive, so I try to stay busy. Work at the university library takes up most of my time, and I fill the rest of my time at happy hours with coworkers, reading in coffee shops, and, as Sam predicted, watching 90s rom coms, often while sharing a bottle of wine with a friend. The days pass quickly, Sam always a flicker on the edge of my awareness as I catalogue all the things I have to tell him when he’s home.
Dean calls on Saturday, just two days from when Sam’s supposed to return. It’s not the first time he’s checked in on me—on a typical trip like this, I generally get a text from him every other day, if he doesn’t hear from me first. “Wanna come over? Ben’s at a friend’s for the night, and Lis and I were thinking about pizza and maybe a card game.”
“Definitely,” I say, maybe too quickly. The longer Sam’s gone, the more the evenings start to ache, and I’d failed to find plans for this one. “I’ll see you in a few.”
I pick up a six pack of local brews on my drive over and let myself into the house, ducking out of the rain that’s been pouring seemingly nonstop for most of the week. The house is welcomingly toasty. Dean’s crazy about the woodstove—the minute the temperature dips below about 55 he lights it up and parks himself in front of it to watch whatever game is on TV, often nodding off like he’s twice his age. That’s where he is now, slippered feet kicked up on the coffee table, watching the Mariners play. “Hey,” he says as I shut the door behind me.
I slip off my shoes and then shake my head at him, reclining in buffalo plaid pajama bottoms and a hoodie. “Don’t even start,” he warns, heading off my snark. I raise my hands in innocence and make my way to the kitchen. “Bring me one of those Kettlehouse brews!” he calls after me.
“Come get it yourself, lazy ass!” I shout over my shoulder. Lisa greets me in the kitchen, laughing as she pours chips into a bowl. “I’ll never get used to Dad-Dean,” I say, putting the beer in the fridge before taking out two.
“Hey, I’m not complaining,” she says with a wink. “How’ve you been?”
I find a bottle opener a pop off the lids, then set one down and take a drink of the other. “It’s been a long week,” I admit.
A few moments later, Dean shuffles in and swipes the other beer off of the counter. “Pizza should be here any minute,” he says. Then he grabs a handful of chips. The beds of his fingernails are stained a dark grey, evidence of the hours he spends at the shop. It’s only been two years, but he all but owns the business. The actual owner, Dave, is edging close to retirement, and so Dean’s been taking on more and more managerial responsibilities seemingly every week.This is the role that feels more like Dean: trading knuckles scraped raw from fighting monsters for greasy fingers will always feel more authentic to me than trading hunting boots and leather jacket for flannel pants and memory-foam slippers.
“How’s the studio coming along?” I ask Lisa. She’s recently started a partnership with another woman who owns a gym near campus, converting the small upper level of the space from storage into a yoga studio. It’s taken up most of Lisa’s time and energy the past few months.
“We’re almost there. Should be ready for a soft open in two weeks.”
“I still think it’d be better to wait until the semester’s over,” Dean mutters.
“I told you,” Lisa responds with the air of someone who has explained herself more times than she can count, “This way I can market it as a de-stress event during finals week.”
“I’m just sayin’, you’re gonna need a de-stress event if you don’t slow down.”
She gives him a withering look and he seems to deflate, and I am warmed as I always am by how domestic we’ve all become, that our conversations about work are so boring, our stressors so pedestrian.
The doorbell rings, and Dean goes to answer it. A few moments later we’re sitting down to pizza and I start dealing cards for Texas Hold ‘Em. “Sam’s coming back Monday?” Dean asks around the glob of dough and cheese in his mouth. I almost roll my eyes: he knows Sam’s schedule as well as I do, still keeps each of his senses tuned to any sign of danger when it comes to his brother. But this is about him gauging my own wellbeing; he’s been that way since the first time.
“By lunch, most likely. Depends on how fast he’s moving, trail conditions, you know.”
Dean nods. Lisa says, “It blows he’s had such shit weather.”
“Tell me about it.” I’ve felt his frustration all week, found myself wishing I could teleport to him just for his own comfort. The trails he’s surveying this time are farther out, hence the ten-day trek, and he’s mostly ensuring they’re in good condition before the season really kicks off. It’s normally his favorite type of patrol: remote and wild, but I can tell it’s draining him this year.
The conversation fades as we finish eating and focus on the game. It’s really unfair, me and Lisa against Dean, but sometimes I use the empathy to my advantage to get a sense of whether or not Dean’s lying. It pisses him off every time, but it does help level the playing field.
