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Sam is squinting into the sun. He knows he shouldn’t be, objectively, or he should at least be shielding his face with his hand like Dean is next to him. But. Sam is squinting into the sun, and Dean is standing next to him, having an easier time focusing on the ridge on the other side of the valley because he isn’t letting the sun hit his eyes.
They’re in Nevada, pulled over for a bit to let the Impala’s engine cool down, because it’s dead summer and it’s hot. One of those Nevada highways that’s somehow completely flat for miles and miles even though there are mountains on every horizon. Anyway.
It’s hot, and Sam and Dean are standing on a small ridge next to the highway, and Sam is squinting into the sun. He isn’t shielding his eyes like Dean because he’s too busy trying to decide if Dean can also see the pillar of smoke behind the far-off, much larger ridge they’re facing. “Do you see that?” he risks. “See what?” Dean’s voice is rough, gravelly. He hasn’t been drinking enough water. “The smoke.” Dean gives him a strange look. That’s a no, then. “Never mind,” he says, “heat mirage, I guess.” “Uh huh.” Dean doesn’t believe him. Sam hands Dean his water bottle.
Jack and Cas are down by the car, on the side of the road. They’re being careful to keep a safe distance, though. There’s not a lot of traffic, but. People speed, here. Jack is crouched, in Castiel’s shadow, poking at something on the ground. Cas is gazing down the highway. Sam should tell Cas to take off his coat. The heat can’t hurt him, but his coat might draw attention to them. Sam wouldn’t be surprised if not a single resident of the state owned a coat that warm. He and Dean aren’t wearing their usual layers, just t-shirts and jeans. They both have flannels tied around their waists, though. Open carry isn’t really a big deal in Nevada, but still. Most people only carry one weapon at a time. The flannels help conceal a bit. Better safe than sorry.
Dean is saying something to him. He had pulled a paper map from somewhere. No service out here. Sam stops squinting into the sun. If he doesn’t look at the smoke he can pretend it isn’t there. Like Dean is. “We’ll have to gas up one more time before Yerington. Should make it there before sunset, though.” Sam shrugs. “Okay. Want me to drive?” He asks even though he already knows the answer. Especially if Dean thinks he’s seeing things, right now. Like smoke. Fair enough. “Nah,” says Dean. “I’m good to go.” Dean’s always good to go. His voice is a little less gravelly now but it’s still dusty. Dean chokes on dust, Sam chokes on smoke. They both keep breathing.
…
Sam can feel Jack’s knees pressing into the seat at his back. Jack sits like Sam does sometimes, all twisted and curled in on himself in a way that makes Dean grimace. They’re coasting down a mountain now, and a half-empty water bottle rolls out from under Sam’s seat. He grabs it and holds it over his shoulder to Jack. He’s not really sure what can and can’t hurt Jack right now, but Castiel was shielding him from the sun, earlier, so. Jack takes the water bottle from Sam, and Sam doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t, when Jack’s hand brushes his, but he can’t stop his other hand from flexing and clenching into a fist where it’s laying in his lap. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t flinch, but Jack’s hands are so cold, they always are, and he can see Cas looking at him in the rearview. He looks away, out the window he had been avoiding until now. He’d take the smoke that probably wasn’t there over the weight of the angels gaze. It smells like desert creosote and ozone in the car, on top of the usual leather and gun oil, and Sam is squinting into the sun because there aren’t any mile markers on this backwater highway.
…
Half-lying on the bed in the darkened motel room, Sam can just barely see the sun setting through the gap in the curtains. There are a lot of trees in this town, for Nevada. This motel is on the edge of town, though, so Sam can see where the trees just… stop. It turns back into empty desert beyond them. The overworked old air conditioner sounds like it smokes three packs a day, and Sam thinks it just might, judging by the strong cigarette smell in the room. It’s making him nauseous, the smell, but he doesn’t have the energy to get up and go outside for fresh air. It’s just him and Cas in the room. Dean had taken Jack to go find some takeout and a six-pack. Or two. They were supposed to be getting some rest before going out for the night. The thing they’re hunting is nocturnal, a night crawler was the working theory. Anyway, they were supposed to be resting, but Dean was too antsy and Jack doesn’t sleep anymore and Sam is too tired to fall asleep. His eyes are heavy with heat and dust, and he can’t make himself move from where he had sat on the bed and slumped onto his back, so he just half-lays there, nauseous and tired, and watches the sun set through the gap in the curtains. Tries to ignore the pillar of smoke on the horizon that had remained the same size despite the fact that they had traveled two hundred miles since he had first noticed it.
Cas moves into his field of view and opens the curtains all the way, leans against the wall with his head turned into the setting sun. Sam doesn’t know what the angel had been doing until then, he hadn’t looked around in a while. Now that he thinks about it, it seems like the sun has been setting for an unusually long time now. Probably just something to do with the dry air and steep-flat-steep-flat geology of the region. Probably. With the way Castiel’s head is turned, resting against the window, the sun is making a halo around it, broken up by the shadows of the trees. Sam thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything. Time passes.
