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The seizures haven’t stopped since Jess burned.
Sam should have expected it. He was pushing himself on that hunt for the Woman in White; he’d known he was pushing it, and Jess had even warned him before he left. He should never have left. He sees that now. He left her alone, and…
His head pulses with another wave of brutal, grinding pain accompanied by flashes of color: green, black, and yellow. No clear picture yet, just a poor artist’s rendition of whatever it is he’s meant to see. Besides the street lamp outside, it’s pitch-dark in the motel room, making it easy to focus on seeing what’s not there. Jess used to call it an “aura,” this feeling he gets when a seizure is on its way but hasn’t hit yet. He hates it. The anticipation only makes things worse.
Sam had an alarming number of them the week before Jess died, and she got deep into the research on it. They both did. After all, he’d never had one before. Twenty-two years seizure-free, then a switch flipped, and he couldn’t stop.
The first time it happened, Sam had been sure he’d only fainted, but Jess insisted his left arm was spasming the whole two minutes he was out. She’d forced him into the on-campus med center to get checked out, but no doctors could find anything wrong with him. No epilepsy, no stroke, no secret third thing. So, they’d called it a freak stress response and told him to get more sleep, sending him on his way.
Jess was livid. Her anger came from fear, of course, and it only worsened as the week went on and he kept having them. Usually at night, but sometimes on the walk home, in the morning, or mid-conversation once on a lunch date. But regardless of how scared she must have felt, Jess never let it show in the moment. She was calm, kept an eye on the clock, and made sure he wasn’t near anything that could hurt him—following every medical protocol. Still, it was hard on them both. And Jess didn’t even know the worst of it.
Sam takes another deep, shaky breath that fails to calm him.
He doesn’t know why he can’t just get the stupid seizure over with already. Sometimes, that’s exactly what they’re like: a sudden attack with no build-up, making for a scary but mercifully short experience. More often, he has to deal with hours of fatigue, brain fog, and flashes of color that make no sense before finally getting the relief of a full episode. The actual seizure only lasts a couple of minutes, but the recovery afterwards can look like days of more fatigue, soreness, and disorientation. Not to mention the weight of what he sees during his “seizure dream.”
Only now, Sam’s not so sure that “seizure dreams” are all they are. Really, some part of him has always known. Seizure dreams aren’t a thing, from what he can tell from research. People having a seizure either retain their awareness or space out and lose time as if the attack never happened—they don’t have vivid nightmares like Sam does. Or nightmare, singular. Because he’s only ever seen one image in his head before now, and that’s Jess burning on the ceiling.
Now, it’s finally time to admit it. Sam has never been sick in the medical sense. That would be too normal, too excusable. No, there’s something wrong with him. Spiritually wrong. The things he witnesses during his attacks aren’t the products of a brain misfiring nerve signals—they’re premonitions. Visions of deaths yet to come that are his responsibility to stop. Maybe they’re warnings from God, and he failed to listen. And Jess paid the price.
Finally, Sam’s seizure hits. Unfortunately, it’s one he remains aware for.
His neck jerks harshly to the left and stays there, locked in place by muscles that won’t unclench as he tries to stay calm and make himself breathe through it. Like Jess taught him. Jess. Sam’s eyes well with unwitting tears for the millionth time since he last saw her, and the drops slide down his face onto the pillow without resistance. His arms are far too heavy for the effort of wiping them. Besides, there’s no one to put on a show for.
Dean is asleep in the ratty motel bed beside his—on the side that he’s unable to turn and look at.
Jess isn’t sleeping beside him anymore, so easily woken up by spasms and tremors. She’s not watching the clock or brushing his hair out of his eyes or wiping his tears or whispering that it will all be over soon and she’ll be right there the whole time—not a clue that the thing that Sam’s glassy, unseeing eyes are fixed on is not nothing. That it’s the sight of her burning, over and over again.
Sam soldiers through the rest of the seizure alone, getting nothing more of a vision besides the colors green, black, and yellow.
“Find anything?” Dean asks, knowing full well that Sam’s found nothing.
He only gets a grunt in response.
