Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

October 1999

Bay City, Michigan was beautiful this time of year. It was a beautiful place in general, but there was something about the fall months that really brought out the natural serenity of the place. Sam paused from his reading to watch another autumn colored leaf fall from the rapidly shedding trees around him and drift down to settle on the surface of the lake. The wind gently blew across the water, causing ripples over the surface. It made the brightly colored leaves look like surfboards on the tiny swells.

A victorious cry from across the lake caught his attention. Several people were scattered out on the green, cut grass. Sam was far enough away to not be noticed, but close enough to see the mock scowls adorning half of the group as the other half appeared to be in much better spirits. Then he spotted a man hoisting a small boy up into the air. The kid was clutching a football tightly between his two tiny fists and flailing his legs around. He let out a joyful cry as the man swung him around.

Sam smiled, just a small upturn at the corner of his mouth, before turning back to the clips of newspaper sitting in his lap. Between the peace of the lake and the excitement of the family football game, Sam felt like he was sitting inside a Georgia O'Keefe painting. It was hard to believe six people had gone missing in the span of one week. He flipped through the articles piled in his lap until he got to the most recent one. He’d yet to read over it since teachers weren’t very tolerant of him taking out the newspaper during their lectures. And then there was Dad...

Sam jumped as a brown paper sack suddenly dropped into his lap and sufficiently covered the articles. “I thought I’d find you hiding out here.”

Sam jerked his head up and squinted at the leather jacket hovering over him. It was autumn, but it was hardly cold enough for that heavy of a jacket, but Sam knew his brother well enough to know he wore it for different reasons. The same way he knew when his older brother pointed at the scrap of newspaper that had fallen from his lap that he was busted.

“You’re not supposed to be reading those.”

The older boy’s boots clumped around to the other side before he sank down onto the grassy slope beside his brother. Sam chose to ignore him for the most part and answered simply, “I’m not hiding, Dean.”

“Well, you’re certainly not at soccer practice,” Dean eyed him with a raised brow. His brother was daring him to contradict him, but Sam wisely kept his mouth shut. Dean leaned back a little, setting his hands behind him to take the weight of his recline. “So I asked myself, where would my peace-loving, yogurt-eating, pansy-ass runt of a brother go?”

“Lactose intolerant,” Sam shot back.

“Expression,” Dean returned and grinned when Sam gave him a glare.

“I could have been at soccer practice,” Sam mumbled a little sullenly and his brother was already shaking his head before he could finish.

“Not likely. Because for one,” Dean shifted his weight and held up one finger, “you only have practice on Tuesdays and Thursday. And two,” another finger went up, “you would have told me instead of Dad and Dad wouldn’t have come home and asked why my lazy ass was on the couch instead of picking up my brother from school.”

Sam winced and eyed his brother for any signs of hostility. He hadn’t meant to get his brother in trouble. He just wanted some time to himself, to go over some things. He felt guilt sneak up on him and it must have showed on his face.

Dean rolled his eyes, “Whatever, dude. You can put those eyes away.”

Sam reverted back to a glare. He wondered what it said about the two of them that Dean immediately grinned at being on the receiving end of it. This time it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “So you decided to look for me here?” His voice tinged with doubt.

“No. I went to see if you were holed up in the school library, but the girl at the desk, the one with the preppy blonde ponytail...” Dean trailed off as he motioned his hand around the top of his head.

“Susan,” Sam supplied. He regretted it immediately when a lecherous smile curved up his brother lips.

“That’s right. Susan. Sweet Susanne,” his brother glanced up and off into the distance for a minute as if lost in thought.

“Dude, she’s fifteen!”

“Fifteen isn’t that much younger.”

Sam snorted, “Tell that to the Michigan Court Justice.”

Dean shrugged as if the thought wasn’t really that important to begin with; plenty of other fish in the sea. And for his brother, that was probably true.

“At any rate, I don’t think I’m the Winchester she wanted,” Dean waggled his eyebrows and Sam couldn’t decide between looking put upon or doing an impersonation of a tomato. From the smug look on his older sibling’s face, he assumed it was the latter. “She said she watched you head down Bloomington Street and take a right. Watched, Sammy.”

“Still doesn’t explain how you found me,” Sam said, completely ignoring his brother’s insinuation. Dean looked disappointed at the play-off, but not altogether deterred. Sam imagined they’d be picking up the topic again later.

“Didn’t take long to find you after that,” Dean said, the light tone implying the simplicity of the task. “I just followed that road until I heard two old guys talking about how ‘refreshing’ it was to see the youth of our country still taking an interest in the news. I figured it was you since you have that affect on the over 60 population.”

It didn’t sound overly insulting. It was definitely a jab, Dean really couldn’t pick at him too much about it, especially with all the times his special old person-empathy had gotten them information on a hunt or, more importantly, had gotten a waitress to serve them pie on-the-house.

“I figured you’d look for a secluded place to read and since the library is all the way across town and you’re only supposed to be at ‘soccer practice,’” Sam could practically hear the air quotes. “I figured you’d pick somewhere close by.”

Dean spread his arms out to indicate their surroundings. The motion implied, “And here we are.”

“So you made a lucky guess?” Sam deadpanned at his brother, who gaped in return.

“Hardly a guess, Watson. My leg work was impeccable.” Sam snorted. For all of his brother’s complaints about reading, he knew there were sometimes, when Dean thought he was asleep, that he would catch his brother up reading late. Whether it was from boredom due to inability to sleep or from actually having an interest, Sam didn’t know. But what he did know was that big brother had obviously been reading through a couple of his Conan Doyle’s.

“But, Sammy,” Dean’s tone took on a hard edge, catching Sam’s full attention. “If you pull a disappearing stunt like that again, you can expect something else besides a bag of food as a greeting.”

Sam had the decency to look sheepish as he peered down at the brown sack sitting in his lap. There was a growing grease stain at the bottom. If he looked hard enough he could pretty much see the outline of the food wrappers in the bag. He was disappointed, but unsurprised when he picked up the sack and found that his newspaper clips were soaked as well. He picked up the now flimsy strip of paper and let it dangle limply from his fingers. He glanced up when his brother snorted and was glad to see the tension from a moment ago was gone.

“Only you would lie and sneak off to do research. Which brings me back to my first point,” Dean leaned over and tugged the soggy newspaper from between Sam’s fingers. He made a face as the article flopped onto his arm and stuck there. “You’re not supposed to be reading these.”

“Yeah, well,” the rest of the articles hit the ground with a plop. “Apparently I’m not.”

“Well good,” Dean replied. He peeled the greasy paper off his hand and held it out in front of him, thumbs and forefingers clamping the top corners. “Because apparently this fascinating department is all mine.”

Sam huffed out a breath and glanced out across the lake, “This is stupid.”

There was a brief pause and then, “Dude, I was researching this stuff before you even knew it existed.”

Sam turned back on hearing the heat in his brother’s voice. He was just in time to catch the irritated shake of the useless newspaper in his direction and the annoyed look on his older brother’s face.

Sam rolled his eyes, “Not you. I mean this.” He gestured around at his secluded little hiding area complete with ruined newspaper clippings. “Just because Dad wants me off the bench this time doesn’t mean I should be left out of the research. I mean, how am I supposed to know how to fight if I don’t even know what we’re up against? What’s the point in this?”

Dean was quiet for a moment, long enough to draw Sam’s attention. His brother was studying the article in his hands a little too intently. But like the grease, Dean’s stare seemed to pass right through the paper and onto something Sam couldn’t see. Eventually Dean shrugged, eyes never leaving the article, and said, “It’s your first hunt.” Sam opened his mouth to interject, but wasn’t quick enough as Dean continued. “First real hunt, Sam. Not sitting at home and feeding us information from behind a phone, but a real hunt with guns and monsters and...”

Sam sat perfectly still, watching a pinched expression form over his brother’s mouth and wrinkle his brow. That look was usually only reserve for when Dad talked about soloing a hunt or the time Sam came home late from school with a black eye and minus a jacket. Each of those times the expression had quickly given away to anger immediately followed by blowing off some steam. However, this time the look of concern only held for a moment before trailing off much like his thoughts had. It was left Sam feeling slightly confused, trying to fill in the blanks.

Dean didn’t give him much time to dwell on it though. With his features schooled again, he looked over at Sam and answered his original question. “Dad just wants you to concentrate on the physical aspect. He wants to know you can take all your training and apply it to the hunt, and he doesn’t want you focused on anything else but that.”

Sam felt himself visibly inflate at the mention of his father’s name. His Dad had never been what someone would call ‘fatherly,’ but lately the man had been pushing him physically in all his training, not to mention pushing every last button he possessed. His strict sergeant of a father didn’t understand what school work and growth spurts were. Sometimes Sam wondered if it even mattered. Nothing he ever did was good enough or remotely added up to what his older brother could do.

“He doesn’t think I can do both.” Sam was pretty sure he meant it as a question, but the underlying heat made it sound more like a statement.

A sigh came from his right. He didn’t have to look up to see the exasperated look on Dean’s face. “You know that isn’t it. He wouldn’t let you go if he thought you weren’t ready.”

Sam was less than convinced. He didn’t think his Dad would send lambs off to the slaughter, but if the man needed another able-body for the hunt a semi-trained teenager would do the trick.

“It’s different, okay,” Dean admitted after a pause of Sam’s skeptical silence. “No matter how much you train, being on the hunt is different. You have to think faster, move faster than whatever it is out there. So just cut yourself some slack this time. No need to shoot for MVP on your first try.”

“That’s what Dad will be expecting,” Sam mumbled. Either that or he was setting Sam up for failure as another kind of lesson. It wouldn’t be the first time his Dad had pulled that crap during training, but he would like to think the man wouldn’t do something like that in the midst of an honest to God hunt.

“Then forget Dad,” Sam snorted at his older brother’s words. Six feet of muscled bulk that seemingly lives to bark orders at them is kind of hard to forget. “We’re partners, right?”

Sam nearly gave himself whiplash looking back around at his brother. He was sure his eyes looked like saucers. Somehow he managed to push out a baffled, “What?”

“Do you trust me to watch your back?” Dean asked instead.

“Of course—”

“And I trust you to watch mine,” Dean said without hesitation.

It shocked Sam to hear that vote of confidence coming from his older brother. After all, Dean had been present for his many spectacular defeats during their sparring matches, and that was before he added on another few inches and secured his place as a complete klutz.

“So we do this thing together,” the older brother concluded. “You trust me to pinpoint our monster of the week and I’ll trust you to go Rambo on its ass.”

Sam couldn’t help the small snort that slipped out. Bringing up the rear on a recon mission with nothing but a .22 was not exactly Sylvester Stallone material. Of course, he didn’t think he was ready for that level of action, which just gave more credence to Dean’s earlier suggestion. Maybe taking things slow for his first hunt wasn’t a shot to his training skills, but rather a way of acclimating to the real deal. A small smile pulled at the side of Sam’s mouth. He was torn between thanking his brother and shooting him the bird. Dean always made things seem better, but if the guy knew that his ego would be unbearable to live with. So he did the only thing he knew would express both, “Jerk.”

“Bitch,” his brother returned and suddenly the sodden newspaper in his brother’s hands was stuck to the side of his face.

“Dude, gross!” Sam pawed at the greasy mess and flung it into the pile with the rest of them. He scowled up at the pleased look on Dean’s face.

“C’mon, dude,” Dean jerked his head toward the path leading to the street, but paused to gesture at the ground, “But clean up that mess. The last thing I need is for Smoky the Bear to bust us for littering.”

Sam paused, “I don’t think he really cares about littering.”

“Really?” Dean’s brow wrinkled in concentration. “That seems a little hypocritical. Who does care then?”

Sam pushed himself up from the ground and paced over to his brother. There was a trash receptacle just a little ways up the path. “Well, littering is against the law, so I guess the Michigan Court Justice would.”

“Seriously?” Dean raised an eyebrow as Sam approached. He waited until his brother was at his side before they both began their trip back to the car. “Damn, I can’t catch a break today,” He cursed.

Sam had to duck down a bit to keep his brother from clipping him in the back of the head as the older man threw his arm around his shoulder. “You might want to take the community service for littering over the pedophilia charge.”

Dean grinned, choosing to disregard the last remark, “Awe, Sammy, you would miss me if I went to jail?”

“Not really,” Sam shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I mean, I could always come visit you. But, I would hate to miss the opportunity to throw trash as I passed you and your orange jumpsuit on the side of the road.”

Sam laughed as the arm around his shoulders quickly turned into a headlock. A mock punch landed on his stomach. It was barely a hit, but it made Sam squirm with how dangerous close his brother’s knuckles were to his ticklish sides. The bastard was doing it on purpose.

“Careful, Sammy,” Dean rolled his fist a little farther to the right, causing Sam to jerk. “Throwing trash will get you a jumpsuit too,” and then Sam was released with a small shove.

He recovered quickly enough and grinned up at his older brother, “I’ll take my chances.”

Dean replied with a grin of his own and a shoulder bump.

--------------------------

It took less than ten minutes to get back to the motel. In that time Sam had managed to poke around through the bag of food Dean had brought him. He had been surprised when he found a sandwich sitting at the bottom of it. No sandwich should practically sweat grease, but it made sense when he unwrapped it and found the dripping meat and cheese of a Philly Cheese Steak.

It was good, if messy, but he only managed to consume half of it before his gallbladder decided no one human should intake that much grease. Well, no human other than Dean. His brother didn’t appear to have any qualms about finishing off what his younger brother left behind. It was Dean’s third best skill next to killing shit and scamming people’s money: Human garbage disposal.

None of those things would get his brother far in life; just a motel room and his next fast food order. It couldn’t get him an education, or an honest job and a place to call his own. Those were all the things Sam wanted and all the things he wanted his brother to have. Though Dean didn’t seem to mind going without them. He would smile when Sam brought it up and brush it off with some dumb remark like, “Who needs a real job when I’ve got a fake ID that says I’m with the FBI?”

Dean was smart, no matter what ridiculous comments tended to spill out of his mouth at times. A person with only half a brain couldn’t build their own EMF and certainly wouldn’t be interested in the eccentric adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Sam trusted Dean with his life, whether it’s with guns or research. He just hated to see his brother waste his potential and become a ‘Yes man’ for his father. He didn’t want the same thing for himself, which meant one day he’d have to leave. He knew Dean wouldn’t go with him and leave their father. So all he could hope for was that it wouldn’t break his brother when he was gone. Sam jerked out of his thoughts when the back of Dean’s hand hit his thigh. He glared up at his older sibling.

“Home, sweet home,” Dean announced and then slid out from behind the wheel. Sam hadn’t even noticed they’d arrived at their makeshift dwelling. The rows of outward facing doors greeted him, all looking like they could use a new paint job. The door they were parked in front of had a worn number ‘13’ tacked on it. There was evidence that at one time it was gold, but now it was nothing but coated rust. At the very least Dean had enjoyed the irony of the number, whereas it only caused Dad to carve an extra few protection symbols into the frame work.

A few doors down a man’s head poked out from behind the frail looking door. All of his wiry gray hair was collected around his ears as if the strands were trying to run away from the top of his head. His beady eyes, framed by glasses, shifted around the parking lot before his head disappeared back through the door. Soon after a leggy blonde, clad in clothes fit for a street corner flounced out the door in high heels. She turned quickly before she fled down the side walk and blew the much older man a kiss.

Sam blinked and turned his head away. These people were his neighbors. A sharp rap on the car window caught his attention. Dean’s face was peeking in close to the passenger side window. The older boy raised his eyebrows and made an expecting gesture with his hands. “Are you getting out or do you plan on staying outside to finish spying on George Costanza?”

Sam blushed, feeling the rush of blood heat his ears. “I wasn’t watching,” he scowled, trying to cover up his embarrassment.”

“Dude, I was considering offering you a notebook so you could take notes.”

Sam popped his door open and pushed the door quickly enough to knock the glass into Dean’s forehead. It wasn’t hard enough to cause any damage, just enough to shock the older hunter. It worked.

Dean jerked back, slapping a hand over his forehead. Sam used the distance to slip out of the car and hurry toward their motel room. Although the hit wouldn’t have hurt Dean physically, he imagined the harder blow was to his ego. His best bet to save himself from an ass kicking was to get inside where his father wouldn’t allow their ‘tom-foolery.’ Dad was the only person who could hold off Dean’s wraith, and vice-versa. Sam was just the catalyst.

Sam had just entered their room as Dean’s fist closed in the back of his shirt. As expected, John was sitting at the small table tucked back toward the far side of the room flipping through his journal. Sam had to stifle a laugh as Dean cursed and removed his hand.

“You got lucky this time, runt,” Dean whispered, bumping his shoulder as he passed. “But you better sleep with one eye open.”

Sam grinned. He was not afraid of empty threats. However, the grin slipped from his face when his brother eyed the bathroom for longer than necessary and then smirked at him over his shoulder. Great, he was going to have to carry around his own shampoo bottle for the next month.

“Boys,” John greeted, catching both of their attention as he placed his journal down on the table. He didn’t bother marking his page as he closed the book. Sam had no doubt his father knew the journal backwards and forward and knew exactly where he would need to pick up at later. “How was practice?”

The question was aimed at him, but the surprise of it caught Sam off guard. What a time to be speechless.

“There wasn’t a practice,” Dean announced as he plopped down in the seat across from their Dad. Sam felt his heart skip a beat at his brother’s admission. John’s questioning eyebrow made his pulse spike up, but thankfully before he could launch into another excuse Dean piped in again. “Oh, you mean that herd of gawky teen-aged boys chasing a ball back and forth across the field?” Dean leaned across the table as if to whisper to his Dad, but his tone was clearly loud enough for anyone in the room to hear. “I’m pretty sure the ball won.”

Sam glared at the back of his brother’s head. Apparently there were ways to retaliate while their father was in the room. “Hilarious,” Sam deadpanned and sat down on the bed closest to the door. A ratty old sheet was draped over the bed sheets, protecting them from the gun powder and oil of the guns lying on top of it. He didn’t see the reason for precaution. There wasn’t much else that could be done to the comforter to make it any more moldy than it already smelled. A little gun oil might even help. Maybe it would make the flowery print a bit manlier and a little less humiliating to sleep under.

Sam reached over and picked up the Beretta closest to his knee. The handle was a pleasant weight and familiar. He had practiced with the weapon many times, slowly graduating from pegging cans off a fence to hitting makeshift skeet tossed into the air by his brother. The skeet shooting was still a work in progress, but at least he could get all the cans without having to load another clip.

“Those are for you, Sam,” The slide clicked back into place where Sam had been examining it as his father’s voice grabbed his attention. The older man had since reopened his journal and had a few other books and newspaper articles spread out over the table in front of himself and Dean. John was looking up at him, hand indicating to the guns across the bed. “They need to be completely disassembled and cleaned. The last thing we need is a jam.”

Sam squeezed the handle a little harder than necessary, but bit his tongue and replied with a curt nod. Part of him knew it was only busy work to keep him away from the research laid out on the table. They always cleaned their guns after a hunt in case an emergency situation cropped up. The other part, the part that sounded like Dean telling him they were partners, insisted it was just Dad wanting to make sure he took every precaution before going in. But if that were really true, Sam would have a part in the leg work as well.

Sam contained the sigh that threatened to pass his lips and focused on the task at hand rather than the hushed conversation behind him. It took the better part of an hour to field strip the guns laid out on the bed and the few that were still left in the weapons bag, but it took half that time to clean them. As he had expected, the guns were already well oiled and clean. The rag and barrel brush were barely grimy by the time he was done. By the time he’d completely finished he’d spent a good two hours on the unnecessary task. Time that would have been better spent helping out on research.

“Done?” John asked as Sam clicked the clip into the last gun. His Dad was standing over him, looking down over the reassembled weapons. Sam passed the gun up in answer. Sam ignored the dull metal clicks as his father inspected his work. The small table at the back of the room was now cleared. The only thing on it was Dad’s old journal and two long necked bottles. Both chairs were pushed back and empty. The low hiss of the shower head offered an explanation as to where Dean was.

“Rag,” John held his hand out and Sam passed up the used piece of cloth. His Dad ran the material over the slide and eyed the inner walls of the barrel. Sam jerked his head up when the older man hmm’ed. He knew that unsatisfactory sound, but couldn’t fathom why he was hearing it. The guns were already cleaned. Sam hadn’t needed to do much more than re- check them and apply gun oil.

“There are a few minor scrapes in the rifling,” John frowned and pushed the piece of the gun close to Sam’s face. “You can’t be careless with the brush just because you’re in a hurry to get done. You scratch the barrel and you’ll be lucky to hit anything within two feet of you. And that’s unacceptable.”

Sam couldn’t keep the incredulous look off his face, “I didn’t even use the brush on that one.”

That apparently hadn’t been the right thing to say. The frown on his Dad’s face deepened, “And why not? That’s part of the cleaning process, Sam. What have you been doing over here for the past two hours?”

Sam felt his own mounting frustration toward his father. What he’d been doing for the last two hours was cleaning and dismantling guns that were already in top condition. “They didn’t need it, at least not the full treatment. None of us have fired them since we last cleaned them three days ago.”

“And as I recall your brother left them in good condition. Scratch-free.”

Sam’s mouth tightened. He was unwilling to show how much that one comment stung. Dad hadn’t even checked behind Dean to see if there were any faults. And why would he? Dean was pretty much the perfect soldier in Dad’s eyes, and Sam wasn’t blinded to the fact that nothing he could do would measure up to his brother. Dean had set the bar pretty high and on a good day Sam could only manage to flounder underneath it. He really did love his brother, but being compared to him was a real bitch and it never ceased to piss him off.

“I don’t understand what you’re accusing me off here,” Sam’s glare was in place, but he wished his Dad would step back so he could rise to his full height. He wasn’t as tall as John, but anything would be better than having the man tower over him. “Cleaning the guns or not cleaning them.”

John’s nostril’s flared at the confrontation and Sam couldn’t help but take pleasure in it. His dad didn’t like questions, or being questioned rather, and especially when that question was against his authority. Too many years in the military and dealing with subordinates had warped his sense of being a father into something more harsh and commanding. Sam imagined the demon and Mary hadn’t helped much either.

The gun in John’s grip suddenly jerked causing Sam to jump as the gun clicked back together. He fumbled to catch the piece of steel when Dad all but dropped it in his lap.

“It’s time you start taking responsibility for yourself, Sam,” John said, not bothering to address his son’s previous statement. “Dean and I can’t be with you ever second to clean up your messes for you, especially not on a hunt. How do you expect me and Dean to trust you if you can’t even follow protocol before hand? This,” the older hunter gestured to the weapon in his youngest’s hands, “is exactly the type of thing that will get one of us killed.”

“Responsibility,” Sam blurted before clamping his mouth shut. His Dad couldn’t be serious. Was all this fuss really over a couple of scratches on a gun that he didn’t even make?

“Yes,” John answered before Sam could blurt out anything else. “This is your part of the hunt, your responsibility, and so far you’ve gotten off to a pretty poor start.”

Sam was speechless, not really knowing what to say or even how to form his anger into words or at least not until his Dad spoke again.

“Re-check them all. Tonight.”

“All of them,” Sam could hear the shock in his own voice. Surely his Father was kidding, but that thought dissipated when John nodded.

“That’ll take another hour at least.”

“You’ve already wasted two hours, might as well take another,” John replied. He didn’t even wait to see if Sam had a response. He just collected his journal from the table and headed to the door separating their adjoining rooms. “When you’re done pack everything up and place it by the door. Leave one gun on the table so I can check it in the morning.” And with that John was gone with an auditable bang of the door.

Sam felt like tossing the gun across the room. The only thing stopping him was the noise it would make when it smashed into the wall. The last thing he wanted was to inadvertently call his father back over here for a repeat lecture. Sam tossed the gun in his hand to the bottom of the weapons bag. It had already failed his Father’s test. There was no way he was taking the chance that he might accidentally leave it out for inspection. The clock on the bedside table glowed an angry 10:47pm and Sam reluctantly picked one of the guns he’d cleaned only moments ago. He might as well start now if he planned on finishing by midnight.

He was only half-way through the second gun when the bathroom door opened, spilling out both steam and his brother. Dean was already dressed in his sleep clothing, hair sticking up everywhere from the towel he’d no doubt scrubbed over it. He spared Sam a look—one that was slightly more knowing than Sam preferred—before glancing at the guns still laid out on his bed and the clock by the bed. Dean frowned and crossed over to Dad’s door. Sam opened his mouth to ask what he was doing, but his brother had already rapped his knuckles against the wooden door twice and then entered without invitation. Sam idly wondered if he could get away with the same thing.

Sam didn’t actually have to ask what his brother was doing. He’d seen the look on Dean’s face and knew his brother had heard part, if not the whole argument he and John had just had. Dean had gone over to play referee, and as much as Sam appreciated that at times, now wasn’t one of them. His Dad already thought he was incompetent; the last thing he wanted was for his Dad to think he’d gone crying to Dean about the unfair work load. Dad would see it as just another thing that made Sammy irresponsible and in need of his big brother to clean up his messes. Barely five minutes had passed before Dean came back, hair still spikey and half dried and with an unpleasant look settled on his face.

“So how did that go?” Sam asked, not even bother to mask the annoyance in his voice or look up from the task at hand.

There was a pause before he heard his brother push away from the door and then sit down on his bed with a groan. “Apparently I’m supposed to supervise you.”

Sam snorted, only feeling slightly bad for his older brother, “It’s your own fault, Dude. You shouldn’t have wandered off into No Man’s Land.”

His only response was a sigh, followed by the squeak of bed springs. Sam looked up for the first time since Dean came out of the bathroom when his bed suddenly dipped. His brother was perched on the opposite side, second rag in hand and picking up one of the pistols. “What are you doing?” Sam asked, genuinely wanting an answer this time.

“I’m supervising,” Dean said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world; which it wasn’t. No part of supervising included actually pitching in to help, at least not John Winchester’s definition of supervising.

“This is my part of the job, Dean,” Sam snatched the other rag from Dean’s grip. “Remember, partner?”

It was kind of a rude thing to throw back in his brother’s face, especially when Dean was only trying to help, but Sam was irritated and tired. The hunt had barely begun and he was already ready for the damn thing to be over. To Sam, no part of hunting was fun, but at least when he was on research duty there was a challenge. At least with research he wasn’t told how badly he sucked at it.

“Hey, just because you’ve got your panties in a twist, doesn’t mean you get to show your ass to me,” Dean griped and made a grab for the rag. Luckily Sam was quicker and pulled back before his brother could grab it.

“I don’t need your help, Dean.”

“Too bad,” another fruitless grab for the rag had Dean sighing in a mix of irritation and resignation. “Fine, but at least go take a shower. Then you can continue this.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at his brother, “You don’t really think I’m that stupid do you?” Not one part of Sam believed his brother wouldn’t finish up the gun inspection while he was in the bathroom.

“It will be too late to take it by the time you finish.”

“Then I’ll take one in the morning.”

“We’re heading out early,” Dean said. “So you won’t have time.”

Sam’s attention perked up at the tidbit of information. It was the first plans Sam had heard in regarding to the hunt. He considered the possibility of interviewing witnesses, but from pieces of conversations he’d overheard, Dean and Dad had already taken care of those. He also doubted either of them would take him along if that was the case. This meant Dad wanted to do a walk-through, scout out the location. Dad and Dean must have had a break in the case tonight. There was no other reason why Dad would want to get a feel for the location. That explained why Dad wanted to drag him along.

“Where are we going?” Sam ventured.

After a beat of silence, Sam glanced up from his lap and found Dean just staring at him. The expression was restrained at best with a tinge of regret. Sam hated; knowing that Dean had information to share but Dad had placed a gag order on it. His anger was mostly directed at Dad, but he couldn’t help but be pissed at his brother for going along with it. Sam took advantage of his brother’s distraction and latched a hold of the gun Dean was holding. Unfortunately, the older hunter’s reflexes snapped into action and clamped down on the handle just as Sam did. The result was each of them holding tight to each end of the weapon.

“I’ll take a shower after the hunt then,” Sam gritted out.

“Well that’s one way to kill the thing,” Dean quipped.

Sam glared, undeterred by the verbal jab, “What thing?”

Dean clenched his jaw and glared down at his little brother. A sense of frustration settled between them and after a moment Dean released the gun with a jerk. “Fine. You don’t want to trust me; that’s fine.” Dean stood up from the bed and moved toward his own. “I’ll just supervise from over here... with my eyes closed.”

Sam didn’t watch his brother go, but he heard the springs of the opposite bed complain as his brother flopped down on it none to gently. He hadn’t meant to imply that he didn’t trust Dean. There wasn’t anyone he trusted more than his brother. It was just... this whole thing was stupid. Splitting up aspects of the hunt to test teamwork was a terrible method and especially for his first in-the-field hunt. He knew he should apologize to Dean. His brother was only trying to help any way he could, but right now Sam just couldn’t. Not with his anger still so fresh.

It was a little while later when Sam heard Dean’s breathing even out and an hour after that before Sam was able to crawl into bed himself. He felt grimy from spending part of the day outside and sweating in the heat, but he was too tired to shower. It was doubtful he’d be up earlier enough for a shower. Sam sighed into his pillow and stared at the clock on the table. His shower, just as Dean said, would have to wait.

Chapter Text

Not much was said the next morning. He was woken up by Dean’s insistent shaking with not much time do anything but run cold water over his face and change into a fresh pair of clothes. The gun he’d left on the table was gone and John didn’t mention it, so Sam figured he got it right. There was no praise for a job well done, but these days he would take the silence for the reward it was.

Sam had packed the car by himself. It was part of his job to make sure they had everything they would need. It wasn’t an easy task since Sam didn’t really know what they needed. It made the process twice as long since he had to pack just a little bit of everything. Dean had made a brief appearance to look over the trunk before Dad came out to join them. The slight nod let Sam know that he had obviously packed something that would come in handy. As much as Sam hated to admit it, it felt good when John also nodded after looking over the trunk. But that’s all it was; just a nod and then a quick order to “load up.”

They had been driving for fifteen minutes now with nothing but the radio playing between them and Dad trailing behind them. The more rural part of Bay City bled away into sidewalks and crowded housing the longer they drove. It wasn’t the peace and quiet of the lake and neighboring park, but it was still nice, even with the larger industrial buildings looming in the distance.

The copious greenery wasn’t the only thing bleeding away. With each passing building Sam felt a little of his annoyance morph into trepidation. Sam wrapped his fingers around the armrest to keep himself from tapping his fingers against the leather. He wanted to curse his sudden bout of nerves. This couldn’t be that much different than any other hunt. True, for all the previous hunts he’d sat on the sidelines, but Sam knew how to use a weapon, how to track, and how to defend himself. How hard could it be to put all those hours of training into practice. He was physically ready for this. He decided the only thing he didn’t have in his arsenal this go-around was knowledge, and that made Sam very uncomfortable. That was the only explanation he could think of for his abrupt apprehension.

Sam was still lost in his head when Dean cut the radio off and spoke, “It’s a Nayriff.”

“What?” Sam blinked and switched his eyes away from the passing scenery to his older brother.

“The thing we’re hunting,” Dean glanced over for a second. “It’s called a Nayriff.”

Sam couldn’t help the bitter smile and the tone to match it, “So you’re allowed to tell me now?”

“Dad wanted me to brief you on the way over.”

“Fine time to be doing it,” Sam mumbled. He pulled his hand from the armrest and laced his fingers together. There was only so hard he could grip the leather before Dean started complaining about the upholstery. “So what is it?”

After a moment of silence, Sam glanced up to find his older brother staring at him. The look was searching, as if he could stare long enough he could dissect his little brother like a frog. Sam had been pinned with that stare more times than he cared for in his short life, so he knew firsthand the truth in that statement. He actually had to work not to squirm.

“What?” Sam asked.

Dean appraised him for another moment, before shaking his head and turning back to the road. Sam was about to repeat his question, but was cut off.

“Nayriffs are Death Collectors,” Dean explained, “They’re made when a large amount of people die in the same place at the same time.” Dean shrugged when Sam gave him a dubious look. “I know, pretty extreme circumstance, but shit happens, dude. They usually form after wars, natural disasters, Black Friday... things like that.”

Sam shot the older man a sidelong look and deadpanned, “Black Friday?”

“You ever been to one of those things?” Dean glanced over, looking for an answer he already knew. “You don’t get in the way of a soccer mom on a mission. I’m just saying.”

Sam snorted and shook his head. He doubted his brother had ever been to a Black Friday sale, but then again that wasn’t the point. The point was Sam could now imagine his older, more macho brother getting his ass kicked by a petite mom in a mini-van. Now that was something he’d pay good money to see.

“Soccer moms aside,” Sam started, noticing the distinct pleased look on his brother’s face, “What’s a Nayriff doing in Bay City and how is it connected to the five victims? Pretty sure there haven’t been any recent wars or natural disasters in the area, and we’re a few months early for Black Friday.”

“This was more of a man-made disaster. A bit of a mix up at the construction company a few years back,” Dean frowned, “Apparently this company, Lobat, Inc., bought out a warehouse lot on the outskirts of Bay City for some fancy expansion project or something. Anyway, long story short, the construction company was hired to tear down the old warehouse and build another. Turned out the construction company was given the wrong address and tore down the wrong building.”

Sam felt his mouth open in shock, “How many?”

“Dead? Fifty-three in all, not including injuries,” Dean slowed the car to a stop, glancing around the four-way stop before taking a right. “Both companies went out of business not long after. They were buried too deep in legal bills to do much else besides file for bankruptcy.”

Sam nodded. He would say bankruptcy sounded like a fitting end for both responsible parties, but the fact of the matter was several lives were lost and ruined in an instant and there was nothing fitting about that. “And you think that’s where the Nayriff formed?”

“Formed and stayed,” Dean nodded. “The warehouse was eventually built back, but didn’t stay open for too long. Merchandise kept getting destroyed or misplaced, not to mention all of their electrical problems.”

“Well that doesn’t sound suspicious at all,” the tone was tinged with sarcasm and Dean agreed.

“Right. And now, five months later, we have five missing family members on our hands.”

