Chapter Text
May 2nd, 2006, Cold Oak, South Dakota
Midnight. It’s midnight. Sam has been watching the silent hands on his watch tick steadily towards the new day for the past fifteen minutes, having woken from a brutal nightmare in a cold sweat, still waiting for his nerves to settle down enough for him to even attempt to go back to sleep. Not that nightmares are exactly new to him at this point. They have been his constant companion, along with his father and his brother, since… since November. Horrible memories, of Jess dying, shot and bleeding out, at the hands of a monster wearing his brother’s face, and the shapeshifters taking him, drugging him, keeping him paralyzed and tied down while they wore his family’s faces, and mocked him with all the horrible things they were going to do to him. Even now, wide awake, Sam shudders at just the remembrance of those horrible dreams, those terrifying, vivid memories, the shades of grief and guilt and terror that follows him everywhere as steadfastly as his shadow wrapping themselves around him even now, alone in an abandoned old house on a mattress that was probably made in the early eighteen hundreds.
But, as ever-present as his memories of Jessica’s violent death, and the proceeding hours trapped in the clutches of those shapeshifters are, they aren’t what woke him tonight. Tonight’s, or, technically last night’s, nightmare was the same as the one he has been having ever since the Winchesters rolled up into this abandoned ghost town, his father and brother hot on the heels of what they said was a demon. Not just any kind of demon, either, apparently this one was extremely powerful, more than usual, and high ranking. High ranking enough that they have been chasing the monster almost non-stop since New Years, stopping only for the most emergent hunts along the way. Because apparently demons have ranks. And also exist. Sam isn’t sure why that had surprised him, maybe it was just the residual shock of what had happened at Stanford, but even after his encounter with vampires, and shapeshifters, it still was almost incomprehensible to Sam that demons can be walking the earth as well. Or any of the other things his father and his brother have been teaching him about.
Ever since Jessica’s funeral, after begging his dad to let him come home, even if that concept was more abstract than literal, his family has been doing their best to make up for having kept him in the dark for so long about the truth that is out there, by inviting him fully into the world of hunters. It started at Bobby’s, with the revelation that all the lore books and scrolls and tomes that littered the man’s house weren’t just his hobby, but actual fact that helped hunters like them take out the things hiding in the dark corners of the world, and has been going on ever since. Bobby loaned him several books to start him off with, on ghosts and spirits, monsters like werewolves and black dogs and shapeshifters, vampires and tulpas and crocatta. Dad lets him read his journal, when he isn’t using it for research, to catch him up on just what the ‘pest control’ business that he and Dean has been running for years has managed to accomplish.
And Dean has been eagerly regaling Sam with stories of his hunts, and how he managed to take out some kelpie, or skin walker, or witch. And Sam had delved into the new world that was being exposed to him eagerly, desperate for the distraction that learning and exploring the world of the supernatural gave him from the pain of thinking about, and missing Jessica, until the all-encompassing pain that her loss had engulfed Sam in had finally started to ebb, not fading, never leaving completely, but becoming bearable. And while Sam was by no means a hunter himself, nor did he have any inclination to be one, he still saw the good his family was doing, the lives they were saving, and he wanted to help. And he never wanted to be caught off guard again by the supernatural, the way he was with Dante and Emma and Jack when he was still a teenager, or the way he was with the shifters. The best way to avoid that, Sam figured, was to arm himself with as much knowledge as possible. And to keep himself close to his family.
Bobby had offered to let Sam stay with him on a permanent basis, and both Dad and Dean had thought it was a great idea. Sam would have a stable home, safety, and would be able to learn just about everything he could ever need to know about the supernatural at the hands of one of the most experienced, trusted hunters that Dean and Dad had ever met, but as much as he loved Bobby, and was eternally grateful to him for everything he did back at Stanford for him, he wasn’t the same as Dad, or Dean, and what Sam needed more than anything was his family. He felt safe with them, he felt at home, even as they moved from town to town, city to city, hunt to hunt. And both men were more than happy to help with Sam’s education on all things dark and creepy and evil, especially when Sam explained he wanted to be able to be prepared, and to keep himself safe if something came after him again. Which is what has led to his campout in this abandoned house in a creepy town that was apparently so haunted every single resident fled. Like the South Dakota version of Roanoke. Sam has been helping out more and more with the family business as his knowledge of the supernatural has been increasing, researching lore and digging through records on the cases his father and brother have been working, including this one, so he is fully aware of just what his family is getting itself into this time.