We’re on our third game when I feel the first twinge of something sour churning in my gut. Too much pizza grease, I contend, and try to ignore it. But I soon realize it isn’t physical. Unease creeps along my nerves like stale air, and I realize I’m feeling the first flutters of fear. I keep my focus on the cards and the company; there are a thousand explanations for this, most of them minor. Sam’s in the wilderness; a little fear can mean anything from bad weather to a bear to a stumble on the trail. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and I pack it away for now.
The creek, when Sam reaches it, is high, swollen, and moving swiftly. With groan, he realizes that the bridge is partially underwater.
He curses, his voice drowned out by the rush of the water, and sits down on the ground, dropping his pack from his shoulders and stretching his legs out in front of him with a sigh.
There are two nights and about thirty miles between him and home, and this is the last thing he wants to deal with so close to the finish line. He’s tired; this is his first long haul of the season, and it’s been far from ideal. The trail’s in worse shape than expected; washed out in places, overgrown in others. He had to navigate around two trees that had fallen right over it, marking the location down in his notes to have a crew come out with chainsaws later. He’d come upon only one set of hikers, and while they’d been following all regulations, they’d been cold to him, and the encounter had left him feeling lonelier than he typically did.
And then there’s the rain. It’s rained steadily almost every day, offering only short bursts of reprieve and leaving him constantly damp and struggling to keep a fire going. Sam is tough and accustomed to discomfort, but a person can only take so much.
As if to emphasize his misery, thunder rumbles overhead.
He loves his job. He thrives out here, couldn’t stomach a life confined to four walls and no sky, craves the air and the toil and even the solitude. There’s something to it, just him and the woods, that’s slowly healing him, cleansing him of his life before and molding him into something new and fresh and more alive. But today? He just wants to be home, curled around his wife as she laughs good-naturedly at his misadventures. He’s hardly ever lonely, but tonight it stings something fierce.
He gets up and walks to the end of the creek and studies the situation. He can’t wade through: he’s not sure of the depth, and anyway, a current like this one is dangerous even in shallow water. He bends down and dips his fingers in. It’s icy, chilled from the snowmelt higher up in the mountain. If he were to fall in, he’d have to make camp right away to dry out or risk hypothermia.
Thunder again, this time louder. It starts to drizzle.
He goes back to his pack and radios the station. Rachel’s voice on the other end is a balm. She’s his boss and the park’s grandmother: twice his age with a most un-grandma-like mouth, she keeps the crew in line. She retired from most ranger duties years ago, but still operates the station and runs some educational programs at the park.
“Bridge is underwater at Blodgett Creek,” he tells her when she asks for his report. “What can you tell me about other crossings?” He hasn’t hiked this trail before, but he’s pretty sure the creek intersects other trails that might have bridges in better shape, or at least meets up with a river that might bisect an actual road at some point, and right now he just wants to keep moving.
“You might try your luck downstream,” she says. “But listen, I just pulled up the radar, and it’s a motherfucker.”
There’s a sinking feeling in his gut, but he laughs despite himself at her choice of words. He squints through the light rain at the darkening sky. “How bad?”
“More rain, coming fast. And with the snowmelt up the mountain, it’s good flash flood conditions.”
Fuck . “Any idea how fast?”
“What am I, a meteorologist? It’s hard to say. Listen, don’t fuck around with this bitch; cross or don’t cross, but get to higher ground and stay there.”
“Got it. Over and out.”
Agitated and uneasy, Sam considers his options. He could hike back the way he came, put distance between himself and the water, make camp and try again tomorrow. He looks upstream and then skyward again and tries to calculate how much distance he’d need, and how much it would set him back if he were to lose the five miles he’d intended to finish tonight. Not much, but he’d still have to contend with finding a crossing tomorrow morning, and he just wants to push through. He also hasn’t passed a good spot to camp in several miles, and was counting on making it up the next ridge in the hope of finding someplace drier to pitch his tent.
He appraises the creek again. Wading through is out, but the bridge might still be crossable. The footpath is underwater, but the handrails aren’t. Maybe he could fashion some sort of harness and loop a length of rope around one, so he’d have a safety net in case his feet are swept out from under him.
It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had, and just past the opposite bank, the trail starts a sharp ascent. He could be over and up, out of the way of any flood overflow, in a matter of minutes.
He pulls out his coil of paracord and winds it around his thighs and waist the way he’d been taught, triple checks the knots and clips a carabiner to the front of it. He feeds another length of rope through that, ties a new knot, and then tests the tension the best he can as the rain starts to pick up.
He hoists his pack and clips the chest strap, checks he hasn’t left anything behind, and then, carrying the rope in one hand, walks back to the bridge. He tosses the open end of the rope around the wooden handrail, makes a large loop, and then knots it tightly back onto itself. Sam gives it a tug. It’ll hold. He takes a breath and then a step.
