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“What do you mean he just disappeared?”
“I don’t know what else to tell you, Cap. One minute he’s right next to the brother at Robert Singer’s Salvage Yard and the next, I didn’t even blink and he simply dropped off the grid. It’s quite fascinating.” Tony’s voice from the phone’s speaker is utterly casual as if he’s informing them that they ran out of milk.
Steve grips the wheel tighter, anxiety growing in the pit of his stomach. It has been some hours since he turned the car around and possibly broken some traffic laws in his haste to get to his destination. Tony had found the location in less than ten minutes and since then, the car has not stopped moving. With less than four hours to go, Tony had called back with unsettling news which leads to this current situation.
“Ah, but there was an odd interference right before that. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought it a security breach.”
A chill runs down his spine and it’s so much worse now that he has knowledge of things out there beyond humans that can cause technical difficulties. A glance towards Bucky shows a grim face, and he’s likely thinking the same.
“And Sam is alright?”
“Right where you left him: at the Singer residence. Anyway, what’s got you so worried?”
“It’s nothing.”
A snort comes from the other end. “That’s what they all say. Is it a situation?”
It’s Tony’s way of asking if they need back up and as grateful Steve might be from the show of support, more guns and manpower won’t necessarily be the way to go. Frustration courses through him, and he wonders how many times Dean had felt the same. Keeping it hidden, keeping it secret. No police or government to reach out to because hunting is just that: you and your target, sometimes alone or with a partner.
“Just keep an eye out for any changes; we’ve got this.”
“Right, you and your soul buddy or whatever. By the way, how’s he doing?”
“Fine,” the person in question answers before ending the call.
After a beat, Steve says, “That was rude.”
Bucky shrugs. Neither of them are wanting to waste time, it seems.
Another call is made, and Dean doesn’t pick up as suspected. Then they try Sam.
No answer.
He presses on the gas pedal a little harder.
- - - - -
Bobby can’t answer the door fast enough with Sam’s frantic pounding on the door. Needless to say, the man is quite disgruntled when he opens the door.
“Somebody been giving you idjits a lesson on breaking before entering?”
In his panic, Sam tries to barge in before being tested and is stopped immediately by a hand holding a flask to his chest. For the first few blinks, he can only stare dumbly down at the hand; he then snatches it and throws it back in a huge gulp. The holy water tinged alcohol goes down easy, no burn or pain, but it settles uncomfortably in his stomach like it has never before. He tries not to think about what that means.
“Yeah, help yourself. Not like it’s mine or anything,” Bobby grumbles, holding out a silver knife.
Test passed with flying colours, Sam steps over the threshold a minute later, across the devil’s trap and into the living room. All of a sudden, he doesn’t remember why he’s here.
Bobby follows right behind him after closing the door. “You talk to Dean lately? I was under the impression that you would be here together.”
Dean. Dean.
“They took him, Bobby,” Sam says with false calm. “The angels.”
“What?”
“It happened right there in the yard. Didn’t you see? I mean, we were in the car, Dean moping about his—I don’t know, hero dudes even though he was the one going on about civilians and whatnot, then when we get out, Mr. ‘You’re-an-abomination’ and Sir ‘Dean-rescuer’ are standing in our way to toss us back out there—”
“Sam!”
That shuts him up.
“Why don’t you go sit down for a bit and I’ll grab you a beer; then we’ll figure out how to find your brother,” Bobby commands, unexpectedly gentle.
Sam can only nod and do exactly as told. Exhaustion crashes into him as he sinks down into the couch, making him feel like he never wants to get up again. His mind runs over what has happened in the past few hours but he just wants to stop thinking. He’s so
Tired.
That’s what Dean had said, had felt the last time they were together. Tired of fighting, tired of chasing, tired of burying friends.