Demons, Sam had learned, came in different varieties. There were hellhounds, demonic pit bulls that collect souls. There were minor demons, like acheri or daeva, that are more primordial hell spawn, more creature than being, driven purely by destruction, chaos and death. Then there are the common demons, with either black or red eyes. Most demons have black eyes, black as the smoke that encompasses their true forms when they aren’t possessing a person, but some demons can have red eyes. Bobby has a theory that they are the tempter demons, the ones who make deals at crossroads, and that they are a special form of demon spawned from souls that went to Hell, not because of whatever reasons typically send souls down to the pit, like murder or genocide or robbing the poor or whatever, but because they themselves made a deal with a demon while they were living. But, according to witnesses, a couple of psychic kids that his father and Dean had been able to track down, this demon has yellow eyes, and nobody, not even Bobby, seemed to know what that meant. But if the trail of wreckage in the demon’s wake is anything to go by, it doesn’t mean anything good by a long shot.
Mothers burning to death in their kid’s nurseries, good kids snapping out of nowhere this year, all of whom seem to be twenty-two, twenty-three, and killing somebody. A twin brother, a fiancé, an entire family, in one case, that turned out to be abusing the kid who did it. And, when interviewed, usually in police stations, though with the latter the kid was in a mental health institution, all the kids said the same thing. The man with the yellow eyes told them to do it. Now, as far as Sam knew, there was no way to kill a demon, you could only trap it, or exorcise it. But Dad seemed to disagree. He and Dean had been in contact with another hunter named Daniel Elkins, based out of Colorado, who claimed to have some kind of special gun that would kill anything, including demons. Both Sam and Bobby were skeptical, but Dean and Dad thought it was a lead worth following, and so agreed to meet Daniel here, in Cold Oak, where apparently there were enough fairly powerful spooks and things crawling through the shadows to test out the gun before the Winchesters went after the demon itself.
Right now, Dean and Dad were probably exactly where they had been since the sun went down, after they had salted and warded every inch of the cabin they had commandeered for their base camp, where Sam has been waiting, as ordered by both his father and brother. It was a common order Sam was getting these days, and the one condition that they had both given Sam when he chose to stay with them, out hunting on the road, rather than at Bobby’s. That during a hunt, he stays where they tell him to stay, does what they tell him to do, without question. And, after Dante, and the shapeshifters, it isn’t an order Sam is all too willing to disobey. Besides, Sam can honestly say he would much rather be inside, where it is relatively warm and semi-comfortable, then out in the town, laying different booby traps and snares for the ghouls and ghosts and things that might decide to stalk the Winchesters, like Dean is doing, or standing guard at the one road that leads into Cold Oak, waiting for Daniel to show, like his father is doing.
At least… he preferred it during the day, or before he falls asleep and that horrible dream takes a hold of him. Where he and those other kids, the ones turned murderers at the behest of the yellow-eyed demon, were all thrown together into a ring, and forced to kill each other. The dream always ends in the same way, with a cold knife sliding into Sam’s lower back, and a low, evil, victorious laugh echoing in his ears. It was no different tonight. Last night. Whatever. Sam lets out a long, low breath, trying not to put too much stock in the dream. It was just a creepy nightmare. Fitting for the creepy town they were in. Still, Sam pushes himself up, letting the thin, worn old army blanket that he had stolen from the Impala fall around his waist, rubbing his eyes as he glances around the ramshackle shack.