It’s a narrow bridge, and so he braces himself on each railing and takes wide steps, moving like a cowboy in a western. He gasps at the cold as the water splashes up to his calves and sways slightly from the force of the impact. He sinks his hips to steady himself and takes slow, careful steps forward, sliding the rope along with him.
The clouds open after three steps. Rain pounds down on him in freezing sheets. The wood grows slippery beneath his palms and he clenches more tightly, blinking water out of his eyes as he pushes forward at a snail’s pace. The wind’s picked up, too, gusting against him and lashing him against the downstream railing. He’s afraid to move any faster, knowing success is a matter of not losing his footing. The current is picking up, and because he’s soaked from the rain it takes him longer than it should have to realize the water’s now to his knees. He’s having a hard time keeping his legs under him and resorts to sliding them forward rather than lifting them and risking being thrown off balance. He trusts the rope to hold him, but as the current quickens and rises, he doesn’t know if he’ll have time to recover if he falls. He’s done countless trainings on water crossings; he knows a rope that’s meant to be a lifeline can just as quickly turn into a death sentence.
Over the downpour, he hears a roaring, rushing bellow. He glances upstream and the realization that he’s made a grave mistake hits him only moments before the deluge of water slams him against the railing with enough force that it cracks beneath his weight. The water overtakes him. For a moment, he’s weightless, and then with a jolt, the rope catches him. For a disorienting moment he’s held in the tension of the rushing water and the rope, and then the other railing gives and the water bulldozes him over, now so deep and fast moving there isn’t even a freefall and a splash. He’s already underwater when his head smacks into something solid. His vision blinks to black; he momentarily forgets where he is.
He’s dragged down, pummeled by the rapids and blind in the churning water. He doesn’t know up from down, can’t find any sense of buoyancy. The weight of his pack—all sixty pounds of it—makes it even more impossible to move. He fumbles at the chest strap, snaps it open, and thrashes his way out of it. The current grabs him, and suddenly lighter he’s thrown into hard stone and what breath he still has is forced from his lungs on the impact as his chest seems to cave inward. If he had the breath to scream, if he wasn’t underwater, he’s certain the sound would be unholy.
Sam starts to panic, flailing like a caught animal, arms grasping for anything he can use as an anchor. His foot strikes something solid and he kicks against it. By some miracle, his head breaks the surface and he sucks in as much air as his lungs will hold. It’s both life-giving and excruciating.
The water roils and lashes him against rocks and debris from the flood. He tries to break for the bank, but the water fights him every way; it’s all he can do just to keep his head out of the water. He turns his body feet-first downstream, cages his head with his arms, and focuses on staying afloat as the current sweeps him along.
After awhile, he’s not sure whether it’s seconds or minutes, the current slackens, and he rolls over and paddles to the bank, then hauls himself out of the creek. He collapses in the mud, chest heaving, sharp pain slicing his ribs with every desperate breath.
Something’s not right.
Rather than dissipate, the unease has grown more acute, sharpened into panic. I’m finding it difficult to be present and make rookie plays in the poker game. We finish a round and I excuse myself.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face and rest my forearms on the sink, my stomach in knots as my body reacts to the emotions the empathy is giving me. Sam’s emotions. My heart’s beating too fast: he’s afraid.
I pat my face dry with a towel and then stare at my pale reflection for a moment before returning to the kitchen. Lisa’s putting the leftover pizza away as Dean shuffles. He looks up when I enter the room, and my complexion must tip him off because his hands still and he goes rigid. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Lisa turns around in concern. “Maybe nothing. But...something doesn’t feel right.”
Dean’s level of worry goes from mild to severe in a split second. It’s been years since I’ve felt anything like this, and he knows it. Our lives just haven’t warranted heightened levels of anxiety beyond workplace stress or the occasional bout of the flu. “There someone you can call? The station?”
I could call Rachel. I have before; once, on Sam’s first long haul, when I was still uneasy and needed confirmation that he was out there and okay. Sometimes since then too, just to get an update. It wasn’t unheard of. But… “And say what?”
“Just see if he’s checked in...I dunno.”
Dean is trying to stay calm for my sake, but his natural instinct to protect his brother has not vanished, even after five years of not needing to. If I don’t call, he will.
Knowing she’s usually not parked next to the landline at the station, I dial Rachel’s personal number and try to drum up some semblance of stability, to not sound as strung out as I feel. “Mrs. Campbell!” she greets when she picks up. “I just got off the radio with Sam twenty minutes ago.”
My heart leaps, a flash of relief floods me. “Yeah? I was just checking in. How is he?”
“Was having a bitch of a time with a creek crossing, said he was going to find a better spot to cross.”
I swallow. Dean and Lisa are listening to my half of the conversation intently. “Have you heard from him since?”
“No, but that’s not unusual.”