“Family members?” That caught Sam off guard.

Dean nodded, “All of our missing victims have one thing in common; they’re all related to workers from the warehouse incident.”

The car slowed again; this time pulling off onto a well worn side road. The asphalt was littered with unavoidable potholes. His brother cursed when one caused the vehicle to dip dangerously low, almost scrapping the undercarriage. Sam wondered why no one bothered to have the road repaired, but that question was quickly answered as a row of large, generic, square buildings came into view.

Sam felt that familiar spike of apprehension again. It began to crawl up his spine as the looming structures drew closers. He didn’t need his brother’s confirmation to know this was the row of industrial warehouses on the outskirts of town. Only one was home to the Nayriff, but each one had its own creepy vibe.

It was clear they were all abandoned. The signs of disuse and disrepair were evident in every cracked widow and every vine that snaked up the rusting metal exterior. Most of the rolling metal doors were wide open, yawning wide to suck in anyone who might tread to close. It was hard for him to tell which one housed the Nayriff. They all looked like prime candidates to him.

The palms of Sam’s hands suddenly felt clammy and he stretch them out over the tops of his legs, rubbing them over the denim surface. “So this thing kills family members.”

“And then sucks the soul in with the rest of them. I guess that’s one way of keeping your family close.”

“So I’m guessing rational thought isn’t this entity’s thing.”

Dean snorted, “When is it ever? But I guess having fifty-three people in one clown car would make anyone a little crazy.”

“Fifty-eight now,” Sam mused as another yawning structure passed by his side window. They were nearing the end of the road. Only a few more buildings were ahead of them and Dean had yet to tell him the most important information. “So how do we kill it?”

“Ah, well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” Dean asked. Sam turned his head to share a wide-eyed expression with his brother. There was no way there was good news to any part of this story. This meant did he want the bad news or the worse news first. “Right,” Dean answered after only a second. “Well, the good news is that this thing is so juiced up its capable of manifesting a physical body.”

“That’s the good news?” Sam asked, disbelief coloring his voice.

Dean gave him a tight nod, “At least with a physical body we can just torch it. That’s better than having to dig up fifty-three graves and searching for five missing bodies, right?”

Sam nodded reluctantly. He didn’t know if he’d use the word “better,” but digging up what sounded like an entire cemetery sounded neither discrete nor pleasant.

“Unfortunately a juiced up entity with a multiple personality disorder means this thing is strong, fast and squirrelly as Hell.”

Sam turned to face the windshield as his brother pulled into the warehouse on the very end. The building looked impossibly large up close and not the least bit inviting. Sam thought having all the details would settle his nerves, but now he just felt worse.

“You okay over there, Thumper?”

His head jerked over at the strange nickname and gave his brother a look. The older man replied by tilting his head toward Sam’s leg. At some point, without his permission, his leg had started to bounce. Sam quickly extended a hand out and forcibly pushed his knee flat against the floor, effectively squashing the outward sign of anxiety, but not before his brother picked up on it.

“Nervous?”

“No,” he replied quickly; too quickly for it to hold any truth.

Sam breathed out a sigh, hoping to expel his embarrassment with it. Needless to say it didn’t work. He closed his eyes when Dean’s callous hand landed on the back of his neck. He felt himself automatically relax as the thumb kneaded the corded muscles.

“Aww Sammy.” The sympathy in Dean’s voice had Sam cringing.

“I’m not nervous,” Sam restated, making sure to put more conviction into his words. Out of the corner of his eye he could see their Dad pulling in next to them, parking right in front of the warehouse’s wide opening.

Arguing over cleaned guns and with-held information seemed somehow less important now. Sitting in front of the building, being minutes away from stepping over the threshold and being on guard from the supernatural suddenly seemed more than Sam could have imagined. He was wrong before. This wasn’t anything like being on research duty like the previous hunts.

Sam looked up at Dean and forced a half smile. He figured they didn’t have much time before John would start tapping on the window, signaling for them to put a move on it. “It’s just... It’s a lot, you know?”

Dean didn’t seem convinced, but he forced his own smile. “Yeah, I know.” He paused a minute before adding, “More than you think.”

A strange look passed over his brother’s face. There was an inkling of doubt there as the older man took in the dilapidated exterior of the building. The hand on his neck tensed slightly as their eyes met again. Dean suddenly looked for the entire world like he wanted to shift the car in reverse and get both of them the Hell out of here. Sam would be lying if he said part of him didn’t want that too.

A tap on the glass caused Sam to jump and Dean to drop his hand. Dad was standing at the passenger window. He held up one finger and then pointed to the trunk. “One minute and then gear up.”

Sam sighed and turned back to his brother. Whatever had come over Dean was gone now. Once again his cool, confident brother sat before him, looking so much like he could take on the world and not even break a sweat. Sam envied that, even if it was just a mask.

“You’ll be fine,” Dean assured. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. And besides,” the older sibling added with an air of over the top dignity that already had Sam wanting to roll his eyes, “how would it look if I let something happen to my partner on his first hunt? My reputation as badass hunter extraordinaire would be destroyed.”

“We can’t have that,” Sam quirked a half-hearted smile, but it was hard to indulge in his brother’s weird humor when the only word he could focus in on was ‘partner.’ Dean was still trying to be his partner despite having the word and what it meant thrown back in his face last night.

Sam couldn’t leave that doubt between them. Not when there was a hunt literally staring them in the face.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said, halting his brother’s hand on the door handle. Dean hmm’ed his attention when Sam didn’t speak right away. He cleared his throat and pointedly looked his brother in the eye, “You know I trust you, right?”

Dean didn’t react immediately. He just sat completely still, staring at Sam. It was a bit unnerving, but Sam did his best not to squirm or drop eye contact. Finally Dean moved, but it wasn’t the reaction Sam was expecting. The next thing he knew his brother was looping something over his head and dropping a solid weigh against his chest.

Sam swallowed hard when he looked down and found his brother’s amulet resting against his chest. Dean hadn’t taken the thing off since the day Sam had given it to him six Christmases ago. It almost felt wrong to look up and not see it hanging from his brother’s neck.

“Dean,” Sam said. It sounded like a question and a statement all at the same time. Thankfully Dean seemed to understand.

“I need you to hang onto that for me. I don’t want to lose it while I’m busy kicking Nayriff ass.” Dean answered and Sam called bullshit. His brother had been on several hunts and never once expressed concern over losing his necklace in the fray. So Sam took it for it really meant: Dean trusted him too.

“Now come on before Dad comes back and kicks our asses.” And with that Dean was climbing out of the car.

Sam stayed for another second, letting his finger run over the small golden horns on the protection amulet. It wasn’t anything special; probably didn’t even work, but oddly enough Sam felt safer with it on. Maybe it was the gesture behind the item more than the item itself. At any rate, Sam could understand why his brother kept it.

Sam took a deep breath and slowly breathed it out before pushing open his door and joining his brother. When he reached the trunk both Dad and Dean were already going through the trunk and pulling out the necessary weaponry. Sam was pocketing an individual bag of salt when a flare gun was held out for him to take. He expected Dean to be on the other end of it, but found Dad there instead.

“Thanks,” Sam nodded as he accepted the weapon. He took a moment to feel the gun, memorize the weight and the shape of the handle against his palm. Sam was well practiced with it, but somehow it felt alarmingly different now. This time he wouldn't be using it to shoot bottles off a fence.

“Dean give you the rundown?” John asked. He sounded more amicable then he had last night.

“Yes sir,” Sam replied and continued when his father looked like he was waiting for more. “A Nayriff; fast, physical form, mentally unstable, can be killed by fire.”

John nodded, satisfied by the answer. “That about covers it.”

“So what’s the game plan?” Dean asked.

The oldest Winchester glanced up at the warehouse. His eyes raked over the formidable structure and then back to his sons. “The layout’s pretty large; high ceiling but no second floor according to the blue prints. There’s about a dozen separate storage rooms. It will be best if we split up—”

“No, no way. Not happening,” Dean cut in. Sam was a little surprised by the outright defiance in his brother’s tone. It wasn’t often he heard it; at least not directed at his father.

Amazingly John didn’t do more than grit his teeth and repeat himself, “It will be best if we split up. You and Sam take the first six rooms and I’ll take the rest.”

Dean colored slightly, obviously embarrassed by his assumption, but he never dropped eye contact. He simply nodded his assent. Sam felt sure if the same transaction had been between him and his dad the Nayriff would be adding one more soul on its train right about now.

“Keep your guard up. This thing is fast and we don’t know where it might be hiding,” John continued. “If you find something, give a shout. The warehouse may be large, but it’s mostly empty. Sound should carry fairly easily.”

“Roger that,” Dean nodded and crossed over to where Sam was standing. He clapped a hand over his shoulder and squeezed. It was a comforting gesture. “I think Sam and I can handle that.”

“Good,” John checked over his weapon. He glanced over his two boys, checking to make sure they had everything before closing the lid on the trunk. “Let’s go set something on fire.”

The comment sounded so much like Dean that Sam couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face. The “Hell Yeah!” that came from above his head seemed to agree. The levity was a surprise coming from their Dad, but a welcomed one.

Dad entered the building first, taking point on the initial entry. The two divided partitions of the warehouse veered off immediately. They were barely all through the door before John swiveled around, not turning his back to the interior of the building but turning enough so he could see both boy.

"Stay sharp," the oldest hunter stated loud enough for both to hear. The next part was quieter and probably only meant for Dean's ears. "Keep an eye on your brother."

"You know I will," was replied in the same volume.

Normally the over-protective comment would have bothered him. Sam was sixteen years old and didn't need his brother and father hovering over him. Now though, standing inside the creepy, rundown storage building, Sam didn't find himself minding all that much.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean bumped his shoulder as he passed, heading in the opposite direction of their father.

The first room was directly to their left. Stepping through the rusted doorway Sam was able to see that the building's exterior did not belie the inside. In fact it resembled that of an apple; rotted from the inside out. That was a hard feat for a building considering weather would have a jumpstart on the outside. In this case it looked as though the cracked and shattered windows at the top of the walls were cheating and letting lots of Mother Nature in. The rain entering through said windows would explain why the walls had rusted so quickly. What was a mystery though was how it hadn't managed to wash away at least some of the dust, cobwebs and debris.

The room was fairly empty. Only a few, small metal containers littered the room. None of them were really big enough to hide a corporal ghost. The second room was a bust as well. It resembled the first with cracked windows, dirty floors and useless small boxes. The third was a bit more interesting. There were steel crates of all sizes forming a maze around the room. Some were opened and turned over while others were sealed tight.

Dean grunted as he tried to pull the lid from one of the larger boxes, "Where's a giant can opener when you need it?"

Sam snorted, "I don't think it's going to be hiding in a sealed box. Not unless it has a jack-in-the-box complex."

"No stone unturned, Sammy," another grunt and Dean turned to eye his little brother. "Think you could make yourself useful and try to find something in all this crap to pry this thing open with?"

Sam shook his head but turned to scan the room. There wasn't much he could see immediately with all the boxes. He moved around a couple of them, heading over to some of the already opened crates. He tucked his gun in the back of his waistband in order to rummage through the piles of junk better.

It was strange, but the further they went into the warehouse, the less on edge he felt. Maybe because with the more rooms they explored the less likely it seemed something supernatural was lurking around the corner, readying itself to pounce on one of them. That alone should have been his first clue. It was a false sense of security, and he was allowing himself to be lulled into it.

Sam shifted another piece of useless garbage when he noticed something off in his peripheral. He straightened up, trying to get a better look, and stepped toward what he assumed was the fourth room. It wasn’t until he was standing at the threshold that he realized what he'd seen was the actual floor of the building. Not the rusted metal flakes covering the floors like the previous three rooms, but the honest-to-God gray of a clean cement floor. Clean was an odd thing to notice as abnormal, but in this place it stuck out like a sore thumb.

Sam hesitantly stepped over the dividing line of grime and onto the unhindered flat surface. The walls didn't look much different from the previous ones, nor did the windows, which meant someone or something had deliberately cleaned it. He couldn’t imagine the reason behind it. The place needed a lot more than a quick sweep. Though the reason became painfully obvious when his eyes landed on the big thing sitting in the middle of the room; the thing that made Sam's heart skip a beat and his hand reach for his gun.

The structure was unmistakable. Sam had never seen one in person, but he’d seen enough of them sketched and scribbled inside the pages of the few occult books he’d managed to sneak while at Uncle Bobby’s house to know exactly what they would look like if he ever came across one, and this was definitely one. It had all the earmarks: large, raised stone pillar; melted pools of candle wax around the edges; and carved symbols. This was an altar.

Sam brought his gun up, keeping it trained on the flat stone. Finding an altar was never a good sign. At least not the ones you found in the backs of rundown warehouses. A lot of dark magic went into setting one up, which meant whoever had made this one wasn’t screwing around. The intricate carving around the base of the stone was evidence of that. Someone had obviously spent a good deal of time creating them.

Did Nayriffs create altars? It seemed like the kind of information that would have been important to share before the hunt. From what info Dean had offered on the way over, the entity sounded like something capable of dark mojo, but somehow Sam doubted this had anything to do with their monster. There was no way something as unstable as the mind of a Nayriff would be able to keep it together long enough to carve even one symbol, more or less enough to cover the entire base with them.

“You find anything?”

Sam jumped at the sound of his brother’s voice. He hadn’t noticed until now how close he'd managed to get to the altar. He took a step back, “Yeah, I—I found something.”

The shake in his voice was evident. There was an audible pause and then the sound of hurried footsteps. When his brother called back there was a serious, gruff note to his tone. “Where are you at, Sam?”

“Next room.”

His reply was met by the faint sound of cursing. The hastened footsteps were heading in his direction and getting louder by the second. He could just make out some of his grumbling, “stupid kid... wandering off... heart attack... gonna kick his—,” before he abruptly stopped. Sam didn’t have to look to know Dean had found the room.

“What the,” his brother trailed off and then his bark-like voice was aimed at him. “Sam, get away from that!”

The sharp command got his attention, but for some reason he couldn’t get his legs and brain on the same page.

“This is an altar,” Sam stated. It was obvious at this point, but he felt the need to point it out just in case Dean hadn’t grasped the gravity of the situation. Altars aren’t built for summoning spirits. That was easy enough to do with just some matches and a few choice herbs. Altars were constructed for higher level demons; the ones that were under heavy lock-n-key and couldn’t get out of Hell on their own. And that was just a minor example. Sam turned wide eyes to the older hunter, “There’s an altar here, Dean.”

“I know that, Sam,” Dean’s eyes narrowed and his jaw looked to be clenched painfully tight. “Now get the hell away from it.”

Sam wanted nothing more than to do just that. His own words alongside Dean’s were finally sinking in through his initial shock. He suddenly realized just how dangerously close he was.

He turned to take a step toward his brother... except he didn’t. He tried again, but when that try also yielded the same results he shot fear-rolled eyes toward his older brother, “Dean...”

The response from Dean was instant. Sam’s tone was like a spark, setting something feral off inside his older brother. He’d seen the reaction before, mostly with bullies that Dean thought his little brother couldn’t handle. He’d poked fun at him then, accusing him of having ‘mother’s intuition.’ Shortly after, Sam had taken to calling it ‘big brother’s intuition’ once Dean had introduced his backside to the ground for calling him a childbearing female.

Dean lunged forward, putting his whole body into getting to his kid brother as quickly as possible. His upper body moved forward and nearly threw him off balance when the lower part didn’t want to go with him. Confusion temporarily crossed his face. Sam didn’t need to see the panic that followed to know his brother was stuck in the same situation he was.

“Shit!” Dean cursed. His eyes ticked around the room, trying to detect any signs of movement. His initial sweep came up empty, but that didn't mean they were alone. The grip on his gun tightened as his attention shifted back to his brother. "Can you move at all, Sammy?"

Sam shook his head, his fringe of hair falling into his eyes. “Not anything useful,” he added and waved his hands around as evidence.

“If you can move your hands, then you can still pull a trigger. Keep your gun up. If anything moves, shoot it.”

Sam’s grip on his gun tightened and he leveled it up as his brother asked. He didn’t see how it was going to help. Whatever was summoned from that altar wasn’t going to be affected by a little flare gun. He doubted the salt in his pocket or the Holy water in Dean’s jacket would help either. The thought had crossed his mind when he first stepped into the room and laid eyes on the carved stone. Now that both he and Dean were rooted to the ground, he was scared he was right.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice sounded small in the large room. “I don’t think this is a Nayriff we’re hunting.”

After a long moment of silence Sam shifted his eyes from the empty spaces in the room to his brother. The older hunter’s face was pinched, expression tight and unpleasant. His eyes were moving back and forth between the wall by the door and the rest of the room.

“Dean,” Sam repeated, not sure if his brother had heard him.

“I know, Sam!” the furiousness of the retort took Sam by surprise. Dean looked seriously pissed. Sam had never seen his brother look like that. Quite frankly he never wished to again.

“Just keep a lookout,” Dean dismissed and Sam wisely kept his mouth shut. He kept an eye on the room as asked, but also kept one eye on his brother. Dean reached out toward the door frame. He was a hand length short of his fingers making contact. He growled his annoyance and leaned his upper body further. This time his fingers brushed the rusted metal, but he wasn't quite close enough to curl his fingers around it.

After another few moments of useless reaching Dean gave up with a frustrated sigh. Sam knew he had to have imagined it, because for a second there was something resembling shame in the downward slump of his strong, older brother's shoulders. It was an emotion he had never associated with Dean. He had no reason to be ashamed. Whatever it was passed quickly and was soon replace by a look of conviction.

Dean looked up at the high ceiling and sucked in a big breath before yelling, "Dad!" as loud as he could. The building practically shook with the intensity. It was a testament to how run down the place was when a few rusted metal chips clinging precariously to the walls sloughed off and landed on the clean floor.

Sam had almost forgotten about their father investigating on the other side of the building. They both stood completely still and quiet, listening for a sign that their Dad might have heard them. The term 'deafening silence' never felt more appropriate. He thought he would strain something from listening as hard as he was. It was how he heard the sudden soft fluttering just beyond his back. The sound was familiar, wing-like. He was expecting to find a bird hopping around the altar, so he was taken aback when he turned to find a pair of very human-like green eyes staring at him.

"You two might want to keep it down. All this rubble pile is short of is a gust of wind."

Sam trained his gun on the thing without a second thought. Yet when his finger tensed against the trigger he found himself hesitating. This thing that had appeared with barely a rustle of wind looked human. The man before him had everything Sam allocated to humans: two eyes, a nose and a mouth. It was more human than he was ready for, and he couldn’t bring himself to squeeze the trigger despite the man’s less than normal entrance and grin befitting someone from Alice’s Wonderland.

Dean didn’t appear to have the same reservation. A hollow thump and bright flash was the only warning before the flare made impact with the man. Sam blinked a few times to clear the flare’s bright image imprinted on his retina. When it cleared enough for him to see he had to blink again to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

The short man was still standing there, completely whole and minus the scorched wounds Sam had expected. The only evidence that the flare had ever been fired was the man’s raised fist, clenched tightly and tiny wisps of smoke escaping through his fingers.

“Careful, that almost hit me,” it said. He lowered his hand so both of them could see as he unfurled his fingers. Sam expected to see the burned out hulk of the flare, but was once again surprise to instead find a small, red coated ball. Was that candy?

“You want it?” the man-thing asked and offered his hand out to Sam.

Sam looked up from the offered hand to the man’s face. Was this guy really offering him candy? Sam chanced a look back at Dean. The older hunt looked shocked at the sudden turn of events, but his eyes immediately turned hard when the thing addressed his little brother. Dean turned to meet his stare and frowned. Concern flickered over his face before he gave a sharp shake of his head.

Sam looked back at the man, hand still held out, and said the only thing he could think of, “I’m not supposed to take candy from strangers.”

The man’s sudden bark of laughter startled Sam, shaking him out of whatever stupor he’d fallen into when the guy first popped in.

“Aww, come on, I didn’t poison it,” he shook his hand, the candy bouncing back and forth. Sam didn’t even have to defer to Dean this time. He immediately shook his head and the man replied with a casual shrug, “Suit yourself,” and popped the little candy into his own mouth. The pleased look on the man’s face quickly changed to a grimace and he hastily stuck his index finger and thumb into his mouth to pluck out the red ball. “That was a good call,” the comment was directed at Sam, but the man never took his eyes off the candy. “The Fire Ball is the disgrace of the candy family,” and then the candy was gone with a snap.

Sam stared at the empty space for a moment. There was no flare, no candy, now there was just nothing.

“What are you?”

The man turned his attention to the older of the two, “Well that depends. What do you think I am?”

“That’s not what I asked.” Dean growled.

“We thought you were a Nayriff,” Sam answered much to Dean’s dismay. He ignored his brother’s indignant use of his name. Maybe he and Dean weren’t watching the same show here, because Sam was pretty sure this thing just turned something into nothing; an impossible action under the laws of physics. He didn’t know what creature would possess that kind of ability, but he really didn’t want to piss it off.

The short man’s mouth pulled down into a thoughtful frown, “That’s a little insulting.”

“If the crazy fits,” sarcasm dripped from Dean’s tight smile.

The man returned the grin, pointing a finger at each brother. “And let me guess. You two are hunters, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before turning his back to them and walking the few feet to the altar.

Sam was a little disturbed at how easily the man sat down on top of the carved stone. It reminded him of the way Dad would plop down into the rare motel recliner or the way Dean melted back into the leather seats of the Impala; like they belonged there.

The same realization must have dawned on Dean at the same time it did Sam. “So let me guess,” Dean smirked, “You’re the genie that came out of this lamp?”

The man scrunched up his face and tilted it to the side, “More or less. Though, I’m a little less... obedient than that. I don’t have to come when called; I’m not a dog. But I was bored and in the neighborhood. Figured I’d drop in and see what they wanted. I mean what the hell, right?”

“They?” Sam echoed. Something flipped on like a switch in back of his mind. He glanced down at the base of the altar, taking in the symbols, but this time taking in the major aspect of each design: a five pointed star. “The five victims,” Sam mumbled to himself. He looked back at the man, whose raised eyebrow projected a slight amount of interest. The question Dean had asked before came to mind. Sam asked it again, but this time he modified it to cater to his own suspicion. “Who are you?”

A slow smile spread across the man’s face. He seemed genuinely pleased by the question. He paused for a moment to dig something out of his pocket. A sucker pulled loose from the denim and he took a second to unwrap it before using it as a pointer. “Well, it looks like there’s at least one brain between the two of you.”

Dean growled softly and muttered something about having already asked that, but the man didn’t pay him any attention. Instead he used the time to twirl the sucker around in his mouth.

“I have lots of names,” he said once he pulled the sucker free from his mouth. “But I think the one you’re looking for is Loki.”

Sam’s brow scrunched in thought. “Loki? As in the god of mischief Loki?”

“Demigod, but you get the idea.”

Sam sucked in a shallow breath and held it. If he thought he was unnerved before the hunt, or even when he found the altar, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. They were in no way prepared for a demigod. He didn’t even think there were weapons in the car to take down something like the man standing in front of him. Could a demigod even be killed?

Dean didn’t look like his thoughts were much more appealing than Sam’s. His glare had dropped down into a tight lipped frown and his face appeared paler than it had before. His eyes never left the being before them, not even when Sam turned to watch him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” the demigod said, obviously noting the change in Dean’s demeanor. “I’m not that bad.”

“Is that what you told those five people right before you killed them?” Dean asked. Some of the heat was returning to his voice at the thought of the five victims whose families were waiting at home for their return.

“Nope,” the demigod spoke around the sucker and pulled it out with a ‘pop’ to punctuate his point. He then leaned forward and tapped the surface of the altar stone. “Do you think that’s what they told the girl they were planning on sacrificing in order to get their wishes granted?”

Sam was stunned by the reply and from the sudden silence his brother was as well. Loki nodded at the break in conversation, as if pleased by the lack of response. His next words were pitched lower as if he was sharing a secret with them. “Sometimes the people who go missing aren’t the victims. Sometimes,” the demigod raised his finger and voice, “the people who go missing deserve exactly what they get.”

“They’re still just people,” Sam blurted. His voice was pitched higher with a note of desperation. Didn’t this thing understand that you don’t just kill people?

“Premeditated murder will get you the death penalty. So what you’re saying is that killing humans is only okay just as long as other humans decide it’s okay?”

Sam opened his mouth, but closed it. He repeated the action a few more times before it was obvious he didn’t have a viable response.

After a few moments pasted the demigod took mercy on the younger hunter. “Look, it’s no big deal. Everybody got what they wanted. The five ‘victims’ got their families back, albeit!” Loki held up his finger before one of them could interrupt, “not in the way they’d planned, but that’s life... or death, as it were. And the girl wanted to go home, so now she’s home without a single memory of any of this. See, everybody wins.”

“Not us,” Dean’s glare appeared to have found its way back to his face. “You see, we still have five ‘victims’ and no supernatural carcass to show for it.”

The demigod sighed as if he was having to deal with an insolent kid and looked up at Sam. “Is he always this pig headed?”

Before Sam could reply they heard the sound of heavy metal scraping across the floor somewhere behind them.

“Dean! ... Sam!”

“Dad!” Dean shouted back, a little bit of panic seeping through. None of it was for his safety though. “Dad, stay back. We were wrong about the Nayriff. It’s a demigod!”

Without turning around for confirmation, Sam could picture his brother clawing the best he could against the doorframe, trying to break free of the invisible hold on him while warning their father back. Sam didn’t dare take his eyes off the mischievous man in front of him though, and watched as all the amusement seemed to drain from the demigod’s face as soon as their Dad’s voice rang through the building. It wasn’t replaced by fear. It was more like suspicion and slowly dawning realization.

“You’re hunters and you’re names are Dean and Sam,” the trickster god directed the question toward Sam as Dean was still preoccupied trying to warn off their father. “Dean and Sam... Winchester?”

Sam’s brows knitted together in confusion. How had this being known their last name? Apparently the befuddled expression was all the confirmation the demigod needed and he stood quickly from his altar. Their Dad entered the room only seconds after, to Dean's great dismay. With a sharp snap John nearly toppled into his oldest as his feet became rooted to the floor.

The older hunter issued a surprised curse as Dean helped their father get his balance back. The trickster ignored both of them in favor of swinging an accusing finger between the three of them. “The three of you... you’re Winchesters.”

“And who are you?” John's gruff, irritation boomed around the room, the natural base giving a commanding air to the empty room. It wasn't obvious, but the older man's eyes traveled back to the altar before returning fully to the demigod. If his father’s rattled by being in the presence of such a powerful creature, he doesn't show it beyond the way his grip tightens around the flare gun.

“Oddly enough, not the most heinous thing to humanity. At least not in this room.”

Dean snorted, “Funny, because out of all the people in this room you’re the only one with five people’s blood on your hands.”

“Give it time, Dean-o,” the trickster promised. “You and Sammy will get there.”

Dean scowled. The odious nickname was just fuel to the already burning fire. The cryptic dialogue from the demigod was irritating, but most of all it was worrisome. He and Dean had never killed anyone, had never even given it a thought. As hunters their job was to save people, not harm them. But the conviction and underlying maliciousness in which the trickster spoke gave Sam pause and sent a shiver up his spine.

“Unless you can’t,” Loki paused. Something was turning in the trickster’s mind. Sam could practically see the thoughts spinning around like a roulette wheel. He knew the exact moment when the ball landed in a slot. The demigod shifted his eyes from inward rumination to look up at his brother. The purpose he could see there made Sam twitch. “None of this happens, if you don’t have a reason.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” John muscled his way back into the conversation. His voice held the same amount of authority as it would if he were ordering his own children around. He was subtly trying to put himself in front of Dean, but the effort was uselessly since they were both stuck to the floor.

The trickster paid neither one of them any attention as he turned his back to them. It was a blatant insult to a hunter, but it wasn’t given much thought as the demigod set his sights on the younger Winchester.

Sam automatically shrunk back as the demigod began to move toward him. What he would give to have something more lethal than a flare gun. He would be happy just to take a few steps back.

“Hey,” it was Dean’s yell, but the sudden explosion of gun fire was his Dad’s. Sam flinched at the uncomfortably close shots, but he did not look away from the advancing target. There were few things Sam trusted his Dad to be, and accurate was one of them. He was surprised to see actual bullets and not flares leaving his father’s weapon, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as each shot made impact with the being’s back. Any relief he might have felt was short lived as Sam watched multi-colored gumballs fall from the trickster’s back and roll around harmlessly on the floor. Sam barely had a moment to catch the stricken look on his father’s face before the demigod was in front of him, filling up his vision. Sam’s fist lashed out without thought. It was a last ditch effort to defend himself. It was squashed immediately, the trickster catching his wrist in mid-flight.

“Stop,” the simple command felt like a nail in the preverbal coffin. It was final, like whatever was about to happen was going to happen and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He knew that already, but having it put into so few words was something completely different. He felt hot pricks behind his eyes at the despair of the situation and hated himself for it.

“Stop,” he said again, but somehow it felt kinder. Sam opened his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, and stared up the best he could through moisture clouded vision. “I’m doing this for you. If you had any of idea the pain I’m saving you both....” Loki trailed off. He could hear his brother yelling something; his dad reloading, but his attention was completely focused on the demigod in front of him.

More gumballs pinged against the ground. The trickster didn’t pay them any attention as he raised his free hand and swept the bangs away from Sam’s forehead. Sam felt a sudden pang of loss at the gesture. It was the same thing Dean would do when they were kids and Sam wasn’t feeling well.

“No deals, no Hell, no seals,” Loki’s voice was quiet enough for only Sam to hear. His hand was back, but this time it was a fist with only his index finger and middle finger pointed out and pressed together. It looked strangely like the scout’s honor sign. Loki pressed both finger tips to his forehead and Sam gasped at the sudden wave of fatigue that washed over him. “See you later, kid.”

Another wave crashed into him and the last thing his conscious mind registered was his brother calling his name.

Chapter Text

Disoriented... that was a pretty good way to describe how Sam felt. It was as if he’d fallen asleep and couldn’t remember doing so. Unfortunately that still meant he had to wake up. Sam opened his eyes to bright light. He slammed his lids shut as the feeling of spears being shoved through his sockets assaulted him. He jerked back in reflex and suddenly his equilibrium was sent tumbling out of whack. It only righted itself when something cold and hard impacted with his right side. He groaned. The impact was enough to rattle his teeth and form an ache in his right temple. That, coupled with the dramatic change in balance, had his stomach turning loops. It was all he could do to keep from rolling over and puking on whatever surface he was now occupying.

He remained still for a while longer trying to get the pounding in his head to subside. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but when he attempted to open his eyes again his head had settled into a dull ache. The unrelenting sunlight in his sensitive eyes spiked the pain again, but at least he was ready for it this time and was able to bear it until it settled again.

The scenery around him was tilted. Everything sat strange and twisted before his eyes. It took a few moments of concentration and a few blinks to realize it wasn’t his surroundings that were messed up, but rather the way he was looking at them. He looked down, or to the side, and saw the wide expansion of filthy concrete his body was resting against. That at least explained the headache, but it didn’t explain why he was laying on the floor or why the surrounding area was covering in rusted metal and broken glass.

Sam twisted his body slightly so he could pull his arms beneath him. Once he pushed up he immediately wished he hadn’t. The quick roll of nausea was back and this time he couldn’t stop the bile pressing at the back of his throat. Unfortunately that was all that came up and he spent the next few minutes dry heaving the nonexistent food through his acid burnt esophagus. A moan escaped. He wanted nothing more than to lie back down, but he didn’t know if he had the energy to get back up if he did. He really didn’t want to go through the puking his guts out part again. His stomach muscles weren’t eager for a round two.

Sam used the sleeve of his jacket to wipe away a string of saliva. Now that he was propped up and his vision had righted he could assess his surroundings better. A large portion of the area was covered in aged concrete and sheets of decrepit, rusted metal. He touched his head gingerly and felt extremely grateful he’d only landed on cement and not one of the jagged pieces of metal littering the floor. The last thing he needed right now was a sliced open head and a Tetanus shot.

Beyond the dilapidated foundation was dirt, and a damn lot of it. There were areas peppered with rocks, like maybe there had at one time been a graveyard here, but other than that it was just a large amount of red, cakey dirt. There were trees standing farther out, but even from where he sat Sam could tell they were long dead. The finger-like limbs reaching up to the sky, as if begging for rain, felt ominous. Even worse were the trees lying uprooted on the ground. It looked like something had taken a bulldozer to them for no reason other than sheer destruction.

Sam took a deep breath and prepared himself to stand. Whatever happened here it hadn’t been good, and he wasn’t waiting around to find out if it was over or not. His legs were shaky beneath him, but thankfully they held and when he pulled to his full height he didn’t have the immediate urge to vomit. That was a plus in Sam’s opinion. Dizziness was the only real issue. Sam placed his hand against his forehead, as if by holding it there he could also keep the world from tilting.

Loki pressed both finger tips to his forehead and Sam gasped at the sudden wave of fatigue that washed over him. “See you later, kid.”

The memory was so sudden it nearly knocked Sam off his feet. The only thing that kept him up was sheer will. He didn’t think his head could take another meet ‘n’ greet with the concrete floor. Other memories soon followed and the implications behind them made Sam ill. He turned quickly, despite his dizziness, and took in the surrounding destruction with new eyes. The collapsed metal littered over the chipping concrete was the warehouse. The whole warehouse was gone, nothing but a pile of rubble at his feet. He turned again, this time taking in the dust bowl that had once been a road. He vaguely noticed the lake beyond was drained to nothing more than a shallow, slug-like pond. Yet it was none of those things that bothered Sam the most. There were two much more important things that Sam was missing.

“Dean?” Sam called, or at least he tried to. The only thing that came out was an airy hiss. Sam’s brow furrowed and he cleared his throat to try again. For the second time nothing came out. It wasn’t until the third time when he yelled for his Dad and still nothing happened that Sam started to panic.

He stumbled back a step, catching on to a piece of jutted out steel and holding himself up. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he say their names? Sam tried talking again. He tried saying anything and everything, but to no avail nothing came out. His breath quickened without his permission. A part of him knew he was panicking and that if he didn’t get himself under control soon he’d end up back on the ground, and this time he might not be lucky enough to dodge the metal.