Cas is looking at Sam. The sun is still setting. Sam hadn’t noticed Castiel shift his attention. Cas is looking at Sam like he’s waiting for Sam to respond to something. “Sorry, uh. What?” Sam says. Cas stares. “I asked,” he says, “if you were okay, Sam.” Oh. Loaded question. Cas knows that, though. Maybe better than anyone. “Yeah, Cas, I’m fine,” Sam scoffs. He is. Fine. “Do you think Dean and Jack are okay?” Sam asks. “They’ve been gone a while.” Cas stares some more. “They’ve been gone for ten minutes, Sam.” Oh. Feels like it’s been hours. Reassuring, at least, that it probably isn’t actually taking hours for the sun to set. Just ten minutes. Cas is good at time, so it’s probably Sam that’s wrong, not the world. It usually is. Him. That’s wrong. In more ways than one.
…
Castiel is sitting next to Sam on the bed. It’s dark. The sun has set. Sam can’t see the pillar of smoke anymore. There’s no moon, tonight. Cas is sitting next to Sam, with his hand on Sam’s wrist. There’s something undecipherable in his eyes. Sam looks away. “I’m so tired, Cas,” he whispers. The heat can’t hurt Cas but his body is still affected by it, his hand dry on Sam’s skin. He’s tracing a familiar pattern, familiar to Sam and Cas both, on Sam’s arm, the decades of scars he rarely lets breathe. “I know,” says Cas. “Sleep. It will be better when you wake.”
…
Sam dreams about veins of molten gold.
…
It wasn’t a night crawler, the thing they killed later that night. It was just that. A thing. Probably the only one of its kind. The kind of thing born in desolate places that only knew loneliness and violence. Kill or be killed. It was an ugly, broken, thing, probably on its last legs. It had been more of a mercy kill, than a hunt. Putting down a rabid old dog. The guy it had killed, whose death had led them here to the middle of nowhere, had shot it. Open carry in Nevada, and all that. It was injured. Sam had felt sad, for the thing, as they watched it burn. He understood, he thinks, how it felt. How it came to be what it was. It had only killed in self-defense, probably. They’d all been there.
The fire had long since died, but no one made a move toward the Impala. Or spoke. The night was cool but the sand was still radiating the day’s heat and once the funeral smoke had cleared, they could see the stars. Jack had never seen the stars, like this. Dry air, no moon, no civilization for miles. So the fire died and the smoke cleared and no one moved and they were watching the stars. Sam was trying to ignore the dark patch of sky on the horizon, the way the blurry stars on the edges faded in and out of view with the slight breeze. Jack was sitting on the ground at his feet, leaning against his legs. Dean was still crouched at the edge of the pit where they had burnt the thing. Sam was trying not to think of it as a grave. Things did not get graves. Things got holes in the ground and burned up and forgot about. Cas was standing next to Sam, with his hands in his coat pockets. Sam never had gotten around to telling Cas about how most people wouldn’t wear a coat in this heat.
They stayed out there until the sun rose and brought the heat back with it. No one said a word the whole time.
…
Sam was running, squinting into the sun as it rose, trying to ignore the plume of the smoke that had grown and followed them all the way back to Kansas.
…
Jack was sitting at one of the library tables, on his laptop, when Sam came in from the kitchen, fresh mug of coffee burning in his hand. Sam liked this mug because it fit his large hands and was a soft shade of blue that reminded him of spring. He liked the burning because. Well. He sits across from Jack, bumps their knees together. Jack looks up at him, smiles that big bright smile he has. “Good morning!” Sam smiles back. He thinks. He’s pretty sure. “Morning, Jack. Whatcha workin’ on?” Jack shrugs. “Looking for hunts. There’s not much. It seems quiet out there.” Sam nods, once. This was how they’d ended up in Nevada on a one-death lead. “Yeah. It does. Maybe we’ll get to relax for a bit. Stay put.” Like that could ever happen. Like Sam knows how to stay put. But Jack smiles again. “I’d like that.” Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t manage a smile this time.
…
“What d’you mean, nothing?” Dean is getting restless. Sam shrugs. “There’s nothing, Dean. It’s- it seems quiet.” Sam is not thinking about a pillar of smoke. He isn’t. He’s trying not to. “I mean there’s- y’know, murders. And stuff. Still. But normal murders. Y’know. People.” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t like it. It’s never quiet.” He spits the word out like it offended him personally, leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Something’s gotta be up.” Sam thinks about the pillar of smoke, always on the horizon. Even in Kansas. “I don’t know, Dean. There’s no- omens, or anything. If something’s up, there’s no, uh, signs.” “I don’t like it,” Dean says again. Well. Sam can’t make him. Like it. Sam doesn’t like it, either. But Jack does. Jack likes when they’re home. Jack knows what a home is. So Sam doesn’t respond. “The Mojave caught fire,” is what he says, instead. “What?” Dean’s voice is harsh. He’s restless. He doesn’t like it when Sam says weird things. “After we left. The, uh, hunt. Last week. Nevada. There was a fire, in the desert.” “Okay?” Dean doesn’t care about a fire three states over. Dean hadn’t seen the smoke. “D’you think it was our fault? Y’know, cause we burned the, um. Whatever. That thing. Out there.” Dean stares. Scoffs. “I know fire safety, dude. I wouldn’t let the desert catch fire, or whatever. There’s nothing out there to burn, anyway. Who cares?” This isn’t entirely accurate. There’s bushes. Creosote. Sam cares. He saw the smoke. Sees. “Okay,” says Sam, raising his hands, placating. “Just, y’know. Weird timing.” “Uh huh,” says Dean. “Timing ain’t the only weird thing.” Sam makes a face at him. To make him smirk. To make him forget that Sam is. Well. It works. Dean smirks, says, “Okay, anyway, I’m getting cabin fever here, man. If there’s no jobs I’m gonna go work on the cars.” Sam nods. Dean’s pet project, when they’re home for extended periods. Restoring all the old cars in the Bunker’s garage. Most of them were in pretty good condition, but they needed attention. Maintenance. To be used. Dean works on the cars, when they’re home. Sam wonders what a home is. They both get restless.