She isn’t worried, so I try not to be. I want to tell myself that it’s nothing, that I’m overreacting since I haven’t felt this in so long. But then...when was my instinct ever wrong?
Rachel notices my silence and takes it for what it is. “Tell you what, I’ll radio him. Sit tight.”
There’s shuffling on her end and then I hear the click of the radio. She speaks into it, sounding farther away. She must have put her phone down. I pace out of the kitchen, waiting with bated breath, straining to hear if he responds. The silence is unending. I hear her call him again. We wait.
She comes back to the phone. “Well, he’s not picking up.”
“Is that normal?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure it’s not—it’s not like rangers are ever far from their gear.
“Sometimes,” Rachel answers, but she doesn’t completely conceal the unease in her voice. “I’ll keep trying him and give you a call when I get through, alright?”
“Sure. Thanks, Rachel.”
I hang up and look at Dean, who’s followed me into the living room. “I don’t know what to do.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “It’s Sam,” he says. “He’s dealt with worse than anything he’d run into out there. I’m sure he’s fine.”
But I can tell he’s not sure he believes it, and neither do I, even though I do feel a little more calm now; the fear is still there, but it isn’t as rampant. Now, it feels diluted. We abandon the cards, neither of us able to focus. Lisa sits beside me on the couch as Dean paces.
When Sam tries to sit up, a wave of dizziness almost bowls him over and nausea rolls through him. He tries again, more slowly, and then takes stock of his situation.
He’s had enough head injuries in his life to know he’s concussed. He presses his fingertips gingerly around his skull. There’s a bump behind his ear, but as far as he can tell, no open wounds. His ribs ache on his left side, though, and where the head injury dulls his senses, the sharp pain that radiates from his torso every time he takes too deep a breath snaps him right to alertness. But it’s not these injuries he’s worried about: he’s cold. He’s shivering, soaked through, and the sun is setting. And he doesn’t have his gear.
He scans the still flowing water in vain, as if his pack will magically appear, bobbing along the surface, and float right to him. It’s possible it sank, or snagged somewhere upstream, but more likely it’s miles away by now, pushed by the force of water. The current carried him this far; his gear didn’t stand a chance.
He doesn’t know how long he was in the water. A minute? More? Staring upstream, he thinks he can make out the remains of the bridge, railing jagged and splintered sticking out of the creek. It’s hard to tell in the rain and the falling light, but he guesses it’s maybe 200 yards. Then, with a bitter chuckle that’s strangled into a gasp as it spasms his ribs, he realizes he at least made it across, after all.
The magnitude of his error makes him feel ill. He slipped up. Attempting the bridge had been a mistake, and he curses his cockiness when he should have taken every precaution, when he’d been trained against risk, when he knew better. His mind runs loops of what-ifs, finding all the minor ways he could have acted differently.
His memory pulls up an image of the Grail Knight from The Last Crusade droning, “He chose...poorly” and Sam cackles , and the resulting pain in his chest sobers him enough to realize that maybe his concussion is worse than he thought, or maybe hypothermia is setting in quickly.
He has to get warm. But he has nothing: no dry clothing, no sleeping bag, no way to start a fire or even signal for help. All he can do is move, keep his blood circulating, and pray Rachel tries to check in and sends a search team.
Sam pulls himself to his feet, noticing as he does that the rope is still harnessed around his hips. He takes a moment to untangle himself, then coils it and loops it over his shoulder. It isn’t much, but it’s all he has. He takes a step forward, and his right leg buckles. He goes to his knee with a shout and then tries to assess what’s wrong. He can’t see anything at first, then finds a deep gash across his hamstring. Blood seeps slowly from the wound. He doesn’t remember how it happened, can’t barely feel it through the numbness of the cold.
He fashions a tourniquet with the rope and then tries to stand again, this time barely putting his weight on it before limping forward on the left, and makes it a few steps before he loses purchase in the mud and falls to his side. He catches himself on his shoulder but the impact makes pain explode throughout his body, and he swears he can feel his brain actually rattle around in his skull.
He lays there and tries to catch his breath. He can’t tell if his vision is really that blurry, or if he can blame at least part of it on the rain that’s slowed to a steady misting.
He’s so cold his fingers are numb. For the first time, he considers that he very well might die out here, and there’s nothing he can do about it.
He finds the idea hilarious and has to fight back laughter to spare himself the pain. He’s alone on a backcountry trail, facing death not by monsters, not by the Devil himself, but the elements. It’s so generically human. Well, he’d wanted a normal life, right? And he got it, didn’t he? How many hikers die each year from stupid mistakes? Now he’s just another statistic.