And Sam had been pissed, at Dean and demons and heavenly dicks. At how unfair his life was because there was evil out there that ripped his family apart and experimented on him for its own sadistic enjoyment, caused even angels to turn their faces from him. Pissed that his brother who should’ve had his back condemned him for wanting to make something of the shitty cards he had been dealt, and didn’t understand what it meant to have Ruby there to bring him back to his senses when the loss of Dean had all but destroyed him.
Get angry, Sam had said, because anger has always been a driving force for the Winchesters.
Then the next morning, Dean and the Impala had disappeared without a note, leaving only some cash and weapons behind. To Sam, at the time, it had been Dean letting go of him, washing his hands of the dirty-blooded freak of a little brother, and another sign of the weakness Dean had been steadily exposing in himself. If not for the rational part of his mind, he might have injured Ruby when she had come with information on the next seal, the anger and hurt barely held back.
Now everything is clearer and most of Dean’s absence has been explained. He still can’t help but notice that Dean pretty much delayed reuniting with Sam in favour of spending time that they don’t have with his new buddies. Mostly strangers, if the awkward note they parted on was anything to go by.
Which piques Sam’s interest, because why had Dean gone in the first place to help Captain America, of all people, with a situation had nothing to do with the supernatural? His brother throws himself into danger for family, friends, and to kill the monster. From what he knows, Cap is neither of those.
Unless he is.
“Here you go.”
Bobby startles him out of his thoughts, and Sam raises a hand barely in time to catch the bottle tossed his way. He thanks the man before chugging down a third of it in one go, and Bobby eyes him with caution.
“This ain’t the time to get drunk and pass out, son.”
Sam can’t exactly agree. Swallows another mouthful.
And good ol’ Bobby simply waits like the smart man he is, knows eventually that Sam will open his mouth and spill. Right now, he hates that part of him.
“They said that they needed him for something. Getting information from a high-class demon,” Sam eventually says.
“What do they expect him to do? Sit there and look pretty until the son of a bitch can’t take the pressure anymore?”
Reluctantly, Sam huffs out a laugh and feels himself drained of that much more energy, as if he can’t even bother to breathe. His lips thin out as he presses them together, not knowing how to explain exactly what the nature of the questioning might be. He’s pretty sure that he’s the only one Dean has told about what had happened in hell.
God, his brother had been so broken.
“Look, Bobby, we need to find a way to get to Dean as quickly as possible. Trust me on this.” His words leave more questions than answers, he knows, but something in his face convinces the old man to nod and simply accept.
Bobby turns and heads toward the nearest book shelf.
Sam’s bottle is almost empty.
- - - - -
In some ways it had been worse, the month Dean was gone. Alive, yes, but wanted nothing to do with Sam.
Ruby had tried to coax him into continuing the mission, the training. Oddly enough, the freedom of not having Dean scrutinize his every move for suspicious activity hadn’t relieved the burden on his heart; rather, it had increased his reluctance to seek—
He’s afraid to search too deeply, this desire for more power—not a craving, not an addiction. It’s buried under the arguments in his head of why he’s sacrificing a bit of his humanity. Better that he own what has already been given to him, better that he control this curse and make something good of it. He has repeated so many times in his mind that it comes out naturally whenever he has to explain his actions.
And it helps, when in less than an hour since he and Bobby started researching, he breaks down and decides to call Ruby.
Sam opens his phone, sees a missed call notification from not too long ago. Confused, he wonders how he missed it. Then again, he doesn’t recall much from the moment Dean was kidnapped until collapsing onto Bobby’s couch.
He debates ignoring the call from an unknown number, but for some reason it looks familiar. And based on that feeling, he calls back.
“Hello? Sam?”
It’s not a voice that he recognises immediately, so he remains cautious. “Yes, speaking.”
“This is Cap.”
This is quite unexpected. “Oh, hi!” And Bobby looks at him strangely at his sudden enthusiastic tone. “Sorry I didn’t pick up earlier. Did you need something?”
“I was just wondering if you and Dean arrived at your destination safely.”