A small, one story place, it consists of a tiny living room, with two dusty, ancient sofas, complete with sliced up cushions and exposed springs, a dining room/kitchen that is covered in dust, grim and things Sam has no interest in ever discovering what exactly they are, and the one bedroom that Sam has claimed during the nights, while Dean and John switch off using it during the day. At least, that is the pattern they have gotten into for the last week that they have been waiting here, since Daniel didn’t give them an exact date or time for the rendezvous. Sam carefully slips his feet into the boots he left beside the bed, refusing to go barefoot in this rundown ruin of a house, and stands up, stretching and yawning as he flips on the small lantern that they have been using as a light, without the luxury of electricity. Grabbing the lantern’s handle, Sam heads into the small kitchen, towards the cooler that has been stocked with all their necessary supplies, including Sam’s goal now- a bottle of whisky. Though he didn’t drink nearly as much of the stuff as his family did, he couldn’t deny there was a soothing quality to the hard liquor, especially after a bad dream.
But before Sam can grab the bottle, the door to their little makeshift shelter opens and Sam tenses automatically, reaching for the half silver-half iron knife that Dean had given him at Christmas, a beautifully intricate blade forged from the two metals that an old family friend, Pastor Jim, had blessed for him. A family friend who, Sam was shocked to learn, was also in the ‘pest control’ business. That knife had never been more than a foot away from Sam at all times since then, but even as Sam draws it from his pocket, he is relaxing, Dean’s form stepping into the little pool of light their lantern is casting, his arms full. A wide grin crosses Dean’s face as Sam meets his gaze, lighting up his expression despite the mud and dirt covering his brother from his hunting efforts.
“Happy birthday kiddo.” Dean says delightedly. “Now I don’t have to feel bad about waking you up.”
“Waking me up?” Sam asks, confused.
“Yeah, dude.” Dean raises his eyebrows, walking past Sam to dump the contents of his arms onto the table, before turning on Sam with a look of mock outrage on his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our most valued and sacred tradition, Sammy?” Sam frowns, furrowing his brows in confusion, before his eyes widen in realization. Before he had gone to Stanford, every year on Dean and Sam’s birthday, they would wake the other up at midnight, if they weren’t already up moving to a new place, or coming home from some ‘pest control’ job. Because of Dad and Dean’s odd schedules, it was often easiest and simplest to do the whole birthday shebang- cake, presents, Happy Birthday- at midnight, before getting on with whatever work needed to be done- research, driving, or actual job depending on what stage of the hunt Dean and their father were on. A small, guilty smile crosses Sam’s face.
“I uh… I didn’t think we were doing that anymore.” Sam admits. “Since we didn’t do it for you, in January.”
“Yeah, well, in your defense I was in the hospital, and they kicked you out at like eight the previous evening since ‘visiting hours’ and all that fun stuff.” Dean says dismissively, waving his hand nonchalantly. Sam flinches, remembering how bad off his brother had been for his birthday this year. A hunt with their dad for something called a Rawhead, a beast that can only be killed by electrocuting it, hand ended disastrously when Dean himself had ended up getting shocked so badly it permanently and severely, almost certainly fatally, damaged his heart. Or would have, if their dad hadn’t been able to find a faith healer to fix the issue, saving Dean’s life in the process. That had, in turn, lead to another hunt once they discovered that the wife of the pastor who healed Dean was actually keeping a reaper on a leash, and using it to give and take lives according to how she saw fit. They were able to break the spell binding the reaper, but only after several innocent people had been killed in the woman’s self-righteous cause. “Besides.” Sam jumps slightly, as his brother’s voice brings him back to the present. “I was the one who started the tradition, only seems right that I am the one to bring it back.” Dean smiles warmly at Sam, who returns a grateful one. Sam knows that Dean knows he has been having a rough time lately, and the nightmares have been near constant, which is more likely the actual reason Dean has resurrected this particular Winchester tradition. A reason to come back and check on Sam when he should be doing his job, and a way to cheer Sam up if he had already been woken up by the awful dreams, which, go figure, he was. And it was working. Sam feels the smile spread on his face as he studies the small pile of gifts Dean dropped on the table, along with two bottles of Sam’s favorite brand of beer, which he must have been hiding out in the Impala.