He’s delirious. In shock. Concussed and hypothermic and probably suffering from blood loss to boot. He’s so cold he almost doesn’t feel it anymore, just the violent shivers wracking his body. He curls in on himself. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it out of here.
An image of Y/N comes into sharp focus in his mind, followed by bottomless guilt when he realizes she must feel him now, probably terrified and unable to reach him. He’d promised her she’d never have to face what she had in Pennsylvania again, when she’d felt the life draining out of him. And now…
Sam focuses every ounce of his attention on her, gathers up all the love he feels for her, and pushes it out of him.
I haven’t stopped shaking for the better part of an hour when a beam of affection pierces through the shroud of terror. For a moment, all I know is relief: Sam is okay, pouring love into me as reassurance. But I realize just as quickly that beneath it now is sorrow and regret, and I jolt up off of the couch with a shout, startling Dean, who’s slumped in the armchair, and Lisa, seated beside me.
“The hell?!” Dean sputters.
It’s suddenly hard to breathe. My vision narrows and I wobble. “We’re losing him,” I gasp. “He’s saying goodbye.” I start to cry. “Dean—”
Dean’s out of the seat, and I wish his fury could seep into me, that I could anchor myself to anything besides despair. Lisa pulls me back onto the couch and I lean into her. There is nothing else for me to do; I couldn’t act if I tried, paralyzed by the sensation of Sam slipping away from me once again. There is a rushing in my ears, like I’m underwater. I think I might pass out. In the background, I can hear Dean shouting into the phone. Had he called Rachel? Someone else?
Lisa rubs circles into my back. A moment later, Dean kneels in front of me. “What can you tell me?”
“It’s bad, Dean,” I choke, and then I laugh. “This is so stupid, isn’t it? After everything?”
Dean grabs my shoulders and shakes me so hard Lisa snaps at him and shoves him backward. “Knock it off!”
He ignores her. “They can’t send a search party because of the storm and the flooding, at least not til morning,” Dean explains. I’m still slumped against Lisa but I put my hand on his shoulder and shiver at the strength of his anger. It gives me a brief reprieve. “Rachel wouldn’t give me his last location. So what do you know?”
“Hell no,” Lisa says, suddenly rigid. “ No .”
“He’s my brother, Lis!”
She untangles herself from me and gets up from the couch. Dean stands, too, and they glower at one another. “And you’re my husband! And you’re not equipped to run off into the wilderness for a rescue mission with no gear, no support, and no idea what you’re getting yourself into!”
Dean scoffs. “Well, Sam’s Y/N’s husband. And I have gear!” He storms out of the room toward the garage, where there’s a locked trunk beneath a tarp full of everything from our life before. Lisa starts to follow. I sense another burst of love from Sam and when I feel for more, he’s weaker, harder to find.
He’s dying.
I lurch up from the couch and sprint for the bathroom as bile burns up my throat.
It’s completely dark the next time Sam comes back to consciousness, and he doesn’t remember right away how he got here or why he’s so cold. It’s not until he registers the noise of the creek that pieces of it fall back into place. High water. Flooded bridge. A fall into icy water.
It takes him too long to remember. Takes him longer to realize he isn’t shivering anymore. He’s sluggish and dazed and it’s hard to move his limbs, to focus.
He thinks he’s dying. He’s comfortable with that and lets his eyes slip shut.
Sense slams into him and he jolts like he’s been shocked, his entire body suddenly rigid. He can’t die, not now, not like this. What would it do to his family, if he doesn’t come home?
He screams for help. There is no one to hear him even if the hoarseness of his voice could be heard over the creek and the wind and the rain, but what else can he do? He calls over and over, but of course no one answers. It would take a miracle to get him out of here.
But hasn’t he seen miracles? Hasn’t he himself been brought back from the dead, more than once?
He blinks up at the dark sky, heavy with clouds. It’s been five years since they’d had any contact with Heaven, just as they’d wanted. Sam doesn’t even know if anyone is still listening. But now, if there was ever any hope or mercy or grace in the world…
Sam gathers the last of his strength and calls out to the angels for the first time in half a decade. He prays for rescue and hopes he hasn’t been forsaken.
Concussed and freezing, he drifts in and out of consciousness. His senses are dull, and he feels his heart rate slowing. He thinks of home, of his wife, and tries to concentrate on his happiest memories in what must be his final moments. He imagines someone calling his name and he tries to answer, but his vocal chords aren’t quite working, and if he produces any sound at all it’s a strangled whine, like a dying animal.
There’s a dim light, and a gentle warmth. He doesn’t want to go but he has no strength to fight. He senses someone beside him, remembers a reaper with dark hair and gentle eyes, and leans into the tender pressure on his forehead before a weightless darkness swallows him again.