If it were any other case, Dean would be giving his brother non-stop grief about sticking around a crime scene a full week after the trail’s gone cold. No leads, no action, no sign that the monster they’ve spent their whole lives hunting is still here. But, of course, this is different.
Sam was in love, and now he’s grieving. Hard. Just like Dad does on the rare nights when he’s all out of anger and has nothing left to feel but the loss of Mom. Dean’s never known what to do on those nights, and he still doesn’t.
Does he let Sam keep rotting in this motel bed, barely getting up to use the bathroom? Or does he remind him that they have a job to do? That Dad’s left them coordinates, and they’re the best lead they’ve got to the monster? Dean just can’t get a read on him.
Sam seems like he wants more than anything to get back on the road when they talk, but it’s like his own body is fighting him. That’s the best way Dean can describe it. Sam lays in bed with the fire of a hunter in his eyes, hands clenched in shaking fists and legs itching for a chase. But he stays where he is.
Dean’s patience finally breaks on the eighth day.
Without so much as a “rise and shine, Sammy,” he silently packs up both their things with practiced efficiency. Thankfully, Sam’s kept his earthly possessions small enough to throw in a single bag, just like they’d been taught. Good. Stanford didn’t make him completely stupid.
While Dean moves around the room cleaning it of their presence, Sam watches him with an unreadable expression. Dean wonders what he’s thinking, he really does. But he’s not about to pull up a chair and get their “fireside chat” on. When did that ever help anyone get off their ass?
As soon as Dean’s done packing (everything’s in the Impala except a driver and a passenger), he sits on Sam’s chest like he used to when they were little, daring him to fight his way out from under him. In the past, Sam would groan and whine about the unfairness of Dean being bigger but still fight with everything he had to escape. He was a scrappy kid; most of the time he would get away, even with Dean refusing to go easy on him. But this Sam does nothing but stare up with confusion. Frankly, it pisses Dean off.
“Hey,” He punctuates with a light, teasing kick. “Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re leaving.”
“Good,” Sam replies easily.
Dean’s eyes narrow. “You know what that means, right? It means you have to get your ass out of bed and into the car.”
Sam grimaces. “Yeah, no problem. Just… maybe get off me and we’ll go?”
Dean sighs. “Sorry, but it’s time for some tough love. I wanna see you get up yourself.”
“C’mon, Dean. Not this.” Sam groans.
“C’mon, Sam,” Dean mocks. “Seriously, you’ve done this a million times. Just wanna make sure you’re still sharp, okay?”
Sam glares and scrunches his nose up the way he’s done since he was a displeased toddler, and for a second, Dean fears that he’ll just keep lying there in defiance to prove a point. But he’s pleasantly surprised when Sam takes the moment of hesitation to land his first punch, successfully throwing him off-guard. Dean openly laughs in relief as he pins down Sam’s dominant hand and endures a series of harsh knees to the back that land in all the right places.
Dean retaliates by trying to pin Sam’s other arm too, but his brother’s reflexes are too quick, and it slithers out of his grip. In half a second, Sam has that hand wrapped around Dean’s throat—not squeezing, just in position to. Irritated, Dean knees him in the groin for holding back, and Sam hisses in pain. The two wrestle for a few seconds longer before their luck runs out, and together they fall off the bed in a heap of tangled limbs.
Dean laughs again, calling truce.
Sam’s hands are trembling strangely, but Dean mercifully decides not to mention it. Sam (somewhat) successfully defended himself, and that’s what matters. He’s fine. They can finally move on and leave this miserable place behind.
/
It’s funny. Sam used to be so antsy in the car. He was the kid asking “are we there yet?” and kicking the back of Dean’s seat if he didn’t get an answer. Maybe college or grief is what mellowed him out, but Sam falls back asleep the moment he’s buckled in and doesn’t show signs of life until Dean shakes him awake at their destination. Two full days later.
Normally, Dean would’ve bugged him to take a turn driving so he could get a rest, but he’s frankly not sure if Sam’s fit for the task. It hasn’t just been over-sleeping either. It’s nightmares, nonstop. Twitching and mumbling and twisting into strange positions that look like they hurt. But Dean tries not think about it. His job is to drive and find Dad. That’s it.