Something in Sam clenches because they’re not okay right now, but years of lying practice helps him not miss a beat. “Oh, right, thanks for asking. We got here fine. I’m guessing you tried calling Dean already? He’s actually asleep right now, long drive and all.”
There’s a strange pause after his reply that makes him nervous. Like he said something wrong.
“Good, good,” Cap says eventually. “Would you mind telling him to give us a call when he’s awake?”
And there’s something off about the voice, too, but Sam’s busy cursing inside since now he has to prove that they’re fine.
“Okay, yeah, sure. He’ll be out for a while but I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you. I wish you a good rest.”
Sam hastily says bye, then buries his head in both hands. Takes a deep breath. Now that the call is over, he can think a little more rationally. Cap won’t be too concerned if he doesn’t hear from Dean right away, was probably checking on them out of politeness. It’s a request that anyone can easily forget; no need to get worked up.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Bobby remarks.
Pretending to be offended, Sam looks up and frowns. “They don’t know that. Don’t really know me well enough.”
The other man doesn’t reply, just goes back to flipping through his book.
Sam fiddles with his phone for a few minutes, pondering what he’s about to do. The conversation with Cap reminds him that there are people who would argue against his choice, would say it’s wrong. With the kind of world that they live in, however, the concept of what’s right and wrong is vague and ambiguous at most. Lines that shouldn’t be crossed are arbitrary. In Sam’s world, what he’s doing is right because it will save people and kill the monsters. He isn’t one of them.
Excusing himself, Sam leaves the room, leaves the house. He has a call to make.
- - - - -
After it disconnects, Bucky puts down the phone from where he was holding it for Steve, says, “Didn’t sound like anything was wrong.”
Sam had indeed sounded exactly like the cheerful young man they met briefly some hours back.
“I know,” Steve says. “I’d be convinced if I didn’t trust Tony more.” A moment, and then, “You don’t think he was messing with us, do you?”
“He doesn’t hate you that much, I think.”
Lips twitch, wanting to form a smile, but Steve forces them into a mock frown. “We’re close acquaintances. Friends.”
“Friends can be mean.”
“Not everyone is like you.”
The phone suddenly beeps, and Bucky picks it up. “Sam’s on the move.”
“Did he find Dean?” Steve turns slightly to look at his friend.
“Hasn’t shown up yet, according to your friend,” Bucky replies, almost sounding disappointed. “We should follow.”
“Right. What are we gonna tell him when we get there?”
“We don’t have to tell him anything. Smack some sense into him, maybe.”
“Please don’t knock him out.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
Somehow, Steve doubts that.
- - - - -
It’s strange, almost funny, how blood no longer looks and smells appalling. Should he be worried about that? Probably.
But it’s the last time, he tells Ruby firmly, because he had said as much to his brother, to himself at some point. With scent of burnt paper in the air (a result of Ruby’s location spell), a warm body on his and a dangerous hunger in the pit of his mind as much as his stomach, Sam can holds himself back from clawing at the skin of the meatsuit to get the red flowing.
He feels trapped yet shielded in this motel room, the smell of what lies directly below the first layer of protection on this woman’s body calling to him strongly. Sam knows that it’s a means to save Dean. If he harnesses this power, it will turn the tides; it will help them win.
And he has tasted nothing sweeter when he gets the first lick.
Ruby strokes his hair, murmuring encouragements about how strong he’s getting and soon will be ready for anything. It adds to his conviction that he’s making the right choice. She has always helped them, helped Sam through the most difficult time in his life. She helps him now.
The blood is still warm on his lips after he finally raises his head when the motel door crashes open. Next thing he knows, Ruby is ripped away and he sees a brief flash of blue eyes before he’s pushed down onto the bed, a strong arm across his chest.
Cap’s face hovers above him, eyes moving down to his stained mouth and teeth. Sam thinks he might be sick.
“Sam?” Cap questions, and the single word is asking too many things Sam can’t answer.