…
Jack is nestled, curled, twisted, into Sam’s side. They’re sitting on the couch, in the Dean cave. Sam is reading. Some old Men of Letters document on omens. Seeing omens. Jack is sleeping. Probably. In theory. Sam doesn’t really mind, if he’s pretending. He gets it. To the Seer, the document says, omens are difficult to ignore. It’s an outdated document. Probably inaccurate. To the non-Seeing, or those who do not want to See, omens may not appear until it is too late. Sam doesn’t. Want to See. So he probably wouldn’t, See omens. Until it was too late. A hand rests on his head, starts combing through his hair. Sam doesn’t jump. He felt, didn’t hear, him coming. He hears Dean coming. He feels Castiel’s presence. “It’s late, Sam,” says Cas, rare softness in his voice. Sam glances up at him, upside down. Cas doesn’t remove his hand from Sam’s hair. “I know,” says Sam, quietly. “But,” he gestures at Jack, who probably really is sleeping because he didn’t show any signs of noticing Castiel had entered the room. Sam knows Jack isn’t that good of an actor. He would have shifted, or tensed, or something. “I see,” says Cas. There’s a certain fondness in his tone. “What are you reading?” “Oh, uh. Nothing, just-” Sam flips to the front page of the document, shows Cas. Cas’s hand freezes, stops combing through Sam’s hair, rests heavy on his head. Sam is disappointed, he had been enjoying the motion. “Omens.” says Cas. His tone is neutral. He resumes the combing. “Uh huh,” says Sam. He’s unusually relaxed, doesn’t feel like trying to read into whatever Castiel is reading into. Jack is unusually warm, tucked into his ribs, which don’t hurt, for once. Maybe he did like it, that it was quiet out there. He likes that his ribs don’t hurt and Jack is warm, anyway. “Any particular reason, that you’re researching omens?” asks Cas. Sam shrugs. He doesn’t know what Cas knows, how much Cas has to pry to keep him from dreaming. He should ask, sometime. How much Cas sees. Has seen. “Not really. It’s quiet out there. Not a lot of, uh, monster activity. Just making sure I’m not missing anything. It’s not a super helpful read.” Cas makes a noncommittal noise, in the back of his throat. “Would you like me to bring you some tea?” asks Cas. Sam smiles. Definitely smiles. He likes that Cas doesn’t push, for him to go to bed, or anything. “You’re an angel, Cas. I’d love some tea.”
…
The smoke is right there on the horizon, billowing, looming. Sam had decided that it wasn’t an omen. It was just. There. It was starting to get easier to ignore, another constant presence. Like the ice in his lungs, or the fire in his veins, or the dull ache in his palm. Other than that great black smudge, it’s blue skies as far as the eye can see. Well, as far as Sam can see. He’s pretty sure he has eyes. It’s hot outside, late summer, drought had dug its fingers in deep. It’s going to stay hot late into the fall, Sam thinks. The prairie bluegrass had been dry for months now. He wonders if (when) Kansas is going to catch on fire, too. They’re out there to look for the well that Sam is guessing waters the Bunker. They’re that restless. Bored enough to care how their home functions. But they’re lingering in the shade of the trees near the Bunker door. It had taken a while for their eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight. They’re still lingering because they’re unwilling to step out into the direct glare. It’s hot enough in the shade. Sam and Dean are both wearing t-shirts. No flannels in sight, they can carry as many weapons as they want in the privacy of the Bunker. Even Cas had ditched his coat and tie, since Dean had complained, “I’m sweating just looking at you, man, lose the tax accountant costume or something.” Cas, ever obliging to Dean, was now just in his white button down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Apparently, angels don’t scar, Sam notices. Cas’s arms are bared even more rarely than Sam’s are.
“So, what, this thing gonna be anywhere special?” Dean is bored of sweating, just standing around in the shade. Restless. Sam shrugs. “I dunno. Downhill, probably. Maybe. Not like, uh, a cartoon well, or whatever. Probably just an access grate in some concrete.” He had scanned some of the Bunker schematics, but they were all more focused on the supernatural-related machinery than the boring everyday life stuff. The Men of Letters had put a lot of faith in whoever had constructed the place. “Yeah, dude, I’m not stupid,” Dean scoffs. Sam makes a face at him that clearly indicates his disagreement. “Whatever. Downhill it is.” Dean starts off in a random direction, sort-of downhill.
…
Sam ends up being the one to find the well, after quite some time searching. It was about half a mile from the bunker, up a hill and down again. He was right, it was just a metal cover set in a slab of concrete, though the metal and concrete both are filled with engraved wardings. He notes the distinct lack of angel-warding, has to remind himself that the Men of Letters hadn’t known about angels. Hadn’t known the harm angels were capable of. He adds the well cover to his mental list of things to update the warding on. Sam opens up the well, heaves the metal cover up and to the side, sun beating down on his back. Under it, is just inky black void. Sam is pretty sure there’s supposed to be piping, or a ladder, or some kind of infrastructure, but there’s just nothing. He’s pretty sure. He toes closer to the edge, lets the tips of his boots hang over darkness.