They’re lost in an abandoned corner of wilderness that civilization’s turned a blind eye to, fittingly named Lost Creek. They came here hunting coordinates left by Dad, only there’s no sign of him. Not even a scratch on a tree to say “good job, keep looking.” It’s a dead end. Another monster-hunting errand left to distract them from the only hunt that matters.
Dad’s not missing, that’s for damned sure. Dean was way off on that one. No, Dad is alive and well somewhere out there, no doubt on the trail of the thing that killed Mom and Jess, and the only reason he’s not picking up the phone to tell them where he is is because the old man wants all the glory of the final kill for himself.
These dark thoughts keep swirling in Sam’s head as darkness falls on the campsite where they’re bedding down for the night, trapped in tense silence within the bounds of a protection circle. They know what’s out there now: Wendigo, hungry and pissed. Not even Dad’s faced one of these before. They’re in way over their heads trying to rescue a barely-alive victim from its lair and survive, let alone kill it. Sam has no idea why the plan isn’t to get these people out of here as soon as possible and get back on the road, back to the mission.
And it destroys him to admit it, but he knows his body won’t last another full day of hiking without collapsing—seizure or no seizure. He doesn’t have the same stamina that he used to before Stanford, before… whatever happened to him. Like it or not, he’s cursed now. Sam doesn’t want this whole group to pay the price once his luck runs out. But how can he tell Dean that without making him worried enough to not let him hunt at all?
Sam keeps mulling it over until he’s interrupted by a familiar body plopping down next to his.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on in that freaky head of yours?”
Sam sighs. “Dean—,”
“No, you’re not fine. You’re like a powder keg, man. It’s not like you. I’m supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?”
Dean smiles in that hiding-concern way of his, and Sam at last gives in to the temptation to share some of what’s eating him. He states the obvious: Dad’s not here, so there’s no point in staying. He doesn’t mention that he may not be able to continue walking much longer. It still feels shameful to admit, and a part of him still doubts the distress signals his nerves are sending him. And if Sam’s doubtful, then Dean definitely won’t believe him. He’ll just think he’s faking illness to get out of a job he doesn’t want. Sam would hate for that to be what his brother thinks of him.
So instead, he just comes off as belligerent, exactly how Dean called it. And of course, Dean’s way of combatting that is the reiteration of their family motto: saving people, hunting things. Treating Dad’s journal like scripture. Only that doesn’t cut it anymore. Sam’s not a naïve kid accepting orders from grown-ups who know best. He knows what it’s like to have a life outside of this. He wants it back, if he can get it. He just needs to find Jessica’s killer first or everything he’s been through isn’t worth it—or there’s no point in going on.
He tries to tell Dean this, and surprisingly, it seems like his brother understands.
“We’ll find it, I promise.” Dean’s green eyes are piercing in the dark, dead serious for once. “Listen to me. You’ve gotta prepare yourself. I mean, this search could take a while, and all that anger—you can’t keep it burning over the long haul. It’s gonna kill you. You gotta have patience, man.”
It sounds impossibly hopeless. Sam can’t imagine living this nightmare for another day, let alone the decades that Dad’s endured since losing Mom.
“How do you do it?” He asks softly. “How does Dad do it?”
Dean turns deliberately to the other two lost siblings in their campsite. “Well, for one, them.”
Sam’s heart softens, his last spark of anger dying out like a wet match.
“I mean, I figure our family’s so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little bit more bearable.” Dean turns his smile back on, only now it seems like less of a performance. “I’ll tell you what else helps. Killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can.”
Sam can’t help but smile back. He can push through one more day, he tells himself. He’s not completely useless yet. He can still help this one broken family stay together.
/
They lose Roy.
/
Sam doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep after that, but of course his body has its own plans.
The moment his eyes slip shut, the world turns blurry again, tilting on a dangerous axis. He feels nauseous enough to throw up but knows he won’t because none of this is real. Or at least, not real yet.
The colors flash in front of his eyes again—green, black, yellow—as his head throbs. Only now, the picture finally seems to be coming into focus.