He bent over as far as he dared without feeling he would topple over and took deep breaths. It would have been ideal if he could sit and put his head between his knees, like Dean had done for him the night dad came home covered in blood and Sam had a panic attack. He was too young at the time to know that’s what it was, but thankfully Dean knew and had taken care of him.

Sam breath stuttered when his thought of his older brother. Dean should be here, so should their father, and so should the damn warehouse. But they were all gone and Sam couldn’t figure out why or where. How long had he been out and why hadn’t his family taken him with them? The only thing he could think of for why they would leave him is if they weren’t capable of taking him. What if something had happened to them? The devastated landscape would certainly imply something monumental went down here.

Those thoughts and a hundred other ones like them weren’t helping Sam breath. He couldn’t afford to think those things. Not if he planned on staying upright for much longer. They were fine, he told himself. They had to be. Nothing else would be acceptable. It was the mantra that played through his head until the black dots stopped popping up across his vision. He tensely leaned back up. He didn’t bother to call out this time. His voice had abandoned him and he was afraid no one would hear it anyway. He looked over the rubble again and thankfully noted there weren’t enough large piles to hide a human body.

No, whatever had happened here, his brother and father was long gone. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but one thing was sure; he needed to find them.

Despite his urge to leave the steel graveyard, Sam remained for a while longer, sifting through the metal scraps and searching the general area for any clues. He sighed when he came up empty. For now, his best bet would be to retrace his footsteps. He needed to get back to the motel they were staying at on the outskirts of town. Maybe he would find something more useful there.

Sam glanced down along the path the road use to occupy. He didn’t look forward to the walk ahead. He remembered easily enough how long it had taken for him and his brother to drive there. It was likely to take three times as long to walk, if not longer. Not walking wasn’t an option though. There were no cars around for him to hotwire and there was no way he was staying here. He sighed again and glanced up at the waning sun. It would be gone in an hour or so. It would more than likely be gone by the time he reached his destination. Heaving a determined breath, Sam slipped off the foundations and headed down the dirt path leading out of town. Daylight was a wastin’.

--------------------------

Sam was thoroughly wiped by the time he managed to locate the motel. The sun stuck around for less time than he’d originally thought, causing him to make the majority of the journey in the dark. Thankfully once he’d located the main road he was able to use the remaining reflectors along the street lines and the sparse amount of moonlight as a guide.

It was darker than normal for a street situated so close to the city. He assumed some of the light from the neighborhood street lamps would spill over, but that wasn’t the case. Once the sun had departed all other light did as well. He was tempted to pull the small pen light tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket out, but refrained. It didn’t have a large amount of battery life and he might need it for later.

The best he could tell, it took the better part of two hours to stumble his way back to the motel (his watch was suspiciously not working). He nearly passed it the first time. He would have if not for the moonlight catching and glinting off the motel sign. There were no blinking lights from it like before when they’d first pulled in. As soon as his eyes adjusted it was easy to see why.

The motel was a wreck. Sam stumbled a bit closer. The entire left side of the structure was caved in. The office and the lobby area were completely gone, as were the first few rooms adjacent to them. The vehicles dotting the parking lot were mostly covered in rubble, but there were a fortunate few parked in front of the unharmed part of the building that look relatively untouched.

His heart raced as he weaved through the parking lot. He alternated between searching for black paint under the destruction and counting the rooms up to 14. He only happened upon one vehicle sporting black paint, but thankfully it turned out to be an early model VW. Sam knew for a fact his brother would never be caught dead in something like that.

Sam frowned. The grim humor didn’t do much to bolster his spirit. What did help was that the majority of the building’s collapse appeared to stop near room 13. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but it mattered little to him as the 14th door came into view.

Pulling the penlight from his pocket, he flicked it on and flashed it over the door. A vague impression of the number ‘14’ was imprinted high on the door where the golden number plate used to be. Sam passed the light over the door knob. It looked relatively intact and turned easily in his hand. The hinges screeched horribly, but he counted it as a plus when they held.

The room looked untouched. It was a miracle for a room that the rest of the building had fallen down around. There was a thick coating of dust over every surface Sam’s light landed on. It kind of resembled a tomb with how unsettled and sealed it felt.

His hand brushed over something on the frame as he stepped in and the penlight revealed it to be a circular carving. He felt his chest tighten as he fingered the familiar symbol. This had definitely been the residence of a Winchester at some point, but the mound of untouched dust suggested it hadn’t been recently. No one had been inside this place in years.

That just didn’t make sense to Sam. He let the door slip open wider as he stepped further into the room. Clouds of dirt puffed up from the floor as he made his way over to the dresser. He held the sleeve of his jacket over his nose as he pilfered through each drawer. Mostly they were all filled with women’s clothing. Not something a Winchester normally carried with them. Except for that one time he found a pair of panties in the glove compartment of the Impala.

Sam shook his head, feeling a blush work its way up his neck at the memory. To this day he had never brought it to his brother’s attention. Some things are better left unknown. Shutting the last drawer, Sam stood from his stooped position and swung the light over the rest of the room. There were no signs of the walls trying to immediately give way so he took another moment to examine the other half of the room. Nothing of any relevance showed up. Any signs of his brother and father—save for the carving on the door—were long wiped away.

Sam shut the bedside table drawer with a little more force than necessary, causing the wobbly stand to jar and dislodge the items placed on top of it. He sighed at the inconvenience and bent down to pick them up. He wasn’t sure why he was cleaning up a destroyed building. He slapped the first item back on the desk and stooped to grab another. In mid-bend he paused and looked back up. The small desk calendar he’d retrieved was nothing special. It was caked with dust like everything else in the room. Where his hand had touched it the grim had been smeared away, revealing black numbers against off-white paper.

Sam leaned over and wiped his hand across it. He rubbed the dirt on his hand over his denim clad thigh once enough the calendar was revealed. A quick once over had Sam’s brows pinched. He couldn’t completely comprehend what he was seeing. It was a three year calendar. That much he could tell. The whole thing was only about the size of a piece of paper, which meant the dates in each month were tiny and scrunched together. It was nothing someone could use for a planner. It was more for the use of identifying which date fell on which day. What was confusing were the bold printed dates above each calendar year.

2012 2013 2014

What was the purpose for having a calendar this far into the future? Last he checked there was nothing so important that it needed to be scheduled eighteen or so years ahead of time. On closer inspection he noticed a few of the dates under the first year were circled. Tiny pen marks dotted certain days, like maybe someone had tried to write something but the area wasn’t big enough to permit it. Most of them were smudged anyway. The only visible writing he could make out was the scratchy all-caps lettering at the bottom.

END OF THE WORLD

Sam’s hand hovered over the dried ink. There was a small tremble to it as it hung over the dirty calendar. It was probably just some Mayan calendar nut who was here during the cave in. It was nothing to worry his self about. Though the more he looked at the paper, the more he wondered if the color was off-white or aged.

The sharp clang against metal that suddenly broke the silence caused Sam to nearly jump out of his skin. It had come from outside and on instinct he turned his light in that direction. A second later he thought better of the action and quickly cupped his hand over the beam. At least this way he wasn’t in complete darkness nor was he broadcasting his location.

The door still hung wide open; a decision he regretted now. He skirted as close to the first bed as possible in order to keep himself out of sight of the doorway. Whatever was out there could well be nothing more than a raccoon, but Sam wasn’t going to risk it. He was trained not to take that kind of chance. Pressing his back against the wall, Sam very slowly peeked around the doorframe. The place didn’t look any different than it had roughly ten minutes ago. From what he could see the area looked undisturbed.

Another metallic ping pierced the night, somewhere further to the right. Sam leaned over a little bit more and eyed the partially crushed vehicles at the end of the row. It was still for a moment, but then there was a small scuffling sound, a cloud of disturbed dirt puffed from beneath a truck, and then another scrape on metal. He concentrated on the scuffle of dirt underneath the truck and squinted until he could make out the flesh of two bare feet. It was the first hint of human life he’d seen since he woke up in the remains of the warehouse. However, whoever it was must have been walking for a long time without proper foot protection. There were scraps and blood and mud caked over the distorted, raw looking feet. He felt sorry for the poor soul and was tempted to come out of hiding to offer help. What if this was a victim of the motel cave in? What if that was their car? Every moral part of him screamed for him to help this person, but something more primal made him stay put.

A piece of metal lying on top of the car was suddenly jerked off, rending the air with a loud nails on chalk board screech. Sam had the impulse to cover his ears, but couldn’t due to the penlight monopolizing both his hands. Judging by the lack of reaction from the still steady planted feet the noise didn’t even bother the human on the other side.

They stumbled forward, caking more dirt over the open wounds. Another loud scrap of metal, another scuffle, and sudden there was an arm clawing at the buckled hood. It was soon followed by a head and a torso. All of which Sam could have gone a lifetime without seeing.

Sam ducked his head back inside the motel room and took a deep breath. The thing slowly pulling itself around the useless vehicle more human than he preferred, but from the way its face was decayed and parts of the flesh on its arm was falling off, it was most definitely not human. Or at least it hadn’t been in a while.

He took a couple of long deep breaths to calm himself before white knuckling the door frame and peeking back out to the parking lot. The thing was clawing at the dented in roof with determination, but it’s short, blunt nails weren’t making so much as a scratch.

For all intents and purposes, Sam believed he was staring at a zombie, which was just crazy. If he had been asked about the existence of zombies even just a day ago he would have given them the same answer he gave for vampires. They just didn’t exist. There wasn’t anything short of a miracle that could truly reanimate both the body and the soul. The zombie slammed both of its fists against the hood, further buckling the steel and popping the edges free from the frame. Yeah, whatever this was it was definitely not a miracle.

Sam flickered his eyes over the motel room, letting a little of the penlight’s beam slip through his fingers so he could see. He’d seen plenty of zombie movies and knew several different fictional pieces of information about them. None of it was probably of any use, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit by and watch the thing demolish a car and not have some form of weapon in hand. It might not do him any good, but at least it would make him feel a tiny bit better.

The banging noise picked up as Sam frantically searched for something to use as a weapon. The sound was nerve wrecking, but at least if it was pummeling the car it wasn’t making immediate plans to come pummel Sam. There was a lamp sitting by the bed. He could use that like a baton, but it looked ceramic and would probably shatter on impact. He needed something sturdier, something that could, if not kill the thing, then at least daze it long enough so Sam could make a run for it if necessary. The best case scenario would be for the thing to move on without noticing Sam, but Winchester’s never had much luck. In this case it was better to be safe than sorry.

An umbrella in the closet was quickly dismissed as useless. The metal rod was hollow and would fold too easily. Just short of hefting the boxy television set and tossing it at the zombie, Sam was running out of options. On impulse, Sam ran his hand under the first bed. He inwardly cursed when it came up empty handed. He tried the second was rewarded with the feel of cold steel against his fingers. It wasn’t the cold steel he would have liked, but the golf club he pulled free was promising.

The club already looked like it had been put to good use. The head of the club was bent slight and there were red flicks of dried something covering the dent. Sam couldn’t help but wonder if this had been used against the zombies before or if he was contaminating crime scene evidence.

Once his hands were wrapped around his newfound weapon, Sam noticed two things. One, at some point during his frantic search he had dropped the penlight. It was unfortunately easy to find. It was still on and shinning its cheerful light across the motel room. It wasn’t a bright light, but given the circumstances it might as well be a spotlight. The second thing he noticed sent a cold shiver racing up his back. The banging outside had stopped.

Sam froze, back to the door. It was a stupid move; a rookie move. Never turn your back to the enemy, even if the enemy doesn’t know you’re there. He could practically hear his father’s disapproving voice in his head. It wasn’t helping him much, but what he wouldn’t give for the older hunter to be here with him right now. The idea of turning around and facing what might be in the door way made Sam’s stomach knot. Though he knew continuing to sit as he was in the dusty motel would get him much worse than an upset stomach.

Clamping down on his fear, Sam tightened his grip on the golf club and rose to his feet. His body slowly turned to face the door, arms posed to swing, but when the entrance came into view, there was nothing there. Sam knew not to let his guard down regardless, but he couldn’t help the sudden surge of relief that washed over him.

The penlight was still lying on the floor, its small amount of light illuminating a line across the dirty carpet. Sam needed to pick it up and turn it off, but he was afraid moving it at this point would just alert more attention to him so he left it. It was a lose-lose situation at this point.

Sam stepped over the light, making sure not to block the beam and crept closer to the door. As much as he hated it, he needed to know where that thing was, which meant going to the door to find out. He was almost there when something creaked loud enough to startle Sam into nearly losing his gear on his weapon. He fumbled with it, but froze when the decayed face appeared in the doorway, a large piece of jagged steel dragging behind him and cutting a deep groove into the cement sidewalk.

Death glazed eyes stared at him. They were filmed over with white and logically the thing shouldn’t have been able to see him, but it appeared to have no problem zeroing in on the human standing less than five feet away. It’s crooked, broken jaw moved creating intangible words before it reached out with lightening fast reflexes and grabbed the door frame.

Sam hadn’t expected the sudden scream that ripped from the zombie’s mouth. It jerked back pulling its hand away from the door frame as if it had been burned. Sam was confused by the sudden reaction, but knew what had happened the second the thing staggered backwards. The zombie’s hand had been where a protection symbol was carved into the door. The symbol was specific to demons, which gave Sam pause. Whatever this was, it was more on the side of demonic than just a reanimated body. Good to know.

Sam took the opening to recover his grip on the club and swing for the thing’s head. It was a solid hit. Deteriorated bones crunched under the force and sent the demon-zombie to the ground. It was a temple shot and would have rendered a human seriously injured or worse, but the zombie merely looked dazed, trying to get enough of its functions back in order to do something more threatening than roll around on its back like an overturned turtle.

Sam wasn’t waiting around to see if it did. He hopped over the thing, seeing as it was blocking the doorway, and took off for the first non-crushed vehicle he could find. The handle of a rusted Toyota truck gave way under his palm and he quick climbed into the cab. His hands latched a hold of the steering wheel. He was sixteen, but he didn’t have his license nor did he have a lot of experience behind the wheel. Dean had taken him driving a few times, whenever they could sneak away from training and school, which wasn’t often. Basically Sam had driving lessons maybe totaling around two hours and no permit to his name. But in his experience necessity was the best teacher, and right now it was necessary for him to get away from the demon-zombie.

The dashboard and seats were covered in dirt and dust, the same as the motel room. It was disheartening, but Sam was still hoping the vehicle hadn’t been sitting so long that the battery was dead, among other things. There wasn’t a key. Sam hadn’t expected there to be one, he knew at least where the little black box under the steering wheel was. At one point it felt redundant to know how to hotwire a car better than he knew how to drive one, but today he was thankful for the skill.

Sam struck the wires together. They sparked and the engine made a roo-roo noise before falling silent. He struck the wires together again only to yield the same results. Three more failed tries had Sam slamming his fist into wheel in frantic frustration. It seemed the horn didn’t work either.

The driver’s side window suddenly shattered. Sam threw his arms up to keep the glass from cutting his face. He barely had time to spy the zombie through the window before it latched onto of one of his raised arms and tried to pull him through the shattered opening. His hip banged painfully against the handle but kept him inside the vehicle. Sam pulled back against the iron grip just in time to keep the thing’s gnashing teeth from sinking into his forearm. Shit! This thing was trying to bite him!

He could practically feel the bruises forming, but it was better than the alternative. He pulled his feet up and planted them firmly against the door. It was better leverage, but mostly all it did was increase the pressure on his arm. His teeth clenched at the strain. He was afraid to pull any harder for fear of breaking something he couldn’t afford to break at the moment, but it was quickly coming down to the choice of a broken arm or being zombie-demon food.

The zombie’s teeth lashed out again. Just as Sam was about to resign himself to a ruined limb the hinges on the door groaned and gave away with a violent pop. The door was pushed out forcefully catching the zombie off guard. Its grip on Sam released, but not before dragging the younger hunter halfway out of the truck. He was just able catch the steering wheel and keep himself for hitting the ground.

Dazed again, the zombie flailed at the weight of the truck’s door resting on top of him. Sam spared it a look before glancing back to the interior of the truck. There wasn’t any hope of starting the vehicle. It had obviously been sitting long enough that the hinges were faulty. If it’s hinges couldn’t hold up to a little tug-of-war, then there was no way the battery was charged. There no telling how far the gas fumes had ruined the tank.

Sam was ready to abandon the vehicle when he noticed something. At some point during the struggle the glove compartment had been jarred open. Napkins and a manual littered the bottom the passenger seat foot well, but what caught his attention was the black .22 sitting on the open lid. From the looks of the bird carved into the grip it was a Ruger. It wasn’t the best gun in the world, but Sam had never been more thrilled in his life to see it sitting there.

Without a second thought he lunged for the weapon. His hand curled around the handle as a hand suddenly curled around his ankle. There was about a split second for Sam to click the safe off and turn to fire. There were so many things that could be wrong with the gun if it had been sitting in the truck for as long as the truck had been there, but the gun was literally his last hope. The zombie’s teeth were aimed straight at his shin and Sam knew if the thing’s bite was anything like his grip, then the denim between the zombie’s teeth and Sam’s flesh would not provide much protection.

The bang was deafening. It sounded louder than any gunshot he’d heard before, but it was final. When Sam lowered the gun there was a single bullet hole between the eyes of the downed zombie and a startled expression forever imprinted on its rotted face. It took a few seconds for the aftershock of the shot to settle over the demolished parking lot. Only after that did Sam release the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Deep even breaths puffed out of his mouth as he watched the zombie. When it didn’t move for a minute, Sam felt certain enough that it was dead or at least incapable of mistaking his lower limb as a turkey leg.

Dead or not Sam wasn’t sticking around to see which one of his guesses were right. He didn’t turn, not wanting to make the same mistake as before, but pulled himself back up into the cab. The truck itself was useless. No doubt any other vehicle he tried in the lot would yield the same results, but what had been inside was of great use. He spent a moment going through each compartment of the truck and a few other compartments from the neighboring vehicles. He didn’t find much in his hurried search, but the Stringer® flashlight and extra magazine clip was more than he had to begin with.

There were still other vehicles he could search, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Who knew if mush face had friends nearby that heard the gun fire and would soon come running. Sam wiped a trembling hand over his face and up through his hair. He didn’t know what he was doing or where he was going. All he knew was there were no traces of his brother or father back at the motel and he had no clues of where to look next. All he had was a demonic-zombie corpse and two collapsed buildings.

He pocketed the clip and the light and headed back toward the road that brought him to the motel. The only thing he could do was the one thing his father taught him to do above all else: survive. Sam didn’t bother putting the gun away. He wanted to be ready for any surprises that came his way. And from the looks of things so far, Sam feared there would be more things to come.

--------------------------

The road leading away from the warehouse and motel had been a delusional attempt to get away from the ruined landscape he’d encountered already. But that’s all it was; a delusion. He knew a large amount of time had to have passed—though it was still night if the darkened sky was anything to go by—before the well worn road dumped him out into a city. He felt dead on his feet, muscles corded and tired from his constant on-guard position, and the arm the zombie grabbed was now throbbing in time with his footsteps. Though it all shot to the back burner when his flashlight lit up the first building, and the next building, and the building beyond it....

Sam felt his knees weaken at the sight, but somehow managed to lock them in place. The whole town was a disaster. For as far as the flashlight beam could go all Sam could see was destruction and decay. Doors torn from damaged buildings, and trash and debris littering the street was only the start of it.

Sam shuffled further down what appeared to be the main street. He paused when the flashlight beam passed over the hollowed out remains of a small car. Its’ wheels, doors and other various parts were all missing. It looked like a fossil sitting motionless and stripped down in the street. Sam would have almost felt sorry for it if it didn’t have several other fossils keeping it company.

Every wall he saw held some form of graffiti or war wound. He’d never seen anything like this. Maybe on television, in war movies and natural disaster flicks, where none of it was real, but to be standing in the middle of it where he couldn’t change the channel was overwhelming. Part of him wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming, but the throb in his bruised arm assured him he wasn’t.

A quick 360° revealed shattered store fronts and fallen street lamps. From what Sam could see there wasn’t another soul around to greet him. He considered that to be a good thing if this new town’s greeting was anything like the one back at the motel. Still, he felt his chest tighten in despair at his situation. There were several times in Sam’s life where he could remember feeling isolated and left out. It was something ‘the new guy’ at school had to deal with before being accepted or being labeled an outsider. Unfortunately for Sam he’d spent a good part of his life being the new guy. The semi-nomadic lifestyle his family lived didn’t afford him much else, but to their credit Sam had never truly felt alone. That was one of the upsides of his close-knit family.

It was a new feeling, standing in the middle of his own personal Dooms Day with nothing more than a gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, to feel the all consuming fear of being completely alone in a situation he didn’t know how to deal with. Suddenly he felt like the ten year old who use to wait by the motel window for his family to return to him safely.

“Dean,” the word slipped from his lips before he could stop it. It hardly mattered. Nothing more came out than a puff of silent air, which only increased the sense of depression settling over him. A noise somewhere down the street brought Sam out of his downward spiraling thoughts and shoved the trained hunter to the surface. He couldn’t see what or who was making it, not without shining the light further down the street and possibly drawing unwanted attention to his location, but he had a feeling he knew exactly what it was.

The dull shuffling and muted groans could very well be human, Sam reasoned, but he didn’t think so. It sounded too similar to the ‘throat ripped out,’ gravel tone of the first zombie he’d met. It wasn’t a sound he would soon be forgetting.

Suddenly feeling the vulnerability of his position in the middle of the street, Sam looked around for a place to duck into. His answer came in the form of a small hardware store nestled between other broken down shops. From what Sam could tell it looked to be the only store front that’s windows hadn’t been smashed to Hell and back, which made it a prime candidate for a hide out. He just hoped no one else had that same thought.

Turning the flashlight off, he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust before he sprinted for the store. He winced as the whining pop of glass under foot reached his ears, but that only made him quicken his pace. The door was ajar, which was a little worrisome, but at least he didn’t have to waste time trying to figure out how to lock pick the industrial lock. Smashing the windows would have been defeating the purpose.

He squeezed through the opening and shut the door behind him. He winced when it squeaked in protest, but it was quiet enough and closed tightly behind him. The only disappointing part was the lock was rusted and jammed beyond use. Windows and a lock were too much to ask for.

Flicking his light back on, but keeping in pointed toward the floor, Sam regarded the store with a critically eye. Most of the store’s inventory was missing, leaving behind empty shelves and faded price tags, but there were some pieces of equipment here and there and some odds and ends scattered across the floor. Most importantly it proved to be zombie free. A quick sweep of the back room, office and small employee bathroom came up empty as well.

Sam felt like collapsing with relief. He was beat and his nerves were fried, but he knew he couldn’t rest yet, not with the front door still open to whoever could turn a door knob. It was too much to hope for that a zombie’s brain functions didn’t include how to open a door. At any rate, they could probably just smash it in.

The tools on the floor and on the shelves weren’t of much help. Most of them required electricity of some kind, and since he was fresh out of that it left him with few other options. Manual tools wouldn’t help him replace the built in lock. He would need something a little more heavy duty than a wrench and screw driver and a two-year degree in locksmithing. His next option was to barricade the door. The steel shelving looked hollow and frail against the memory of mush face beating in the hood of a car. They wouldn’t stand a chance and since the front desk was built into the floor it wasn’t an option either.

Sam glanced around the store again, running his eyes along the floor as well. A few things stood out and in minutes he had a plan. He might not be able to keep the zombies from coming in, but with this he could alert himself to when they did. It took a bit angling, but using a coil of thin, metal wire Sam was able to rig an alarm he'd put together out of a hand full of bolts, a tin can and an oil draining pan. It wasn't anything sophisticated, but if something stepped through that door the tripwire along the bottom would pull, tipping the cup of bolts from a shelf in the back and spill noisily into the awaiting drain pan on the floor.

Sam settled himself into the back corner, nestled behind one of the larger shelves and near his homemade alarm. It wasn't ideal, then again nothing about this situation was, but it would do for now. He didn't plan on staying long. He just needed a place to rest for a minute, get his thoughts together and decide what he needed to do next. Though that ended up being a little easier said than done. It was hard to think passed the hot ache of his calf muscle. He was pretty sure he'd walked a fair amount of miles in the past few hours; no easy feat for someone having to navigate an uneven road with minimum light and possible zombie attacks. Not to mention his stomach was asking about food and his arm still hurt from its previous abuse.

His eyes involuntarily ticked up to the tin can. He pulled his jacket closer around him and tried to settle farther back into the corner. A shiver overtook his lanky frame and it wasn't because he was cold. He was exhausted, aching, hungry and just flat out scared.

The world beyond the hardware store had somehow turned to rubble while he wasn't looking and now he was facing a horde of demonic-zombies all on his own. So yes, damn it! He was scared. He pulled his legs up closer to his chest and tucked his head as far down into the jacket collar as he could. His eyes never left the tin cup and that's where they stayed until his eyelids dropped of their own will fifteen minutes later.

Sam twitched as the sound of soft creaking filtered into his sub-consciousness. He rolled his head away from the sound, hoping it would go away and let him continue to sleep. It didn't however, and when the creaking suddenly turned into sharp, repeated clangs Sam bolted upright, fully conscious and aware of his situation.

As he suspected, the tin on the shelf was tipped over and the bolts spilled into the oil pan. Some mumbling followed the racket of his alarm. Sam crouched low along the ground, hidden by the shelf, and he strained to hear. Was that cursing? Whatever it was two metal clicks followed it and Sam froze immediately. He'd recognize the sound of a gun cocking anywhere. Apparently his biggest problem wasn't a zombie figuring out how to open a door. It was worrying about if the thing was going to put a bullet in him.

Sam felt his on heart rate jump up a notch. His hand went to the small of his back where his pistol was hidden and listened as the sounds of muted footsteps drew closer. He tried to calm himself and concentrate on his next move.

There were two of them. He could tell by their out of sync steps. The one in front was noisier, though not loud by any means, but Sam could tell he didn’t have the kind of practice that would render him undetectable to even a trained ear. The second one was more discreet and carried himself on lighter feet. The amount of upper level thought process it took to use stealth disturbed him. He didn’t think zombies had that capability, but then again he’d never had the privilege of running into one before.

The footsteps were nearly on top of him now. The element of surprise was about the only card he could play. The things already knew something was in here, but at least they didn’t know where. If he timed it right, he could catch the first one off guard and then deal with the second. He wished the clumsier one wasn’t in front. It would be ideal to take the more experienced one down on the surprise attack and then deal with the other. Then again...

The raised pistol of the first zombie appeared around the shelf first and Sam sprung into action. It was just like training, with Dad’s voice in the background instructing him through each step, except this time it wasn’t his brother he was practicing with.

Disarm

Like lightening Sam wrapped one hand around the barrel and then wrapped the other around the hand attached to the handle. In one sharp movement he jerked the weapon toward him, hearing a satisfying crack and responding yelp as the thing’s wrist made contact with the metal shelving.

Exploit

The action had the desired effect. The thing loosened its’ fingers from the gun out of shock and pain, giving Sam an opening to take the weapon for himself.

Incapacitate

Once the gun’s weight fell completely into his hand, Sam didn’t hesitate to angle the weapon up and swing. The butt of the .45 struck home against the side of the thing’s head. He was rewarded with a heavy thud and a yelp of pain followed. Someone else was yelling, but right now Sam was beyond listening.

Reassess

With one down, Sam switched the .45 to aim at the one still standing and quickly pulled his pistol free and pointed it to the downed injured one. It wasn’t until then that the haze of adrenaline lifted and Sam finally got a good look at the things he was fighting. He froze when he noticed the distinct lack of decayed flesh or dead eyes staring back at him. The panicked set of eyes staring into his was very much human.

“Whoa, boy!” the man held out his hand, the one not currently gripping the handle of his own gun, and presented his palm, fingers spread wide. “Easy now.”

Sam swallowed and readjusted the grip on the .45. The man in front of him was tall, taller than any man should have the right to be, with dark skin and a baritone voice. By all rights the man should have been menacing, but there was something in his voice, the smooth tone and the way the man seemed to shrink down when he spoke to Sam that made him appear kinder. A hard task for a man still holding a gun on him. He found himself relaxing under the gesture, but he didn’t lower his weapon. These two were humans, but they were still strangers and sometimes that was just as bad.

“There you go,” the deep voice sounded encouraging and Sam scowled. He wasn’t a spooked animal that needed to be calmed. It irritated him that the man also noticed Sam’s subtle muscle movement. As a return gesture Sam adjusted his grip to train directly over the man’s chest. He did not expect the man to grin in return.

“Alright, I get you. You’re the one in charge here.” This time the man lowered his gun, which only confused Sam further. It must have shown on his face, because the black man shook his head as if to answer. “We ain’t here to hurt you, kid.”

“Wish he could say the same,” the strained voice of the man on the floor spoke for the first time since he’d been disarmed. Sam carefully ticked his eyes over to the fallen man, making sure he still had one eye on the big guy. The injured man was a complete contrast to his partner. He was wiry looking and white with a heap of freckles. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t anywhere close to looking the black man in the eyes. Then again, there were few buildings that could see eye-to-eye with him.

The guy on the floor was hunched over, cradling his abused wrist and glaring daggers at Sam. “Freakin’ kid broke my wrist,” he spat. “So don’t give him that ‘we come in peace’ bullshit on my behalf.”

Sam tensed a little at the animosity coming off the smaller man. His partner didn’t seem bothered by the display. He snorted, “You see that?” The tall man indicated the dull shine of the silver trip wire reflecting off the minimal light filtering in through the shop’s window and then nodded to the two guns occupying each one of Sam’s hands. “Yeah. I think you might want to thank him for not putting a bullet in your ass.”

“Like Hell,” the little guy mumbled, but there was less heat to it.

Sam frowned at the exchange. He really hadn’t meant to hurt the guy, or he did, but that was only because he thought the man was an undead gunslinger. Given the situation he imagined the other man would re-act the same.

“Don’t worry about Devan,” Sam looked back at the tall man, “His pride took the most damage.”

Sam didn’t notice until now that the black man’s body was no long hunched in placation, but relaxed with his arms crossed loosely over his chest and gun shoved down into the front pocket of his jeans. He was also surprised to find his own posture had relaxed and to his horror he had at some point lowered his weapons. His distress was obvious and he jumped when the baritone voice spoke up again.

“We’re really not here to hurt you, kid. We were just out scouting for supplies. It’s not often we find a semi-intact building,” the taller man paused. Something like grief passed behind his eyes before it quickly disappeared. “Even less often for us to find humans.”

“Find ‘em all the time,” Devan grumbled and grunted as he awkwardly pushed himself off the floor. “’Got enough dead bodies to fill this town twice over.”

For the first time since entering the taller man looked disgruntle. The scowl on his face was directed to the smaller man and Sam almost felt bad for him. Devan didn’t appeared too fazed by it. He shrugged his shoulders, only showing remorse for his words in the way they stayed slumped. “’Didn’t mean anything by it. ‘Just the truth,” he mumbled.

The other man seemed to soften at the response, but other than that he gave no acknowledgement. “Name’s Kevin, by the way,” the tall man offered. Sam was glad it was just a verbal offer. While he was less willing now to put a bullet in the guy, he still didn’t feel comfortable enough to shake the man’s hand.

Sam nodded in return. An awkward silence drifted over the store. He glanced from one man to the other only to find them both looking expectantly back at him. He scrunched his brow in thought before it finally dawned on him. It was his turn to offer up his name. Sam opened his mouth, fully intent on giving it. He figured if nothing else the men deserved at least the courtesy of a name. Unfortunately, just like the few times before nothing came out but strangled air. He shut his mouth with a click. Looking back up at the taller man, Sam shook his head and sent him a look that implored him to understand. Kevin narrowed his eyes in thought and tilted his head slightly. Whatever he was thinking was cut off by his partner’s agitated reply.

“Come on, kid,” Devan griped impatiently. “We’ve already put ours on the table. Time to ante up or bow out.”

Sam opened his mouth, closed it and then glared. He was beginning to feel less sorry about the whole wrist breaking thing.

“Something wrong, kid?” Kevin asked.

Sam was glad to see at least one of the men was perceptive and patient enough to read between the lines. It was hard to express what the problem was with both hands preoccupied. He frowned when he concluded he’d have put one gun away in order to try to get his point across.

Deciding that the pistol would be the lesser loss of the two, he tucked it back behind his back, making sure to go slow since Devan was eyeing him as though he might pull out a third weapon, which was ridiculous. Once his hand was free he brought it up to his throat and tapped at it with his finger, then shook his head.

“What,” Devan snorted. “You’re not going to tell us how many words first?”

Sam frowned and answered the wiry man by raising one finger; the middle one. Kevin’s hearty chuckle drew his attention away from the chagrinned looking Devan and back to the darker man. The mirth on Kevin’s face slowly tampered off into something more sober and understanding.

“Something’s wrong with your voice,” it almost sounded like a question, but he didn’t wait for an answer before continuing on. “Well, we can’t keep calling you ‘kid.’ I imagine you don’t appreciate that too much.”

He didn’t, but he didn’t think the irritation of the nickname had showed.

“Doesn’t matter what his name is,” Devan added. “’Not like anyone in this convoy uses real names anyway.”

Kevin grinned, but made no reply to his bitter sounding partner’s comment. Instead, he touched his hand to his chin and rubbed it a few times while regarding Sam with a critical look. Suddenly Sam felt like a tiny bug under a lens and he tried not to squirm under the attention. After a moment the dark man finally spoke, “Gizmo.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up in tandem with Devan’s incredulous, “Whaaat?”

“The way he came out from behind that shelf and took you down, plus that scruffy mop of hair,” the tall man waved his hand toward Sam’s head causing Sam to roll his eyes upward to try and get a glimpse of the mess. “Reminds me of that thing off Gremlins.”

“I know what it is!” Devan snapped, sounding distinctly annoyed at the reminder of his spectacular fail. “Gizmo is the nice one,” he added, as if that explained everything.