“Who the hell are you?” comes Ruby’s indignant shout from a different part of the room, followed by a pained hiss. Sergeant Barnes must be here, too.
“Ruby, stop,” Sam croaks out.
“Sam, we weren’t doing anything wrong, tell them—”
“What’s going on, Sam.” Cap’s voice is steel, cutting through confusion and chaos.
“Cap—”
“Who is that woman and why is she perfectly okay with you consuming her blood?”
Maybe it’s the tone; maybe it’s the words. Shame and guilt wash over him, but anger also burns inside.
“She—she’s helping me.”
“This doesn’t exactly look like a blood transfusion,” Cap says pointedly. And then something softens in his eyes. “Are you hurt somewhere, Sam?” He gets off Sam’s chest and pulls him up with him.
Oh God. Sam swallows with difficulty because of how his throat has tightened. He was sure that the man was going to accuse him of whatever crime this appears to be. Instead, he’s concerned about Sam’s well-being. Before anything else, he wipes whatever remains on his lips with the edge of his shirt.
“You can let her go,” he directs the words at the sergeant, who is detaining Ruby with considerable strength.
“We’d like some answers first,” is the reply.
“Fuck,” Sam mutters, lowering his head. There’s no way to talk himself out of this, too surprised to think of an excuse. Though what kind of excuse will justify having blood all over your face from the arm of a woman half your size, he doesn’t know. “I don’t know what Dean told you, but I’m basically a freak.”
All he gets is silence—except for Ruby’s agitated huffing—and so he continues. “Tainted with demon blood when I was a baby. It gives me powers that, if I train and use it wisely, can be a tool against the ones who did this to me.”
“Does Dean know?”
At near break-neck speed, Sam’s head snaps up, eyes wide with panic. “Don’t—! Don’t tell him, please. You can’t—”he trails off.
“I’m not sure if something that needs to be hidden is a good decision, Sam.”
The words are familiar, questioning his choice, but it’s not quite accusatory. Rather, Cap looks worried for him. It still irritates him.
“He wouldn’t understand,” Sam says, rolling his shoulders back in an unconscious effort to look confident.
“And you do? All the consequences that this may entail?”
Unwittingly, his eyes glance over at Ruby who at this point appears bored. He turns back when he notices Cap stepping closer.
“That girl,” Cap almost whispers, “she doesn’t seem too concerned that you’re a human drinking another person’s blood, and what might come of it.”
Sam bristles. “Ruby has been very helpful with the training. Just because she’s a demon—”
“I thought demons lie. How do you know she isn’t tricking you?”
“She isn’t. She saved my life.”
Pursuing his lips, eyes narrowed, Cap hums thoughtfully. Steps back. He motions behind him, then Ruby is storming across the room and out the door without a word.
“What’s this?”
Barnes is holding up the burnt map piece, and Sam curses inwardly. He must look uncomfortable, because they both have him pinned with their eyes.
“Dean’s in trouble, isn’t he,” Cap states more than asks.
Sam doesn’t say anything, casts his own eyes to the floor. A bit of shuffling, then he startles when Cap ushers him out the door, Barnes following close behind with the map.
“Hey, you guys can’t—”
“We’re coming with you,” Banes says firmly, a tone that brooks no further arguments.
The passenger side door is opened and Sam gets stuffed inside. Cap sits in the driver’s seat, and Barnes sits at the back.
“You’re civilians,” Sam tries again. “And this is something way beyond hunting. You shouldn’t get involved!” he finishes frantically, and by then the Impala is already out of the parking lot.
“Dean needs help.”
It makes Sam blink, the answer not quite processing. But then it does.
No, they’re not quite strangers.
“Sam,” Barnes calls from the back.
Sam twists back towards him.
The sergeant’s eyes are serious, almost haunted. “Evil, I find, can play the good guy if it means achieving its goal.”
They’re the last words spoken for a while, and settle uncomfortably in Sam’s mind.