The green splotch slowly morphs into a wall of creeping ivy, dark and barely visible. The black becomes most of everything else that enters his vision: black floor, black shadows, black body hanging from a ceiling.
Sam jerks back, and this time, the action feels voluntary.
The last color to come into focus is the yellow. He watches it watches it slowly grow and sharpen into the unmistakable glow of a flashlight, bringing the whole gory scene into view. It shines bright and damning onto the bloodied face of Dean Winchester.
“Is it close?” is the first thing Sam says to him the next morning.
Dean sighs, a bit disappointed in his brother’s obvious reluctance to finish the hunt, but hey, at least he’s on board now.
“It has to be,” he answers. “See these bloody claw marks on the tree here? Still red, still dripping. It’s trying to draw us out, but we’re gonna get to it first. Dumb bastard won’t know what hit it.” He grins, holding up a makeshift molotov cocktail, ready for lighting.
Sam snorts, looking a bit queasy. “Right. Just stay close, okay? No hero moves.”
Dean rolls his eyes and walks ahead to lead the way. “Cross my heart.”
The siblings Haley and Ben follow close behind them, and he’s extremely grateful for their easy cooperation. Not all civilians are so reliable on a hunt. Usually, they’re the biggest liability: screaming and making noise, running off, not listening to simple directions. But it’s clear this family already knows how to survive in the wilderness, and they seem willing to believe the unbelievable so long as it means they find their brother Tommy. It’s kind of admirable, actually. Despite what he’d promised Sam, Dean knows he would throw himself in danger in a heartbeat to protect them.
Following the trail of bloody claw marks, they at last reach a clearing surrounded by them. It’s quiet here. No signs of life. It’s then that Dean notices one of Sam’s legs shaking, making him walk funny. Is he trying to make a joke? Bad timing if so. Dean frowns, leaning forward to ask when Haley suddenly lets out a piercing scream.
His head snaps over to her just in time to see a body fall from a massive tree down to the cold ground, narrowly missing her. Dean races to her side as the roar of an inhuman creature fills the woods, loud and clear. He keeps a tight grip on the molotov cocktail as he searches wildly for its source. He meets Sam’s eyes once—ten feet away, eerily spaced out—before a dark blur separates them and sends Haley running. Dean curses and sprints after her through thick, tangled brush, unwilling to let her be this thing’s next victim.
He runs until he can’t anymore—a sharp pain in his head sending him straight to the ground, barely conscious.
He has just enough sense to tear open his bag of peanut M&Ms as his body’s dragged away, trusting his brother to be smart enough to follow the trail.
/
Dean’s shaken roughly awake by hands on his shoulders and the most comforting voice he could wish for in the cave of a monster: Sammy.
“Hey, you okay?” His brother frets, checking him over for injuries where he’s hanging like a cut of meat in a butcher shop.
Dean groans out a “Yeah,” not really caring if it’s true or not.
Sam quickly cuts him down and sets him gently on the floor next to Haley, who looks to be in a similar state of “okay.”
“You sure you’re all right?” Sam asks again.
Dean huffs in annoyance, steadfastly ignoring the way his head is throbbing. “Yeah. Yep. Where is it?”
“It’s gone for now.” Sam answers quickly, though he still looks concerned.
Haley cries out a few feet away, and the two quickly turn to see a man about their age hanging from the rafters like they were, badly bruised but alive.
“Tommy…” She gasps. “Cut him down!”
Sam jumps to free him as he did Dean, at last reuniting the family that they dragged themselves into these woods to protect. Dean watches with undisguised pride. After everything his brother’s been through, he’s not letting it turn him into a bedridden sad sack of grief; he’s hunting, the way he was always meant to. That’s his Sammy. He’ll be alright after all.
Dean allows himself to turn away and investigate their supplies, nearly giggling in glee to find himself a pair of flare guns—fresh and ready for shooting.
“Check it out!” He crows triumphantly, shiny new weapons raised in the air.
But no one turns to look.
They’re all huddled around Sam now, even the newly rescued Tommy, while his brother just sits there staring off into space. His eyes are empty, looking at nothing while his face is white as a sheet.