“Thanks Dean.” Sam says softly, looking at his brother gratefully.
“Anytime tiger.” Dean grins, just as the door behind him opens one more time, this time letting in their father.
“Hey Sammy.” His dad nods in greeting, a warm smile on his face. “Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.” Sam returns his father’s smile. “I thought you were out keeping an eye for Elkins.”
“I was but…” His father rubs the back of his head, sighing softly as he turns regretful eyes on his youngest son. “I think we have all missed enough of these midnight birthday parties in recent years, don’t you?” Sam snorts softly, meeting his dad’s gaze and reading the guilt and regret and sadness written there.
“Yeah, I do.” He admits after a moment.
“Whelp, that ends here.” Dean says joyfully, breaking the heaviness of the moment with his usual carefree attitude. He pulls out a third beer from his pocket, twisting off the lid and handing it towards Sam. He takes it, as Dean twists the caps off the other two, handing one to their father as he raises his own. “To twenty-three years of being a complete and total nerd, and many, many more years of dorkdom. Happy birthday Sammy!”
“Gee, thanks.” Sam replies sarcastically, even as warmth floods his chest. Under the snarky teasing, Sam can hear the pride and love from his older brother, which is all that matters. Dad raises his beer as well.
“Happy birthday son.” He says, his voice softer, but no less proud. “I know this probably isn’t the way you imagined spending your birthday this year…. But I just want you to know, I am so proud of the man you are becoming, Sam.” Sam blushes slightly, pleased at the praise from his old man. Behind him, always the child, Dean fakes vomiting as his father’s kind words, and Sam rolls his eyes, chuckling as their father sees and lightly smacks the back of Dean’s head.
“Hey!” Dean complains.
“You had it coming.” Their father says dismissively, winking at Sam who laughs again, as Dean grumbles about being ganged up on. “Anyways, here’s to you, Sam.” Sam raises his own beer, touching it lightly to his father’s and then his brothers.
“Cheers.” Dean says, already over his brief childish fit, though the mischievous gleam in his big brother’s eyes as he looks at him tells Sam that it isn’t forgotten. No doubt he is going to pay for laughing at his ‘misfortune’. Which, fine, bring it on. Sam isn’t a kid anymore, and, thanks to his college friends, some of whom had pledged into frat houses, he had hundreds of new ideas for pranks to get back at his brother for whatever he intends to do.
“Cheers.” Dad and Sam say together, before all three men sip their beers. Sam sighs in contentment as the familiar, comforting flavors wash over his tongue, although a small wave of sadness follows with it. Jess had introduced him to this particular brand on their fourth date, and had made sure to keep their apartment stocked with it once they had moved in together. Here’s to you Jess, Sam thinks sadly, taking another, longer sip of his beverage. As if sensing his thoughts, Dean moves over Sam’s side, gently bumping his shoulder into Sam’s, a questioning look in his eyes. Sam nods once, reassuring his brother wordlessly that he is alright, and Dean nods in return, understanding and sympathy in his gaze.
“Alright, Princess.” Dean steps back, his voice light and mocking as he steps back, gesturing at the presents on the table. Two are roughly wrapped in old newspaper clippings, but the third is expertly wrapped in yellow paper, with a neat blood-red bow wrapped around it. “Time for presents. Open mine first.” He grabs the smaller of the two newspaper-wrapped gifts, thrusting it at Same eagerly. Laughing lightly, Sam takes the gift, setting his beer aside to unwrap it. Ripping off the paper, a small black case falls into Sam’s hand, and when he opens it, several small, silver tools gleam up at him. Sam frowns in confusion.
“What is it?” He asks, curious.
“That, little brother, is your very first lock picking kit.” Dean grins. “I’m going to teach you how to use it as well.” Sam raises his eyebrows, intrigued.