Lisa holds my hair back as I dry heave into the toilet. Nothing else will come up; I’m completely empty. I can no longer feel Sam at all, and the numbness is almost all-encompassing. I’m not sure I can survive this again.
I sit back on my heels and press my forehead against the edge of the bowl. Lisa kneels beside me. “Here,” she says, and offers me a cup of water. I rinse my mouth and spit into the toilet because I don’t believe I can get to my feet.
Lisa takes the cup from me and then just stays there, not speaking, not offering to help me up. Dean is down the hall, throwing a bag together and downloading trail maps and trying to fix something already beyond repair, and through my haze of despair I appreciate that Lisa has abandoned her attempts to stop him to be here beside me.
Then Dean’s shout of alarm pierces the silence of the house, and Lisa scrambles to her feet and bolts out of the bathroom. I stumble down the hall and stutter to a stop in the living room. Lisa clutches my arm.
Standing in the center, dripping water onto the carpet, is Castiel. A body is slung fireman style over his shoulder. Sam’s body.
I am too stunned to move, but Dean rushes him. Together they lower Sam into the armchair by the fire. His head lolls against the back of the seat. He’s soaked and covered in mud.
“We need to get him dry,” Dean says, tugging off Sam’s jacket, and I don’t comprehend until Cas clears his throat and tells Dean that he’s healed Sam’s concussion and hypothermia but he’ll continue to lose heat if we don’t take precautions, that Sam is alive .
My knees threaten to buckle from relief and I join Dean. Sam’s skin is cool and his lips are slightly blue, but yes, he’s breathing. Lisa brings towels, a set of Dean’s clothes, and a pile of blankets, and then feeds the wood stove until it’s blazing as Dean and I work to wrestle Sam out of his drenched clothes and into dry ones, struggling for a minute with the rope that’s cinched around his thigh. When we’re finished, he’s dry and as clean as we can get him with just towels, and Dean’s sweatpants are too short on him; we pull long wool socks over his feet to make up for the several inches of bare leg still left exposed, and Dean drapes a blanket over his legs for good measure.
Sam’s eyes flutter open as I’m toweling his hair, and as he stares around in disoriented surprise I feel him flow back into me. I gasp at the relief of it and throw my arms around him. “God, Sam!” I sob into his neck and his arms slowly come around me.
“I’m okay,” he croaks. He presses his lips against my temple. He sounds tired, his voice weak, and when I pull back to look at him there’s heavy strain in his eyes.
Dean grasps Sam’s shoulder and shakes his head. “Scared the shit out of us, Sammy. What the hell happened out there?”
Sam closes his eyes. “Took a risk I shouldn’t have. I was crossing a creek when a flash flood hit and washed out the bridge.” He sighs. “I should’ve just waited until morning.” His eyes shoot open. “How did I—” He stops short, staring across the room. Dean and I follow his gaze. In the excitement, we’ve already forgotten Cas, who’s standing in the shadows at the far corner of the room. “You heard me.”
Cas takes a step toward us, into the glow of the fire and the lamplight. He looks almost offended at Sam’s surprise. “Of course I heard you.”
Dean stares at Cas like the stranger he’s become, bewildered to see him here in his living room. “It’s been five years, Cas,” Dean says, the smallest note of accusation in his voice.
“And you were clear you wanted me gone,” Cas replies. He nods toward Sam. “Until now.”
Sam shivers. I grab a blanket from the pile and tuck it around his shoulders before I sit back on the arm of the chair beside him. I slip my hand underneath the blanket and into Sam’s. He squeezes it.
“So what, you’re just hanging around listening for us?” Dean snaps.
“Yes,” Cas says, with no hesitation. “Should you have need.”
We sit in silence to let that sink in.
“How’d you even find me?” Sam asks, as if it just occurred to him. “The warding…”
“Your ribs were broken,”Cas answers. “The warding was useless. You’re lucky, in that, otherwise—”
But he’s silenced as Dean crosses the room and slams the angel in a hug. Cas stiffens, then awkwardly pats Dean’s back. Dean clears his throat and steps away. “How’d you know to bring him here?”
He gestures to Lisa. “ She’s not warded. I rightly assumed you’d be together.”
Sam’s brows furrow. “And the house isn’t warded?” he asks Dean. We hadn’t hunted in years, hardly communicated with other hunters at all these days, except for Bobby, but Sam and I had all the usual protections in place at home, angels included.
Dean studies the carpet. “Not against angels. I guess I thought—”
“Well it’s good it isn’t,” I interrupt. I look at Castiel. He’s completely unchanged. There are flecks of grey in Sam’s hair, crow’s feet accenting Dean’s smiles, but time has had no effect on Castiel’s vessel. He looks the same as he had in the motel room in Pennsylvania, when the three of us had stared him down and made him swear to keep us free of Heaven’s politics for good. We hadn’t parted on the best terms, and there had been times over the last five years that I’d wondered where Cas was and whether we’d see him again, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to. “Thank you,” I tell him.