“Haley, catch him,” Tommy murmurs a second before Sam collapses.
Working like a well-oiled machine, Haley holds her arms open and catches Sam before he can face-plant into hard rock, and she gently lowers him to the ground as his whole body starts shaking. Ben takes off his jacket and balls it up into a makeshift pillow to place beneath Sam’s head just as it lurches back as if possessed.
What the fuck?
“11:10!” Ben calls out after checking his watch.
“Good job, kid,” Tommy praises as he helps Haley to carefully roll Sam onto his side and clear away the scattered supplies that fell with him. Meanwhile, Sam keeps jerking around like a malfunctioning robot, and everyone’s acting like it’s normal.
Finally snapping out of his stupor, Dean drops the flare guns and races to grab a hold of his mid-psychotic-break brother, but Ben holds an arm up, stopping him.
“That’s not a good idea. You shouldn’t try to grab someone mid-seizure.” He says firmly.
“Mid-what?”
“Mid-seizure,” Haley cuts in. “It’s okay. We know what to do.”
Dean’s mind goes blank for a long second. “How is that… no, you’re wrong. Sam’s just freaking out ‘cause he’s been through a lot lately, okay? But he’s fine. He just needs someone to shake him out of it, and then we can leave.”
Ben stands up to physically place his body between Dean and Sam. For a short nerdy kid, he sure is confident about standing his ground all of a sudden.
“Listen,” He says. “You gotta trust us on this, like we trusted you with the wendigo. As long as Sam’s seizure doesn’t last longer than five minutes, he’ll be fine. He might be confused and have some trouble walking at first, but he’s got us to lean on, right? Trust me, it’ll be so much worse if you try to interrupt it.”
“Yeah, and how do you know that’s what’s happening?” Dean snaps back.
“I get them too,” Ben answers easily. “When I forget to take my meds, anyway. For me, it’s ‘cause I have epilepsy, but people have seizures for other reasons too. From your reaction, I’m guessing this is the first time you’ve ever seen one?”
Dean huffs, finally allowing himself to accept the new information. There’s so much he doesn’t understand. He has to take it on faith alone that these people know what they’re doing when it comes to Sam’s safety, and that’s terrifying. Dean runs a sweaty hand through his hair, feeling helpless. On the ground, Sam continues to spasm erratically, his movements looking downright scary even knowing that it’s medical thing and not a vengeful spirit possessing him or something. It feels wrong to just stand there and wait for it to be over. He has to help somehow.
“What do you need me to do?” He asks finally.
“Kill the monster,” Haley laughs humorlessly. “That would be a big help.”
“You can’t expect me to just leave him here alone,” Dean argues.
“He’s not alone,” Tommy reassures in a hoarse voice. “We’ll protect him.”
Dean looks skeptically at the group of three exhausted campers with no weapons on them. What exactly are they planning to do if the wendigo comes back? Hike it to death?
As if reading his mind, Haley adds, “We won’t need to fight the monster if you draw it away, maybe with some yelling or something. You’ve got flare guns now, right?”
Dean grimaces. “That’s my brother you’re asking me to leave. The only family I—,”
“You don’t think I get it?” Haley snaps. “That’s the whole reason we’re out here. I’m just asking you to trust us for a change.”
Dean stubbornly holds his ground, ready to throw another argument her way before another scream shakes the wooden beams of the mine shaft. A scream and a roar.
Dean ducks the next swipe of the wendigo’s massive claws, but Ben is not so lucky. He gets them right in the back and chokes in pain, provoking more worried shouts from his older siblings. It’s this moment, finally, that re-awakens Dean’s hunter’s instincts. Without another word, he picks up the flare gun he’d dropped and aims it right at the chest of the hulking, foul-smelling beast—and fires.
Dean sighs in relief as the wendigo burns at last, collapsing to his knees with the gravity of it.
Behind him, the left half of Sam’s body goes lax.
Eventually, so does his right. A large wet spot soils the front of his jeans.
Sam’s cloudy eyes blink slowly, confused but coming back to himself just like Tommy and Haley promised he would. The siblings in question have left his side though, now desperately trying to stop their youngest from bleeding out on the ground in front of them. Ben wheezes unintelligibly with tears in his eyes, and Sam lets out a moan of pure, unfiltered pain.