Kevin just raised his eyebrow and folded his arms again, “Did we not already discuss your bullet-free ass?”

Devan scuffed and opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off as the sound of distant gun fire rent the air. Sam tensed and reflexively drew his gun. He hadn’t seen it, but Kevin’s weapon was back in his hand also. He was glancing out the store front, body discreetly pressed against the wall rather than exposed to the glass. Devan was still cradling his injured appendage, but for once he wasn’t scowling.

“Looks like someone else found a little fun,” Kevin paused and when another few moments went by in complete silence he frowned. “Time to go check on the herd.” Then he turned to address Sam, “You might want to come with us.”

Sam couldn’t do anything else besides nod. There weren’t many other options on the table, and while Sam couldn’t say tagging along with a bunch of strangers was the safest idea, it beat hanging back and facing an unknown number of zombies alone.

“’Think I can have that back now?” Devan was standing closer with his uninjured hand held open. Sam glanced down at the .45 the other man was indicating to and tightened his grip. He gave the man a once over noticing the way his damaged limb was swollen and the returned scowl on his face was pinched with lines of pain. He felt bad for the guy, he did, but that didn’t change the fact that out of the two he trusted this guy the least.

Sam shook his head. No.

Devan looked affronted by the answer and was about to argue when Kevin’s amused chuckle cut in. “That’s probably a good call, Gizmo,” Kevin pointed out. He ignored the indignant huff from his partner. “He’s a shit shot with his right hand. God only knows what he’ll do with the left.”

Sam couldn’t help the smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth. Enduring the goofy nickname was worth seeing the wiry man get worked up, and Kevin looked like he was having a good time doing it. Kevin was already opening the door, peering outside to gage their surroundings when Devan turned to Sam. “You better have my back then, kid.”

He didn’t wait for Sam to reply before he was following Kevin out the store front, and back into the littered streets. Sam stayed close as the three of them made their way down the main street. The town was lighter now, but there was still an oppressing gloom of dark clouds hanging over them. It looked like a town on the verge of a thunderstorm, but the air around them was dry and didn’t feel charged. He got the vague feeling it was a permanent fixture since neither of the older men looked bothered by it.

A little farther up the road Sam could just make out two vehicles, two Jeeps from the looks of it, sitting side by side. Both looked rather beat up, but they were whole with no noticeable missing parts. The closer they got Sam also noticed that neither vehicle was unattended. He could just make out two figures, three if the shadow moving on passenger side of the second vehicle was anything to go by.

Sam glanced up at Kevin to see if the man had also noticed this. The man was looking straight at the Jeeps, but if anything he looked relieved to see the figures there. When they were closer he could see that the first two figures were female. One was sitting on top of the hood, black hair in a messy braid and her posture more befitting of a male with the way she was hunched over and knees spread apart. The second looked more reserved with her light colored hair cropped short around her ears. She was hugging about as close to the vehicle as she could get without being inside it. She was busy glancing around the street with her gun held low. When she noticed their approach she turned wide eyes to them.

Kevin held his arms out to the side when as they arrived, “What’s with all the gun fire?”

“Boo thought she saw a Croat,” the woman resting on the hood smirked, indicating her head toward the other. “Rest in peace Mr. Whiskers.”

Boo colored red and looked distinctively ill, “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t mean to.”

“Impressive head shot though,” the woman added, not taking notice to the way her companion turned from red to green like some kind of odd Christmas decoration. Sam frowned, feeling sorry for the upset girl, before his mind backtracked and his expression turned thoughtful. What was a Croat?

“Place is a bust anyway,” the dark haired woman sighed and pushed herself off the vehicle. She didn’t seem bothered by the dirt that collected on her cargo pants from the hood. She paused, eyeing Kevin with a questioning eyebrow. “That is, unless you and Vanny found something?”

Devan grumbled something under his breath about his name, but Sam couldn’t make it out.

“Just the one thing, but it’s really more of a who than a what?” the woman raised both her brows at Kevin and her eyes went completely round when the taller man stepped aside so Sam came into view.

The sudden silence was unsettling. He shifted his eyes from one surprised face to the next. Even the third guy, the shadow figure Sam had thought he saw before, was looking up through the windshield of the second Jeep. His striking blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and a thick crack ran through the left lens of his glasses. It made the sharp color of his bottle green eyes not as piercing as he felt they could be. Sam had to physically keep himself from stepping back.

The dark haired woman was the first to break the silence. “Well damn,” she proclaimed with her hands firmly on her hips. “I thought we were supposed to be finding supply not a reason for more supplies.”

Sam was taken aback by the blatant negative comment, but the smile on the woman’s face was kind and in direct contrasted to her crassness. She stepped a little close and Sam tensed.

“Better not get too close,” Devan grumbled. “You’re likely to lose a wrist.”

The woman frowned, looking annoyed that she’d been interrupted from studying their newest party member. She gave Devan an expression that said as much, one that changed to inquisitive when she noticed his swollen appendage. “And what happened to you?” She deadpanned.

“What happened?” Devan repeated, voice pitching up resentfully. “I’ll tell you what happened—”

“Gizmo laid ‘em out,” Kevin stated, hand clapping over Sam’s shoulder in a way that made him jump. The taller man sounded oddly proud and Sam found he didn’t mind the contact as much as he thought he would. “Broke his wrist, took his gun and then dropped him on his ass.”

Sam suspected if smoke could really come out of a person’s ears, then Devan would be having that problem right now. The woman eyed him for a moment longer and then burst into laughter. The sound startled Sam. It wasn’t unpleasant, but he hadn’t expected the joyful laugh from a woman who wore such a rough exterior.

“No shit?” She grinned and looked to Kevin for visual confirmation and then back at Sam. “I like this kid already. You’re name’s Gizmo then?”

Devan declared they were all ‘asses’ and stomped off toward the first Jeep. Sam watched him go for a moment and then swung his attention back to the older lady. Sam grimaced in response to the nickname, hoping that would be answer enough.

“We don’t really know,” Kevin offered. “He can’t talk. It was just something I came up with so we wouldn’t have to keep calling him kid.”

“Hmm,” the woman mulled that over.

Sam was gratefully that her face only showed thoughtfulness and not pity. He didn’t think he could take that right now. What he really wanted was answers and his family. Both of which he couldn’t ask for and didn’t know how to expression without paper and pen. From the looks of the rag-tag bunch, he didn’t think any of them were concealing stationary, so it was a waste of time and energy to try and communicate.

“Too long,” the older woman concluded after a moment. “We’ll call you Mo instead.” It wasn’t a question of opinion, and Sam barely had a second to ponder how this woman thought going from a man-eating furball to one of the three stooges was better before she continued. “So, welcome to Convoy #2, Mo. I’m Florence, but you can call me Flo.”

“Over there,” Flo paused to point at the person behind the wheel of the second vehicle. “That’s Si, and over here is Boo,” she pointed to the girl Sam had seen hanging close to the vehicle earlier. She was still standing there, but now she was standing stock still, mouth slightly opened and staring unnervingly wide eyes at Sam.

Sam glanced over his shoulder to make sure nothing was standing behind him. The street was empty of all but debris. He turned back to find Flo staring at him critically before turning back to the girl.

“Boo,” Flo barked, causing Boo to jump at the loud tone. She blinked a few times and met Flo’s questioning gaze. Whatever trance she’d been caught in was gone now. “You act like you’ve seen a ghost, girl.”

Boo quickly shook her head. She glanced back at Sam. Again she paused to stare and then shook her head repeatedly again. “N-no, we should just, we need to head back,” Boo managed to spit out before hurriedly climbing into the passenger Jeep. Her rushed movement caused her elbow to hit the first aid kit sitting on the armrest that Devan had been sifting through. It fell nosily into the backseat floorboard, causing Devan to curse loudly.

Boo was still in the process of apologizing profusely when Flo turned back at Sam. “Boo’s a little... skittish. Don’t mind her. But she is right,” This time the dark haired woman addressed Kevin. “We’ve been gone long enough. We need to head back before Convoy #1 feels the need to send out a rescue party.”

Sam wrinkled his brow, wondering what was wrong with Convoy #1. Kevin didn’t appear bothered by the exaggerated maliciousness and just chuckled. He raised and clapped the hand already lying on Sam’s shoulder. “Mo can ride with me and Si.”

“Keep close. No losing anyone today. I want to end this trip on a high note.” She sent a wink to Sam and headed to the driver’s side of the Jeep without waiting for an answer.

The hand on Sam’s shoulder steered him toward the other vehicle. Kevin waited for him to climb into the back seat before he opened the front passenger side and jumped in. Sam fumbled over a few crates as he tried to find a place on the floor to put his feet. He banged his leg against one, knocking the lid askew and exposing several boxes of bullets and packs of batteries. Obviously supplies from another town, which killed Sam’s hope that this gloom and doom town was the only one suffering from a zombie infestation. He quickly re-secured the lid and pulled his feet up onto the seat.

“Mo, this is Si,” Kevin said, indicating to the blonde driver. “He’s our resident supply run coordinator and tech guru.”

“Just ‘cause I’m the only one who can set the clock in the Jeep doesn’t make me a guru.” Cracked glasses turned in their seat and offered a hand to Sam, who accepted it after a moment. “Name’s actually Bill. It’s short for William, but Si is what everyone calls me.”

“It’s short for Cyclops,” Kevin added.

“Yep,” Si shifted the Jeep into drive as the tail lights of the first vehicle flipped on. “Welcome to Convoy #2, home of the identity crisis.”

Kevin bumped his fist against Si’s shoulder. “Just drive, man. Soon as we get back to base we’ll get you some paper and you can tell us your real name, Mo.”

Sam nodded, though it didn’t seem like anyone was watching for it. Kevin was busy pulling what looked like a mop from the glove compartment. He gave it a once over and then spoke without looking up. “How far out are we?”

Si pushed his glasses up his nose and carefully scanned his eyes around passing scenery. He mumbled something Sam couldn’t hear before saying, “Barring no complications we should make it back within five hours and twenty-three minutes... give or take.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at the exact calculation. Si didn’t so much as bat an eye while giving the answer. There was no hesitation in the answer and something told Sam this guy was capable of doing more than setting a clock. The mumbled, “guru,” from Kevin was just more proof.

“And Mo,” Sam glanced at the green eyes looking back at him through the rearview mirror. “Just because they get your real name, don’t expect anyone to use it.”

Sam returned the smile aimed at him, but let it slip when both men focused back on the road ahead. He slumped back against the seat. He was used to being called things beside his real name. Sam glanced out the window, watching the ruined town bleed away into haggard vegetation. He would give anything to hear his brother call him Sammy again.

Chapter Text

It took exactly five hours and forty-three minutes to make it back to camp. Sam was impressed, but altogether not surprise, to find that the journey would have been spot on with Si’s calculation had it not been for a downed tree blocking the road. It had taken twenty minutes and Si’s formula for force times distance before a couple of crowbars managed to roll the tree far enough off the road to qualify as passable.

The sun was already sinking again by the time they pulled up to the makeshift metal-mesh gate. The gate didn’t look like it could hold up against a strong gust of wind, certainly not a zombie attack. Two men were standing on the inside, each holding a torch and position at each end of the gate.

Upon seeing the two Jeeps approach both men shifted. Most people would have seen it for a nervous gesture or nothing at all, but Sam could just make out the guns each man had strapped to the side of their waste. Their subtle moment wasn’t subconscious. They were readying for a fight.

“Murray, unless this is a mutiny I suggest you put those away,” Flo was standing up in the driver’s seat, leaning over the windshield and pouring confidence from each word. “Otherwise, good luck.”

Both men exchanged a look before drawing their torches a bit closer to the gate. In their effort to see who was speaking, they illuminated their own faces. Sam was a bit surprised to see the two faces looking up at them were identical. They were both sporting short red hair and light blue eyes. The only difference between the two was the small spot of a goatee on the first were as the second’s face was completely hairless.

“Florence,” one said.

“Jesus, Florence,” the other with the goatee said. He pulled down his torch but the frown on his face was still visible. “They were about to send a search party out for you.”

From the sneer that appeared on Flo’s face, Sam could only assume that said search party would have come from the dreaded Convoy #1.

“I’ll just bet they were,” the distaste in Flo’s voice was evident. She shifted back down in her seat and peered expectantly through the windshield. “So, you pair of matching dicks gonna let us in or what?”

Baby Face looked taken back by the crude question, but Goatee just smirked and unlatched the gate. “Just don’t try to cheer up the boss with that good mood you’re in. He’s already on one tonight.”

An unreadable look passed over Flo’s face as she pulled the Jeep through the gate, “Sorry, can’t make that promise tonight.”

A befuddled look passed over Goatee’s face, like the sudden placid answer from the dark haired women threw him more than the crass comment earlier had. Si’s Jeep slowly pulled in along with the first. Kevin gave a brief wave to the two gatekeepers. “Boys,” he addressed.

The two held they hands up to wave but immediately stopped on seeing Sam in the back seat. Baby Face’s eyes grew wide, much like Boo’s had, and he leaned over to whisper something hurriedly in his twin’s ear. When he pulled back, Goatee’s eyebrows were pulled together in thought as he looked back up at Sam. Sam slid a little farther down in his seat until he was sure not even a strand of his floppy hair could be seen through the back windows of the Jeep.

It was barely 1⁄4 of a mile up the road before what Sam figured was the Base came into view. It wasn’t what Sam had expected. The word ‘Base’ to Sam was usually associated with ‘camp.’ He had expected to find an encampment of tents, maybe a low fire burning in the middle to heat up food, but not high enough to draw attention. Maybe that was a little too cub scout for their situation, but what he hadn’t expected to see was the wooden house. The structure wasn’t elaborate by any means. In fact it was small in its’ own right; much too small to house all the people in the convoy plus the few people he could see milling around outside. Judging by the soft glow coming through the sparse windows he was willing to bet there were more people already inside.

As the two vehicles came to a stop, the people around the house began to stop and move in their direction. Thankfully most of them seemed preoccupied with greeting the other convoy members; asking questions about supplies and offering assistance. There was also a large amount of concern over how long the team had been gone and how far they’d gone out. It made Sam curious as to how bad the world really was that a five hour trip was a cause for concern.

“Out you go, Mo,” Kevin said when the rear door was pulled open. Sam reluctantly slid from the seat and landed on solid ground. The sudden quiet and then hush of whispers made his face turn hot. He wished Kevin would let him crawl back into the Jeep, but despite the expression of understanding on the tall, black man’s face he knew the man wouldn’t let him do that.

“Sorry, but we don’t get survivors every day. Especially not kids.” Kevin said, placing a hand on Sam’s back to keep him from making a jump for the back seat. “Just ignore them.”

That was easier said than done. As much as he would like to ignore them, something Kevin said made him take a glance around. Not every face that stared back at him was old, but there wasn’t much youth in them either. If he had to wager a guess, he would say everyone in the area was either mid-30s or up. Even the two gatemen looked to be in their upper 30s. Not one single teenager or child was in sight. He wondered if that was weird, but didn’t get much time to dwell on it.

“Alright, let’s see if we can’t get you settled somewhere for tonight,” Kevin gently nudged Sam forward, toward an unknown destination. The crowd didn’t seem to back off when he did so, but Kevin just kept on nudging. “’Not any room in the house, but I’m sure there’s some room in the one of the tents in the back. ‘Might have to share a spot with Vanny though.” A smile came to the taller man’s face, “I’m sure he would love that, but if not no one would fault you for it. Vanny can’t keep a tent-mate to save his life. Though I’m sure that’s the way he prefers it. At any rate, we probably have a spare tent in the supply shed,” Kevin patted his back for reassurance and gave him another nudge, one that was brought up short by Flo stepping in their path.

“Hold up there, Kev,” Flo stood in front of them, arms crossed and posture nothing like the woman Sam remembered seeing on top of the Jeep hood not six hours ago. There was also an edgy quality to her, cautious, like she was waiting for something to happen. There was also no spark of hidden kindness Sam had noticed before when she spoke. “We’re taking him to see the boss man. Now.”

“What’s the hurry, Flo? It’s late and the kid will still be here tomorrow. Might as well let both of them get their rest,” Kevin tried to reason, but was met with an undeterred negative head shake.

“Sorry, Kevin. It has to be now,” and she did look genuinely sorry, but not for having to inconvenience anyone. There was something else there, something sad that bit into her harsh words and made her sound regretful. “I’ll take him if you want to turn in.”

Kevin immediately declined, a hint of suspicion in his tone, “No, I’ll go with you.”

“Suit yourself,” She shrugged and then pointed off to the side door on the house. “I don’t want to make an entrance.”

Sam didn’t think they could make a bigger entrance than they already had. Everyone had completely stopped unloading the Jeeps and was watching the show. Most of them looked confused or curious, but a few looked frightened. He managed to catch a glimpse of Boo still sitting in the vehicle with Devan. Both of them watched with grim eyes as he was ushered toward the house.

Suddenly, Sam didn’t feel so safe anymore. With all the different sets of eyes watching his every move, especially the ones that held fear and concern, he suddenly wished he had stayed back at the hardware store. Something wasn’t right here and damn it all for him not realizing it earlier.

Sam dug his heels into the ground in an effort to keep the wooden house at a distance. It didn’t help much. The only thing it earned him was Flo’s grip on his arm increasing and a confused look from Kevin, who eventually just shoved him forward again with his massive upper body strength. He wanted to ask them to let him go, to just forget they met and let him walk back out the feeble mesh fence they’d just drove through. But he couldn’t, because when he opened his mouth nothing came out.

The wooden door banged open as he was made to climb the steps. Sam didn’t get much time to take in the interior decoration, but mostly it looked the same as the outside: wooden. There was a table sitting off to the side of the room. A single, male figure was seated at it, but he quickly jumped to his feet when the door banged open.

Flo didn’t give him any time to recover, “Go get the boss. Tell him to meet us down in the basement. He’ll know what that means.”

“But he—”

“Now, Jacob,” Flo barked, and waited for the man to scurry from the room to do his task. Flo and Kevin had to literally drag Sam down the basement stairs. Between the suspicious looks, sudden tension and this guy they kept referring to as ‘the boss,’ Sam was no longer willing to cooperate. It was easy enough to dislodge Flo’s grip. Balling his hands into fists, he quickly brought them up and slammed them simultaneously on both sides of Flo’s wrist, hitting the median nerve. The result was a stun to the thenar muscles and a release of his arm.

Kevin was altogether a different story. After seeing his brief attack on Flo, Kevin had time to clamp down on Sam’s shoulder. He knew it would happen, but still, if he could turn and get to the man’s forearm.... He never got to finish his thought. Something quick and solid struck his upper thigh, temporarily cutting off the main artery. His legs folded, but he didn’t hit the floor. Kevin’s solid arm looped around his waist in time to catch him.

Sam felt every step into the basement as his dragging feet thumped against each descending step. He struggled, but the bigger man managed to pin his arms against his side. It was frightening to realize just how easily this guy could have taken him out back in the hardware store. But he hadn’t. So what had changed between then and now?

“Did he hurt you?” Kevin’s deep voice rumbled up through his chest and into Sam pressed at his side.

He heard a replying snort, “Save your concerns. Besides, I don’t think he was trying to hurt me.”

“Okay,” Kevin accepted. Sam tried to get his feet back under him, but the stun-attack had been dead on and his legs still felt like jell-o. His breath hitched as Kevin readjusted his grip. “So, besides the little escape attempt, you don’t think he’s dangerous?” Flo’s answer was a tight frown. “Then why are we taking the kid to the basement? You know what this place is for.”

“Look,” Flo’s stern voice was back in full force. “I don’t like this anymore than you, believe me, but I can’t ignore what Boo saw. And judging by half of the other’s reactions outside, I’d say they noticed too. We can’t take the chance that this boy isn’t human.”

When they hit the bottom of the stair Sam felt his stomach drop down another step. They didn’t think he was human? But how was that possible? He hadn’t done anything to suggest any supernatural behavior and he certainly hadn’t said anything. He fought to get his legs to cooperate, but they were limp as wet noodles. The only reward he got for his effort was the boa constrictor of an arm tightening around him.

“What Boo saw?” Kevin paused at the bottom of the stairs. His voice sounded confused with a slight hint of irritation. “I want to know what’s going on here before I sentence an innocent child to this.”

There was a tense moment of silence. It felt potent. Sam didn’t even bother trying to struggle with his numb legs. The tense silence was deafening and whatever Kevin was alluding to was sending a cold spike of fear up his spine. It wouldn’t be good. He didn’t even have to see the grim looks on their faces to know that.

“Help me get him into the chair,” Flo’s voice was quieter now. “Then I’ll tell you.”

“No,” Kevin’s hold pulled Sam closer to his chest, but the intent behind it felt different. It almost felt protective. “Tell me first.”

“Damn it, Kev,” Flo looked angry, but one look at the way Kevin was now clutching to Sam had her biting into her bottom lip hard. She glanced away for a moment before looking back, hands placed firmly on her hips and stern façade back in place. “I know how you feel, believe me I do, but we need to find out if he’s dangerous. I won’t risk this camp’s safety.” She paused and looked at Sam for the first time since they dragged him into the house. There was fire there, but also sadden underneath. She looked away after only a few seconds, “That stun isn’t going to hold for much longer. He needs to go in the chair before we have to hurt him to get him there.”

“’Gonna be a hellvalot more hurt if we put him there,” Kevin said, but the tone wasn’t rebellious, but rather defeated in nature. It scared Sam, and he knew he’d lost the one person on his side when Kevin started forward and carried him over to the middle of the room.

The chair they’d both referred to was there, waiting for him. He only got a brief glimpse of it before he was whirled around and dumped into it. It was wooden and creaked when his weigh shifted. It appeared to be a normal chair and not something that should cause fear in anyone, but he understood the implications clearly when the ropes came out.

Both Flo and Kevin worked simultaneously to tie down his forearms to the chair’s armrests so he couldn’t use his only current working limbs to fight. Sam hissed when Flo pulled the ropes tight around his bruised forearm. He had all but forgotten about the damage the zombie had inflicted until now. Flo glanced up. She looked regretful, but made no move to loosen the knot.

They made short work of fastening a rope around his torso and one around each of his legs. When they were done they both stood to their full heights and glanced down at him. Sam jerked uselessly at the thick coils. He could hear his breath puffing out at a faster than normal rate and his heart racing to catch up. The question ‘Why?’ kept running through his head and the only thing he could come up with was a thought form that sounded suspiciously like his brother: “That’s what you get for getting into a car with strangers.”

Sam felt desperate at this point. He was human, he was, and he wanted to tell them but he couldn’t, because something was wrong with his stupid voice box.

The desperation must have shown on his face, because Kevin’s jaw clinched tight suddenly. He turned his anger fueled eyes to Flo, “He’s in the chair, now talk.”

Flo’s jaw was also strung tight, but she loosened it enough to push three words out, “Boo recognized him.”

“That’s improbable,” Kevin immediately denied and then rethought his answer. “And even if she did, she should be celebrating for the life of another survivor, a child, just as we all should be.”

“I didn’t say she knew him. She recognized him,” Flo restated. She leaned a little closer to Kevin, giving him a minute to let that piece of information sink in before continuing, “From the board. She recognized his picture from the board.”

Sam shifted his eyes back and forth between the two as the silence stretched out. Flo’s face was set in stone resolution, and Sam didn’t like the way Kevin’s fiery determination was beginning to slip.

“Maybe he—,” Kevin started but was cut off.

“No one on that board is alive, Kev,” Flo’s tone softened. “That’s why it’s there. And especially not this kid.”

Kevin opened his mouth to reply, but Flo beat him to the punch, “Take a good look at him, Kev.”

Sam met Kevin’s angst filled eyes. He tried to project as much of his thoughts through the contact as possible, but he was sure all that pushed through was his fear. It was hard to think passed it. After all, he knew first hand what hunters do with supernatural scum.

Flo continued, pulling Kevin’s attention back toward her, “That’s the exact same face on the picture and that kid died nineteen years ago.”

Something about the statement struck a cord with Kevin. His eyes became suddenly wide. There was a horror brewing in them that Sam didn’t like at all.

“Nineteen years...” Kevin trailed off and then continued in a louder incredulous voice. “You mean the Boss’ kid brother?” Again, Flo’s stony silence was an affirmative. “Jesus, Flo! You tellin’ me we brought something back here that’s stealing the boss’s kid brother’s face and we just woke him up in the middle of the night to come down here to witness it! What are you trying to accomplish here, Flo?”

Sam felt the air rush out of his lunges. Kid brother... were they talking about Dean? Sam pulled harder on the ropes holding him down. Dean was here?

“I just want him to know. He deserves to know,” She stated slowly, tone matching the taller man’s.

“That’s bullshit.” Kevin spit back, tone heated. “All this is going to do is hurt him. Is that what you wanted? Is this some kind of retaliation for all your pissy little fights?”

“To Hell with you, you know I wouldn’t do that,” Flo growled, sounding well and truly pissed. “If the tables were turned I’d want to know.”

“No, no you wouldn’t. Not if it was just some damn Shifter coming to tug at your heartstrings for the sheer fact that it’s bored. No one deserves that kind of hurt shoved back in their face.” Kevin’s tone tapered off, his voice less rage filled and more understanding. But as he continued it was clear the fire was still there. “We should have tested him first, and if it was supernatural we should have disposed of it. But you know what’s going to happen now, right?” Kevin paused, giving the illusion that he was waiting for an answer. “Boss is going to come down those stairs, take one good look at him and then tear a stripe out of him. He won’t stop to ask questions. And what if this is all a big mistake and the kid is human. What then? We’ve already traumatized the Hell out of him. You want to add battery to that list too.”

“I won’t let that happened,” Flo answered back through clinched teeth.

Before Kevin could answer, the door to the basement creaked open and heavy booted footsteps made their way down. “Brace yourself for this,” Sam heard Kevin mumble, but he could barely concentrate on anything but the person climbing down the stairs. The words from Kevin and Flo’s conversation were buzzing inside his head; nineteen years, kid brother, dead. The implications of them made him sick to his stomach, but the thought of seeing Dean at the bottom of the staircase made him push everything else to the side.

The man that appeared at the bottom of the steps was not what Sam had expected at all. He was tall, taller than he remembered Dean being and broad in his chest and shoulders. His face was also filled out, more angular and covered in a few days worth of stubble and a head of spikey, dirty blonde hair to match it. The forest green eyes were so familiar it hurt. After all, Sam had spent many a day hunting through his coloring box for a shade that even came close.

This was a different Dean than Sam remembered, but Sam would know his brother anywhere. Even with nineteen extra years weighing him down and more ghosts behind his eyes than he could count. Sam felt a sudden spike of pain jolt through his chest. Maybe he knew for a while now, maybe ever since he found the desk calendar in the destroyed motel, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Now it seemed he didn’t have much of a choice. Sometime between pulling up to the warehouse in Bay City and waking up among the rubble of its remains, the world had left him behind. Dean had grown up without him.

“You two should have been back a day ago,” Dean growled, his voice sounding like a combination of sleep and gravel. “There better be a damn good reason....” Dean trailed off, his hard green eye slipping down to rest on Sam for the first time since entering the room. Nothing happened for a moment. The expression on Dean’s face was perfectly blank as Sam stared back at him.

The air in the room was suddenly hard to breath, like the mere presence of his older brother was sucking all the air out. An annoying, hot prickling sensation sparked up behind his eyes. Sam didn’t want to cry, but he had never been happier to see anyone more than he was to see his larger than life brother right now. Sam wanted to say something, anything, but when he opened his mouth his words failed him and this time it had nothing to do with his inability to speak.

Whatever trance Dean had been in seemed to break the minute Sam opened his mouth. In the span of a second, his brother’s face had gone from blank to rage. Sam was shocked at the dark presence Dean had morphed into before his eyes. He had never seen his brother look like he did now and quite frankly it scared him.

In the next second Dean launched himself forward. What small amount of air Sam had managed to gather in his lunges stuttered to a halt as his brother came at him with what could only be described as malicious intent. At the last second Kevin darted forward. He and Dean collided with a sickening thud of flesh hitting flesh. Dean shoved violently at Kevin, the tall man refused to budge. The two men were matched for strengthen, neither one of them able to gain ground on the other. Finally Dean shoved back, stepping only a few inches back from the black man.

“Out of the way, Kevin,” Dean all but snarled.

“Not until you hear what I have to say.”

“This does not concern you,” Dean made a move to step around, but Kevin reached out, fisting a hand full of Dean’s shirt. It left him open for a right hook from Dean. It was a glancing blow, enough to make him stumble, but not enough to lose his grip.

“I’m the one who found him, so this does concern me,” Kevin said, shoving Dean back and releasing him. He ran the back of his hand over his cheekbone and thankfully it came away blood-free.

“You brought this thing here?” the muscle in Dean’s jaw jumped, nostrils flaring spectacularly. He closed his eyes for a moment, a sign of collecting composure, but when he reopened them he didn’t look even the slightest bit calm. “Good.”

A look of concerned confusion crossed Kevin’s face, “Good?”

“Good,” Dean repeated. Kevin’s shoulders tensed as Dean stepped over to the side and jerked a stainless steel cart away from the wall. The wheels protested against the rust and squeaked as it was pulled from the shadows. Sam hadn’t noticed it until now since the small amount of candle light dotting the room didn’t extended far past the center area, but now that he did he wished he hadn’t.

Dean picked up one of the assortments of knives lying on the top shelf of the cart. Even in the low lighting Sam could make out the wicked edge of each tooth the knife bore. Dean turned the blade one way and then the other before turning it toward Sam. He never took his eyes off Sam as he spoke, “I’m going to make an example of this one and then you can take it back to where you found it and leave it for its little friends to find.”

Sam’s chest hitched at the cruel words. His brother had never been kind to anything supernatural. He wouldn’t be a very good hunter if he was, but he had never heard so much hatred in his brother’s voice. Dean truly wanted to rip him apart and leave as little left as possible. He tried not to let the words hurt him, pretend they were for the supernatural creature Dean thought him to be, but it was hard. Especially when his brother’s penetrating eyes cut through him with more intensity than the knife he was wielding.

“We haven’t tested him yet,” Flo spoke for the first time since Dean entered the room. Her face gave away nothing, but her body was tense from the high emotions in the room. “We don’t know what he is.”

“I don’t give a damn what he is,” Dean stepped closer to Flo, leaving the cart and the wicked tools on it behind. “But what it’s about to be is dead.”

“Not without testing him first,” Kevin stated, the heat coming back into his voice. “If this turns out to be some innocent child—”

“My brother is dead!” Dean roared, suddenly across the room and up in Kevin’s face. To his credit, Kevin didn’t even flinch. When Dean continued his voice was quicker but no less deadly, “Sam is dead and this thing is no more innocent than the thing that killed him.”

Sam stilled at Dean’s words. The raw emotion in his brother’s voice was heartbreaking. Dean really thought he was dead and the thing that sat tied to the chair was nothing more than some supernatural bastard come to rub salt into his wounds. He couldn’t say he blamed him. That day in the warehouse, when the demigod’s touch had numbed him to the core, he thought he was dead too. Apparently they were both wrong, but he didn’t know how to make his brother see that without his limbs to gesture or a voice to speak.

“But you don’t know that,” Kevin said, using his voice and hand to annunciate each word.

“I was there,” Dean was quick to reply.

“And how much does that mean when it comes to these types of things? You’re the one who taught me that you can’t always trust what you see,” Dean didn’t look too thrilled to have his own advice thrown back at him. His grip readjusted on the knife’s hilt, but he didn’t look as likely to try and charge Kevin like a raging bull. Kevin was spurred on by the subtle change. “Best you be damn sure than to have one more thing on your shoulders. Take my word on that.”

Dean stood still for a moment, only letting his eyes move in a fashion that told Sam he was mulling over the taller man’s words. The angry lines across his face never eased, in fact, they deepened for a second as he completely focused back on Kevin. Seeing reason during a fit of anger was sometimes worse.

“Move,” Dean finally said.

“Dean—,” Kevin started, but was immediately cut off.

“You want him tested,” Dean interrupted, eyeing the man critically for an answer. When Kevin just tightened his jaw Dean took it an affirmative. “Then move.”

After a moment, Kevin relinquished his position and moved to the side, but only just out of arms reach. The path to Sam was unhindered now. There was nothing left buffering him from Dean’s rage.

Part of Sam was okay with that. The need for Dean to see that the kid sitting in the chair was his kid brother was insurmountable. After everything he’d been through over the last day or so, he needed something familiar; he needed his brother, and if Dean needed to put him through the wringer to figure that out, then so be it. The other part of him, the part that apparently controlled his throat muscle and had him convulsively swallowing the sudden lump in his throat, was terrified. The cruel smile on his brother face coupled with the sharp- edged blade didn’t paint a picture of good things to come.

Dean’s steps were measured and thud loudly against the wooden floor of the basement. When he was only inches away from Sam he twirled the blade in his hand and watched the candle light mirror off the silver. He twirled it again and then once more. Sam watched its lazy circles, taking in every muscle movement in his brother’s hand.

“You could save me a lot of time and you a lot of pain if you just tell me what you are now,” Dean commented idly as if he wasn’t making a death threat. He didn’t look up from his weapon as he continued, “I’ll even make it quick.”

It was Dean’s last ditch effort to get out of this. The quicker this was over, then the quicker he could wash his hands of it and shove the hurt back down until it started to fester all over again. It was what Dean did instead of dealing with his emotions. Normally he would overlook it, let his brother deal in whatever way was necessary, but not this time. This was too important and Sam may be scared, but he was still a Winchester. He could be just as stubborn as the rest of them.

Sam gave the only reply he could. He gave his head a quick defiant shake. The movement of the knife stilled and without moving his head Dean’s eyes shot to Sam. The look was glowering and hooded under a narrowed stare. Sam had to mentally convince himself not to squirm and look away.

“Fine,” Dean growled. “We’ll see how long it takes you to change your mind.”

“He can’t talk,” Flo spoke from somewhere behind Sam. Again, Dean shifted nothing but his eyes. His look was hostile and expectant. Sam couldn’t see her but she sounded unfazed as always. “He hasn’t spoken a word since we found him.”