…
Sam is squinting into inky black void.
…
A cold, cold hand lays itself on Sam’s shoulder, ice cold, and he flinches away. It takes him longer than he’d care to admit, to register that it’s just Jack, and that Jack is saying something to him. “... Sam?” Jack looks concerned. “Sorry, uh. What?” Sam says. “Are you okay? We’ve been looking for you for hours.” Sam looks around. The sun is no longer beating down on his back, the shadows are longer, stretched out, creeping. There are pipes, in the well opening, now. A concrete tube going down a ways, metal rungs for climbing. There’s a pillar of smoke, on the horizon. Sam swallows. “Um. Yeah, I uh- I’m fine, Jack.” He gestures toward the hole in the ground. “I um. Found the well.” Jack has the decency to look interested, he peers over the edge. He looks disappointed when he looks up. “Oh. I thought you’d be able to see the water.” Sam manages a weak smile. “That’s uh, not really how wells work. There’s an aquifer- y’know what, I’ll show you when we get back to the bunker.” Jack nods, and smiles his big bright smile. “Okay!” Jack likes learning new things. He’s like Sam, in that way. Like his father, Sam tries not to think. Sam gestures again, “Just, uh, help me put the cover back, would you? And then we’ll head back.” It’s much easier to lift the heavy metal back into place with two people, and when they’re done, Jack holds his hand out to Sam. Sam swallows, and takes it, and he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t, at the cold.
…
Dean, haloed in the harsh light of the kitchen, is doing that thing where he’s concerned but pretending not to be. “Hiya there, Sammy, have a nice nature walk?” Sam makes a face at him, but he answers honestly. “Sorry. Lost track of time.” Dean gives him a once over that Sam knows means he’s checking Sam for injuries. “Uh huh. Did you at least find the thing?” Sam nods. “Yeah.” “And?” Dean prompts. Sam shrugs. “It’s a well, Dean. There’s pipes. It’s fine. It’s uh, warded, but I need to- update it. I’ll do it tomorrow.” This doesn’t seem to be the answer Dean is looking for, judging from the unsatisfied expression on his face, but he lets it go. “Okay. Sit. Water.” Dean pushes him toward the kitchen table, shoves a glass of water into his hand. Sam isn’t really thirsty but he sips at it to appease Dean. He goes to bed without touching the burger Dean sets in front of him, though, he’s too tired to eat.
…
Sam dreams about dark places and sunlight pulsing through industrial fans.
…
Sam runs early in the morning, to avoid the heat. He runs west, so he doesn’t have to squint into the sun. Sam finds himself on a dock.
…
Sam is sweating as he stumbles into the kitchen. It got hot earlier than he thought it would. Dean is sitting at the table, on his laptop, nursing a bottle. “Nice run?” he asks, as Sam gets a glass of water. “Mhm,” Sam turns to face him, resting his lower back against the countertop. “Little early, don’t you think?” he jerks his chin toward Dean’s drink. Dean stares at him. “No, Sam, it’s not early. It’s one in the afternoon.” Sam swallows. He thinks about smoke and standing on the edge. Dean wants a response, but Sam doesn’t have one, so he just says “Oh.” Dean snaps his laptop shut. “Oh?” he raises his eyebrows at Sam. Sam shrugs. Dean isn’t satisfied with this response. “What’s going on with you, man? This is the second time this week you’ve disappeared for hours.” Sam shrugs again. “I dunno I just- I guess I um. Lost track of time. Again.” His palms are suddenly very sweaty at that thought, that he’s losing time. Again. No, he thinks, Dean wouldn’t do this to me. Not again. It’s not a very reassuring thought. His palms are sweating and his breathing is picking up and- Dean is frowning at him. Sam suddenly feels a very strong need to get out of this body room. He sets his glass down a little too hard, sloshing some water over the side onto his hand. “I’m gonna go. Shower.” He bolts from the room before Dean can say anything else.
…
Sam is squinting into the mirror.
…
There’s a razor blade in his hand. He doesn’t remember pickling it up. It gives him an idea, though. He draws the blade across his wrist, just one quick, hard slash. He stands there and watches the red line appear, watches as it starts bleeding in earnest. Sam stands there and lets it bleed, into the sink, because as long as this body bleeds it means he’s alone.
…
The door opens and Sam jumps. By the time he registers Castiel’s presence, Castiel’s eyes have already flicked from Sam’s wrist to the blood in the sink to the razor blade and back to Sam’s wrist again, brows furrowing even as Sam lamely tries to hide his arm behind his back. “Sam…” Cas says, voice dripping with concern as he starts reaching two fingers toward Sam’s forehead. “Don’t.” Sam seizes Cas’s wrist with his non-bloodied hand. He looks at the floor, can’t handle the weight of the angels gaze, manages a whisper, “Please, Cas. Don’t.” Sam can almost hear the angel frowning at him, but Cas withdraws his hand, so Sam releases the hold on his wrist. Still looking at the floor, hiding behind his curtain of hair, Sam sees Cas hold his hand out flat, palm up. “I won’t heal you, Sam, but let me see. Please.”