Castiel nods. “Well,” he says, and moves as if to leave.
“Cas, wait,” Dean says, and Cas pauses and raises an eyebrow. “For what it’s worth, maybe…” He looks to me and Sam, unsure.
“We were wrong,” Sam finishes. “You didn’t know, before, what would happen with my soul. You had a job to do, but you got me out.”
“You’ve brought Sam back to me twice now,” I add.
Castiel tilts his head, peering at us quizzically. “I didn’t do this for forgiveness. I did it because you’re my friends.”
Dean steps toward him. “Stay, Cas. Have a beer.”
But Castiel shakes his head. “I have work to do in Heaven. My role’s no longer on Earth. But,” and he meets each of our eyes in turn, landing finally on Dean’s, “I will always come if you call me.”
And then he’s gone, leaving us slightly stunned and wondering if he’d been there at all. There’s a hint of sorrow left in his wake, a loss we hadn’t expected.
Lisa is the first to move, rising from where she’d been silently observing the entire encounter. She goes to Dean, who’s still staring at the space Castiel has just inhabited, and wraps an arm around his waist. “Well, do we want to call it a night, or try to drink this off?”
Sam chuckles as Dean finally shakes himself out of his daze. He squeezes Lisa to him and kisses the top of her head. “I could use a drink.”
I wouldn’t say no to a strong cocktail right now either, but Sam is completely drained, and just in case he thinks I’m unaware, he grips my hand beneath the blanket. “I think we’re gonna call it,” I say. I stand up. “But maybe we’ll come over in the morning, debrief then?”
Dean’s somewhat disappointed, but Lisa nods, unwraps herself from Dean and pulls me into a hug. “Let us know if you need anything.”
Behind me, Sam peels the blankets off of him and gets up on wobbly legs. Dean is there to steady him and then kicks off his slippers. “Put these on and bring ‘em back tomorrow,” Dean says, and it’s comical how Sam rolls his eyes while complying, and how his heels hang a good two inches over the back.
“I’ll have to call Rachel,” Sam suddenly realizes. “Somehow explain how I got back here two days early without any of my gear…”
Dean claps him on the shoulder and walks with us toward the front door. I put on my coat. “You’ll figure something out,” Dean says, and then pulls Sam into a hug so tight the breath huffs out of him. “I’m glad you’re home.”
“Yeah, me too,” Sam grunts, and Dean releases him and we walk out the door.
We’re both quiet as I drive us home, hands linked together on the center console, eyes on the road. The rain has finally stopped, but it’s cold, and Sam turns up the heat, though we’re already home before the car’s fully warm.
Once inside, I hang up my coat and then Sam pulls me into his chest. He palms the back of my head and nuzzles his face into my hair. “I’m sorry.”
I swallow and step back without meeting his eyes. “Are you hungry?”
His hand falls to my shoulder, then he lets it drop completely. “I could eat.”
I nod and head toward the kitchen. “I’m gonna shower,” he calls softly, and I wave at him and hear him start up the stairs. I open the fridge; there’s leftover pasta I’ve been chipping away at the last few days, and I scoop some into a bowl and pop it in the microwave. While it heats, I mix myself a strong whiskey sour and sip it while leaning against the counter.
The microwave dings, and the food’s not hot enough, so I give it a stir and put it back in. My stomach is still in knots, but the alcohol soothes my nerves at least.
Sam comes downstairs, changed into his own sweats, his hair damp. I take his food out and set it on the table with a glass of water and we sit down together. He inhales the steam rising off the pasta, and I take a drink. “This smells amazing.”
When I don’t respond, he slides his hand across the table and takes mine. “Hey.” I meet his eyes; they’re more green tonight, like he’s absorbed the color straight from the woods. “Talk to me.”
I feel the pinpricks of tears behind my eyes. I bring Sam’s hand to my lips and hold it there a moment, before he leans forward to cup my face in his hand. I keep my hand over his and turn into it, kissing his palm. “I am right here ,” he says, stroking his thumb across my cheek.
I nod and brush my hand across my eyes. He releases me and leans back. He picks up his fork, but doesn’t start eating, just keeps concerned eyes on me. I draw a steadying breath. “I know,” I say, nodding again, assuring myself. “It’s been so long since anything’s happened and I—”
“Nothing should have happened,” he interrupts. “This is all on me. I knew better, and I tried to cross that bridge and almost didn’t make it home.” I flinch at the thought and take another drink. “You have every right to be angry,” he continues when I don’t say anything more.