Dean soaked that information in and then looked back at Sam. Stepping forward again he twirled the knife and then paused. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The movement was quicker and a hiss of pain slipped out when his brother clamped his arm unknowingly around his already injured arm. If the older hunter noticed, he didn’t care. Dean pulled tight at Sam’s jacket sleeve and slit it up the middle, revealing the unmarred flesh of his upper arm. Sam had already gotten a good look at the knife and could tell it was silver, so it didn’t surprise him when his brother pressed the edge to his skin.

He clenched his teeth when the blade bit into his skin. Dean slowly dragged it over his arm, letting Sam feel the catch and pull of each tooth before the knife ripped it open. A quick slice would have been sufficient enough to determine he wasn’t a shifter or anyone of the many supernatural creatures that detested silver. The slow pace was deliberate and meant to cause pain.

After a moment, when it became evident that Sam wasn’t reacting to the metal, Dean sneered and dug the blade a little deeper before pulling around. Sam let out a shaky breath and tried to concentrate on something other than the blood he could feel running down his arm.

“Not a shifter then,” Kevin commented from the side. Dean ignored him in favor of returning to his cart and pulling a rag loose from the bottom tier. He ran the cloth over the blade’s edge, leaving a red stain behind, and placed the instrument back on the top.

Dean’s hand hovered over the various tools. “A shifter isn’t the only thing that can steal someone’s face,” Sam watched his brother run his finger across blade of a copper colored knife. He plunked it from the cart and turned to Kevin. His voice dropped into a low gravelly tone, “I’m not done yet.” And true to his word, that was only the beginning.

Sam knew the first knife wouldn’t be the end of it. Dean wasn’t stupid. Both of them were trained to get the facts, to rule out everything until there was just one answer. A shifter was just the tip of the iceberg. The copper blade cut across his arm just above the last slice and the gold plated blade just above that. His upper arm was a mess of bloody skin and screaming nerves. He could hear the blood dripping from his elbow and hitting the small puddle growing behind the chair.

The tests didn’t end there. Sam knew of a lot of weaknesses, having read everything scribbled between the lines and along the spine of his Dad’s journal and some he’d picked up from the books in Uncle Bobby’s library. There were several, but as the first hour passed into the second and Dean showed no sign of slowing, he realized his brother had picked up quite a few more over the years in Sam’s absence.

Sam’s only saving grace was that not all of them were brutal. Some consisted of simply pressing a certain herb against his skin or plucking a hair free to see what color it burned. Not all were like that, but Dean made sure that the ones he could inflict pain with, he did.

He wasn’t use to seeing this side of his brother, and especially not when it came to him. At the worst of times Dean could be a cocky asshole, but blatantly cruel was never something he would have labeled his brother with. It made him hurt in ways that had nothing to do with the physical pain. What had happened over those nineteen years to turn Dean into the person before him?

Sam lost count once they rounded into the third hour. By then he was exhausted. The skin on his injured arm itched from the dried blood, and the strain from the irregular pain left his chest heaving slightly and sweat, dried and damp, clinging to him like a second skin. Droplets of liquid dripped from his bangs every so often and he had long since stopped trying to figure out if it was perspiration or holy water.

It was around that time, when the holy water was used, that Sam stopped trying to hold his head up. He was tired, without question, but it was more a move of self-preservation than anything else. The endless tests were hard, but watching his brother for the past three hours cut, curse and taunt him was becoming unbearable.

It wasn’t just Sam that this was wearing on. Dean was beginning to falter as well. He could tell in the way Dean’s actions became more frantic and less thought out. He knew his brother was running out of options when the holy water had come out. Demonic possession in the case of Dean’s nineteen years deceased brother was highly unlikely. It all came to a dramatic end when Dean drew out a bag of salt from the last tier of the cart. He all but ripped the container open, spilling out a line of salt all the way over to Sam’s chair.

Dean fisted a hand full of the salt and dropped the bag to the floor without another thought. “What the hell are you?” Dean growled as he gripped a hold of Sam’s chin and jerked it up. Sam was surprised by the sudden rough handling. A combination of the surprise and his senses dulled by pain, Sam wasn’t able to react in time to keep his brother from forcing the hand full of salt into his mouth.

He tried to spit it back out, but his brother’s hand stayed clamped over his mouth. He vaguely noticed the tremors running through Dean’s hand as his tongue was assaulted with the over powering bitter taste. He shook his head as the strength of the salt granules began to burn his tongue. Not in a demonic way, but a spice overload way.

His mouth automatically started to water in order to dilute the salt, but it was a lost cause. There was too much in his mouth and it was either going to have to go in or out. With Dean’s hand in the way, that only left one option.

Sam nearly gagged trying to swallow down the bitter lump. He coughed the best he could with his brother’s hand hindering him. In the end he managed to force the salt down his burning throat. Even though the cause was gone, Sam’s tongue still felt like it had been stuck with a hot poker.

Dean dropped his hand and took a step back. Sam let his head drop down to his chest and inhaled a deep couple of breaths through his mouth. The rush of air did nothing to sooth his abused tongue and fiery throat, but at least with his tongue not trapped between his teeth it didn’t feel like the muscle was trying to tear itself from its own mouth.

When his breath was a bit more under control, Sam blinked his eyes up at the older hunter. From the blurry vision, he belatedly realized there were tears running from his eyes. A few blinks and Sam bought his brother into view. He hadn’t looked at the older man for the past hour, so it was a little surprising to see the change. Dean didn’t look much better than he did. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, skin sweat-peppered and exhaustion weighing down his facial features and shoulders. All and all, Dean looked like he’d been in the chair himself, minus the dried blood.

Dean took a step back, scattering the pile of salt leaking from the discarded bag. The dimly lit room came into view through Sam’s peripheral vision. What part he could see looked oddly empty. He glanced around and noticed for the first time that he and Dean were alone. He hadn’t noticed when Flo and Kevin left and found it strange that they had done so. Both had been pretty adamant about staying.

“This isn’t... We’re not done here.”

Sam’s attention was dragged back to his brother’s tightly drawn face. The anger on Dean’s face was a very thin veil covering the panic and uncertainty. Dean didn’t like that Sam had sat quietly through each test and liked it even less that he’d passed each one. It slowly wore down his brother’s claim that what was sitting in front of him was a monster.

To Sam, barely a day had gone by since he’d seen his brother standing in the warehouse. Dean may wear an older face and a taller build, but Sam still knew how his brother’s mind worked. Dean needed for Sam to be a monster. He needed to take his frustration out on this thing that dared to show up here and open old wounds and he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t figure out what Sam was.

Because Sam just couldn’t be Sam. What’s dead stayed dead, and if it did come back it wasn’t the person it was before. Sam knew that just as well as Dean, and normally he would agree. Except this time they were wrong. Death, or whatever had taken place in that warehouse, hadn’t been the end, not for Sam. So no, they weren’t done here. Not until his brother knew the truth.

Not being able to voice that fact, Sam offered his big brother a smile that was shaky at best. The glare on Dean’s face deepened at the gesture. The wavering step back he took didn’t bolster the hatred Dean was trying damn hard to project. Sam didn’t drop eye contact this time and after a few moments Dean finally growled and turned away. His brother practically launched himself out of the room and up the stairs. Sam winced when the heavy wooden door banged behind him.

Sam sighed and let his head drop back to his chest. He was exhausted. The catnap in the hardware store didn’t really hold up to nearly two days on the run from zombies and a three hour torture session with his brother. Sam vaguely felt ill thinking of what had happened in this room with his brother as torture, but in the end that’s exactly how he felt; beat up, wrung out and just plain sick.

He pulled slightly at his restraints and eyed the room again. It looked dimmer, but whether that was from some internal issue—he was pretty sure a grain of salt or two had fallen in his eyes earlier—or because the candles were now a great deal shorter, he didn’t know. Either way it was irrelevant. It always took Dean a while to cool down and clear his head. He didn’t foresee getting out of this chair anytime soon.

Sam sighed, shifted in his chair, and sat back the best he could. He might as well try and get comfortable, though the prospect of finding comfort in the hard wooden chair was low. He figured he would be there for a while.

--------------------------

Sam was right about one thing: Dean hadn’t been in any hurry to come back. He didn’t know how long it had been since his brother had stormed upstairs, but judging by the shrinking of the surrounding candles he would guess another hour or two had gone by.

No one else had been down there since, not that Sam took much notice at this point. It was getting harder to focus on what was around him when the headache he’d developed over the last hour was screaming for his attention. It was only one of many ailments troubling him.

The most annoying was the swollen tongue lying heavy in his mouth. It felt like a bloated beached whale sitting between his teeth and wasn’t any use when he stuck it out to try and wet his lips. They were dry and cracking, making his mouth one big sore spot. He imagined he could thank the salt for most of the damage, but survival training told him it wasn’t the only issue.

Sam had realized that by now, with a minimum of five hours total sitting tied to the chair he should have felt some kind of urge to relieve himself, but worryingly he felt no tale-tale pressure in his blade. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had something to drink. Maybe that morning before the warehouse; he couldn’t remember. Either way, he didn’t need to be a medical professional to know that wasn’t a good sign.

A sudden loud bang startled Sam, causing his to jump and pull at his bindings. The hurried thump of boots soon followed. Sam perked up when the thumping became too congested to be just one set of feet. He blinked, letting the room right itself, and watched the two people descend the stairs.

“And if that doesn’t work?”

Sam blinked at the unfamiliar voice and absently wondered why everyone around here sounded like they’d been gargling with gravel.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

This time Sam recognized his brother’s harsh tone. He wasn’t disappointed when the man stepped off the edge of the staircase and came into full view. Another man, and likely the owner of the other voice, was quick on his heels. He was the same height as his brother, but less broad with slightly longer dark hair. His eyes ticked to Sam the minute he stepped down into the basement and after a pause his tilted his head to the side; dulled blue eyes studying him critically.

Sam jumped again when he felt the sudden chill of cold steel tapped against his chin. He jerked his head up out of reflex and met his brother’s eyes. He hadn’t even noticed Dean’s approach and he certainly hadn’t noticed the weapon the older hunter was now carrying. Sam gave it a once over when Dean drew it back slightly. The blade was cone shaped, thick at the cylinder hilt and tapering off to a sharp point. It was too long to be a dagger, but not long enough to be a sword either. He had seen a lot of blades in his short life, but he couldn’t place this one.

“Those winged bastards. They think they can worm their way in by sending one of their own here looking like my brother,” Dean paused and clenched his jaw at the mention of his brother. After a second he waved the blade so that Sam could get a good look at it before placing the very tip just below Sam’s collar bone. “Well, I’ve got news for you pal. You and the rest of those Paradise-Pushers can take your Michael suit elsewhere.” Dean pushed the tip down a little harder. “You wanted this apocalypse, now you can rot in it like the rest of us.”

Without another word, Dean dragged the blade down, cutting the top layer of Sam’s skin and slicing the top part of his shirt open. Dean meant to drag it down further, but not even a good ways into the cutting movement the blade clinked against something metal. At the same time something pulled at the back of Sam’s neck, causing his head to jerk down.

Dean looked about as confused as Sam didn’t as understanding dawned on Sam’s face when his brother drew back the blade. There, leather cord drawn tight and looped around the end of the blade, hung the horned, golden face Sam knew so well. In all of the chaos, he’d forgotten about the amulet hanging hidden just beneath his shirt.

“Where did you get this?” there was a look of awe on Dean’s face. The sword was now hanging loosely at his side and the small lump of an amulet was held between his thumb and forefinger. He turned it one way and then the other, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the finished metal.

Sam watched his brother. He was transfixed on the object, like it was the most precious thing he’d seen in quite some time. His touches against the metal were gentle. It was somewhat of a foreign sight after spending three hour with his brother’s less than softer side. He couldn’t help but feel relief to see that despite the harder exterior his brother did appear to still have one. Though the brief glimpse was just that; brief.

Hardened eyes glance back down at him. Dean’s fist curled around the golden lump, “Answer me. Where did you get this?”

When Sam didn’t answer Dean jerked the cord off over his head none to gently and tossed it to the guy standing at the end of the basement stairs. “Is it fake?” Dean asked.

The man wasn’t expecting the toss, but somehow managed to get a grip on it. As soon as the man’s hand closed around it there was a noticeable change in him. It was subtle, but to Sam the man appeared to stand taller and the dullness in his blue eyes disappeared briefly, leaving in its awake bright, intense blue ones. There was a power lying somewhere behind them that made Sam want to get up and hide behind his chair.

But in the next second they were gone. Just as quickly as it had happened, it passed. The man once again looked tired, maybe even more so than before. The man’s hand slowly uncurled from around the amulet. His expression was much like Dean’s, though a bit of sadness was there too. He ran his finger over the little horns and said without looking up, “It is real. I can still feel what’s left of its power pulsing from its core.”

There was a pregnant pause in the room. The only noise came from the slightly shuffling of Dean’s feet just before he broke the silence. “Are you sure?” Sam glanced up to see the back of Dean’s turned head. His voice was oddly thick. “How do you know—?”

Dean barely finished his question before the other man answered. “I know,” it wasn’t voiced loudly nor with excessive strength, but the amount of conviction in the man’s tone made even Sam want to believe him. “This is the God Seeking amulet. I am sure.”

The man’s eyebrows drew together in thought as he stared down at the necklace. Understanding slowly dawned across his face. He looked up for the first time since the amulet was tossed to him and regarded Dean with an unreadable expression. “Dean, this is the amulet you gave—”

“Sam,” Dean finished, voice small and scratchy. It sounded nothing like the bumming angry voice Sam had become accustom to over the past several hours. His brother didn’t look any better than his voice sounded when he turned back to stare at him. There was no hatred in his stare and for the first time it looked like Dean was actually seeing him and not the monster his brother thought he was.

Dean stepped a little closer and continued, “That’s the amulet I gave Sam before he disappeared from the warehouse in Bay City.” It wasn’t a question, but the way Dean worded it made it sound like he was looking for some kind of confirmation.

Sam sucked in a breath and sighed it out. It was a confirmation he was glad to give.

He had no sooner nodded his head when he felt hands placed on each side of his face. They tilted his head up slightly so that he was staring directly up at his big brother. The look of absolute awe and hope in Dean’s eyes made Sam’s eyes hot and blurry. He felt a thumb run over the defining mole to the left side of his nose.

“Sammy,” the once hated nickname was music to Sam’s tired ears. He let his eye flutter close for a moment, feeling the heat trickle out of his eyes and down his cheeks. Sam blinked them back open when he felt Dean wipe his thumbs over the trails.

His brother opened his mouth to say something, but paused. A look of horror and guilt suddenly appeared on his face. “Oh God, Sam,” Dean whispered and pulled back. Sam wanted to protest the sudden loss of connection. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of Dean suddenly changing his mind, of thinking he wasn’t his little brother after all. It was an irrational fear since Dean had openly addressed him as “Sam,” but the fear was there nonetheless.

Dean swung the strange blade up and Sam couldn’t help but wince as it was brought closer to him. His brother looked stricken by the reaction, but continued forward, using the sharp tip to saw through the ropes around Sam’s arms and legs.

Sam deflated visibly, but grimaced as pins and needles started up in his freed arm. He hadn’t realized how cold it was until the feeling started coming back into it. His second arm soon joined in, followed by both of his legs. They hurt, but as Dean bodily snatched him from the chair and hauled him up for a bone crushing hug, he found he didn’t mind all that much. However, his body seemed to mind quite a bit. A sudden dizziness assaulted Sam due to the quick change of altitude and his legs started putting up a protest as to why they shouldn’t be carrying even his gangly weight. Sam tended to agree with them, but all he could do was try to get his numb fingers to hold on to Dean just a fraction of how tight the older man was clinging to him. It felt so good in contrast to the pain before. He felt truly safe for the first time in what felt like too long. He wanted to hold onto that for a bit longer, so he felt like crying all over again when the dizziness started to be too much to handle and his legs folded beneath him.

Dean’s hold tightened, “Sammy?” He felt his body being shook as his vision tunneled. “Sam!” Dean cursed rather loudly. “Castiel!”

Sam didn’t recognize the name, but no sooner was it out of Dean’s mouth before there was another set of hands on him, easing some of his weight from Dean. It was the last thing he remembered before his consciousness winked out like an old timey television set.

Chapter Text

Waking up was different this time. He didn’t feel the disorienting sickness he’d felt at the warehouse or the cold shot of terror when his homemade alarm woke him in the hardware store. This felt warm and just a little bit scratchy, which wasn’t all that odd. It felt like the hundreds of motel beds he’d slept in before.

It was comforting. He could almost convince himself into believing he really was in a motel somewhere and that his dad would come in soon to drag both he and Dean out of bed to either start drills or researching before belatedly remembering that thing called breakfast. Even then Dad’s idea of breakfast only consisted of coffee, which was great for a forty year old man that didn’t sleep through most night. Not so much for two growing boys.

A sharp pain shot through his stomach from the mere thought of breakfast. He hadn’t given it much thought, but he imagined it had been two days since he last ate. It wasn’t a high priority at the time, but now, laying still and quiet on top of this stiff mattress, Sam’s concerns shifted. Right down into his stomach.

But he was comfortable and didn’t want to move from where he was; which was something else he should try to put an effort into finding out. He figured it was safe to assume he was still in the wooden house. He just hoped he was at least out of the dank basement. The less time he spent there the better. He was pretty sure his brother wouldn’t leave him there, not after everything that had happened down there.

Sam was startled when something cool and wet pressed against his face. He jerked back from the object as his eyes automatically opened. He blinked a few times to remove the blur of sleep from them. When it was gone he found Dean leaning over him, wash cloth in hand and with a startled looked that undoubtedly matched Sam’s own.

After a pause Dean leaned back, setting himself down into the chair by the bed. Sam watched him pass the cloth from one hand to the other before the corner of Dean’s
lips twitched up in slight amusement. “You slept through nine stitches and an IV line, but it’s the cloth that bothers you.”

Sam just continued to stare until his brother looked up with a forced smile. He let Dean’s words sink in before shifting slightly in bed. Now that he thought about it he did feel the familiar burn and pull of stitches in his upper arm. He grimaced when he pulled it out from underneath the blanket to inspect. To his surprise, his forearm was wrapped in bandages as well.

“You’re lucky it’s not broken,” Dean said, indicating to the wrapped appendage. Sam pressed his fingers into the bandage and winced at the deep throb it produced. A bruised bone then. “A Croat?”

Sam glanced back up and winkled his brow at the strange term. It was the second time he’d heard it, but he didn’t know what it was. He could probably make a sound guess from the context though. Sam opened his mouth to answer, but as usual nothing came out. Instead, he settled for giving Dean an unsure look and shrugging one shoulder.

Dean watched his reply closely, a thin frown forming when Sam just shrugged. He studied his brother for a moment longer before averting his eyes to look off at another part of the room. His ran a hand over his mouth, pausing to rub over the growing bread.

“Florence said there’s something wrong with your voice?” Dean finally said. He still wasn’t looking at Sam, so there was really no way for him to answer. Though Sam’s silence seemed to be answer enough as after a moment of silence Dean just gave a jerky nod and kept his eyes glued to the wall.

The room remained quiet for a bit longer. It wasn’t so much an awkward silence as it was a charged one. Sam still felt tired and wrung out, but now that he was more awake and his brother was only three feet away, his head was buzzing with a thousand questions he needed answering. However, he couldn’t get those answers without aid and especially not if his brother was caught in some kind of emotional head space. Dean may be older now, and by default should be wiser, but from the look on his face Sam could see that his brother never learned not to blame himself for everything.

Sam sighed, not wanting to get up, but knew he couldn’t stay in the warm cocoon if he wanted to get his answers. Leaning up on his good arm he tried to push himself up. It was a struggle. He certainly didn't have the strength required for such a task using only one arm, but that didn't stop him. He was a good ways up, grimace firmly planted on his face, when he heard the wooden chair creak and hands appear on his shoulders.

Dean looked caught between shoving Sam back down or helping him sit up, but one feeble glare from Sam had Dean gently placing his hand on his brother's back and helping him up. Sam was thankful to find the room didn't spin as it did before, but he did still feel a bit woozy. He guessed that came with the territory or starvation and interrogation. At least the IV was helping. His tongue didn't feel swollen anymore, despite the fowl taste still lingering there, and if his now full bladder was anything to go by his kidneys were once again up and running.

Sam didn't even realize he was fiddling with the crude tubing attached to his hand until Dean's pushing his hand away and pressed the tape back down over the needle in the back on his hand. "Leave it. I know you don't like it, but you need it. You were dehydrated and I'm sure all that salt you swallowed didn't help."

The last part seemed to pain Dean to say. He couldn't blame his brother and most importantly Dean shouldn't blame himself. They were hunters, and Sam had been missing for years apparently. He would have thought and done the same thing if he were in Dean's shoes.

Sam frowned and tried to speak. He scowled at the silence that greeted him. He didn't think he'd ever get use to his voice just being gone, but he couldn't worry about that right now. Snagging the sleeve of Dean's jacket, he tugged in order to pull his brother's attention away from fussing at the half emptied IV bag nailed to the wall. When Dean looked down Sam made a writing gesture with one hand and used his other to imitate paper.

Dean cocked an eyebrow, "You want to play charades?"

Sam dropped his hands and gave his brother a deadpan look. That was the second time someone had joked about that. It must be hilarious to ask the mute kid if he wanted to play charades. Though he couldn't complain too much when Dean grinned half-heartedly. Any form of grin was better than the guilt his brother seemed to be harboring. Thankfully Dean did get the message and began rummaging through the nightstand. He soon came up with a pen and notepad which he promptly gave to Sam.

Sam ran his fingers over the yellowing pages. The bottom corners of the pages were curled upward and folded. He got the impression that the paper was at one time blue. The pen was old as well and Sam had to scribble in the top corner a few times before he could get it to work. When he was done writing he turned it so Dean could see.

Not your fault

Dean eyed the scribbled writing like it was some kind of foreign language before a deep scowl cut across his face. Sam was confused at the sudden anger coming from his brother. That definitely wasn't the reaction he had wanted.

"Not my fault," Dean repeated, looking but not sounding the least bit amused. "And which time would you be referring to, Sam? Downstairs when I was torturing my own brother? Or in that warehouse when I let that thing... Jesus, Sam, I don't even know anymore!"

Dean was up pacing now, heavy boots moving loudly across the floor, a sure sound of the older hunter's anxiety. Sam turned the pad back around and made a quick scribbling motion.

Neither

His brother paused to read Sam's message. He snorted dismissively and continued to pace. Sam huffed. He didn't expect anything less from his older, pigheaded brother, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.

He scribbled again: You didn't know

"I should have," Dean answered without hesitation. The amount of conviction and self- loathing in that statement was tangible. "It was my job to know. I was on research duty. I asked you to trust me, Sam, and then I just let you walk right into that warehouse unprepared and vulnerable. And then you were just gone. I didn't know what happened... I didn't know if...."

Dean trailed off, coming to a standstill and then turning his back to his brother. Sam looked down at the pad in his lap. He didn't need Dean to continue to his train of thought. He’d made it fairly clear in the basement as to what he thought happened to his little brother. It unnerved Sam to hear even just a little piece of that story, and especially his brother's conclusion. The memories it brought back, the feel of cold numbness, the thought that he was going to die, it made a spike of fear shoot up his back all over again. Sam didn't know what had happened after that, but according to Dean he had just disappeared. It raised more questions than gave answers, but he needed to handle one issue at a time.

Dad didn't know either

Sam held the pad up, but Dean's back was still turned. He tapped his pen repeatedly against the pad until the older hunter glanced over his shoulder. A pained looked passed over Dean's face like a flash, but it was quickly schooled away under a well practiced mask. Sam still saw and it momentary gave him pause. A unsettling feeling sank to the bottom of his stomach. He readied his pad to write again, but he stopped when the older hunter spoke.

"You're my responsibility, Sam. Not Dad's."

Sam didn't even bother to argue that. He wondered if it was weird that he counted on Dean as more of a parental figure than he did his own father. Probably so, but it's not like his life was normal anyway. Sam sighed. He didn't know what else he could say to his brother to get through to him. He doubted there was anything he could say. When Dean got something in his head it took nothing short of a sledgehammer to get it out, and the longer the thought stayed, the more it cemented. This particular thought had been festering for longer than Sam knew. Still, he couldn't give up and not try.

Hunt. Accidents happen

It wasn't the best defense, but getting Dean to give up the blame wasn't working. From the look on Dean's face, this wasn't helping either.

"An accident," disbelief colored Dean's voice. "An accident is forgetting to pack salt or not turning off the oven before you leave the house. Getting your little brother killed isn’t an accident; it’s a blatant lack of respect for the job and just plain negligence on my part.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. The last part sounded foreign coming from Dean’s mouth. It sounded more like something that had been drilled in and dutifully repeated more times than necessary. That thought didn’t set well with him. He could just imagine the drill sergeant.

Is that what Dad told you?

“He didn’t have to tell me,” Dean growled. His whole body was tense and he took a step to the side as if to start pacing again.

Sam scowled, taking his brother’s answer for the confirmation it was. It was a good thing his father wasn’t nearby, because injuries or not Sam could probably still strangle him. He made a mental note to ask Dean where their father was. No doubt somewhere nearby, making someone else’s life unbearable.

His Dad was pretty good at that. He could clearly remember their unpleasant exchange of words before the hunt. Sam hated that that had been his father’s final memory between them, but he hated it even more than he’d apparently taken out whatever form of grief he’d had on Dean. It wasn’t fair or right and it made Sam want to get up and go hug the ‘old man’, right after he slugged him one good time.

A sudden realization hit Sam like a jolt. It wasn’t just a joke to call is father an ‘old man’ anymore. Judging by how much older Dean looked he could only imagine what his much older dad looked like. It made Sam a little sad to think about; took away some of the heat from his fiery anger. Sam sighed, choosing to deal with that particular emotion later. Instead, he concentrated on his brother’s earlier statement and wrote on his pad.

Not dead, Dean. I’m here.

Dean seemed to soften slightly, but not enough to take away the rigid set of his shoulders. He still looked burdened with the weight of the world, but he looked heartened at the gold nudge being offered to him amongst the ruin. He smiled for a moment, not as bright as Sam remembered, but real, and Sam found himself returning it.

The wooden chair scraped against the floor as Dean snagged it from its’ place against the wall and pulled it to sit directly in front of Sam. Dean groaned a bit when he sat down. Sam’s smile grew a little wider at the sound. Had the situation been different and Sam still had his voice, Dean would be on the receiving end of an ‘Over the Hills’ joke right about now.

“Sammy,” Dean started. His brother reached his hand out as if to grip Sam’s covered knee but stopped. His hand hovered over the bed for a moment before he pulled it back and laced his fingers together in his lap. When he looked back up at Sam his expression had turned more serious. “I need you to tell me what happened.”

Sam’s eyebrows lowed in confusion, because of all the people who might know what happened back in that warehouse, it wasn’t Sam. He had hoped that was a gap his brother could filled in for him, but that looked unlikely now. Not if Dean was asking him. All Sam could remember was being gone for a while.

Dean must have noticed his misperception. “Not in the warehouse,” the hunter clarified. “After. Tell me the first thing you remember.”

Sam glanced down at the notepad. He pressed his pen to the paper and then hesitated. The first thing he remembered. Several things came to mind: disorientation, nausea, panic, mute. None of those he wanted to write down either for his own sake or for his brother’s. Instead, Sam went with something a little more generic.

Woke up in on among where the warehouse use to the be

Dean frowned, but acknowledged the answer with a nod, “Were you alone?”

Sam nodded. Alone was an understatement.

“Okay,” Dean said, face annoying unreadable. “And then?”

‘And then’ was a pretty loaded question. Sam didn’t think the notepad was big enough to rehash everything from the warehouse to the safe house. He was pretty sure he’d need a couple of pages alone just to retell “The Misadventures of Sam Winchester and Mush Face, the Motel Zombie” story. It was unsettling to think about. He really didn’t like the idea of having to write it all down. He could still hear the warping of the metal as the creature beat the car frame in and the screech it made as it appeared in the motel doorway.

“Sam.”

He flinched when Dean reached forward and nudged his knee. He hadn’t realized he’d drifted off into thought and now his brother was looking at him expectantly and with a measure of patience Dean had only ever afforded for two people. Sam was a little bit grateful that this time Dean didn’t pull his hand away and let it rest comfortingly over his knee cap. Sam pressed the pen back to the paper and decided to get straight to the point and forgo any tales of Mush Face.

I looked for you

The hand on his knee tightened as Dean’s eyebrows knitted together. “How?”

Sam shook his head, not sure what answer his brother was looking for.

“Kevin said he found you holed up in a hardware store in Flint,” Dean explained. He gave Sam a good hard look before continuing, “Bay City is fourty-seven miles from Flint, Sam. How did you get there?”

Sam figured that question was fairly obvious, but answered it nonetheless.

Walked

Dean ducked his head down, hiding whatever response his face showed from Sam. He frowned when Dean looked back up he didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he gave Sam’s knee an awkward pat before rising from his chair quickly. The suddenness caught Sam off-guard and he couldn’t help but feel a little panicked by it. He didn’t think his answer warranted that kind of response, but apparently something had bothered his brother enough to propel him from his chair.

“Dean,” Sam mouthed and snatched at his brother’s hand in a desperate attempt to keep him from leaving.

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed, though it was hard to believe when he sounded anything but. “I’m just gonna—,” he paused to clear his throat. “I need to check on getting you some food. It’s been a while apparently.”

Sam shook his head even though Dean had already turned to leave and couldn’t see it. He didn’t doubt his brother’s promise of food, but he also recognized an escape tactic when he saw one. Sam’s stomach certainly did appreciate the idea of being fed, but not at the cost of his brother hurrying off with a voice that sounded like his own throat was trying to strangle him. He would much prefer his brother within arms reach than food. Both would be nice though.

He huffed at the back of his ignorant brother’s head and began pulling at the needle in the back of his hand. If Dean wasn’t going to stay then neither was Sam. He shuffled the best he could over to the edge of the bed and slipped one foot onto the floor. He barely had it there for a second before it was hefted up and shoved back under the covers.

“You’re staying here until that IV is all gone,” Dean said. Sam wiggled defiantly in protest, but was stopped when Dean began tucking the blanket back in and grumbling a, “stubborn” under his breath. Sam scribbled a response with hurried exclamation and then held it out for Dean to see.

Pot calling Kettle!!

A hint of a smirk touched the corner of Dean's lips, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Sam felt his own spike of good humor at his witty banter die away as Dean turned away again, this time heading for the door. The notepad Sam was holding slide back down to his lap.

Dean paused for longer than necessary when he reached the door. Sam was hoping for a change of heart, but whatever Dean seemed to struggle with lost out over his previous resolve. "I'll be back," Dean finally said and then was gone just as quick.

Sam watched the door for a long while after it clicked shut. Eventually his eyes fell to the paper in his lap. He could see snippets of his and Dean's conversation drawing in ink over the page, but none of it helped him understand his brother's sudden need to flee.

With a dejected sigh, Sam leaned back against the wall and tilted his head back so he could watch the IV bag drip. It was torturously slow. Part of him wondered if Dean would be back before it ran out. The bigger part of him knew he wouldn't.

--------------------------

Food had come as promised, but in the form of a petite brunette. Sam couldn’t say he was surprised. He hadn’t expected Dean to return so soon, but he had hoped to be wrong. The woman was plain. Her hair hung straight, framing an all natural looking face and wearing nothing more than a tank top and worn jeans. Her smile was placid as she sat the food tray on the nightstand and turned to address him.

“Is there anything else you need?” her voice sounded serene and a slight bit sedate. “The next session will start soon and I still need to get washed up.”

Sam just stared for a moment, not really knowing what to make of that. The woman seemed content to stare back, calm and patience was in her posture despite her admittance of an approaching engagement. After a moment Sam shook his head and decided just to focus on the first question rather than try to figure out the latter statement. There were only two things he need, but since one was off the table he wrote down the other and held up the pad.

Bathroom?

The woman gestured to the other side of the room to a cast-iron pot sitting in the corner.

She didn’t appear fazed by the disbelieving look Sam shot her.

“Someone will be by to check on you later,” She assured and walked back out of the room in the same daze she walked in on.

Sam watched her leave with a dazed look of his own before switching back to stare at the ‘bathroom’ in the corner. It was crude and looked like it might be harboring more germs than Sam cared to think about. One thing was for sure, he would never complain about a motel bathroom again. At least those had sinks. With a grimace, he decided he could hold it for a bit longer. He wasn’t even sure the IV would allow him the range to make it to the pot. At any rate, he didn’t want to have to eat after using it.

The tray of food on the nightstand was nothing special. Just a bowl of something that looked like soup and a glass of water. The soup bowl was warm to the touch and on further inspection he could see steam rising up from the murky broth. He wondered what it had been cooked on. He couldn’t imagine the stove in the kitchen working if they didn’t even have a working bathroom.

Sam was pleased to discover the soup was chicken and probably the single greatest thing he’d ever tasted. That was probably his abused stomach talking, but it was really good. He hadn’t even realized how hungry he truly was until the first mouth full was swallowed. A second, larger spoon full followed and then another and before Sam could think to slow down half the bowl was already gone.

He ate the remaining soup conservatively, not willing to forfeit what he’d already eaten by making himself sick. By the time he was finish his stomach felt much like his bladder did; uncomfortably full. In retrospect, soup probably wasn’t the best idea when there was already a good amount of fluids pumping into him intravenously and none currently pumping out.

The thought alone made the urge to go even worse. The IV hanging over head was nearly empty. A good 3⁄4 of the top was flattened and the bottom only held about a hand full of solution left. The dripping steadily dropped into the line and Sam suddenly decided that 3⁄4 was practically empty and that was good enough. With a quick tug the tape was gone and the needle shortly followed. He hissed at the unpleasant feel of the needle pulling free of his skin and he pressed a corner of the sheet over the bleeding puncture wound.