Sam is still for a long moment, but Cas is patient, and eventually Sam gives in and lays his other hand, wrist up, in Cas’s waiting one. “Oh Sam…” Cas says, quietly, almost to himself. “Can I at least bandage this?” Sam considers, this, nods, which makes him dizzy. Cas guides him to sit on the floor, leaning on the wall, and is silent as he cleans, butterfly bandages, and then wraps gauze around the slash in Sam’s wrist. Then Cas just sits beside Sam on the floor for a while, silent, patient. Sam still can’t look at him but he takes comfort in Cas’s solid, grounding presence. Eventually he manages to raise his head, look the angel in his deep blue eyes. His voice breaks even as he whispers, “I’m so tired, Cas.” Cas looks sad, but he just nods, offers his hand to Sam. “Let’s get you to bed, then.”
Sam lets Cas lead him out of the bathroom, down the hall toward his room. Cas has his hand wrapped around Sam’s wrist, concealing the gauze completely, which Sam is indescribably grateful for, even though they don’t run into anyone else.
Cas is silent as he watches Sam get settled. Once he’s satisfied that Sam is comfortable and ready to sleep, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.
…
Sam doesn’t sleep. Sam squints at the clock beside his bed, watching the seconds tick by for hours.
…
Sam blearily makes his way to the kitchen. It’s empty, so he makes himself tea in his favorite blue mug, and starts making his way back to bedroom. He runs into Dean in the hall, and freezes. Dean doesn’t say anything, though, he just gives Sam a once-over and keeps walking, patting Sam on the shoulder as he walks by. Sam doesn’t know how long he stands frozen in the hallway, but by the time he sets his mug down on the desk in his bedroom, the tea is cold. He gets back in bed.
…
Sam dreams about an abandoned restaurant and an inky black void.
…
When Sam wakes, his wrist aches dully. He’s momentarily confused as he stares at the neatly wrapped gauze, and then he remembers. Losing time. Castiel patching him up. Dean in the hallway. Losing time. It’s here that he realizes Dean would have seen the gauze around his wrist, too, last night, and he considers never leaving his room again. He really doesn’t want to have the conversation that he knows is waiting for him. But. He thinks about a pillar of smoke. He thinks about standing on the edge. He thinks about a dock, and the bright-soft green film overlaying the deep blue. He thinks about the sun beating down on his back. And he drags himself out of bed.
…
Sam is leaning against the wall, curled up at the kitchen table, blue mug steaming in front of him. Cas is sitting next to him, hand encircling Sam’s wrist where it rests on the table. Dean isn’t sitting, he’s leaning against the counter across from the table. It’s almost a casual stance, looks relaxed, except Sam can tell Dean is feeling anything but right now. Cas had told him what happened, Sam doesn’t know when exactly.
“So?” says Dean. Gruff. Dusty. Sam looks to Cas. Cas is looking at him just as expectantly as Dean. “So what?” he tries, hoping they can just brush this under the rug with everything else they don’t talk about. Sam’s fine. He is. “So what the hell, Sam?” Sam is vividly reminded of being twenty-eight-ish and freshly centuries old, sitting on Bobby’s couch, marbles spilled all over the floor. Sam just looks at Dean. His hand is twitching but Cas isn’t letting go of his wrist. He watches Dean’s jaw flex. Sam shrugs, leans his head against the wall. He’s tired. Of being the broken one. Of spilling his marbles all over the floor and making Dean and Cas pick them up again. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men.
“Sam.” Dean’s face and voice both are full of pain. Sam feels guilty. “I’m sorry.” Dean lets his head drop, stares down at the floor. Cas is tracing that familiar pattern on Sam’s non-bandaged arm. “Why?” asks Dean, and Sam has to give him credit for looking back up at Sam as he asks it. Sam shrugs, and he’s not entirely sure why he doesn’t lie. Something to do with soft green algae and deep blue water. “I just- I needed to make sure,” Sam tries to speak steadily, carefully, but he can feel how close his voice is to breaking. “I needed to make sure that it- that I- would bleed. That it was just-” and his voice does break now, and he breaks eye contact with Dean, looks down at his and Cas’s hands, lets his hair hang over his face. “It was just me,” he finishes with a whisper. Cas’s hand tightens, momentarily, around Sam’s, then he lets go completely. There’s a loud bang, that makes Sam flinch, as Dean brings his fist down on the countertop.
“Sammy,” Dean says, voice thick and full of gravel. When Sam looks up at him, he’s rubbing his fist across his forehead. “I thought we were past this.” Sam isn’t trying to hurt Dean, he’s done that enough, so he’s quick to respond, “We were. We are, Dean. I just-” He pauses to take a breath, closes his eyes against the harshly righteous glare surrounding his brother. “I kept- I needed to make sure. It won’t happen again.” Dean stares. “Until the next time you need to make sure. What if Cas wasn’t there, Sam, were you just gonna let yourself fucking bleed out?!” Dean gets angry when he’s scared. Sam blinks at him. He must take too long to deny this accusation, because Dean swears and walks out.
Sam stares at the spot Dean had disappeared, picking at the bandage on his wrist. He only flinches slightly when he feels another hand cover his, stopping him from fidgeting. He looks over at Cas, whose expression is unreadable. Sam feels exposed under the angels piercing gaze, wants out of the kitchen, wants out of the Bunker. It’s like Cas reads his mind (He wouldn’t. Probably.) because the angel asks, “Will you go for a walk, with me, Sam?”