This might be the worst win that Dean’s had in a long, long time.
There’s a certain fog that takes hold of Sam’s brain the first few hours after a seizure.
It slows his thoughts, his reflexes. Dulls his emotions. He often forgets where he is and what’s happening. It’s like he’s a ghost of himself, needing to be led by the hand through life until the fog finally decides to clear.
This time, it clears in the parking lot of a ranger’s station where an ambulance is loading two gurneys into the back. Sam squints, trying to make out the figures, but they disappear before he can get a good look at their faces.
“I’m sorry,” he hears from off to the side. When he turns to look, it’s Dean talking to a girl. Haley. He remembers now. Oh God, did he… how did they get out? Did they have to carry him? Does Dean know now, about everything? And the two gurneys… that means Ben got hurt somehow, but they must have rescued Tommy in the process. At least they aren’t in body bags, but they could still be seriously hurt. Sam prays that his seizure wasn’t to blame.
“Thank you,” Haley replies stiffly. “None of us would have made it out if it weren’t for you, so don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”
Dean reluctantly nods. “Still, it shouldn’t have gone down the way it did. I should have kept a better eye on Ben and—,”
“Hey, you know what?” Haley forces a laugh through obvious tears. “I really need to catch that ambulance before it leaves, so I’ll see you around.”
And with that, she turns and runs so Dean can’t see her lose her brave face. Haley doesn’t look back once, and after the ambulance doors slam shut behind her, she’s gone.
Sam draws his jacket in tight around himself, trying desperately to not assume the worst. Dean’s not doing much better, staring after her with a look of guilt that cuts deeper than Sam’s ever seen before. Including the night that Jess died. When Dean’s eyes finally shift over to meet Sam’s, they’re both lost.
“You back with us?” He asks.
Sam swallows. “I think so.”
Dean releases a deep breath through his nose, nodding to himself. “Good. That’s good. Get in the car, Sam. We need to talk.”
Sam’s stomach drops, but he obeys immediately. It’s best to start atoning now. He’ll be doing a lot of it.
Once they’re both safely sealed into the dark, quiet privacy of the Impala, Dean lets him have it.
“So, you’ve got something called epilepsy? A seizure disease that you thought you could take with you on a hunt and not tell me?” He starts, voice low and dangerous.
“I don’t think it’s epilepsy,” Sam responds quietly. “Not all the symptoms—,”
“You knew you had seizures,” Dean cuts him off. “And you didn’t tell me.”
Sam’s eyes well with unwanted tears as if he’s a child being scolded. “I-I was going to. I just wanted to figure out a way to handle it myself first.”
“And what happened on that hunt, that was you ‘handling it’?” Dean snaps.
Sam shakes his head quickly. “No, no I’m sorry about that. I didn’t think it would get so bad. With all the rest I got on the drive over, I thought I’d be able to handle rough conditions again, but I was wrong. I’m sorry. I-I’m still learning about it.”
Dean runs a tired hand down his face. “How long?”
Sam guiltily shifts in his seat. “A couple weeks ago.” He looks down. “Jess knew. We were trying to figure it out together.”
At Jess’s name, Dean softens slightly. His voice loses its harsh, accusing tone. “You could have told me,” he repeats, gentler now. “When you collapsed in that cave, I didn’t know what to do. It looked like you were freaking out or having a heart attack or something. I wanted to slap you out of it, but Ben—,” He sucks in a harsh breath. “Ben stopped me. He knew what you were going through, and I didn’t. I was distracted, and because of that, he got hurt.”
Dean’s gaze goes hard again, turning on Sam. “So do you understand why I’m upset now? Your little secret didn’t just put us in danger; it jeopardized everyone. That kid who stood up for you could be disabled the rest of his life.”
Sam buries his face in his hands, drowning in well-deserved guilt with his brother’s hands holding him under. He’s right. What was he thinking, trying to hide this curse inside himself? He can’t protect anyone like this. Whatever this thing is, it’s taking away his ability to save people, the one good thing to come out of the childhood he got. But saying that fact aloud feels like admitting defeat, like he’s letting the dark forces behind the visions win.