Once the initial bleeding had stopped he pushed himself up from the bed. The altitude change wasn’t great, but he didn’t feel dizzy enough to vacate his stomach. He took that as a good sign and made a beeline as quickly as he could toward the pot. When he made it he took only a moment to turn his back to the door and pray no one came in.

God must have been listening, because thankfully there were no visitors. Sam felt ten times better. The only downer in the situation, besides not having an actual toilet, was the fact that what was now in the pot vaguely reminded Sam of the soup he just eaten. That was not something he wanted to think about. Though it seemed someone else had the same thought, because a lid was sitting just off to the side. Sam gladly used it to cover the mess. The easiest thing to do would have just to been to dispose of the contents, but one look around the room told Sam that he literally had a pot to pee in and no window to throw it out of.

Sam occupied the thought of returning to bed. It wasn’t something he thought about for long though. The idea of having to lay down with nothing but his muddled thoughts to keep him company was unappealing. He still only had a vague understanding of what was going on around him; vague being that the world had aged without him and at some point zombies had taken over like the plot of some B grade horror movie. It wasn’t much to go on, and on top of the fact that he didn’t know where his brother had run off too, he didn’t think he would be able to sit still long enough for someone to come back and offer him some answers.

Sam looked around and flushed with embarrassment at the state of the room, with the blood spotted sheet, the steady drip of the IV flowing out of the needle and onto the floor, and the pungent odor of urine coming from the corner. The thought of leaving it that way rubbed the wrong way against his militant upbringing, which taught him to keep his space neat and tidy. This was definitely not neat or tidy. Still, he had no idea where to find what he’d need to clean it up, nor did he have the energy to do so even if he did, so the urge to leave won out.

Sam only stayed long enough to grab his notepad and pen before heading to the door and hesitantly gripping the door handle. It turned without noise and only gave a small scratching noise when he cracked open. He peeked out, just his head at first, but when the initial scan came up devoid of people he stepped the rest of the way out and closed the door behind him.

He didn’t know why he felt the need to sneak out, it was just an instinct. He was in a strange place with strange people and he didn’t want to take the chance that whoever he ran across would try to send him back to his room.

When his second check still came up empty, Sam stepped away from the door and into the directly adjacent room. This room was much larger. He glanced around, taking in the away- facing couch and small table and chairs pressed against the far wall of the room. He also noticed the room wasn’t lit by candlelight, but by the fire crackling in the stone hearth. It looked to be the only thing in the room not made from wood, save for the couch and the tatty drapes covering the boarded up window. If he had to make a guess, he would say this was the living area, or something like one.

Sam stepped up to the back of the couch. There was a large area rug laid out in front of the fireplace, but not so close that escaping embers could land on it and set it alight. From the looks of the baseball sized black mark along the edge, it looked like someone had already learned that lesson the hard way. He could also see a black pot hanging over the fire and dishware sitting piled up along the stone. At least now he knew where his dinner came from. Or maybe it was lunch.

Now that he thought about it he didn’t know what time of day it was. Time had blurred into one continuous nightmare ever since the warehouse. He didn’t know how many days had passed between now and then. Even during his walk from the ruined motel to the hardware shop in Flint, he hadn’t been able to tell. At all times the sky had either been dark or dim. It was a little disorienting to think about.

Sam thought it was a feeling he should be getting use to, but it wasn’t. As far as Sam was concerned it was just one more one thing to heap on top of the camel’s back. Just more information he didn’t have and wouldn’t have until he found his brother.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t expected the voice and he certainly hadn’t expected to hear it so close. It startled him enough that he lost the grip on his notepad and it fell over the front of the couch. A soft ‘oof’ soon followed. The sound and movement drew his attention to the couch. He was shocked to see someone there, stretched out across all three cushions.

Sam couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed the man before. He had literally been right under his nose. Sam had been so busy going over the room looking for some clue that might tell him where his brother had gotten off to that he hadn’t even seen what was so obviously in front of him. Forest though the trees, he guessed.

The man was strangely familiar. His hands curled around the notepad now lying on his stomach. He held onto it with one hand and used the other to push himself into a sitting position. Sam involuntarily moved back as the man’s head rose over the back of the couch, bringing him closer than Sam preferred.

His eyes stayed on the notepad for a moment longer before he looked over at Sam. The dull blue eyes were unmistakable and easily placed him as the guy who had accompanied Dean on his final trip to the basement. He remembered his brother calling for someone named Castiel. Was that who this guy was?

“It is a penny, right?” the inquisitive blue eyes never left Sam. “That is the correct currency for a thought, yes?”

Sam didn’t know how to respond to that other than to nod. He hadn’t expected the slow grin that formed on the man’s face.

“I don’t have a penny,” he admitted with amusement. He extended his hand over the couch, offering Sam the notepad clutched there. “But perhaps you will share them with me anyway.”

Sam hesitated, but eventually stepped forward and accepted the pad. He didn’t know much about this guy, but he knew Dean trusted him and in the end that was enough for Sam. Sam turned over the top page and scratched out one word.

Castiel?

“Yes?” the man answered and gave Sam an expectant look.

It was the answer Sam was looking for, but the question in the reply put a damper on it. He tried again.

That’s your name?

“Yes,” Castiel replied again; thankfully this time not in the form of a question.

An awkward silence fell over the room At least it felt that way to Sam. He didn’t know what else to say to the man, though Castiel seemed quite content to just sit there and stare with a smile on his face that could only be categorized as goofy. Sam fidgeted with the notepad. He contemplated just writing a “Nice to meet you” and a “I’m going to look for Dean now” so he could make a quick get away from the Joker, but he never got the chance to before the man started speaking again.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel greeted, his expression fond, but worryingly glazed. “You’re the boy I never thought I would meet. I guess only time will tell if that’s a good thing or not.”

The older man ended his though with a genuine smile, which coupled with his ominous words didn’t make Sam feel more at ease. Though something about the way the man smiled and the way his eyes were glazed began to paint Sam a picture that explained away the crazy talk.

Are you high?

Castiel squinted at the paper and pursed his lips are the question. “For now,” he answered. “Your brother seems to think I’m unfit to guard you in that state. So for now I’m banned from Sessions.”

The man looked put out by that fact, but was still too high up on Mount Mushroom to feel too badly about it. Sam was sure now that he didn’t want to know what ‘Sessions’ entailed. He was pretty sure he had some idea without having to ask.

Sam remembered the woman who brought in his food earlier, or more to the fact that she’d mentioned a Session that was probably taking place now. He looked at the close proximity of the couch to his room and then to the man sitting in the otherwise empty room.

You’re guarding now?

It wasn’t a question, nor a statement that Castiel could deny. “I am,” came the simple acknowledgement.

Sam tried very hard not to roll his eyes at the lack of explanation he’d been looking for. It wasn’t nice to belittle the less than sober. That’s what Dean had told him the first night Sam had to drag his still underage brother back from a bar. The next morning the only thanks he’d gotten was a tongue lashing for leaving the Impala at the bar all night. Instead of asking ‘why,’ Sam just cut straight to the point.

Where is Dean?

Castiel looked thoughtful and then answered with at small sigh. “He is wherever it is that Dean goes when he doesn’t want to think.”

Sam lowered his notepad to his side. He was afraid of that answer. Dean’s normal non- thinking area was any bar within driving distance that was willing to ignore the fact that he was one year under the drinking age. Now Sam didn’t know what that place would be and that scared him a little. At any rate, he wasn’t sure Dean would be glad to see him if he did happened to find him. Sam was pretty sure he was the reason Dean was hiding in the first place.

“It’s been hard on him.”

Sam looked up as Castiel spoke again. Somehow his eyes looked strangely clearer. They were still dull, but there was a spark of understanding there that he wouldn’t expect from someone not currently in his right mind. There was no way the man had sobered up in the span of a few minutes. Still, Sam sensed information and he’d be lax to turn something like that down.

What has?

Castiel tilted his head one way and then the other as if weighing each word out in his mind. “This timeline,” Castiel said, making sure to stress the first word. “I can’t say if the original timeline would have been better for either of you, but it was the one that was planned; the one you should have existed in.”

The sudden shift in Castiel’s behavior threw Sam for a loop. One minute the guy was all smiles and glassy eyes and the next his eyes were clear and his expression was much more profound. The strange thing was nothing about his speech pattern had changed. Castiel was still making about as much sense as a bowl of mixed fruit. But it was more information than Sam had gotten out of anyone so far, so he was willing to play along.

Original timeline?

Castiel nodded absently, staring off at the boarded up window that he couldn’t possibly see through.

“What happened to you in the warehouse nineteen years ago was not meant to happened, but for reasons I’m not aware of, it did, and when it did it destroyed the future that was laid out long before you were born.” Castiel turned to eye Sam for a moment, no doubt taking in his wide-eyed expression. When he continued, the older man spoke as if he didn’t just drop a bomb on top of Sam’s world. “But it is important not to dwell on that. That timeline is no longer available to us.”

Sam didn’t even know where to begin dissecting what the man had just divulged to him. The first thing his mind latched onto was the astonishing time gape. Sam could tell years had gone by. He could see that much in the filled out frame and face of his brother, but nineteen years? It was a dizzying amount. Sam was now looking at nearly two decades of unaccounted time.

Of course, there was always a chance that Castiel was wrong. By his own admission, the guy was stoned and the only reason he wasn’t getting even more stoned was because Dean had banned it. How much stock could he put into the words of a guy who was probably having difficulty finding two brain cells to rub together?

Even as Sam thought it, the rational part of his mind rejected it. Nineteen years was a lot, but if he really thought about it, it fit. He couldn’t help but think back to the calendar he’d found in the dilapidated motel. The year 2013 glared back from his memories with startling clarity. No one had been using the calendar to plan ahead as he had originally thought. They were using it for the current date.

The worrying part of all of this was that if there was truth to at least one part of Castiel’s story, then it was probably a safe bet that the rest of it was. This meant that on Sam’s very first hunt he’d somehow managed to completely destroy the predetermined timeline for humanity. Sam didn’t know whether he wanted to hyperventilate or laugh. He would do both if it was humanly possible. Taking a deep breath, Sam concentrated on the one good thing he was able to pull out of the information Castiel gave him. He drew the notepad up and wrote.

You know what happened in the warehouse then?

“More or less.” He replied. Anticipation rose in Sam. He began to write another question, knowing from experience that the man wouldn’t offer up information on his own, but stopped when he saw Castiel shake his head. “But I’m not the one who should tell you.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue out of pure reflex. He wanted to ask who was supposed to tell him then if not this man in front of him. He didn’t see anyone else in this room willingly offering up information. Of course none of that came out, so he just settled for scowling at the man, who looked perfectly content to let Sam finish his out his internal tantrum.

“Dean still feels guilt over your disappearance, but he will be back soon,” Castiel offered Sam a kind smile, “It is difficult for anyone to face their mistakes, but I believe he is more afraid of making the same mistake if he’s gone for too long. Just be patient.”

Patience was a virtue Sam didn’t possess, especially when he didn’t see why he should be. There was no reason Castiel shouldn’t tell him unless that was something else his brother had banned. It wouldn’t surprise him. Despite nineteen years of absence it appeared Dean was still just as over-protective as he’d ever been. He should probably feel lucky he wasn’t tied to the bed or at the very least locked inside his room. Sam nodded reluctantly and was rewarded with a look of approval from Castiel, one that quickly stretched over into an awkward silence.

Clearly the conversation was over despite the man’s unwavering stare. A mental ‘ummm’ crossed Sam’s mind and he broke eye contact to stare down at the pad. He flipped the page to a clean sheet and stared at the empty lines. How do you say “Thanks for the earth shattering information but your stare is creeping me out so I’m going to go now?” Sam wasn’t even sure if he was free to go or if he was going to be herded back into his room. He really didn’t want to go back to that room right now.

Sam wrote “Is it” and then scratched it out. “Can I stay out here” followed, but he quickly marked that out as well. The implied ‘with you’ was not what he was going for. Castiel was by far the nicest pot smoker he’d ever met, but he didn’t want to sit around while the guy stared an uncomfortable hole in the middle of his forehead. In the end he just settled for something that sounded more curious than insulting.

Can I look around?

Sam wasn’t all that keen on exploring the house, but he needed some kind of distraction to keep his mind off of everything Castiel had told him. At least until Dean came back. Castiel frowned, looking like the very question made him uncomfortable. It was nice not to be the one on the receiving end of that feeling for once.

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you,” he finally said.

With Castiel’s continual stares, Sam wondered how literal the man was taking that order.

Won’t leave the house

Sam presented the notepad hopefully. He ideally wondered why he felt the need to beg permission to roam freely from a stranger, but the answer to that was easy. If the initial order hadn’t come from Dean, he probably wouldn’t. The appraising look on Castiel’s face suddenly broke and a wide grin replaced it. “Dean was right. You do look like a puppy.”

Sam was taken aback by the odd comment. He most certainly did not look like a dog. He could have chalked it up to the pot talking if apparently Dean hadn’t been the one to say it first. Sam wondered what that was about, but never got the chance to ask.

“Don’t leave the house,” Castiel agreed, his tone deep with a level of seriousness he hadn’t yet heard from the man. Sam found that all he could do was nod his consent, which was returned with a nod back at him. With one last fledging look, Castiel disappeared back behind the couch and settled back into a lazy stretch.

Sam took that as a dismissal, and quickly looked around for the nearest in-house escape route. He could clearly see the kitchen through the large connecting doorway between it and the living room. He had already been through there once right before he was unceremoniously dragged down to the basement. That was not a place he really wanted to return to.

That left only the room he’d come out of or the darkened hallway to his left. The room was definitely not an option, so he headed for the hall. He was barely five steps away from the couch when Castiel’s voice called out for his attention.

“Sam,” he hesitated before turning around to face the man, but found nothing there but the back of the couch. Nevertheless, the voice continued, “Don’t go into the last room on the right.”

Sam started to nod, but realized there was no one watching to see it. He paused for a moment longer to see if Castiel would lean up for an answer, but he never did. The man was obviously going on the assumption that Sam had heard and was leaving it at that. This time Sam made it to the hall without interruption. The corridor was pretty dark. From what Sam could tell it was only lit by three candles; each one illuminating a door. Sam ran his hand along the wall to keep from running into anything he couldn’t see. He reached the first door without consequence.

He debated on knocking, but there were no sounds or light coming from around the door. It didn’t look like anyone was inside. Unless of course they were asleep and in that case it probably wasn’t the best idea to knock in case he woke someone up.

The door wasn’t locked and when Sam peeked inside he immediately noticed the room was too small to be a bedroom. On closer inspection he could see his reflection staring back at him from one wall, a large tub and a toilet... an honest to God, modern toilet. Here was the bathroom he’d been looking for. Why hadn’t the woman mentioned this?

It didn’t take long for him to figure out why. When he lifted the lid he found that the bowl was completely empty of water, as was the tank, and nothing happened when he tried to flush. He also tried turning on the faucet in both the tub and the sink. Neither of them gave as much as a pipe vibration. Apparently the pot was due to the lack of running water.

Disappointed, Sam closed the door back and headed for the second light. Sam already had his hand on the doorknob before he noticed two things. One, there was a low amount of light coming from underneath the crack of the door; and two, according to the wall just left of his head this was the last door on the right. Sam’s natural curiosity wondered why this was off-limits. He didn’t have to wonder too long as a guttural moan filtered through the door shortly followed by a short grunt.

Sam jerked away from the door as if he’d been burnt. He took another step back as the noise continued to filter through. He wasn’t naïve enough not to know what those sounds meant. He can still remember very clearly Dean’s horny teen years and the blow-by-blow accounts his brother insisted on giving. The tips of his ears had been on fire from the over- sharing and he was pretty sure they were now.

Something solid thumped into his back and then swung away. He jumped, not realizing in his horrified state that he’d still been backing up. He looked behind him and found himself looking into another room. The thing he’d bumped into was the door, which had jarred opened when he hit it.

This room was a little bigger than the last and a much more lit. Sam inched further into the room, taking in several glowing candles placed throughout the room. The area wasn’t big, so the furniture was fairly sparse. Mostly it just consisted of an old desk and a broken chair pushed against the far wall. It looked like this room was more for storing useless furniture, but that seemed like a strange room to keep so well lit. Sam had a pretty good idea that the overwhelming use of candles had nothing to do with the old furniture and everything to do with the large cork board mounted on the perpendicular wall.

Sam stepped closer to the board, taking in the candles hung on each side of the board. There were tacked up photos covering from one side of the board to the other. There were items to; receipts, necklaces and even what looked to be a bubblegum wrapper. Sam moved his eyes across the items, choosing to focus on the faces looking back at him.

The pictures looked old, some even yellowing around the edges and others folded with creases running through the middle, like they’d been put through the wringer or had been hidden in someone’s wallet for a really long time. Most of the faces were young, some even younger than Sam; like the girl with dark curls, checkered dress and smile gaped with missing teeth.

Something about the board and photos stuck out in Sam’s mind. He couldn’t pinpoint what exactly, not until he came across a photo that was all too familiar. Sam ran his thumb along the edges of the well worn picture. Seeing it so old and aged was weird considering he could remember the moment Dean snapped it like it was yesterday.

It hadn’t been long after Dean started helping dad run their pool scams, when Dean was maybe 19 or 20, that his brother had splurged on a disposable camera he’d found in some convenient store between here and there. They weren’t the kind of family that took a lot of pictures, and they kept even less. The only pictures Sam knew they owned were tucked away inside the folds of Dad’s journal. So it was kind of odd to find Dean walking around snapping pictures, but not unwelcomed. Sam was completely for the idea of starting a photo album.

Of course Dean’s idea of a photo album differed from Sam’s idea. He shouldn’t have been surprised when his brother’s first picture had been of the Impala; as were the next five that followed. Dean had even taken a few of the hidden weapon bed in the car’s trunk. Sam hadn’t thought that was the best idea at the time in case they were searched by the cops and the pictures were found, but Dean brushed that off. No way was the cops getting anywhere close to his baby.

Sam rolled his eyes and continued to watch Dean take pictures of random, unmemorable things; a hot chick, the rims on a ’69 Mustang, an expensive bottle of beer (right before they were kicked out of the store), another hot chick and a squirrel. The list continued on until there was only one photo left. Sam was exhausted from being dragged around all day to take these photos, but the pleased look on Dean’s face had been worth it.

“Do we have everything important to Dean Winchester now?” Sam asked. The both of them were sitting on the hood of the Impala with their backs resting against the windshield. The sun was slowly going down painting the sky in an array of citrus colors.

“Almost,” Dean answered, eyes never leaving the horizon line.

Sam smiled to himself. He had assumed his non-girly brother wanted a picture of the sunset, so he was caught off guard when Dean called his name and suddenly Sam was blinking bright spots from his vision. When they finally cleared Dean was looking at Sam over the top of the spent camera. “Now we do.”

Sam had never seen the picture until today. Some of the sunset had been caught in the background, but time had dulled it. What were still quite visible were Sam’s features; everything from his tired, content smile to the mole sitting beside his nose.

This was how Boo had known him at first glance, and this is the board Flo had mentioned; the board where no living person’s picture was hung. Sam heart hurt thinking back to the little girl with the mess of dark curls. He wondered how old she had been when she died. He could only hope it wasn’t anywhere near the age she looked to be in the photo.

Sam felt a certain sting of sadness now as he looked through the photos. There seemed to be more of them since he last looked. Any amount was too much when it came to lost loved ones. He imagined that’s exactly what these people are to the members of this safe house. Sam continued down the board, his mind slowly becoming desensitized to the loss they represented. So much so that he nearly missed the picture hanging right in front of his face. If there was ever a time when Sam didn’t want to see a familiar face, it was now.

His heart almost stopped when he saw the black uniform with the tell-tale white square peeking out from under the collar. Sam reached up with both hands and gently pulled the photo down. The face looked older than he remembered, but the lean frame, slight beard and row of pews in the background painted a familiar childhood image.

Sam turned over the photo and found small writing in the bottom corner.

   Pastor Jim Murphy
   2006

Sam shook his head; a chorus of “Nonononono” repeating in his head. He could remember many childhood trips to Pastor Jim’s parish. Dad wasn’t a big believer in The Almighty, but Jim was a fellow hunter and good friend, not only to Dad but also to Sam and Dean. Sam could still remember the day the priest sat him down and taught him how to pray. It had been a few years since Sam had last seen the man, and now it looked like he’d never get the chance again. The thought made his eyes prick uncomfortably. Pastor Jim was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be on this board.

Sam pulled the tack loose from the board again. He was preparing to put the picture back when he noticed another face. This time Sam didn’t even bother removing the tack. He just yanked the photo until came loose. He didn’t even have to turn over the picture to verify the gruff man sitting in the wheelchair.

   Bobby Singer
   2010

Bobby was practically a second father and the only man who had the balls to put John Winchester in his place. The junkyard was a haven and a playground to Sam and Dean. This time the burning behind his eyes was more than a prick. He could feel the hot moisture of tears pooling in his eyes.

Sam didn’t bother trying to put either photo back. Instead, he hung on tightly to both and searched frantically over the board. As much as it hurt, he had to know if there were others. Another picture was yanked down from the board. This one depicted a bald man checking the chamber on an AK-47.

   Caleb Greene
   2006

Next was a tall man with shoulder length blonde hair and a smile almost as wide as his shoulders.

   Joshua Reid
   2007

By the time Sam had the four photos gripped in his fist he was full body shaking. The bottom half of his legs and the tips of his fingers were numb. That was probably something he should be worried about, but he couldn’t bring himself to care right now. All of his emotions were too busy pushing out an overabundance of grief.

Sam didn’t know many people. It was a side effect of moving around so much, but there were a few cases where his family had managed to hold onto a good friend or two. And now Sam was holding proof of each of their deaths in his hands. It was overwhelming. Sam wished the chair in the corner wasn’t broken. He really needed to sit down.

It was a very small relief when he found no more familiar photos, but also a very short lived one. It seemed the board still had one more surprise for him and it was saving the best for last. Sam’s body suddenly stilled. His hands went completely lax, causing the now crinkled pictures to fall to the floor. They were momentarily forgotten in the face of the silver dog tags handing right at the end of the board. Sam was just barely able to get his fingers to cooperate long enough to pull the two metal squares down. An overwhelming urge to vomit came over Sam when the name on the tags came into view.

   JOHN WINCHESTER

A dull roar entered Sam’s ears and the world around him appeared to fuss around the edges. Dad couldn’t be dead. There was just no way. It had only been a few days ago that they’d been on a hunt together. They were fighting on a hunt and if Dad was gone how was Sam supposed to tell the man that he was the most infuriating man on earth but Sam loved him anyway?

He couldn’t. He couldn’t tell him and how the hell was Sam supposed to deal with that? It was a wonder Sam heard anything over the noise in his ears and the screaming in his brain, but somehow the loud voices and approaching footsteps registered.

“You let him roam around!”

“I warned him about the last door on the right.”

“It’s not the one on the right I’m worried about.”

Sam barely registered the two figures standing in the doorway. He didn’t pay either of them any attention. Instead, he focused on embedding the metal into the palm of his hand with his suddenly working fingers.

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice finally made him look up. The severely blurred image of his brother was slowly making his way into the room. He watched his brother take notice of the scattered photos on the floor and then the dog tags clutched impossibly tight in his hands. When he looked up at Sam there was a different type of grief written across his face. “Awe, Sam.”

It was all the confirmation Sam needed before his numb legs decided to dump him on the floor. Thankfully a blur of leather surrounded him and slowed his decent. As soon as his butt touched the ground his knees were shoved forward toward his chest and his head pressed down between them.

“You need to breathe, Sam.” A hand was circling over his back in a soothing gesture, he hardly felt it. He was too busy feeling like he was dying both emotionally and physically. He had never hyperventilated before, but he was beginning to believe his lungs didn’t know how to work right anymore. He felt he should be more concerned about that.

“Sam, breathe, you have to calm down and breathe.”

Sam wanted to laugh at that, but hyperventilating won out. How was he supposed to calm down when he couldn’t breathe and if he didn’t breathe how could he calm down? He felt Dean touch his arm and then move his body closer to Sam’s.

"Cas, go get a blanket. He’s going into shock.”

Footsteps receded from the room, but the warm weight pressing against his side remained. This gave him something solid to lean on when his vision spotted and he started tilting to the side. An arm came up around his shoulder and pulled his head up to rest against Dean’s shoulder. It was just as well; the air wasn’t coming either way.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean whispered into the top of his head just before his body shutdown and took control for itself.

Chapter Text

When Sam woke up, he was back in his room. His face was half smashed down into his pillow and his eyes felt puffy, but from what he could see he recognized the four windowless walls and the blood spot not far from his nose. Thankfully, what he didn’t see was the pot sitting in the corner of the room. There was one new addition to the room that wasn’t there before; a cot sitting parallel to Sam’s own bed.

Sam rubbed a hand over his swollen eyes and propped himself up. The cot wasn’t empty. Stretched out and laying fully clothed on top was Dean. He couldn’t be comfortable, not with his leather jacket still wrapped around him and his booted feet hanging off the end. Though, somehow he’d managed to fall asleep on his side with one arm dangling over the side. Dean was always the kind of person who could sleep anywhere. The car, a graveyard, a school desk; pretty much anywhere he could get still for long enough to close his eyes. Unfortunately he wasn't immune to the aches and pains the next morning brought. He could almost guarantee if Dean had a crick in his neck, he was about to be a pain in Sam's.

The bed popped as Sam sat up. Out the corner of his eye he could see his brother stirring. Dean had always been a light sleeper, so Sam wasn’t surprised that he was easily awakened. It was both a gift and a curse; a well appreciated skill among hunters, but not ideal for little brothers trying to sneak out of shared motel rooms.

Right now he didn't care either way. There was nothing out there to sneak off to besides a camp full of strangers and God only knew how many zombies beyond that. The only person Sam had left was Dean, and he had him right here in the same room. He'd prefer to keep it that way, but even in his numb, irrational mind, Sam knew that was illogical.

He looked back over to the cot and found Dean fully conscious. He was still lying down, but his eyes were attentive, showing no fatigue and watching Sam like a hawk. He could see the unasked "are you okay?" question in Dean's expression, but he didn't ask it. They both knew that was a stupid question.

Dean continued to stay quiet, just watching as Sam looked back. It took him a moment, but Sam soon picked up on what his brother was doing. Dean was waiting for Sam to talk... write. His brother was following his lead and allowing him to navigate them into the conversation whenever Sam was ready to.

The thing was, Sam was never one for safe waters. He was more of the dive right in type. He was tired of stumbling onto information. Right now he just wanted Dean to tell him the truth. No matter how ugly it was, it couldn't be worse than losing nearly everyone he ever cared about in what felt like the span of ten minutes. His notepad was back on the bedside table. He reached for it with a sureness his didn't think he could possess right now and penned out his first question.

What happened?

Dean's eyes skimmed over the paper, before eyeing Sam. "You passed out."

Sam fought not to roll his eyes, because he figured that much out on his own. Dean knew that wasn't the answer he was looking for. He was stalling, like he had before, but no more. Sam put his pen back to the paper, but didn't write. Instead he tapped the pen over each word as if to emphasize each word in the question. Dean's response was to close his eyes and roll to stare up at the ceiling. His eyes flickered across the wooden surface as if to sort something out only he could see.

Sam was near the point of chunking either his notepad or pen at Dean's head—maybe both, he hadn't decided yet—when Dean suddenly shifted on the bed. He sat up so he was facing Sam. He didn't look pleased, but whatever he'd found on the ceiling had given him enough resolve to answer Sam.

"When you disappeared, things got bad," Dean finally answered.

It wasn't the beginning he'd expected or wanted to hear, but there was a room full of dead family and friends and an over population of zombies outside. How good could the beginning really be?

"Dad went nuts," Dean wiped a hand down his face revealing a not in the least bit amused smile. "He practically tore down the warehouse and then when he was sure you weren't there we branched out. Dad called everyone on his contact list and I spent hours at the library trying to collect every scrap of information I could find on a Trickster." Sam raised his eyebrow and Dean scoffed, "I'm perfectly capable of reading a book."

BookS

Sam reminded, putting emphasize on the plural form.

"Yeah, well, it's not like any of it helped. All a bunch of dead ends,” Dean scowled as if he was still feeling the frustration of that conclusion. “We camped out at Bobby’s place for a while. Yeah, I know right. They called a temporary cease fire under the circumstances.”

Sam was surprised to hear that. Dad was pretty stubborn at the best of times and Bobby certainly wasn’t one to back down on his principles. He didn’t know what it was they’d butted heads over, but it must have been pretty monumental for Bobby to run Dad off with a shotgun and a promise to use it if he ever came back. He didn’t think there was a lot that could reconcile the two ex-friends after that.

“Bobby got ahold of Pastor Jim and Caleb. They did what they could; put out the word to other hunters, but no one had seen a Trickster recently. Most didn’t even know what it was or that they even existed. I know we out-stayed our welcome, but Bobby never said anything. He just kept looking.”

Sam blinked. Hearing of their family friend’s devotion to their cause didn’t make the sting on his loss any better, especially when Sam had thought the older man’s animosity toward their Dad had extended to them as well.

“We figured out how to kill it; wooden spike tipped with iron, but there wasn’t much we could do with that information if we couldn’t find the thing,” Dean said and grimaced. “Dad wanted to go back and see if he could recreate the altar the five victims had used to summon the thing to begin with and Bobby want to throw Dad in the Panic Room for even thinking it.”

Sam’s brow scrunched together in thought. Bobby was about as paranoid as Dad and due to his permanent location, twice as resourceful. He didn’t even want to know what the Panic Room was, but he was curious as to why Bobby thought using the ritual was a bad idea. Sam didn’t even have to write “Why?” before Dean was answering.

“The five people who summoned him ended up dead, Sam. We didn’t know if the summoning killed them or it did. We were pretty sure it did, but that wasn’t good enough for Bobby,” Dean explained with a slight reminiscent smile. “He’s almost as bad as you are about the details.”

Sam smiled fondly at the memory of the grumpy, old stickler. He wished their reunion had been on better terms; terms that Sam could have been able to be there for, but at least his family did have someone to turn to when they needed it. Sam made a quick scribble and then showed it to his brother.

You didn’t go then?

“Oh, we went.” Sam raised his eyebrows and Dean just nodded, “Dad and I decided it was worth the risk, and at the end of the day it was our decisions, not Bobby’s.”

The idea that Dean and Dad would so carelessly throw their own lives into the mix for an idea that only might work made Sam a little ill and a lot angry. What were all those crap lectures about safety and taking care of family over finishing the hunt if they weren’t even going to abide by it themselves? And what if they had died, then where would Sam be now? Probably still out strolling the streets like a zombie meal-on-wheels. Sam wanted them, needed them alive. Martyrs for the cause didn’t help Sam one bit. Sam opened his mouth to argue, if not with words then with angry facial expressions and probably ridiculous hand gestures, but Dean stopped him.

“No,” the older hunter said, the finality of the word stopping Sam like a bucket of cold water. “You don’t know what it was like for me, for both of us, not knowing where you were or if you were okay or if you were even still alive. So you can’t get mad at me for taking the risk and you can’t sit there and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing if you were in my shoes."

Sam clamped his mouth shut at his brother’s raised, questioning eyebrow. As much as he would like to continue fanning the indignant flames in his belly, he knew his brother was right. Accusing Dean of being reckless and stupid would be hypocritical, but he was wrong about one thing. Sam did know what it was like. Waking up at the warehouse utterly alone and scared wasn’t exactly a picnic even if it was only a few days.

Still, Dean probably already knew that to some degree and Sam wasn’t going to be the one to shove that fact back in his already guilt ridden brother’s face. So he kept his thoughts to his self and tried to pick back up on the conversation.

Did it work?

Dean shrugged, “Who knows if it would have. It was gone when we got back. Everything else was just as we left it. It was like none of us had ever been there; like nothing ever happened...,” he trailed off, eyes growing distance. His brother was undoubtedly going back to that day, back to that rusted, hazard violation of a warehouse. Sam could only imagine how difficult it must have been to go back only to find the only hope they had gone without a trace.

Sam came out of his own thoughts when Dean shook his head and continued. “We revisited the victim’s families to see if we could find out anything; some kind of book or spell they’d used, but there was nothing.”

He was glad his brother hadn’t found anything. The less risk his brother put himself in, the better. Though he was curious as to where the summoning ritual had come from if there were no traces of it at the victim’s homes.

Search the houses?

Sam asked, but Dean just shook his head, “No, I mean, there was nothing to search.” Sam felt his eyes widen.

The houses were gone?

“Not quite. The victims,” Dean pursed his lips together. His expression was caught somewhere between a sneer and a frown. “They were gone, just like the altar. Their families didn’t even know who they were when we asked. It was like they’d never existed and when we looked into it further we couldn’t find any records about it. Even the newspaper articles about the missing persons report were gone, replaced by some October Fest announcement.”

Sam pressed his own lips together, letting the information Dean gave him loop through his head. One person gone and five wiped from existence; how had any of them made it out of that warehouse alive? He took a shaking breath and then located an empty spot on his notepad.

Does a demigod have that kind of power?

Something odd flickered behind Dean’s eyes. It was so quick and spiteful that Sam thought surely his mind was playing tricks on him, but in the next second it was gone. “It can do whatever it wants, Sam,” Dean replied. “It’s made that much clear.”

But why?

Dean shook his head with a half shoulder shrug, “I don’t know.”

There was a reason

“Yeah? Like what? Boredom?” Dean’s tone was laced with malice; a hatred that had been festering for nineteen years. “Or maybe that’s just what they do. They come into people’s lives and they screw with them just because they can.”

Sam looked down at his pad. He wondered how many times Dean had asked himself that question only to come up with no better answer than “just because.” Sam knew it had to be more than that. Why would it go through so much trouble covering its tracks for just a prank? Wasn’t the point of causing chaos so the person creating it could sit back and watch the madness unfold? This one had cleaned up its mess expertly.

And there were also the Trickster’s last words to Sam. He would never forget what the demigod had said. Trauma had a funny way of sticking around like that.

“What?” Dean asked after a period of silence.