“You mean how to like… break into houses and stuff?” Sam asks, a little surprised at himself for not being as repulsed by the idea as he probably should have been, especially for being pre-law. If anything, the idea seems almost exciting. And that excitement must carry into his tone, or at least his expression, because both Dean and his father start to laugh.
“Easy there, Bonnie and Clyde.” Dean teases. “I was thinking starting a little bit smaller, like how to slip a pair of cuffs.”
“Bonnie and Clyde robbed banks, genius.” Sam teases right back. Dean rolls his eyes.
“Whatever.” Dean oh so cleverly responds. Their dad just chuckles, before studying Sam, and answering his question a little more thoughtfully than his brother had.
“I know you don’t want to be a hunter, Sam, but if you are going to be on the road with us, there are some skills you should learn, and lockpicking is one of them. But there are lots of ways to use that skill. One, like you said, is to get in, or sometimes more importantly, out of different places you might find yourself. Our line of work is dangerous, and it is very likely you could find yourself trapped somewhere. Knowing how to pick a lock on a door could help save your life down the road. The other, like Dean was mentioning, is being able to get out of handcuffs. Again, not as uncommonly as you might think, it’s a skill you might find yourself needing to save your life.” He explains.
Sam nods seriously, listening to the solemnity of his father’s voice. In the few months that Sam has been traveling with his family again, this time aware of what they are doing, he has learned just how many… shady things his father and brother do on any given hunt, with the clandestine nature of being hunters forcing them to operate outside of societies normal rules, laws and limits, but now, hearing his father speak about one of the skeezier aspects, at least to an outsider, as a matter of life and death, Sam is discovering a new level of respect for his family and their professionalism, knowledge and, honestly, bravery. Being able and willing to have to escape houses, restraints, break into places… it must take a lot of courage. Sam looks over to his brother, holding the kit just a little bit tighter.
“Thank you Dean.” Sam says sincerely. Dean grins, trying to hide the slight flush of pleasure at Sam’s genuine delight for his gift, though of course he can’t fool Sam.
“No problem tiger.” Dean says easily, leaning back against the wall. Sliding the kit easily into his pocket, Sam turns to the second newspaper-wrapped gift, flicking his eyes towards his father.
“Yours?” He asks, curious. His dad nods, and Sam carefully lifts it up. Larger than the lock picking kit, it is a relatively thin box, but with some weight inside it. Gingerly, Sam unwraps it, freezing as he sees the image on the top of the box.
“Dad…” Sam says, before trailing off, not knowing what to say. He has had some nice gifts from his father before, but never, ever anything this expensive. Carefully, almost reverently, Sam opens the box to study the brand new laptop nestled into the cardboard. Beside him, Dean whistles appreciatively. Running his hand over the smooth surface of the top of the laptop, Sam swallows hard. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything, Son.” Dad says gruffly. “You’ve been working so hard to help me and your brother out, and Bobby swears by the damn things when it comes to speeding up research. I thought you might like it. Besides, I gave Dean the Impala, so I figured it was your turn to get a big gift.” Setting the laptop down, and ignoring his family’s long standing history of avoiding physical intimacy like the plague except in life-or-death emergencies, Sam moves to his father, hugging him. After a moment, he feels his father return his embrace, if a bit awkwardly.
“Which now means it is my turn next again.” Dean gloats, and Sam pulls away from his father, laughing. Their dad snorts derisively.
“Yeah, good luck with that kiddo.” Their dad drawls. Dean puts on his best affronted look, and Sam rolls his eyes, turning his gaze back to the third present, the one wrapped so beautifully, even though it is smaller than the other two. Picking it up, Sam looks for some kind of indication for who it is from, frowning in confusion when he sees none.
“Who sent this?” He asks curiously, glancing at his brother and father. Dean shrugs, glancing at their father.
“Wasn’t me. I thought it was from you?” He says, turning the statement into a question.
