Archive of Our Own ^beta

The room was empty when Sam woke up, but he knew the drill. He'd done this before.

He drank a glass of water in the bathroom, splashed water over his face, and eyed his toothbrush. He almost felt like he needed to puke, though, and poking around in his mouth didn't seem smart in light of that.

Sam stared at the bed when he came back into the room. It'd been a dream, it'd only ever been a dream — he'd seen Jess, back in Palo Alto, and he got a good enough eyeful before Dean dragged him away that Sam knew he should be suspicious of ever seeing her again — but it was hard to really wrap his mind around that. One night, he was in bed with his Jess, and the next time he found himself with company, it'd been Lucifer lying next to him.

It was still dark outside the windows, and without weapons or any place to go, Sam stripped the bed and lay back down on the bare mattress.

The other side of the bed was cool. The extra pillow hadn't been dented until Sam grabbed it and threw it on the floor. There hadn't been long blonde strands of hair in the sheets, or the faint smell of sweat overpowering deodorant caught in the fabric. Jess showered in the mornings, so that Sam always fell asleep smelling her, and that had been missing when he woke up, the other morning.

None of it had been there the other night. Sam hadn't really looked for it, then, not when he explained her away as a dream. A guy was entitled some wish-fulfillment every few years, especially when the rest of his dreams, not to mention the rest of his years, turned out the way Sam's did.

He wouldn't consent, is all. He'd seen Dean refuse the angels in the face of disintegrating internal organs and threats to family members. If Lucifer meant what he said, about not tricking Sam — coercion counted as trickery, right? So long as Lucifer didn't pull the kind of scams that the angels upstairs were working, Sam would be fine.

Sam snorted and rolled over. He rested his head on his arm since the pillows were still on the floor, and his stomach sank. He didn't want to admit why, but he made himself, because lies hadn't helped yet: not even an hour passed before Sam started taking Lucifer at his word.

But, he wouldn't do it. It wouldn't even matter that Michael and Lucifer probably had it out for each other, because Sam wouldn't let it come to that. Even if Lucifer was right, Sam could hold out long enough to keep Dean out of harm's way. It was the least he could do, and if Dean had made it thirty years for Sam, then Sam could return the favor.

Thirty years would put Dean in his sixties, which wasn't impressive for the population at large but was almost unheard-of for lifelong hunters.

Sam thought that the two of them might be the only true lifelong hunters working now, but even with that advantage, Sam didn't know how long he could last. Sam hadn't held out for nearly that long without giving in to Ruby, and he had no reason to think he could do the same thing against Lucifer. Lucifer. He traced his fingers over his tattoo and wondered if there was some angelic equivalent that Dean — that he and Dean could get.

He got off of the bed and kicked the sheets out of the way back to the bathroom. Sometimes, Sam wanted a normal addiction. He wanted to have a sponsor, and meetings to go to. He wanted more than the old copy of an Al-Anon book he'd stolen from a library, to try to apply to himself. It was probably good, that no one sold what he wanted, but right now, it meant he had no one to call in the middle of the night. No one would help without trying to figure out how much of a threat he posed.

Dean might not have heard about Hank and the guys yet. Maybe he wouldn't ever, since Sam handed them their asses nicely enough that they might not want to tell that part of the story, but Dean would find out about the demons eventually. Someone with experience under their belt knew how to find the truth in the fish stories that made the rounds. Even if Dean didn't hear about the demons himself, the news would make its way to Bobby, and that was good, or bad, enough.

Sam paced around the room a few times, then sank into one of the chairs by the table. His phone lay on the bedside table, the green light on the side showing it was charged, but he didn't move to pick it up. Secrets had gotten him here, and he knew that keeping more secrets wasn't the answer, but Sam couldn't make himself call yet.

This was important, but he didn't want to tell them. He didn't want them to know. Sam hadn't suspected where the dreams came from, and he should have known better than that. It was such a good dream at first, full of things he wanted, and he hadn't thought to question it. He hadn't wanted to question it. It was Jess, warm and smiling and within reach, so Sam took all of her, as much as he could.

It had been like that in Cold Oak, a dream clear enough to be lucid but not at all controllable. He could still hear Azazel saying, best and brightest, Sammy, you're my favorite. It wasn't a huge leap from that to true vessel, Sam, it always had to be you. And he might not have given in to Azazel at the time, but Sam thought he'd done enough in the meantime to make up for it.

He didn't know how to stop this alone.