Sam hadn’t noticed the silence until Dean broke it. He also hadn’t noticed he was unconsciously writing or how Dean had moved closer so he could read the barely formed sentence.

He said

He really hadn’t meant to write that. As much as he thought there was a reason behind the demigod’s actions, he didn’t want to rehash what happened in the warehouse. However, if Dean’s suddenly narrowed eyes were anything to go by, that’s exactly what they were about to do.

“Said what, Sam?” Dean urged gently but firmly. He didn’t want Sam to think he was being forced, but at the same time not telling wasn’t an option Sam hesitantly placed the pen back on the paper. He didn’t start writing until the side of the bed dipped down and his brother’s knee was touching his thigh.

He said he was doing this for me

He handed the pad over for Dean to read. His eyes scanned over it once, paused, then over it again. His fist white knuckled around the notepad, wrinkling the paper and creasing the cardboard backing.

“What else?” Dean asked through clenched jaws. “Did he say anything else?”

Sam worried his bottom lip. He thought about shaking his head and leaving it at that, but one look at Dean’s face made him squash that idea. Dean always knew when he was lying, so it was best just to bypass the argument and further upset and just go straight for the truth. He gave a small tug on the notepad, signaling for Dean to relinquish his death grip on his only form of communication. His brother got the message and let go. He spread his now empty hands out over each thigh to keep them from curling up again.

Something about no seals and no Hell

This time he didn’t hand Dean the pad. He held it up but kept it close to his chest and out of his brother’s reach. Dean got the message and made no grab for it. His eyes flickered over it once before he turned away with a mirthless snort.

“Has the guy looked outside lately?” Dean thinned his lips over clenched teeth. “Plenty enough Hell out there to go around.”

Sam made quick movements across the paper, taking advantage of the break in conversation in order to change the subject.

What did happened outside?

Dean eyed him for a moment, undoubtedly sensing the diversion of topic, but thankfully allowing it. Maybe he even welcomed it. His brother did look a little relieved by the topic change.

“You mean the Croats?” Dean stated more than asked. Sam frowned thoughtfully and penned out an equation.

Croats = Zombies?

“The closest you’ll get to one,” Dean amended. “Zombies are the living dead and Croats are the infected living that you wish were dead.”

Infected with what?

“Demon virus,” Dean nodded when Sam’s eyebrows shot to his hairline in surprise. “It makes whoever’s infected temper goes up while their intelligence goes way down. Add in the high amount of contagion and you have a pretty decent recipe for a zombie.”

Sam felt his mouth go dry as his hand reached for the bandage around his forearm. How contagious was highly contagious? The one back at the motel hadn’t gotten its teeth into Sam’s flesh like it tried to, but it had definitely left its mark on him.

“Not that contagious,” the older hunter answered Sam’s unasked question. He imagined it wasn’t hard to read the panic on his face and know exactly what he was thinking. “You get it like any other virus by sneezing, coughing, sucking face...”

Sam shot Dean a disgusted look. Making out with a rot-faced zombie was something he never wanted a mental picture of, and yet, yep, there it was. Plus, Dean was almost forty. What forty year-old used the term “sucking face?”

Bodily Fluid Exchange

The smug look on Dean’s face never slipped, “If you want to be technical about it.”

I do!

A small chuckle escaped Dean. Just that short show of positive emotion took years off Dean’s face. It left Sam wondering how much of Dean’s age could be blamed on time and how much on just the burden of living. Sam smiled up at his brother, glad to see the gloom and doom subside for a moment. There were still questions he needed answers to, but he decided those could wait until later. Maybe after he’d come to terms with his current situation he could revisit those questions, but right now they hurt too much to even think about.

Dean cleared his throat when he noticed Sam was staring up at him. “Well, umm, speaking of disgusting. You reek.”

Sam frowned at the sudden insult. He hadn’t really noticed himself, but then again it hadn’t been one of his top priorities. Still, could it be that bad? As discreetly as he could he gave himself a quick sniff and was displeased when his nose wrinkled up on its own accord.

“Uh huh,” Dean agreed and pushed up from the bed. “I think it’s time we scheduled you a bath.”

Sam nodded absently and tried to remember the last time he’d had a bath. He hadn’t taken one the day before the hunt all thanks to unnecessary punishment. That coupled with his time on the road equaled roughly four or five days. That was way too long to go without washing. It’s a wonder Dean hadn’t mentioned it earlier or just had him hosed off when he was brought in.

He felt his face heat up. What had Convey #2 thought of their smelly addition? Maybe the better idea was to just drown his self in the bath and save his self the embarrassment.

A thought occurred to him. He snatched Dean’s arm to get his attention before scribbling on his pad. He shot a quick glance over to the corner of the room and then held up his writing.

The bath, not another pot, right?

Dean cocked an eyebrow. He followed Sam quick glance over to the corner of the room and then back. It took a second, but realization dawned on him and Dean cracked a grin.

“Two pots, actually,” Dean clarified, looking annoyingly amused at his brother’s horror. “If it helps any, they’ve bigger than the toilet pot.”

Sam let the notepad slip back down into his lap with a scowl. No, it really didn’t help, but annoyingly the stupid grin on Dean’s face did.

--------------------------

Dean hadn’t been joking when he said ‘schedule’ a bath. There was no running water now, as Sam had found out earlier, so taking a bath wasn’t as easy as turning a couple of knobs and praying there was some hot water still left in the tank. It was a whole process now; one that ran on a two day cycle and took more than one person to operate.

The system was set up toward the back of the encampment. Three white tents sat in a row not too far from a fairly decent sized pond. The body of water wasn’t so large that Sam couldn’t see all sides of it, but it was still big enough that he would probably get winded trying to swim across. In front of the tents was an elongated fire pit that spanned the length of the tents. It ran roughly three to four inches deep and was covered with a thick metal grate. Not many flames jumped up from the coals covering every inch of the trench, but the bright, angry color coming from them spoke of just how hot they were. The pit was also roped off in front and only accessible from the tent side.

“Had to do that, because people kept stepping on the grates,” Dean pointed out.

The image of a burger on a grill came to mind and made Sam mentally shutter. He didn’t want to think about what that must feel like. Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. He noticed a man standing close to the bank using what looked to be a long metal rod with a bucket attached to it to scoop up the water farther away from the embankment. Glancing around, he saw another man with the same tool pouring the contents of his own bucket into one of the four large, stainless steel pots near the end of the left tent.

“Come on, Jerry, pot goes on the fire first,” a loud female voice startled the man near the pots, causing some of the water to slosh out of his bucket and onto the grassy ground.

Jerry looked up to frown at the voice before dragging the pot over to rest on top of the grate. He hurriedly poured the rest into the pot and headed back toward the pond. The first man snickered at Jerry when he reached the embankment, to which Jerry replied by shoving the man and coincidentally knocking the bucket from his hand into the pond. Jerry laugh as the other man scowled.

“Knock it off you two!” Sam turned to look at the exasperated woman standing in front of the tent. Her hair was messily pinned on top of her head and her nose never lifted from the clipboard she was steadily writing on. Though despite of seemingly lack of attention she seemed to know what was going on around her without looking up. “Stop stoking that fire, Sims! You want to start a blaze and alert every Croat within a mile radius?”

Sims, a stocky blonde lady, immediately dropped the stick she’d been poking through the grate and held her hands up in surrender. Attitude was written in each movement as she stomped off and disappeared inside one of the tents. The clipboard lady sighed, not having seen any of it, but seeming to know all too well.

Dean ignored all the drama and stepped right up to the rope, “I need a bath scheduled,” he announced and shot a sideways glance at Sam, “like yesterday.”

The lady sighed from behind her board and said in what Sam could only describe as rehearsed tone, “Bathing schedule doesn’t start for another two hours if it’s your day for one. You’ll be okay until that time.”

Reaching forward, Dean pushed down the clipboard so that the woman’s face became visible. “I think we can make an exception this time.”

A perturbed look met Dean’s comment, but as soon as she saw the older hunter the animosity died immediately. “Oh, Boss,” the previously stern woman floundered for a moment. “I thought you were one of the Session girls trying to cut the line again. Not that they couldn’t use the extra bath.” The last part was mumbled with an air of distaste.

Dean nodded, “Good to see you’re running a tight shift, but no one’s trying to sneak an extra bath today.” He waited for the woman’s curt nod before continuing, “My brother needs to be added to the schedule. Now would be preferable. After today he can be assigned to the same schedule as me.”

Sam tipped his head up to look at Dean. He hadn’t brought his notepad with him, thinking that paper and water didn’t mix and that they’d return to the cabin afterward. Now he wished he had brought it. He hadn’t known taking a bath would be such an ordeal nor had he expected Dean to be ‘Boss’ and go all Commander and Chief on people. He shoved at Dean’s arm. He didn’t want any special treatment. If bathing hours didn’t start until later, then he could wait. That was what he wanted to say, but even after nineteen years Dean knew him well enough and ignored his silent protest.

“Your brother?” the woman looked completely baffled. Sam noticed the two men by the pond paused and even the stocky woman was poking her head out between the tent flaps. Sam wished he still had his jacket he’s arrived with so he could scrunch his neck down as far as he could into the collar. The woman glanced uncertainly up at Dean, “I thought...” she trailed off when Dean shot her a hard look. The woman swallowed her words and looked at Sam. She smiled, fake and a bit stranded. “Sorry, I guess we didn’t hear the news. Sometimes it takes a while to hear things out here. The boiling station is a full time job, so we don’t get around the camp too much.”

Sam offered the woman a smile, hoping it would make up for Dean’s unpleasant bossiness. Thankfully it seemed to work and she relaxed enough to give Sam a real smile.

“I’m Kayla, by the way,” she introduced, and then paused with an expectant look pointed in Sam’s direction. Sam really wished he had his notepad now. At a loss for a way to answer he automatically looked up to Dean.

“It’s Sam,” Dean supplied and tipped his head toward the clipboard. “That’s what you can put on the schedule... ow!”

Dean placed a hand over his arm and shot Sam a quick confused look. Sam met it with a solid glare and turned back to Kayla. She was looking between the two with a questioning expression. When she saw Sam was looking back at her she gave him a tight smile and looked over her board.

“Right, so,” she finally said. She made a quick notation and looked back up at the pair. “As you know, Dean, bathing is in two day intervals. We can start Sam off today and then he can start every other day after that. I can put him in the same time slot as you and extend your time by five so no one feels like they’re being cheated or bumped out of their slot.”

Dean nodded throughout her spiel. Sam had to wonder if his brother actually cared if anyone felt cheated from their spot with the way he was acting, but he immediately felt guilty for thinking it. Dean was a little rougher around the edges now, but it was unfair to suggest his brother didn’t care at all. This whole encampment proved otherwise. Sam did wonder something though. He didn’t understand the need for a two day shift if there an entire body of water out there to bath in. He did, however, get the need to first boil the water. There was no telling what kind of bacteria was hiding under the surface of that pond.

“That’s fine,” Dean agreed. “About how long will it take to get one ready for him now?” “’Bout thirty minutes.”

“We’ll be back in thirty minutes then,” Dean said and turned away from the fire pit. Sam hesitated, but turned also when Dean called after him. He had to jog a few steps to catch up. Sam waited until they were a few paces out before he punched Dean again.

“Why are you hitting me?” Dean huffed. He rubbed the sore spot above his elbow. The old Dean would have already tackling Sam to the ground and kicked his ass. This Dean was still eyeing the bandages on Sam’s body like they were keeping him taped together.

‘Why are you being a jerk,’ is the reply Sam wanted to give but had to settle for gesturing to Dean and mouthing the word, “Jerk.”

Dean frowned, eyeing Sam for the meaning behind the words he couldn’t say. Sam helped him by jerking a thumb back toward the boiling station. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out after that.

“Someone has to take lead,” Dean shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. Sam didn’t completely buy it, but those thoughts were quickly put aside when his brother slipped in a “bitch” and a smirk in his little brother’s direction. Sam was sorely tempted to punch him again.

They continued to walk, leaving the boiling station further and further behind. As they walked around the perimeter Dean stopped to point out a few things; the shed where they kept supplies and the two armed men guarding it, the make-shift garage where the Jeeps were kept and serviced as needed, the weapons cellar and the tent that sat above it where the volunteer guards hung out between shift changes. When they passed by a rowdy game of poker was being played amongst three men and one surprisingly toned woman. It was strange to see their table littered with cups of water and spent bullet shells instead of beer bottles and poker chips. One of them shouted a jovial greeting to Dean, to which his brother returned with a respectable nod.

Passed the guards tent there were several other tents laid out in a messy pattern. They were all made from different fabrics and colors. Some were bigger and some smaller, but for the most part they were huddled close together. Sam could see very few people hanging around the tents. If he had to guess, he’d say most of the occupants were off doing the necessary chores to keep the place running. He would never have guessed it took this kind of hardship to survive a zombie apocalypse, but then again, he never really gave it much thought until now.

When they reached what Sam assumed was the back most part of the property—he could see a large chained fence like the one Convey #2 had driven through when he first arrived stretching out across the property with armed guards spread along them—Dean led him over to a large, oblong mound covered by a brown tarp. He pulled the back part of the tarp up, exposing black painted metal. Sam moved closer at the sound of keys rattling and a lock popping. The shiny metal rose up and revealed a spacious trunk area.

“Dad said it was a waste of space—I think maybe he just didn’t want a reminder—but I kept everything, all your clothes and stuff,” Dean said, keeping his head ducked under the trunk as he rummaged around.

Sam heard him, though distantly. He was busy staring at the taillights and the silver bumper and black paint that only meant one thing to Sam. He skimmed his hand over the still polished looking finish, pushing the tarp up a little farther as he went. At one time Dean would have complained about fingerprints, but this time he said nothing. The lack of reprimand gave Sam the confidence to fist both hands into the tarp and yank.

The sleek, black Impala came into view with a flourish. He placed his hand over the cool window and peered inside at the leather vinyl. It was strange how everything he’d seen since arriving here looked aged, but not this car. It still looked as pristine as the day Dean first sat in the driver’s seat.

Sam hurried around to the trunk of the car, ignoring Dean for the moment, and searched around for the backpack he’d stored there the day Dean had found him by the lake in Bay City. He silently “ah ha’ed” when his hand found the coarse fabric of his backpack. He made quick work of the zippers, plundering around until he came up with a composition notebook and ball point pen.

You kept her

“Of course,” Dean said as if there were no other options and then quietly added, “Wouldn’t have made it this far without her.”

Sam imagined there was more truth in that than he cared to know about. After him and his Dad... what must it have been like for his brother to have nothing left but his car?

“Not many people know she’s back here, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it.”

Sam nodded. He knew exactly what his brother meant. The Impala was sacred ground; something that Dean wanted to keep separate from this new apocalyptic life.

She aged better than you

The expression of mock hurt Dean gave him made Sam grin.

“I think I liked you better without your notebook, Stinky,” Dean grinned back with his own quip. He tossed the bag he’d been searching for at Sam’s chest, who easily caught it. “Now see if you can’t find something in there to wear. Preferably something that doesn’t smell like mothballs.”

Sam pulled a tee shirt loose from the duffle and held it to his nose. It definitely smelled like something that had been put away for nineteen years. Thankfully they didn’t look anymore worn then they had been when Sam last wore them. He picked out a shirt, a pair of pants, boxers and socks. They didn’t smell any better than the other choices. He just hoped he didn’t smell like someone’s grandmother.

He moved to store the bag back in the trunk, but Dean stopped him. “Hang on to that.” Dean motioned for Sam to step back. The trunk lid closed with a soft bang. “It doesn’t belong in there anymore.”

Sam felt stupidly giddy over that one sentence. He couldn’t help the smile on his face as he helped re-cover the car. As soon as it was protected they left the car and headed back across the property.

Bathing was not the experience Sam had hoped it would be.

After returning back to the boiling station, they found all four large pots placed over the fire pit. Kayla stood over the pots, monitoring the thermometer hung over the inside lip of each pot. The other girl was helping in the task, but didn’t share even 1⁄4 of Kayla’s concern for the job.

They were handed two tin pails, a thinning bar of lye soap and a thread-barren towel. Sam stared uncertainly at the pail he was holding. He already didn’t like the way this was going. Nevertheless, he gave a nod of thanks, but the clipboard was once again blocking Kayla’s face.

“Come on,” Dean nudged and Sam once again followed his brother away from the station. This time they traveled diagonally, not moving nearly as far away from the lake as he’d like, but far enough that the tall grass surrounding most of the bank hid it from view. They soon came to a stop in front of a large, square slab of concrete that housed four rectangular stalls. They were crude looking with the amount of rust covering the exterior. Whatever metal was used to make them had not been meant for this purpose. One positive thing he could say was that they looked solid. Whoever made them knew what they were doing, but probably lacked the proper tools for the job.

Dean ushered him into one of the stalls. It wasn’t very spacious, but at least he didn’t feel like he was going to bruise an elbow if he so much as moved. He was surprised to see the interior metal was actually silver and not caked with brown rust.

“Well?” Sam looked up from inspecting the stall to find Dean watching him with an expectant look. He raised an eyebrow in return, but Dean just rolled his eyes before asking, “’You planning on doing this with your clothes on?”

Sam blinked at his brother and then glanced around at the open area around them. He felt his face heat up. It was just now occurring to him that he would have to strip down and bath where anyone could just come by and watch. It wouldn’t be as explicit as that, but having only one metal wall between his soon to be naked body and the entire camp left him feeling vulnerable.

Dean looked relatively sympathetic to his plight, but it needed to be done so Dean didn’t offer him any way out or the option of a private shower. There probably was no such thing. With great reluctance, Sam began peeling off the layers of clothes. It was slow going— starting with his shoes and leaving his pants and boxers for the very last articles removed— but eventually he stood exposed in the stall. Suddenly the solid stall felt inadequate. The bottom came up too far and the top came down to low. Sam felt like a drunken old west cowboy sitting in the street with nothing but a hollowed out barrel to cover him after losing everything on a high stakes poker game. It was embarrassing and he glanced around once more to make sure no one was within seeing distance.

“Just like gym class, eh, Sammy?”

Sam scowled at his brother and then gasped as the pail of water Dean was holding was unceremoniously dumped over his head. He sputtered in surprise and swiped at the long bangs now plastered over his eyes. Once they were pushed back into what was probably an impressive looking cowlick Sam shot his grinning brother an incredulous look. He knew his facial features had to be screaming ‘Why?’ but Dean ignored them in favor of passing the bar of soap over the top of the stall.

“You might want to get started,” Dean urged. “Soap is a real bitch to try to use when you’re dry.”

A shiver ran down Sam’s spine shortly after Dean’s words. The water may have been lukewarm when it fell over his head, but it was started to cool against his skin, causing goose bumps to break out over his arms and legs. The slight breeze wasn’t helping and he figured his brother was right. Besides, the sooner this was over, the sooner he could get dresser and out of here.

He made quick work of the soap. When he tried to hand it back Dean just shook his head and pointed to the top of his head. Apparently this bar was his shampoo and conditioner too. The second time he offered it to Dean, he accepted it, wrapped it in a thin cloth and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Sam was thankful when Dean gave him a warning for the next pail and even more pleased when it was a slow pour instead of a sudden splash. By the time the pail was empty Sam was suds free and more than ready to go.

Sam toweled off quickly and graciously accepted the clothes Dean passed over. It was hard to tug them on since he hadn’t spent much time removing all the water still clinging to his skin. In the end he made it out of the stall with no other complications then one damp sock and no doubt a couple of drying cowlicks in his hair.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Dean encourage when Sam tried to run his fingers through his damp hair only for them to get stuck in several tangles.

Sam stooped to collect his duffle and looped the long strap over his shoulder. He made sure the notebook and pen was securely tucked into the side pocket before looking up at his brother. The look on his brother’s face, the twist to his mouth, and tiny lines around his nose spoke volumes to Sam. He hung his head down and sighed, pulling dejectedly at his shirt. Bath or not he still smelled like some old lady’s house.

He jolted when Dean clapped an arm around his shoulder and steered him back toward the cabin. “Don’t worry Sam. Laundry day is only three days away.”

Sam had no idea why that thought was supposed to be comforting, unless Dean liked the smell of mothballs. He was going to be the one around Sam the most.

A cool wind blew across Sam’s still cool skin, sending icy cold fingers through his wet hair. He shivered a little and wished he had pulled a hoodie out with the rest of the clothes. A thought occurred to him. He yanked the notebook free of the outside pocket and wrote as they continued to walk. When he was done he held it out for Dean to see.

Where do we shower in the winter?

Dean’s face twisted up at the question as if remembering something particularly unpleasant.

“It’s not really a question of where we do it, but of how fast we can do it,” he answered.

Sam paused and gaped at the older man. Surely he wasn’t saying they bathed outside in the snow, right? There were certain parts of his body that did not appreciate that insight. Not. At. All.

Dean smiled at him, only the slightest bit of sympathy showing in his eyes, before tugging Sam along again.

Winter was going to suck.

Chapter Text

Adjusting to camp life was, well, an adjustment. The hardest thing to get use to was the lack of modern conveniences. It was amazing how much Sam took for grant and hadn’t even realized it until they were gone. The most noticeable was the bathroom, or the lack there of. It was strange not being able to shower whenever he wanted. He had gone a day or so without a shower before when they were low on funds or were too tired to make it to a motel, but even then there were stops they could drop by and freshen up. Now there was just the two day cycles and the once a week laundry day.

Even after four weeks the novelty had not worn off. If anything it felt worse. After the first time Sam had been put on the regular bathing schedule, which meant the other three stalls were now occupied while he tried to bath as fast as humanly possible. Dean had been right. It felt just like gym class, except instead of being surrounded by other teenagers he was surrounded by full grown, non-pubescent adult males. Sam was pretty sure it was worse than gym class.

Another thing that Sam missed was the lack of electricity. He still caught himself trying to turn on lights as he entered a room. There were always candles lit. Sometimes less were lit than others; it all just depended on how their supply levels looked for the week, but it was still never enough light to keep Sam’s fingers from itching to flip a switch. No electricity also meant there were no traditional means of entertainment. There were no radios to listen to or televisions to watch. Even if there had been, there was a really good chance that no stations were broadcasting.

Entertainment wasn’t something Sam had to worry about for long though. There were plenty of things to do around camp. There was the boiling station that was always running, though it was hard to lend a hand there since Kayla always gave him strange looks and ‘Attitude Girl’, aka Chris, was unfriendly at best. There was a fishing station on the other side of the pond and a small garden planted nearby for irrigation purposes. Both seemed easy enough or at least he’d thought so until he’d gotten the rundown on each one.

Needless to say Sam didn’t want to spend his days with Herman and Joey arguing over the proper method of discerning a pregnant female red belly from an over-sized male red belly. Apparently this was key information since neither pregnant female nor young males were considered for harvest. Beyond that gardening wasn’t even an option since Sam’s luck with plants was about as good as his attempt at raising a goldfish in the motel coffee pot. The only thing he knew about irrigation was that the ancient Sumerians were thought to have first developed it.

There were countless other stations; laundry, cooking, supplies, general maintenance. Each one Sam seemed to fail at for one reason or the other and to be honest the lack of communication didn’t help, but Sam did try. Every day he’d start over, picking a station and helping out as much as possible. It was important for Sam to feel useful, not to mention the busier he stayed the less time he had to think.

It was weird at first, working with the different people in the camp. The looks of shock and disbelief at being ‘Dean’s supposedly dead little brother miraculously brought back to life’ were discomforting and made already difficult labor even worse. At least they didn’t last for very long. Once people started talking to him and realizing he couldn’t talk back, he became the special kid everyone liked to coddle. Honestly, Sam didn’t know which was worse.

Oddly enough, his only saving grace in the matter was his brother’s consistent clinging (though Dean would never admit to such behavior), and he did mean clingy. Wherever Sam was, Dean wasn’t far behind. Even when Dean was called away Sam could always see him lurking nearby. It was something that would have bothered pre-warehouse Sam, but now it was something of a comfort. Being alone in Flint was over a month ago, but Sam never wanted to feel that kind of despair again and being around Dean helped.

Of course it was unrealistic to think things could stay like that. Dean was team leader of Convoy #1 and there were only so many times his brother could shirk off his duties with the excuse of helping his younger brother settle in. Not that Convoy #2 was complaining about the extra raiding they got to do, thanks to Dean’s absence, unless they counted Devan, which it didn’t appear they did. In fact, Flo seemed to be eating it up. She never hid her dislike of Convoy #1, but apparently her distaste for Dean was no secret either. Though why she harbored said hostility was a story he’d yet to hear.

Sam felt anxious when his brother finally resumed leading raids with Convoy #1 both for selfish and concerned reasons, but even when Dean was gone Sam wasn’t completely alone. During raiding days Sam had a different kind of shadow, a rather Castiel shaped shadow. It wasn’t something Sam was thrilled about to begin with. He still didn’t understand why his brother trusted a pot-head, or former pot-head, especially one that acted weirder when sober.

Whatever Castiel was or wasn't, no one could say he didn't take his duty seriously. The days when Dean was gone, Sam would find the man sitting on the couch, much like the second time Sam had met him, and waiting for Sam to emerge from his and Dean's room. He'd smile, affable kindness showing through the scruffy face, and offer Sam a bowl of whatever had been cooking over the fireplace. For the most part the meal was eaten in silence with Sam quickly spooning the food away and with Castiel watching the whole thing.

From there the day progressed much the same as it always did. Sam would head to a station that needed more attention that day than usual and lend a hand the best he could. Sam never took his notebook out with him to stations. It was difficult doing what was required of him without having to worry about dragging around a notebook and pen. Most of the time it didn’t matter. Dean knew Sam well enough to fill in the blanks for him. It almost became second nature to pass Dean a look and for his brother to pick up on it and immediately translate it. It easily became his form of communication at stations.

So it was understandable that the day Roger, one of the supply shed guards, began ribbing Sam about being the baby of the camp—“Sammy gets to stay in the cabin with big brother. Have to keep all the special kids inside, locked away or supervised.”—Sam had let loose with a particular potent glare, and when thick headed Roger didn’t get it, it was only second nature to look to his big brother. Only this time it was Castiel instead of Dean.

Sam was surprised to see Castiel looked... angry. He couldn’t ever remember the man ever looking anything other than content in only the way a high person could be, even when he wasn’t high. Sam thought he might actually punch Roger or his little sidekick, but at the last second he turned to look at Sam. The anger didn’t completely melt nor was it directed toward at Sam, but the older man’s features did lighten with concentration as his head tilted naturally to the side. Feeling that Cas was trying to read him, Sam amped up the expression he was trying to convey.

After a moment, Castiel nodded to himself and then looked back up at Roger. “Bitch.”

Sam couldn’t tell who was more surprised, himself or Roger and his buck-toothed friend. It was the first time he’d heard anything remotely hostile come from Cas and it was all Sam could do to keep from laughing at the looks on the two guards’ faces. That was exactly what Sam wanted to say. He wondered how Castiel knew, but thankfully he didn’t have to wonder for long.

“You and your brother share many things. Facial expressions is one of those things.” They were on their way back to the cabin. It was far too early to turn in, but neither one of them wanted to try another station. Sam glanced up at the older man. His face was straight forward, never looking anywhere other than the cabin they were heading toward, but a fond smile was visible on the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve seen that look many times, and it usually means disaster for someone. Though, sometimes it’s hard to tell who.” Castiel broke his forward stare and fixed Sam with a meaningful look. “I am glad to see you have his spirit. He could use a reminder.”

Sam held the older man’s stare. He’d seen the change in his brother. The way Dean was a great deal rougher around the edges with everyone whose name wasn’t ‘Sam.’ Most of it could be attributed to the strain of maintaining a working civilization in a failing world, but there was more to it than that. It was a little harder to see if someone didn’t know his brother. The guarded expression, gruff persona and tense joking could mean anything, but to Sam it spoke of a hidden burden. It made him wonder how long Castiel had been with Dean to be able to see this too? Sam was starting to get the impression that this man wasn’t just the pot-head who slept on the couch.

That afternoon when they’d reached the cabin, the lack of power and the over-baring amount of boredom had driven Cas into the bottom of the living room closet and he fished out a stack of dusty, thin, rectangular boxes... because there was no way in Hell the man was letting Sam explore the house again. It took Sam a second to figure out what they were, but when he did, he slid a couple of boxes off the top of Cas’ pile and read through them.

Monopoly, Clue, Sorry

They were all board games and the new editions too. Sam noted the layer of dust covering the cardboard and amended his thought. These were the new editions. Castiel had pulled his own box loose from the pile and had admitted to wanting to know how to play, but Dean had refused to show him. Upon seeing the box Sam instantly knew why. His macho brother was too manly to teach anyone how to play Candy Land, or even fess up to knowing how. But Sam had it on good authority that Dean knew perfectly well how to amuse his four year old kid brother by playing the game for hours on end.

Sam had taken the box from the older man and opened it up. It was only right that he teach the man to play. He had after all put Roger in his place on Sam’s behalf. So, he really owed it to him. This had nothing to do with the possibility that Cas might try to persuade his brother to play Candy Land since he knew how to play.

Board games easily became an afternoon pass time for the two. Sam grew to enjoy the time he spent with the odd man, even if he didn’t make sense a lot of the time. What Sam really enjoyed though, was the times Dean would take a break from dictating and play with them.

Of course, Dean’s agreement to join automatically meant Candy Land had to go back in the closet; a new rule he’d made when he found out Sam had taught Cas how to play. Sam wasn’t too disheartened by the loss. After all, there were plenty more games Dean didn’t like. Just like the one they were currently playing.

“CAT. C-A-T,” Dean spelled out, less than enthusiastic, and sat back in his seat. When no one made a move, Dean raised an eyebrow and held out his hands, “It’s a word. Count it.”

Sam grimaced, but ticked the three points down on his notebook.

“Good job, Dean. You made a word this time,” Castiel praised, and the funny thing was that it really was a genuine compliment. That was the only thing keeping Sam from laughing, and probably also the only thing keeping the glare Sam could see trying to work its way to the surface of Dean’s face at bay.

Cas didn’t wait for a reply before he began arranging his Scrabble tiles and placing them on the board. When he was done, Sam just stared at the arrangement while Dean made some kind of strangled noise and placed his head in his hand. Sam picked up his pen, this time not to take score, and wrote.

Assbutt?

Dean didn’t even look at Sam’s penned question before announcing, “That isn’t a word, Cas?”

“It was okay the last time I used it,” the scruffy man asked, genuinely not understanding why his friend was rejecting his word.

“As an insult, yes,” was Dean’s reflexive reply, which after a moment he quickly rectified. “What am I saying, no, not then, not ever.”

Castiel looked a bit crestfallen, which made Sam feel bad for the guy, but mostly he just looked confused as he collected his tiles from the board. Sam wondered where in the world had Cas come up with that kind of redundant insult. He couldn’t imagine what situation they must have been in for Dean not to have died a little bit on the inside at the horrible slur. Still, he felt bad for the enthusiastic game player and couldn’t help but try and offer up some encouragement.

Still a good word in there

Castiel nodded and added the two ‘ss’ back to the board. For a moment Sam thought the man would leave the word at ‘ass.’ That was not the good word he’d been referring too, but thankfully Cas placed the ‘b’ in front spelling the word ‘bass.’ ‘abuts,’ was the better word, but the already played word seemed to be a crowd pleaser for both Castiel and Dean.

“Nice,” Dean drew out the word, honestly thrilled by the move as if they were watching a football game and rooting for the same team. Castiel even indulged Dean’s high-five. Watching the two brought back that nagging question to the forefront of Sam’s mind. The desire to know some of what his brother had been through while Sam was gone and how he and Cas knew each other so well, With a casual game of Scrabble taking place, and having a pen and notebook at the ready, Sam couldn’t help but ask.

How did you two meet? was the first thing he wrote, but quickly scribbled it out. That sounded too much like he was asking an old married couple to tell him their love story. That was not what he was asking for at all. Both Dean and Castiel had paused to watch Sam write, so he had both their attention when he finally turned the notebook to face them.

How do you two know each other?

The comfortable atmosphere suddenly disappeared and Sam wished he could force the ink back into his pen. Dean, no longer caught up in the mock excitement of the board game, now looked grim and was fixated on some random square on the Scrabble board. Castiel looked grim as well, maybe even a little regretful, but at least he was still looking at Sam.

“I pulled your brother from—,” Cas started, but was instantly cut off by a sharp bark of his name. Sam jumped at the sudden, loud tone, but Castiel didn’t even flinch. He just met Dean’s lethal glare with an inquisitive expression, one that dissolved to disbelief and then slight disapproval. Sam didn’t know what unspoken words had passed between them, and suddenly he knew how Dad felt when he and Dean pulled that trick in front of him, but when Castiel turned back a forced smile was what greeted him. “From a low place,” the older man finished.

Dean didn’t look all that impressed with the new choice of words; in fact, he looked like he might actually strangle the guy for making them both sound like depressed girls.

“We’re partners,” Dean supplied instead, and Castiel quickly stepped in to support him. “Yes,” Castiel nodded dutifully. “Your brother and I share a profound bond.”

Sam’s pretty sure his mind went blank at that point, because maybe asking “How they had met” wasn’t too far off the mark after all. It was certainly an unexpected reply and Sam didn’t exactly know how to respond to it, but he didn’t want his brother to think him rude or unsupportive. Especially since Dean turned pale the minute Castiel finished speaking. So Sam penned out the first thing he could think of.

Congratulations...

Dean gaped at his little brother and then at a clueless Castiel before snapping his jaw shut and shaking his head.

“No,” Dean pointed at Sam to make sure his point got across and then he pointed needlessly at Sam’s notebook and repeated, “No.”

Sam’s brow wrinkled at the mixed signals he was getting and looked to Castiel, who seemed confused as well.

Dean huffed, and narrowed his eyes, “I mean we’re hunting partners. That’s it. Nothing else. Nada.”

The only response Dean received was a curious one from said partner. “Is that not what you meant to begin with?”

Dean’s sigh sounded very much put-upon, “Yes, but your comment... you know what, forget it. Just, Sam, Cas and I are not partners. Okay?”