“No, wasn’t me either. Bobby, maybe?” Their father suggests. “He must have slipped it into the car when we were there last. Shrugging, Sam turns and starts to carefully unwrap the present. Whatever it is, it is light. The beautiful wrapping comes off easily, revealing a small black box. A trickle of remembrance, of familiarity, flows through Sam, and, oddly, unease begins to pool in his gut, but not enough to stop him from opening the lid of the box. When it opens though, Sam freezes, a terrible rush of grief and shock holding him paralyzed as he stares down at the sole object of the box. At the tiny ring, with it’s golden band and flower-shaped diamond nestled into the black fabric of the box. At the ring he had had custom made to give to Jessica. At the ring that he had left on her grave, months ago. There is no doubt that this is the same ring, it was too unique to be copied, or to be randomly sent to him of all people. So how… how did the engagement ring he had had made for the love of his life, the one he left behind in a graveyard in Palo Alto, end up here, in Cold Oak, South Dakota, on his birthday?
“Sam?” Dean’s voice says softly from behind him, and Sam realizes he subconsciously shifted his body so that he was blocking the line of sight to the ring for his father and brother. And, by extension, blocking their views of his expression, which he has to assume is somewhere between numb panic and terrified confusion. At least, that is the closest description he can give to the storm of emotions swirling through him as his eyes stay locked on the gift he never got to give to Jess. “Dude, what is it? What did Bobby get you?”
“I…” Sam’s voice comes out strangled, weakened, hoarse, as if he has been screaming his head off for hours. Clearing his throat, he tries to speak again. “I… I don’t think Bobby sent this.” His voice is hardly any better, and he can practically feel the looks boring into the back of his head from his family. He definitely feels the tension in the room rise, and he hears the concern in his father’s voice when he speaks.
“Sam? What is it?” His dad asks gently. Slowly, reluctantly, Sam turns around, extending the hand holding onto the velvet ring box, and he watches both his father’s and Dean’s eyes flash to the small box. Their expressions change from concerned, to confused, to horrified almost in complete sync, before their eyes snap towards Sam.
“Sammy?” Dean asks softly, his voice gentle, kind. Almost too compassionate. The kind of voice he might adopt at the bedside of someone who was sick, or dying. Slowly, Sam glances towards him, still too shocked, too frozen between confusion and fear, to do anything except move his eyes. “Is… is that…” Sam can see Dean struggling, trying to be sensitive even as he can see both Dean and their father shifting gears, almost too subtly to tell if you didn’t know them personally, into hunting mode. Their muscles tense, their hands reach ever so slightly for their weapons, their eyes sharpen and attentiveness radiates from every single inch of the experienced soldiers. Still, Dean’s expression as he meets Sam’s eyes is sympathetic, saddened and compassionate, all at complete odds with the hardened, battle-experienced stance he is now taking, and the struggle he is having in forming the question he is trying to ask speaks to how unnerved the surprise appearance of Jessica’s ring has made him. It is that shared feeling of being unnerved, of Sam knowing that he isn’t alone in not understanding, or liking, what is unfolding around them, that lets Sam find the strength to speak again, to answer the question he really doesn’t want to answer, to confirm what they all already know to be true.
“Yeah.” He says quietly, his voice shaking ever so slightly as his eyes go back to his ring. Jessica’s ring. “It was for Jess.”
“Where did it come from?” Their father asks sharply. Sam just shakes his head.
“I don’t… I don’t know. I left it at… at her grave.” Sam whispers. He glances up, to see Dad and Dean share a dark look.
“When did you notice the gift appear in the car, Dean?” Dad asks. Dean frowns thoughtfully, growing more and more troubled as he tries to remember.
“First time I saw it was… just after we got here.” Dean finally says. Sam looks to his father as he swears, running a hand through his hair.
“Pack.” He orders, his voice brokering no argument. Dean immediately launches into action, quickly gathering up everything they have, and Sam rushes to help, recognizing the urgency in his father’s tones, and the utter seriousness in the way he and Dean are moving over the entire house, double checking the wards as they throw all of their possessions together. Within a matter of minutes, all three Winchesters are ready to move, their duffle bags, packed with Sam’s gifts, their few changes of clothes, and all of Dean and their father’s hunting gear, hanging from their shoulders as Sam carries their cooler, and both Dean and their father are armed with silver blades and loaded guns at the ready. “Sam, Dean, you boys head straight to the impala. Don’t stop, don’t look around. You get to the damn car, as fast as you can. Dean, you see anything that isn’t me, you shoot it. Sam, you stay with your brother.”