Assuming they’re dark forces at all. The seizures themselves could be the real evil, the visions sent by Heaven to make them worthwhile. It’s a terrible trade-off, if so. Getting hints of the future is hardly worth putting everyone around him in danger, forcing them to focus on him instead of the monster out for their blood. Or maybe he’s the monster.
A memory comes back, suddenly, of a late night in Stanford. Sam had just had a particularly bad seizure walking home from class with Jess, and she’d left him in the care of Brady for a few minutes while going to get food. Sam was barely conscious in the moment, foggy brain still struggling to pull itself back together as Brady had leaned over him, face blurry.
“Some kinda special kid you are,” Sam thinks he said. “Looks like your gift from dad turned out to be more of a birth defect.” He thinks Brady might have batted his catatonic head from side to side, sending his world spinning. “Too bad. I was really betting on you.”
Sam loses himself to the anxiety of what that means—what any of this means—before he’s pulled back to the present by Dean’s hand on his shoulder. He flinches, staring back at his big brother with wide wet eyes, awaiting judgement.
“Listen, I’m not saying any of this to make you feel bad, alright?” Dean stresses, shaking him lightly. “I just need you to understand why this has to be the last hunt. The road ends here. No excuses.”
Sam feels a surge of panic at the words. “No, Dean please. I have to find Dad. I have to find Jessica’s killer. I have to find out whatever’s wrong with me—,”
“We know what’s wrong with you, and it ain’t supernatural.” Dean says sternly. “Sorry kid, but that’s just how the world works sometimes. You drew the short end of the stick. It sucks. But that doesn’t mean that Jess won’t be avenged, alright? I swear, Dad and I are gonna torch that sucker one way or the other, and you can lead us there with your kick-ass research like you always do. You just can’t be there, you know? That’s the only way this works. I’m sorry.”
Sam takes a deep breath, deciding to play the only card he has left.
“But what if they are supernatural? The seizures.” He says quietly.
Dean narrows his eyes at him. “Sammy, this better not be another lame excuse.”
“It’s not,” Sam reassures with a desperate shake of his head. “I get these visions. Every time a seizure’s bad enough to make me space out, I’m not just losing time like other people do. I’m seeing things. I saw Jess burning on the ceiling days before she died.”
Dean just stares, saying nothing.
“I saw you strung up in that cave an hour before we found you,” Sam continues. “And I saw something else too.”
Dean pauses. “Go on.”
“I think it was the house we were born in. Dad always showed us pictures of it, you know?” Sam wrings his hands together, trying to tamp down the terror that the vision made him feel. “There was a woman trapped inside, screaming to get out. I think we have to go and help her.”
Dean sits back in his seat and takes a deep breath. “Sammy… this is a lot. You realize this is a lot, right?”
“I know,” Sam concedes. “But this is why I have to stay with you. If I’m just sitting alone somewhere, all this pain is worthless. I’ll still get visions, but I’ll have no way to actually use them to save people. Like I saved you, remember?”
Dean sighs. “You could call me.”
Sam takes the rebuttal like a punch to the gut, but he presses on. “It won’t be the same. You know it won’t. And I think… well, it might be too soon to tell, but I feel like I have to be present in the vision for it to take place. I was there when Jessica…” He chokes, forcing the emotions down. “And I was there with you. To save the woman in our old house, I think I need to be there.”
“You ‘think’?” Dean challenges. “That’s a whole lot to gamble on a guess.”
Sam clenches his jaw, determined. “Then humor me. If we get to the house in Kansas and nothing’s wrong or I ruin the hunt again, you can bench me. But at least give me a chance to prove myself first.”
Dean is silent, thinking.
“Please,” Sam tacks on at the end, unable to hide his desperation.
If he can’t make something good out of this curse, then there’s no point in continuing to live like this. Dean has to see that.
Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he answers.
“You’re never driving again.”
Sam huffs a small, teary laugh. “Never. Cross my heart.”
And with that, Dean sticks his key into the ignition, and they take off into the night.