…
Sam and Cas are standing on the dock, squinting into the sunrise. Well, Sam is. Squinting. Cas is just staring. Gazing. The sun can’t hurt him. Sam sinks down next to Cas, crosses his ankles, rests his arms on his knees. Picks at the bandage. Cas rests a hand on his head, combs his fingers through his hair. Sam watches the smoke, watches the sunrise. They stay like that for a long time, as the heat sets in. Thunderclouds start building on the horizon, ominous in the dry air. Finally, Cas speaks. “I know you are tired, Sam. But I hope that you know that we need you. Jack, Dean, we all need you.” Sam doesn’t say anything, rests his head against Cas’s leg. He closes his eyes against the smoke and the sun and the thunderclouds.
…
It’s still quiet, out there. Hunts trickle in, but not often. Low death counts. Sam is starting suspect that maybe Dean does like it, being quiet, because he keeps delegating the cases they do get to other hunters. He’s still restless, though. When he runs out of things to work on in the garage he field strips all their guns, and when he runs out of guns he sharpens all their blades, and when he runs out of blades he gets in the Impala and disappears for a couple hours. Sometimes he comes back smelling like sin but not always. Sam gets restless too, he packs salt rounds and starts taking inventory of everything in the Bunker, digitizing the library, and when he gets bored with that he runs. Jack starts researching anything and everything, he’s on a new topic every week, and Sam isn’t sure how he feels about the increasingly non-supernatural related reports Jack gives him on what he learned that day. He supposes it’s good that the kid’s life doesn’t completely revolve around hunting, but. He doesn’t know how to raise a kid outside of hunting. Sometimes he suggests that Jack go into town and try to make some friends, (less-fucked up than we are, he doesn’t say, less likely to hurt you), but Jack blanches and changes the subject every time. So they haunt the Bunker, and sometimes they get restless, and Jack researches, and Dean drives, and Sam runs.
…
Sam and Jack are resting in the shade of the trees outside the bunker, leaning against the trunk of a particularly large cottonwood. The leaves are all brown, and some have started to fall, but it’s still hot. Just like Sam thought it would be. Sam is letting Jack trace the pattern of scars on his arm. Jack’s hands are cold, freezing cold, but Sam doesn’t mind so much anymore. They’re quiet, both lost in thought. Sam doesn’t know what Jack is thinking about. Sam is watching the pillar of smoke the horizon, trying to decide if it’s getting thinner, fainter. He thinks it might be. Fading.
“Do you remember,” Jack speaks suddenly, “that thing we killed, in Nevada? In the summer?” Sam does remember. Things got holes in the ground and burned up and forgot about, but Sam has a very good memory. He nods. “Mhm.” Jack is quiet for a while, and Sam thinks it might be the end of the conversation. He doesn’t mind, really, when Jack (or Cas) say odd things like that. He gets it. But then Jack speaks again. “What was it?” Sam considers this, looks at Jack. Away from the maybe-fading smoke. “I dunno, Jack. It was a, uh, an anomaly. Never seen one before. Probably the only one of its kind.” He’s pretty sure. The thing had seemed lonely. “Have you ever seen one before?” Jack asks. He’s quick to amend. “An anomaly, I mean. Not that one specifically.” Sam thinks about holes in the ground, about being burned up and forgot about. He thinks about disease that can’t ever be ripped out or scrubbed clean, not even by molten gold. He thinks about being different, broken, wrong. He doesn’t say any of this to Jack, though, he’s trying to avoid making Jack put him back together again. Instead he says, “Yeah, I mean. It happens. Things come from- dark places. Like, uh- spells gone wrong, stuff like that. Y’know.” Jack’s thumb is tracing a single line across Sam’s wrist now, back and forth, slow and steady, as he thinks. Sam looks away. “We should name it,” Jack says.
Before Sam can respond, Dean and Cas wander up to them. Dean hands Sam a cold bottle, then sprawls out on the ground in front of them. Sam nudges him with his foot in thanks. Dean swats him away. Cas leans against the tree next to Sam, standing, rests a hand on Sam’s head.
“Jody called,” Dean says. “Invited us for Thanksgiving.” Sam blinks. “It’s October.” Dean shrugs. He has one arm thrown over his eyes, he had missed the shade when he flopped down on the ground. “I’d like that,” says Jack. “Thanksgiving.” He says the word like he’s savoring it. Dean lazily pats him on the knee, the only part of Jack he can reach without sitting up. “Attaboy. So she likes to plan ahead, Sammy, you wanna go or not?” Sam considers this. He’s not huge on holidays. It’d be nice to see Jody and the girls, though. He says as much, the part about seeing Jody. Dean grins into his arm. “Awesome. I’ll tell Jody later.”
They stay out there together, the four of them in comfortable quiet, until the sun sets.
…
Sam dreams about a funeral pyre, his brother angry and vicious next to him. He chokes on smoke.
…
Sam wakes up gasping, drenched in sweat, twisted suffocatingly in his sheets. Still in the haze of nightmares, he desperately fights to free himself from the constricting linens, fights even harder when he feels someone else’s hands on him. “Sam,” says a voice, oceans deep and ancient. The hands stop touching him and he manages kick off the sheets and sit up. He relaxes when he sees that it’s just Cas, haloed by the warm light leaking in from the hall. “Cas,” he breathes. “Yes, Sam, it’s just me,” says Cas. “Are you alright?” Sam nods, still breathing a little heavy but fully awake and aware. “Yeah, I’m good now.” Cas nods and stands, makes to leave, but Sam reaches out to him, “Cas wait-” Cas turns to face him, hand resting on the doorknob. “Stay?” Cas stays.