“Yes sir.” Sam and Dean say in perfect sync. Their father nods.
“I’ll be right behind you… move.” He orders, throwing open the front door. Dean takes the lead, sprinting out the door, and Sam follows quickly on his heels, his heart starting to race as adrenaline floods his system, helping to clear some of the numbness and confusion from his system. Unfortunately, as those emotions let up, it leaves Sam open enough for the sheer terror to come sweeping in. He has no idea how that ring ended up, not only in the trunk of their car, but wrapped and bowed like a damn gift, but he has absolutely no doubt in the world that it wasn’t out of the goodness of someone’s heart. The ring wasn’t someone returning a lost possession. It is a taunt. And he can tell Dean and Dad are feeling the exact same way. Bursting out of the doorway, he and Dean leap off of the old wood porch, landing heavily on the muddy ground of the main road in the tiny town. It is raining, lightly enough that Sam hadn’t noticed when they were inside, but enough to create a thick mist rolling around the edges of the long forgotten structures that hang over them, monuments to a long ago time. Just like his nightmare. Sam shudders, trying to shake off the feeling, keeping his eyes steadily on his brother’s back, as he hears his father’s footsteps behind him.
“John!” A voice yells. A male, unfamiliar voice, at least to Sam. But Dean and their father must recognize it, because Dean slows automatically, even as the Impala comes into focus. Standing next to the black chevy, in the headlights of what in the darkness Sam can only make out as a big, dark truck, is an older male, leaning against the front bumper, watching the three Winchesters as they rapidly approach.
“Daniel.” Their father calls with relief, but as Dean and Sam reach the Impala and slow down, Daniel Elkin’s face comes into view thanks to the headlights. And Sam’s stomach twists anxiously, even as Dean’s gun comes up. The man isn’t looking surprised, or concerned, or even confused by the way the Winchesters had been fleeing towards the car. He didn’t even look alarmed, or tense, and for a hunter he doesn’t seem to be carrying even a single weapon. Instead, he is leaning back, one leg resting on the bumper, his arms folded casually across his chest, and his expression is calm, composed. Mildly amused, even. Sam and Dean skid to a halt, even as Dean pulls the trigger, gun aimed squarely at the man’s chest. But nothing happens, Dean’s gun jamming.
“Son of a-” Dean starts to curse, as their father arrives, his gun also aimed, and also jamming as he pulls the trigger.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Daniel says, cutting Dean off and wagging his finger the way a parent might to a disobeying child. “I’m disappointed in you boys. Murdering a man isn’t any way to celebrate little Sammy’s birthday.” Sam tenses, shifting fearfully as both his father and Dean move to stand protectively in front of him. He drops the cooler he has been carrying, pulling out his knife even as his hand shakes, all Winchesters keeping their eyes on the man, or thing pretending to be a man, in front of them.
“You aren’t Daniel.” Dean says flatly. The man winks at him.
“No grass growing under your feet, eh kiddo?” He mocks, his voice smooth and slick, and cold as ice. Sam shivers involuntarily at the malice in it, the… evil, he can feel radiating off of the man now that he is dropping all pretenses. Goose bumps are raised all over his arms, every single hair on his body standing on end.
“Who are you?” Dad demands sharply. The man looks at him, and suddenly his eyes, hidden too well in the dark to see their color, glow bright, gleaming yellow.
“An old friend.” The thing sneers gleefully. All three Winchesters step back, their knives raising as the thing has already proved the guns are useless.
“The demon.” Sam whispers, entirely to himself as he stares at the monster, but the thing clearly hears him, his eyes boring into Sam’s.