Am I angry? Is that what I feel, pressing against my chest? Finally, I say, “How long have we known each other, Sam?”
He thinks for a moment. “Ten years.”
I nod. Ten years, split down the middle between hunting and civilian life. Those first five had been marked with abject horror, suffering, and death. They still haunt my dreams. “And how many times have I lost you? Or almost?”
He blinks. “Is that a rhetorical question?” We’ve talked about this before, of course. How it’s a miracle we’d come out on the other side not only alive but together. “Too many.”
“But not since the Horn.”
“No,” he agrees. “Not since the Horn. Until tonight.”
The last five years have been gentler, Ithaca after a long journey, a promise of peace fulfilled at long last. But no life, no matter how safe and simple it seems, is without its fear or its tragedies. Sam seems to know what I’m thinking. “Once is too many,” he says. “You can’t justify that.”
“You’re right,” I say. I finish my drink and then chew on a piece of ice. “And I am angry at you for it.”
He nods, eyes downcast in guilt. “I’ll quit,” he says with conviction, though it pains him to say it. “I’ll see if I can switch to desk duty, or something else entirely.”
I look up at him sharply. “You love your job.”
He bites his lip, nods down at the table. “I know what you had to be feeling, when I was out there. I told myself five years ago I’d do everything I could to keep you from feeling that way ever again. Tonight was too close; it can’t happen again.”
“It can’t,” I agree, but I don’t elaborate, and then I’m silent for so long he finally starts eating, humming in satisfaction. He must be starving after his ordeal tonight, and this is his first real meal in over a week. I take a minute to really study him, remind myself of all I nearly lost. Finally I say, “But I don’t want you to quit your job.”
Now he’s surprised. “Baby, if it hadn’t been for Cas—”
“I know!” I snap. I don’t want him to say it. I still haven’t fully processed all that’s happened tonight, and the thought of how close it was sits like a balloon inside my rib cage. It makes it hard to breathe whenever I think about it, and I’m too raw to pop it open just yet. He sees my panic and shuts his mouth in a thin line. “Take a break from the patrols,” I say. “Tell Rachel you won’t go back out without a partner next time. Find ways to make it safer. Maybe give Cas a head’s up before you go, or something.”
He gapes at me, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hell, Cas...I never thought, after everything.”
“I know,” I say. “We were so angry at him for so long, but...he’s also the reason you got out of the Cage, the reason I found you in Atlantic City, the reason we’re sitting here, right now.”
Sam pushes his chair back and takes his bowl to the sink, where he rinses it before putting it in the dishwasher. He offers me his hand. “Come here,” he says. “Let me hold you.”
I stand and he draws me into him, cradles my head against his chest where I can feel his breath and his heartbeat, and then there it is: the understanding that I did nearly lose him, rising up over me. I hold him tight and let go, cry softly into the fabric of his hoodie. He slowly sways us back and forth. “You’re all I was thinking of,” he whispers, and there are tears in his voice, too.
I nod; I’d felt that, known it for what it was. I lean more heavily into him, allow myself to embrace not only Sam but all that we’re both feeling, and then I let it seep out of me. It’s over; he’s here. He’s okay. A close scrape with death isn’t death itself. “What are you going to tell Rachel and everyone else?”
He sighs like it’s the most annoying part of this whole ordeal. “Lost my gear in the flood. Ran into some hikers who had a map—took a shortcut out to a road, hitchhiked back. I should probably call her. The timing’s about right.” He lets me go and steps away. “Mind if I use your phone?”
I pull it out of my pocket and hand it to him. While he steps into the living room to call her, I go upstairs and get ready for bed, hearing his muffled voice below me, punctuated by bright laughter as he jokes with his boss. He feels relaxed; she’s taking it well.
I’m in bed by the time he’s finished; he plugs in my phone, bends down to kiss me, and then goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he’s finally beside me, the lights off, new relief washes over both of us. We’re together. We’re safe.
I roll into his arms and kiss him, but it’s only moments before his eyes are slipping shut, his breath leveling out. I hold him as he falls asleep, his breath puffing warm against my neck, my fingers carding through his hair. It’s true Cas healed him, but he couldn’t take away the exhaustion or the mental strain nearly freezing to death wreaked on Sam.
Cas. Incredible, really, that he’s never been far, after all these years. That he’s ensured we would always be protected not only from Heaven, but anything else life might throw at us. Maybe he felt he’d owed it to us; maybe this is his way of reconciling all that passed between us.
My phone buzzes and I reach over and pick it up. There’s a text from Dean: Everything okay?
I type back with one hand, unwilling to untangle myself from Sam, and then silence the phone and snuggle back against him. He sighs in his sleep but doesn’t stir.
Yeah. Everything’s okay.