…
Sam finally gets around to updating all the Bunker’s warding. The smoke gets thicker again.
…
Sam can’t sleep, so he goes for a run.
…
Sam runs into Dean on a bridge. The Impala is parked nearby, stopped in the middle of the road because it’s the middle of the night and there’s no traffic, but Dean is sitting on the rail, feet dangling over the water. He acknowledges Sam with a nod, so Sam sits next to him, hugging one knee and letting the other foot hang over the water like Dean’s.
They sit in silence for a while. Dean is looking up, Sam is watching the reflection of the moon in the water lazily flowing below them. The real thing is obscured by smoke, but he can see the reflection. Dean knocks their shoulders together. “How you doin’, Sam?” his voice is low, dusty like he hasn’t spoken in a while. Sam shrugs. “I’m fine.” Dean looks at him. “Uh huh. That why you’re out for a run at one in the morning?” Sam doesn’t let this hypocrisy slide. “Yep. Just like you’re sitting on a bridge all alone at one in the morning cause you’re fine.” Dean looks away. “I’m not alone,” he points out. Sam knocks their shoulders together.
…
It’s colder in South Dakota than it was in Kansas, but still unseasonably warm. Sam could tell from the car on the drive up that the pine trees were all matchsticks. He hopes that South Dakota doesn’t catch fire. He’s always liked it here.
Jody doesn’t have a lot of spare room, with two girls in the house and Donna visiting for Thanksgiving, too. They make it work though, Donna and Jody share Jody’s bed, and there’s one spare room with a bed and a futon. Sam takes the bed and Jack takes the futon, after failed attempts to convince Dean to take it. Dean takes the living room couch. Cas doesn’t sleep. He will spend the nights positioned at a perfect halfway point between the couch and the room Sam and Jack are in, ready to intervene wherever the inevitable nightmares happen first (or most violently).
Dean and Donna handle all the cooking, shooing everyone else out of the kitchen. They put the girls and Jack to work chopping at the dining room table, though. Donna reassures Sam that she’ll make sure there’s a salad, and Sam warns her to watch out for Dean trying to sneak bacon in, and Dean pretends to be offended. The table in the dining room isn’t big enough for all of them, so Sam and Cas help Jody set up outside. They’ll eat early, before it’s too cold, but Sam gets a bonfire ready for lighting just in case, while Cas and Jody set up a plastic table and chairs. When Sam is finished building the fire, Jody comes up and elbows him in the side, where his ribs don’t hurt. “Who’s funeral?” she asks, teasing in her voice. Sam swallows. “Oh, uh- Sorry. Um. Force of habit, I guess,” he tries for a smile. He’s pretty sure he fails. Jody shrugs, “Hey if it lights, it lights, right?” and her voice is still teasing but Sam can see the sadness in her eyes. Sam doesn’t want to worry her so he shoots back, “Oh, it’ll light, alright,” (practice makes perfect, he doesn’t say) and Jody laughs and wanders back over to help Cas with a chair that won’t unfold. Sam stares at his handiwork for a long time, seeing countless other fires he’d built, it should’ve been you bouncing around mercilessly in his skull, until he eventually rebuilds it to look less like a pyre and more like an actual bonfire. One that normal, not-broken people would build. He’s pretty sure. He doesn’t know many normal people. Many not-broken people.
…
After they had eaten, and Sam and Jody had insisted on cleaning up the kitchen, and they had sat around the fire (that didn’t look like a funeral pyre) and laughed well into the night and Jack and the girls went inside to play video games, the adult humans and Castiel were left sitting around the fire. It was less raging than it had been earlier but still going steady. Everyone was sitting in plastic lawn chairs in a circle around the fire except for Dean, who was sitting on the ground with his legs crossed, stretched out dangerously close to the fire, leaning his back against Cas’s legs.
They’re quiet for a long while, the fire crackling and the crickets that hadn’t yet caught the memo that it was almost winter and the wind whispering in the treetops being the only sound. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts, varyingly nursing beer or hot toddies.