“Samuel Winchester… my, my. Haven’t you grown.” The thing drawls, stepping forward once, tilting his head. “You were supposed to be mine, you know… the things you and I could have done, would have done, together... But your damn mother got in the way, ruined my plans…” Dad, Dean and Sam freeze at the things words, shock hitting all of them with the force of a runaway train. The monster chuckles, eyes sweeping over the confused, furious expressions staring back at him. “Ah well. No use crying over spilled blood, eh?”
“What are you talking about?” Dad asks coldly. The demon shakes his head.
“All in good time, Johnny boy.” It says cruelly.
“What do you want?” Dean snarls, shifting restlessly. The demon’s eyes flicker towards him.
“A little payback.” The monster purrs. “See, you Winchesters have been a pain in my ass for generations. And the Campbells were no better. But all of their meddling, all of their hunting and Men of Letters nonsense, I could look past. Forgive. But sweet, precious, perfect little Mary Winchester stole something from me. Robbed me of what is rightfully mine.” The demon looks squarely at Sam as he says this, and Sam tenses, discomfort washing over him as both Dean and Dad shift closer.
“Don’t you dare say her name.” Dad growls low, furious.
“Oh I’ll dare to do more than that.” The demon promises. “We are going to have some fun tonight, boys.” He prowls forward and Sam steps back, even as Dad and Dean hold their ground, glaring at the monster. “Tell me, Sammy, did you like my gift?” Sam freezes, his hand going immediately towards his pocket, where he had shoved the box in their rush to pack everything up. The demon chuckles as it watches the spasm of grief cross Sam’s face. “I thought it was so precious, how you left it on poor Jessica’s headstone. So sweet. It must have cost you a fortune, to have a pretty thing like that made.”
“Sam, run.” Dean orders. Sam steps back ready to obey, when an invisible force washes over him, and suddenly he is as trapped, as frozen, as he was that day with the shapeshifters, as if that paralytic is running through his veins again.
“No, Sam, stay.” The demon purrs. “I have a bone to pick with you.” Judging by the sudden grunts, and growls and loud curses from his father and brother, Sam realizes that whatever the demon is doing to hold him in one spot, he must be doing it to all three of them. “See, I was going to kill Jessica. Take my payback that way. But you, you had to go and cross paths with some low-level, disgusting beast like a shapeshifter and get her killed before I ever had the chance. So, instead, here we are. But don’t you worry, you are going to make it up to me tonight. You may not be mine the way I intended, but lucky for you, I have a backup plan.” With that, the demon throws his head back, and thick, black smoke streaked with flickering yellow light comes pouring out of Daniel Elkin’s mouth. Sam’s eyes widen in horror, and then terror, as the smoke races through the air, hurdling straight towards him.
“Sam!”
“Sammy!!” He hears the screams of his dad, and his brother, right before something invisible yanks his mouth open, and the thick column of black smoke rams its way down his mouth. Everything goes black around him as the rain, the mud, his petrified looking family disappears. The chilly night air disappears, and all sense of his body along with it as he is wrapped completely, and utterly in the darkness of the monster. The terrifying sensation lasts for what feels like an eternity, before his surroundings take shape again. A cage, made of golden walls, wraps around him tightly, so tightly he can feel it pressing in on all sides. And while he still can’t feel, let alone move his body, his sight returns, taking in the completely unchanged scene in front of him. Dad and Dean are still frozen, the rain is still falling, the truck’s headlights are still illuminating them. Except the scene has changed. Daniel Elkin’s is laying, passed out cold on the muddy ground, and Sam is walking, despite him not being able to move an inch. His arms are stretching, his hands clenching in and out of fists as he cracks his neck, all the while a low, dark, laugh escapes his lips. A laugh that isn’t his. He walks around Dean and Dad, taking in their furious, petrified faces, and the darkness around Sam radiates sadistic delight at their circumstances.
“There now.” Sam hears his own voice, crueler and colder than it has ever been before. He feels a wicked smile tug at his lips. “Let the birthday games begin.”