Jody clears her throat and speaks softly, lowly, because she knows the risks of breaking a hunter out of his reverie. “Lots of folks reachin’ retiring age, in the precinct,” she says. Dean raises his bottle in salute. “This your way of tellin’ us you’re gettin’ old, Jodes?” Dean asks with an impish grin, “Cause we already knew that.” Jody kicks him, shoots back, “Yeah well, you ain’t exactly ‘hip and with it’ either, Winchester.” Dean raises his hands in mock surrender. “Anyway, my point was,” she continues with a stern glare at Dean, who adopts a false countenance of perfect attention, “They been given’ us training, on what comes after work. Lot’s of folks lose their sense of purpose, feel like they ain’t actively helping anymore. Like the world don’t need ‘em.” Dean drops all his playful attitude, frowns at Jody. “Okay. Your point?” “My point,” Jody says, seriously glancing between Sam and Dean, “is, how are you boys doing? I know it’s been quiet.” Sam looks away, doesn’t want to make eye contact with Jody. “So we ain’t actively hunting, Jody, that don’t make us useless,” Dean says, all false bravado. Sam can’t school his expression into agreeing with Dean, so he keeps looking away. “Okay,” says Jody, sounding like she’s chewing her lip, “Glad to hear that. Sam?” Sam shrugs, doesn’t trust himself to speak, nods once. He can feel everyone looking at him. He watches the smoke. He’s sure it’s real because he can see the fire it’s coming from, right in front of him. Sam built it. It’s real. He’s pretty sure. He rubs his thumb back and forth across the scar on his wrist. “Sammy.” Dean’s voice is full of gravel, not smoke. Sam snaps out of it, glances at Dean, Jody, before looking away again. “Yeah, sorry. No, I’m- I’m good. It’s nice to have a break.” He can picture the identical stares Dean and Jody are giving him, chewing their lips, brows furrowed. “Uh huh,” says Jody. Donna speaks up, though, and Sam is eternally grateful to her for it. “You know,” she says, “In my precinct they say you should take up a hobby. Like, oh, I don’t know, woodwork, or gardening, or something.” Jody snorts. “Wish my people were so practical,” she says dryly, “My boss has been all about mental health lately. Therapy and stuff.” Sam risks looking back toward Donna and Jody, of whom the former is grimacing in sympathy and the latter is just plain grimacing, staring deep into the flames. He can tell Dean is still looking at him so he doesn’t look toward Dean.
…
Sam pretends to sleep for most of the drive back to the Bunker. He still has a hard time calling it home. He leans his head against the window, watches the mile markers roll past through half-lidded eyes. He thinks about how both Jody and Donna had hugged them extra-tight goodbye, how Jody had sternly instructed him and Dean both to call her more, or else, and they had said yes ma’am, once a week, how Donna had whispered in his ear “You hang in there, Sam. You got people in your corner,” and he feels this warmth in his chest that for once isn’t from literal flames.
…
Sam is squinting into the setting sun. He’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, and Dean is sitting next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and Dean is also squinting into the setting sun because his hands are full of a journal and pen. Sam is watching a flock of little black birds as they swarm around each other, making abstract shapes in the sky. He’s pretty sure they’re actually there. Dean is zoning out, trying to think of the next piece to write. He had started his own hunter’s journal, having run out of cars to fix in the Bunker and thoroughly cleaned every gun they owned. Jack and Cas are a short distance away, Jack crouching at Cas’s feet, poking at something on the scorched ground. They’re back in Nevada, because there’s no moon tonight, and Jack wants to see the winter stars, too. Cas had assured Sam that the winter storms would restore the desert, that next summer it would be like the fire never happened at all.
It’s much colder this time around, Sam and Dean have at least three layers each, and Jack is wearing Sam’s old brown Carhartt that Dean had unearthed from who knows where. When Sam had asked how on Earth Dean had found the thing, Dean had just shrugged. “No chick-flicks,” he said, “talking clothes counts as chick stuff.”
Dean gives up on whatever he had been trying to write, slams the journal shut. Tosses it in Sam’s lap. “You gotta take this over, man, I don’t got it in me.” Sam runs a finger down the spine of the journal. “What are you gonna do?” he asks Dean. “You’ll go stir crazy if you don’t have a project.” Dean shrugs. “I dunno, I’ll take up, like, woodworking, or something. Like Donna said.” Sam snorts. Dean having a hobby. Who could’ve ever imagined. Dean frowns at him, face all full of fake hurt. “What, you don’t think I can manage a saw?” Sam elbows him, teases, “Hey, I know you know how to behead things actively trying to kill you with a saw. How hard can a plank of wood be?” Dean fake-grimaces. “I dunno, Sammy, splinters are a bitch.” Sam thinks he will, take up the journal. His memory is better than Dean’s anyway. He’ll write about all the monsters they’d faced, a step-by-step guide to stopping the apocalypse, a memento to everyone they’d lost. It will be good, to have a project.
…
Cas is leaning against the side of the Impala, next to Sam. Sam is sitting on the hood, next to Dean, leaning his head on Cas’s shoulder and crossing one of his ankles over one of Dean’s. Jack is on the other side of Dean, curled into his side, Dean’s arm over his shoulders, holding him steady. Dean’s got a bottle in his free hand, resting on his knee. They watch the stars.
…
Dean ends up getting into gardening, too, on top of woodwork. Sam calls it his zen garden, and Dean makes a face at him, and tells Sam whatever, go write in your diary. Hunts trickle in, sometimes, but it’s a lot slower than it used to be. Like the world is just as tired as Sam is. As they all are. So they rest. They do projects around the Bunker, and watch the stars through the seasons, and they adjust. Sometimes Dean gets restless, and he makes them all pile into the Impala, and they drive nowhere in particular. Sometimes Sam gets restless, and he runs, and he tries not to think about funeral pyres and molten gold and aching scars. They watch the stars on the hood of the Impala, and they rest in the shade of the old cottonwood. They still wake up sweaty and gasping, clutching at wounds that aren’t there. Cas is always there when they do. Sometimes Sam lets Jack fall asleep curled into him on the couch. Sometimes Sam feels like he is standing on the edge of an inky black void, but he holds on tight to Dean, and Jack, and Cas, and all the people in his corner. Sometimes they find themselves sitting in silence on a bridge, at one in the morning, feet dangling over the lazy water and shoulders knocking together.
Dean chokes on dust, Sam chokes on smoke. They all keep breathing.