Sam grinned at the exchange, already working out for himself that Dean’s lack of adjective before his noun and Castiel’s naïve offer of support had messed both of them up. It was understandable, since Castiel was always saying weird stuff, but that didn’t mean Sam was about to let his brother off the hook so easily. He already had his reply written out before either man addressed him again.

You know, denying it only hurts your partner.

If Dean’s voice was a higher pitch, Sam’s sure he could have categorized the noise his brother just made as a squawk. Dean opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when he saw the smug smile on Sam’s face. Recognizing his little brother was teasing him, Dean’s mouth twisted down into an unimpressed expression and mutter, “Bitch.”

“It’s alright, Sam,” Castiel said, drawing the attention back to him, “I am used to it.”

Sam bit his lip as Dean shot the other man an unreadable look. A bout of silence laughter escaped Sam when Dean noticed the playful twist to Castiel’s lips. His older brother scowled and stood up from the couch.

“Okay, game’s over,” Dean announced. He picked up the Scrabble board, dislodging the different words and sliding them off into the box.

But I was winning

“Which none of us can prove,” the older hunter complained as he shoved the lid back on the box and stored it back under the couch. When he stood back up he sent Sam an accusing look. “You can’t really expect us to believe ADNEXAL is a word. And how convenient that none of us have a dictionary to say otherwise.”

Sam grinned--he wished his brother had a dictionary to look that one up so he could see the look on the man's face--and allowed his brother to nudge him up off the couch and toward their room. “Bedtime,” Dean said and Sam silently groaned. His brother ignored him in favor of turning the parental finger at Castiel, “And you, I’d tell you to go to bed, but you’re already there. So go to sleep.” Castiel’s brow scrunched in confusion, but after a moment he turned sideways and his head disappeared from where Sam could see it over the back of the couch.

That night Sam found it harder to sleep than normal. He watched the even rise and fall of Dean’s chest from across the room and then glanced at the door. All joking aside, Sam could tell there was something his brother and the other man wasn’t telling him. He’d seen Castiel handling one of the guns at the weapons shed and while his technic was adequate, it was not up to par with the level of skill a hunter should be at. Still, it was evident in the way the two acted around each other, the depth of friendship and trust, that there was some truth to their story.

The next morning Sam crawled out of bed before Dean woke and headed into the living room. Castiel was still asleep, stretched out on his back with one leg bend and propped on the floor. Sam regarded the scruffy older man for a moment before opening his notebook and scribbling on the corner of the front page. When he was finished he tore the corner from the page and sat it lightly on top of Castiel’s forehead.

Leaving his notebook and pen on the table, Sam hitched his bag a little higher on his shoulder and headed for the door. Today was Wednesday, and he wanted to beat the laundry crowd.

Thanks for being there for my brother

--------------------------

It wasn’t often Sam shook off the presence of his two shadows. It wasn’t something he sought to do at first, but as more time passed he began to feel safe here, more assured of his standing in camp life. It was only natural for his independent streak to begin flaring up again. He figured by now it would be okay for him to be left to his own devices, but clearly his opinion wasn’t shared by his two self-appointed guardians. Dean still accompanied him everywhere and when he couldn’t Cas was readily available to take up the position.

It was nearly impossible to give either one of them the slip at first. Dean was far too good of a tracker to lose track of his brother so easily. It almost irked Sam how easily Dean could find him. If their father were here he’d give Sam a tongue lashing for letting his skills in the stealth department slouch. The only comfort was that Dean had nineteen years of extra practice on him.

Castiel was a different story all together. The man was a self-proclaimed hunter, but Sam had easily dismissed that. It wasn’t hard to see that the man lacked certainly skills and instincts he’d witnessed in both his father and his brother. However, the man did possess the uncanny ability to always know where Sam was. It was almost creepy.

As winter grew closer, and more problems began popping up around camp—possible pond freezing, heating for tents, final garden harvest before the frost set in—both Dean and Castiel’s attention became more and more divided. It became more of a challenge for them to keep an eye on the youngest camp member, which gave Sam ample opportunity to sneak off without the danger of being followed.

The first time Sam did it, he really didn’t have a set destination in mind. As juvenile as it sounded, Sam’s teenaged mind was just excited to have an unsupervised outing. There wasn’t much he could do. He’d already gone around to every station that morning and so far the only things he’d managed to do were help Herman untangle his line from an underwater limb (his pants were still damp from that) and help recount food that had been harvested the previous day. Beyond that it appeared to be a slow day, which left Sam to wander about and to occasionally greet some of the people he was beginning to know and like.

Sam didn’t know why he veered off in the direction of the garage. It wasn’t a part of the camp he visited often. There wasn’t much he could offer in the way of mechanics. That had always been Dean’s department. The best Sam could do was pass tools, and if the ugly looks Dean used to give him before getting his own tools were anything to go by, he wasn’t even good at that. Maybe it was because he hadn’t been there often and it was the last place his two shadows would think to look. Either way, the garage was something new’ish that he hoped would call a temporary cease to his boredom.

Calling it a garage was generous. Mostly is just resembled a larger shed with the front wall cut out. A couple of make shift tool racks hung around the walls displaying several tools of every size. None of them looked like they were part of a complete set, but from Sam’s limited knowledge of the equipment it looked like they had everything needed for just about any job.

There was a convoy Jeep currently taking up a large area in the middle of the garage. Its wheels were off and leaning near an old Coke vending machine that was leaning a little further to the right than it should be. It was an odd thing to have in the garage, especially since the thing looked like it hadn’t functioned in years, but it did give the room that second rate automotive repair shop feel. So did the large, globe gumball machine sitting a few feet away from it.

Sam ventured closer, seeing what other novelties he could make out when something under the cedar block suspended vehicle moved, causing Sam to jump. The quick movement ran his rear-end right into one of the tool shelves. The tools rattled on impact and suddenly the thing under the car emerged quicker than lightening.

“Mo?”

Sam blinked, focusing on the person now standing by the vehicle. The pulled back blonde hair and crack glasses were familiar and his mouth turned into a little ‘o’ at the realization. This was Bill, or William, or Si actually.

He hadn’t seen the man around much since Convoy #2 had brought him in. Actually, no one had seen much of the convoy members at all since Sam had come in and Dean had subsequently taken a break from captaining his own convoy. As a result Si and the others hadn’t been around a lot, or at least not until Dean was finally forced off of his ‘vacation,’ as the men were calling it, and made to run raids again.

Sam felt a little guilty over making them work extra hard, but if there was any animosity over the subject, the man in front of him didn’t let it show. The man actually looked pleased to see him.

“We haven’t seen you around,” Si said. He wiped his greasy hands absently on the rag hanging out of his front pocket. “We were kind of worried until Kev told us the news.” The man hesitated for a moment, before the burning desire to know the answer goaded him forward. “So you’re really Dean’s little brother?”

Sam simply nodded. He couldn’t say anything else without his notebook.

“Man,” Si scratched his head, unknowingly rubbing black grease in his blonde hair. Even if he did know, he probably wouldn’t have cared at the moment. Sam could practically see the cogs in his brain turning. He paused to look at Sam with a genuine expression on his face. “Do you know what the odds are of us finding you and you being related to someone in this camp? It’s astronomical. I’ve done the math.”

The blatant look of mathematical elation on Si’s face was almost comical. All Sam could manage to do was shake his head with an amused smile, one that disappeared once Si started talking again.

“Well, first we have to get a base number of people living in the United States both before and after the Croatoan outbreak. Keep in mind the after number is a rough guestimate due to the lack of organized technology in this time period, though we could probably get a better number if we started by calculating the number of first infected individuals and the ratio of infected bite spread. For example, one Croat creates two, two creates four, and then four becomes eight, and even that’s still assuming each Croat only changed two humans before being put down. But for time sake—”

“Hey, Mo!”

Si’s in-depth analysis came to a stop when the deep voice called out from the front of the building. It was another familiar voice, one that Sam could have hugged for saving him from the Calculus class from Hell.

“I was coming to see if Si had finally cracked,” the tall, dark man stepped inside the shed. His big grin showed a good amount of teeth. “But I see he’s found a willing listener instead. Or at least one that can’t protest.”

Kevin, Sam’s mind provided as he watched the tall man approach. The deep voice and calming presence were the same as when he’d first entered the hardware store and pulled Sam out of the zombie infested place. He found himself smiling up at the man. It really was good to see him.

Sam held no ill will toward the man. He understood that what happened in the basement had been necessary. Maybe not to the level of cruelty his brother had taken it, but it was a bad situation all together, for all of them. It couldn’t be help. Sam knew that if he’d been in the same situation, if he’d had a camp full of people to protect and a possible shifter in their midst, he would have done what needed to be done too. In the end, he was grateful to Kevin. The man had held off the brunt of Dean’s wraith down in the basement, and ultimately found him and brought him back to his brother. Honestly, Sam owed the man a lot.

“Good to see you, kid,” Kevin clapped a heavy hand on Sam’s shoulder. “’Been making it okay?”

Sam gave him a shaky smile and a nod. There was a lot he was still trying to come to terms with. Every day was a little better, but some mornings it was still a shock waking up and being here instead of the poorly ventilated motel rooms along every highway in America.

And there was still the corkboard of photos in the back room that Sam was dutifully ignoring; at least for now. He couldn’t concentrate on them now, not while everything was still a little fresh for him. The photos would be something he’d have to revisit when he didn’t feel like the stories behind them would break him. But for now, yes, Sam was making it.

“Good,” Kevin replied with a squeeze to Sam shoulder. He spared him another once over before clapping his hand on his shoulder once more and then moving to address Si. “So what’s the damage, Math Man?”

“Hmm? Oh,” Si, more than likely still hung up on his equation, blinked away his previous thoughts and focused back on the Jeep. “Right. So, we’ve got good news.”

“I do like good news,” Kevin offered needlessly and then indicated for the blonde man to continue.

“Well, the bones from the guy Flo plowed over don’t seem to have punctured anything important. And here’s the better news,” Si held up his finger before squatting down and reaching under the vehicle. Something rattled against metal before pulling free with a loud ‘ping!’ When Si stood back up Sam had to press his knuckle against his nostrils to keep from loosing his breakfast just from the smell. Si held up what looked like a rotting mutilated hand, complete with torn off thumb and puss-oozing sores. “It looks like this little guy is the thing causing the rattling in the undercarriage.”

Sam eyed the black, coagulated blood at the base of the hand and then to the black smears on Si’s clothing and hair. He hoped all of that was grease.

“Jesus, Si, get rid of that thing,” Kevin grimaced. Like Sam, his hand was covering his mouth to stave off the odor. The taller man eyed the blonde’s hands as he escorted the tattered limb to a receptacle at the back of the garage. “Get rid of the gloves too and then go tell Kayla you need to wash your hands.”

Si frowned as the heavy work gloves hit the bottom of the trashcan. “You want me to ask the Hydro-Hoarder if she can spare a drop?”

“She can spare you a cup or you can wash your Croat infectous hands in her pond. Whichever one she’d prefer.” Kevin shrugged.

Sam could just imagine the wide eyes of the boiling station manager peeking over her clipboard in horror at the idea that someone was polluting her pond. He can still hear her giving Herman hell for letting Sam wade out in the water this morning just to untangle a line.

“Fine,” Si resigned. “But I’m probably going to be the one losing a limb next just for asking.”

“Better a limb than your brain,” Kevin called to the blonde as he left the large shed. The flinch from Si said that he very much agreed with the dark skinned man.

“That guy,” Kevin shook his head. Sam was listening, but he was also focused in on the dinted fender and rusty-colored smudges across the metal of the Jeep. The zombie must have been pretty solid to make such a big impact, and if so, they really were lucky all they got away with was a hand as a souvenir.

“Ah, yeah. I see you found Flo’s handy work,” Sam glanced up at Kevin who was frowning down at the blood smears on the fender. “She gets a bit excited sometimes.”

“Who gets excited sometimes?”

Sam peeked around from where Kevin was standing behind him and blocking his view. Thought it was unnecessary. Sam knew the rough, sassy voice of Flo without even looking. She was standing in the opened front of the building with her hands on her hips and a knowing smirk on her lips, though when she spotted Sam her eyes lit up in a way only a mother’s could.

“Well look at you!” Sam smiled as Flo stepped up to examined him more closely. “It looks like there was a handsome young man under all that dirt after all.”

Sam felt his face heat up at the compliment and also at his blatant lack of hygiene when they’d found him. He scowled when he caught the smirk on Flo’s face. She laughed at the sight of his embarrassment. Even Kevin chuckled toward the tail end of her joyful laughs.

“That’s what we thought about Vanny when he showed up one day,” Kevin remarked.

“Yeah, until we hosed him off and found out otherwise.” Flo grinned, messy braid laying behind her and hiding none of the joy on her face. “I think the dirt was actually trying to warn us.”

The following snickers filled the garage momentarily blocked out the sullen footsteps traipsing into the shed.

“Freakin’ hilarious,” Devan’s wiry frame passed by the side of the Jeep, scowl permanently fixed on his face. He paused when he saw Sam standing in front of the vehicle. He gave Sam a quick once over, his hand going subconsciously to his healed wrist, before looking up to the two people standing just behind him. “We’re bringing in the Enforcer for repairs now? I thought his specialty was breaking things, not fixing them.”

“Nothing to fix apparently,” Kevin said in lieu of answering. “Si’s says there’s nothing punctured and the rattling was from the Croat.”

Both Flo and Devan shot questioning looks to Kevin, who then elaborated, “He left us a hand under the car.” Devan responded with a look of disgust and Flo looked oddly proud of herself.

Devan leaned back against one of the shelves near the back. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, but whether it was from the recent zombie news or the shelving itself, Sam didn’t know. Devan stuck his hands in his pocket and glanced around the area. “’He leave to dispose of the thing?”

“Actually it’s in the can next to you.” Devan jumped, putting distance between himself and trashcan just in case the hand decided to spring to life and drag him into the garbage with it. He gave Kevin a dirty look, but the black man just shrugged, “Ain’t nothing we can do with it until the waste disposal station makes their run in a few days.”

Sam grimaced. That was a station he’d only been to a couple of times, and if it was up to him he’d never go back. One day at the waste station required a whole week’s worth of showers just to get the smell off. A fact that neither he nor Dean was too happy about.

“Where’d he run off to then?” Flo asked. She went to sit on her usual spot on top of the hood, but stopped at the sight of the bloody fender and grill. Scooting to her right, she propped against the front wheel covering.

“Out to beg off a cup of water from Kayla.” Kevin’s answer was met with a ‘suicide’ comment from Devan and a ‘are we taking bets?’ from Flo. Sam couldn’t help but smile at the hopeful look on Flo’s face, but Kevin just chuckled and shook his head. “I told him to threaten her with either cleaning off his Croatoan hands in a boiled water cup or in the pond.”

“Nice thinking,” Devan’s face looked genuinely complimentary, but his tone was laden with sarcasm. “Now we know the general area to start searching for his dead body when he comes up missing.”

“Nah, she wouldn’t kill a convoy member,” Flo crossed her arms and confidentially leaned farther back into the body of the Jeep. “There are so few of us willing to even leave the property gates without losing one. She’ll probably just cut him off for a week or two. Which I guess is bad for us.”

“Well, you are the one who wanted to go through and not around,” Kevin said, obviously referring to the unfortunate zombie that had been in Flo’s way.

Flo just brushed off the detail with a flutter of her hand, before turning her full focus on Sam. “So when are you joining us?”

Needless to say Sam was caught off guard by the question, and if the indignant ‘what?!’ and stern ‘Flo’ was anything to go by the other garage occupants were surprised as well.

Flo also looked surprised, but not for the same reason as the rest of them. She looked over at Kevin who was wearing a disapproving expression. "You're the one who said how good he was."

"Yes, but he's just a child," Kevin reasoned.

"He's sixteen, as I recall," Flo shot back.

Sam had to agree with her on that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of himself as a kid, but he was pretty sure that day could be narrowed down to Christmas Eve when he'd fished his Dad's journal out from between the mattresses of their motel room. It wasn't actually his hunter's initiation, but it was the day Dad decided if he was old enough to snoop, then he was old enough to know the truth. Actual hunting was out of the question; however, researching and basic training were prefect starters for ten year old Sam.

"Sixteen is still a child," the tall man countered.

"Hardly," Flo sat forward on the tire cover and eyed Kevin critically. "You know what I was doing when I was sixteen?"

"Probably telling children there is no Santa Claus," Devan mumbled and then yelped when Flo leaned back and punched him in the chest. "Jesus!" he grouched and rubbed at his aching breast bone.

"No. I was running off to join the army," she answered proudly. "Just like any red blooded American should do. No matter their gender," she added as an afterthought.

“That kind of life isn’t meant for everyone.”

“Maybe not,” the dark haired woman relented, but a knowing glint told Sam she wasn’t done. “But I think anyone who can hold their own out there for more than a day deserves a seat on any convoy.” Flo paused. She turned so that she was now facing Sam, “And they’re sure as hell welcome on mine.”

Sam studied the older woman. Joining a convoy had never even crossed his mind. He was so glad to be out of Flint and away from all the zombies that his mind never entertained the idea of going back out. The offer was a flattering thought. It was nice to be more or less praised for a job well done. That was something his Dad didn’t so readily hand out.

But was heading back out into the fray something he wanted to do? “Sam.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a low voice from the front of the shed. When he turned he found Castiel standing there, arms dangling by his sides and a suspicious look that ticked from Flo to Kevin and then back. Sam shuffled forward and was rewarded with Cas’ attention.

“Your brother is looking for you,” he said.

Sam nodded his acceptance to the scruffy man. He turned back to offer a quick goodbye smile before trudging out of the shed.

“Think about it, Mo.”

Sam glanced back for a moment to acknowledge the request’ nothing promising like a nod, but a polite regard of the offer. When he turned back Castiel’s eyes were narrowed and leveled toward the remaining people inside the garage. Sam was barely two seconds within reaching distance of the older man before his hand clamped over Sam’s shoulder and began steering him away from the building.

--------------------------

Dean hadn’t been happy that his little brother had given him the slip, but Sam had just smiled and asked Dean if he was losing his touch in his old age. That had been enough to throw his big brother off track with a huff of indignation.

The next few times he’d snuck off had been harder. His brother was trying to make a point, but in the end his divided attention between camp life and his brother had been his down fall. It easily became something of a challenge for him; something he had to use his mind to puzzle through. It was the most stimulating thing he had to do when no station seemed to need his help or just flat out didn’t want it (he really didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to wade in the water).

The strange part of it was, it wasn’t just the sneaking off he enjoyed. More often than not Sam found himself back at the garage. After only a few trips there it wasn’t hard to figure out the building was a popular hangout for Flo and her crew. There was always at least three or more of them standing around tweaking the Jeep or reliving past raids. Boo was really the only one who never showed up, but that was mostly due to her sister needing help with last minute harvests.

Sam found that they made him feel welcome in a way none of the stations had. It was an easier atmosphere. The nicknames and the good natured ribbing wasn’t something the rest of the camp shared. Best of all, no one seemed to mind that the ‘kid’ was hanging around; except for Devan, but there wasn’t much he didn’t mind. And by Flo’s insistence, Sam wasn’t even a kid.

He learned a lot about them in the short time he spent with them. Flo was always ready and willing to share her adventures in the army; about how she’d faked her ID and chopped off all her hair to fit in the boys. Her attitude and spirit reminded him a lot of Dean. It was strange that they didn’t get along, but if it was true what they say about opposites attracting, then the two were just born to repel one another.

Kevin’s life was no less exciting than Flo’s, just a little more orthodox. Receiving his bachelor’s degree in criminal justice when he was twenty-five and then completing a four month run in the police academy, he went on to join Michigan PD for ten years as a deputy and five years as sheriff. Kevin’s life was spent protecting people, and it wasn’t until he’d spent fifteen years on the force that he realized the best way to protect people wasn’t just by flashing a badge and waving a gun. Two years later Kevin walked out of the FBI academy with his hostage negotiator’s certificate.

Si, or William, was a prodigy of sorts, though not a self proclaimed one. Si thought the idea of a prodigy was ridiculous. Just because he was more academically inclined than others, didn’t make him special. Though it was a hard notion for people to grasp when that particular sentiment came straight from the valedictorian speech he gave at the age of thirteen. From there he was Swarthmore College bound and after four years of quick course study Dr. William Thurm never left, choosing to share his gifts with future students as a physics professor.

Sam was almost envious of Si’s story. College was a dream for Sam; the unreachable goal if his dad had any say in the matter, but it was an idea he cherished. Now that dream wasn’t even a dream anymore. Whatever college was still standing was undoubtedly overrun by zombies. The image brought to mind a scene straight out of a B grade horror movie.

But maybe that dream wasn’t so lost. Some people were born to certain occupations, and Si believed teaching was something he was born to do. He could hardly resist an eager student. It wasn’t college, but it was the next best thing, and Sam couldn’t be more thrilled to have private tutoring sessions with a Swarthmore College professor.

Devan was less forthcoming with his story, claiming he didn’t feel the need to share with his ‘abuser’ and Boo just wasn’t around to share her story.

The convoy proposal Flo had made was never too far from Sam’s mind, especially when he was spending so much time with the crew, and what surprised Sam was that the offer was starting to look more appealing.

At first, Sam had swept the idea under the rug, taking the compliment for what it was and nothing more, but the more time he spent trying to fit in to different stations, the more he reasoned that maybe he wasn’t cut out for this part of camp life. Even Dean wasn’t active at stations, choosing only to help solve seasonal issues. His brother, who was raised under the same ex-military father as Sam, was leader of his own convoy. If this was right for Dean, maybe it was something Sam could excel at as well.

All those years of training how to handle a gun, to fight and to reason through any situation were wasted at stations. It wasn’t going out and ridding the world of evil, but it was surviving against a supernatural threat to help bring life affording supplies to others, and wasn’t that basically what he’d been trained for?

But in the end it was Flo’s gentle shoving and admission that not many people were willing to or had the skills to raid. Sam had the skills and Flo was right. Everyone who could join should join. However, his brother had a completely different take on the matter.

“No,” Dean said without looking up from moving his green Hersey’s® kiss shaped pawn across the board.

Dean

“I said no, Sam. Now drop it,” Dean moved the pawn piece up one final space and then thumped it down with unnecessary force.

No

“No?” Dean gave his little brother an incredulous look, like Sam had never told him no before.

Not dropping it. Why can’t I?

Sam slid the notebook closer to his brother with a little defiant shove. He was acutely aware of Castiel watching both of them from across the coffee table.

“I can think of ten good reasons of the top off my head,” the older hunter answered, “Would you like to hear all of them or just my top three?”

Sam scowled and pulled the notebook back.

Just the one good one

“Sam.”

Sam paused, moving his heated gaze from his brother to Cas. He really didn’t need someone else trying to talk him out of this or siding with Dean. When the scruffy, older man just continued to stare, Sam raised an eyebrow at him as a symbol to continue. After a moment Cas looked down at the board, like he was itching to move the pawns around, and then back at Sam.

“It’s your turn,” he finally said.

Sam shot him a weird look, but when Castiel didn’t so much as blink Sam sighed and flipped over a card. He moved a random pawn six paces forward and turned back to Dean.

“Okay, how’s this,” Dean continued as though Castiel had never interrupted them. “Because I said so.”

Dean

Sam penned as much frustration as he could into his brother's name. The result was his brother huffing out his own sound of frustration.

"Where is this coming from all of a sudden?" Dean asked. When Sam didn't reply right away his eyes narrowed in suspicions. "Flo asked you to do this, didn't she? This was her idea."

Sam rolled his eyes. It was apparent that whatever contempt Flo held for Dean, the feeling was mutual.

I can make my own decisions

"Yeah well, your decisions didn't include joining a convoy until you started hanging out with her crew." Dean countered. "So if not from there, then where?"

Sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, Sam thought about what he should tell his brother. It was true that Flo had planned the seed, but in the end it was his choice. He needed to do this, at least once.

Not the point. I need to do this.

Dean's mouth pulled into a tight line. Sam wasn't denying where the idea came from, but he wasn't willing offering it up. He didn't want this conversation influenced by his brother's dislike for convoy #2. He wanted Dean to understand why this was important to him. Thankfully, Dean steered away from that topic and focused in on Sam's latter statement.

"You don't need to do anything," Dean assured; voice a bit softer but tone still gruff. "You're just a kid, Sam. No one expects you to help out. At least not with raids," he added the last part when Sam looked slightly horrified.

He knew everyone thought of him as the kid of the camp, and considering he was the youngest by about fifteen years he could understand why. But his age didn't make him an invalid. He wasn't great at a lot of the stations, but that didn't mean he couldn't work or pull his own weight. Sixteen or not, he was a trained hunter and in a lot of ways more prepared for raids than stations.

You and Dad thought I was old enough to hunt

It wasn't intended as a low blow, but Sam could see the nerve it struck with Dean. His face darkened slightly and tiny stress lines appeared around his eyes and mouth.

"Dean," Castiel said. Sam had almost forgotten the other man was in the room.

"And look how well that turned out," Dean said, completely ignoring Castiel.

It was Sam's turn to feel struck. It almost felt like the blame was being placed on him, but he knew his brother needlessly took full blame for that hunt. He knew his brother's main concern was fear that something would happen to his little brother again. Dean was a great hunter and an even better brother. Unless they ran into another demi-god he didn't foresee any problems. Not unless there was another problem Dean was worried about.

You don't think I can?

"That's not what I said," Dean hurriedly said and gave Sam a small glare for putting words into his mouth.

Sam frowned. He wouldn't have to guess if his brother would just give him the real reason why he couldn't join. He began to write again, but paused to look up when he heard his brother's annoyed, "What?" Dean was staring at Castiel with a perturbed look. The hand Cas had been using to poke Dean in the arm with dropped to his lap. He looked unfazed by the other hunter's half glare.

"It's your turn," Castiel simply said.

Sam saw the disbelieving look on Dean's face before he went back to scribbling.

Then what, Dean?

Dean stared at Sam for a bit. He could see in his brother's eyes that he was warring with his thoughts. Sam just wished he knew what those thoughts were, or at least the one Dean was so hesitant to tell him. The emotion in Dean's eyes suddenly shifted and Sam knew he'd come to a decision.

"Okay, fine, I don't think you're ready," Dean blurted. "Happy?"

The room fell quiet for a bit, each Winchester brother staring at the other. Castiel glanced between the two, silently watching the play of emotions behind each pair of eyes. When the strained silence didn't break after another moment, Castiel straightened in his seat and reached for the game board.

"I'll just play for you," he said to Dean before flipping another card and glancing over the board.

Dean's words had stung. It was something he didn't like to hear from his family and especially not from Dean. The only saving grace to his brother's hurtful words was that he could tell Dean didn't mean them. There was a tone of placation to Dean's voice that made Sam believe he was being fed a false truth to keep him away from the real true. His brother's lie was damning, but it was the lesser of the two evils.

Sam's face scrunched up in anger as he white knuckled his pen. Two words later Sam tossed the writing utensil down and began making his way to his bedroom.

Hurtful lie

"Sam," he heard his brother say, but ignored it in favor of slamming his door behind him.

He heard a curse loud and clear from his brother as he pressed his back into the door. A moment later Castiel's, "Sorry," came through the door. There was a pause before he spoke again, "No, that's what your card says, ‘Sorry.’"

Sam pushed off the door and crossed over to his bed. It was still early, but he'd had enough of this day. Slipping quickly out of his hoodie and jeans, he crawled hurriedly under the covers. Heat from the fireplace had seeped in through the open door, but it was still too cold to stand around in boxers and an undershirt.

Sam tugged the blankets up around him, and for the first time he slept with his face to the wall and his back to the cot on the other side. He slowly ran his fingers over the raised scars on his finally healed arm and hoped he would be asleep before his brother turned in. His wish came in the form of strange dreams filled with zombies playing Sorry® to the beat of "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

Chapter Text

The next morning Sam had a difficult time figuring out what time it was. Normally he could figure a rough guesstimate by whether or not Dean was still in bed. His brother’s biological clock was astounding. Every morning, without fail, his brother was up and out the door just as the sun was halfway over the horizon line. It was a trait older Dean didn’t share with his younger self.

Sam’s sense of time was screwed up for the first week at camp. He woke up at all different hours of the night, and not having a window in their room didn’t help ease the sense of timelessness. After a few weeks it got better. Sam had slowly learned to set his clock to match Dean’s and before long he was normally waking up twenty minutes or so before his brother.

Today was different though. When Sam rolled over and found Dean’s bed empty he thought he’d slept in, but after blinking the sleep from his eyes and finding the bed not only empty but made-up he couldn’t say for certain what time it was.

Rolling out of bed with a yawn, Sam went through the motions of finding a clean set of clothes and visiting the pot in the corner. He scrubbed his hand through his bedhead, noting the kinks that undoubtedly had his hair sticking up in unattractive directions. It was something else he’d grown use to since water wasn’t readily available like it use to be. There was no way he was going to ask Kayla if he could wet his hand in the pond so he could run his fingers through his hair to get rid of the unsightly cowlicks. He was unkempt, not suicidal.

Sam shuffled over to the bedroom door and grasped the doorknob. He was about to turn it but the sounds of a hushed conversation floated in through the tiny gap between the door and the frame. He huddled closer to the door, but the only thing he could tell were who the voices belonged to. The voices definitely belonged to Dean and Castiel, and that made him want to hear even more.

Sam allowed the act of eavesdropping to guilt him for all of three seconds before he very gently twisted the knob and pushed. He held his breath as the door made a slight sigh of separation. It sounded louder in the silence of Sam’s room than it actually was and thankfully the conversation behind the door never paused.

"This is not wise, Dean," Castiel's deep voice sounded grave as it floated through the tiny crack Sam had made in the door.

"No arguments here," Dean agreed, voice sounding tired and a bit resigned. "But what other choice do we have?"

"I thought the other choice was to not let him go."

There was a snort, then, "No has never really been an option when it comes to Sam."

Sam perked up at the mention of his name. He daringly pushed the door open a bit wider so that he could peek through the gap. Both Dean and Castiel were sitting on the couch, backs facing Sam’s door.

“Now would be a good time to start,” the scruffy man suggested.

“Look, I don’t like this anymore than you,” Dean sounded about as thrilled as the statement suggested. “But like it or not if Sam wants to do this he’ll damn well find a way to do it. At least this way he’ll be with us and not running off with Flo and her crew.”

“Sam wouldn’t do that,” Castiel quickly defended.

“Wouldn’t he?” Dean challenged. Sam could just make out the frown that formed on Cas’ face from his slightly turned position. “I think he’s made it very clear that he can give us the slip whenever he wants.”

It was Sam’s turn to frown. The purpose of his little getaways weren’t supposed to make Dean feel helpless in regards to his brother. He loved Dean and had come to see Castiel as a valued friend, but being under their feet all the time was suffocating. So yes, he snuck off to be with the only people who didn’t treat him like a kid and genuinely wanted him around. Sam didn’t like how his idea to join a convoy was being accepted, but he couldn’t help but feel a bubble of hope at the prospect of it being accepted.

Silence fell over the living room. Neither Dean nor Castiel spoke; seemingly lost in their own thoughts if the general lack of movement was anything to go by. Sam wondered if the conversation was over. He went to ease the door closed, but stopped when Castiel suddenly broke the stagnant atmosphere in the room by shifted sideways to face Dean completely.

The new angle made Sam retreat behind the door a little. The last thing he wanted was for Cas to catch sight of him in his peripheral vision. With one eyes still trained on the back of the couch, he could see how Castiel’s face had darkened a great deal in the span of his and Dean’s silence. The depths of turmoil there struck a chord with Sam. He literally had to root his heels into the floorboards to keep his self from fleeing back into the room on principle.

“I am not as I once was, Dean,” the scruffy man said, voice deeper than Sam had ever heard it. “I cannot protect you or your brother in this state.”

Dean turned his head to face his despondent companion. Grief flickered over the older hunter’s face before he pressed it down behind a half-assed smile. “It’s just Croats, Cas. ‘Nothing that good old fashion human engineering can’t take care of,” Dean assured, waving his thumb and forefinger in the shape of a gun in the air.

“And what will take care of Lucifer if he decides to show up?” Castiel asked. His brother’s poor excuse for a smile fell, replaced by something darker and more dangerous. Castiel ignored and continued undeterred, “Michael may have given up the chase, but Lucifer has not. As far as he’s concerned he never got his shot.”

To say Sam was confused by the sudden twist in the conversation was an understatement. Because there was no way his brother and Cas could be talking about the Devil, right? The actual Devil; horns, pitchfork, ruler of Hell. Sam couldn’t admit to reading the whole Bible, but between Pastor Jim’s lessons and the motel Bibles placed inside the night stands he was pretty sure Lucifer was supposed to be locked in Hell for all eternity.

“He won’t,” Dean’s conviction was almost believable. The only thing that dampened it was the slight sound of desperation he heard underlying the tone. “Why would he?”

“Because you now have something he wants.” Castiel stated matter-of-factly.

“And how would he know about that?” Dean asked through clenched teeth. “Sam didn’t mention running into any demons along the way.”

Castiel didn’t answer right away. Instead he chose to stare at the older hunter with those unnerving blue eyes. Sam had been on the receiving end of those searching eyes a few times and knew it was a testament of how well the two knew each other than Dean didn’t squirm until the gaze.

The scruffy older man sighed, “I know you’ve thought about it.”

“No,” Dean automatically denied. The fact that he even knew what Cas was talking about said otherwise.

“Dean,” Castiel tried, but was cut off.

“No, Castiel,” the hunter insisted, his voice a low, gruff warning.

Castiel took no heed of it and plowed forward regardless of the warning written all over Dean’s face. “You and I both know the minuscule amount of beings out there that can bring a person back to life. It isn’t a miracle, because my Father made it pretty clear that we’re on our own, and given that the world is going to ‘Hell in a hand basket,’” Cas paused, making sure his air quote where clearly seen. “I only see one being that would be interested in bringing back life to this dying planet.”

Castiel’s theory was sobering and left Dean flat out speechless. Sam, on the other hand, was having a hard time grasping the implications of what he’d just heard. His mind latched onto tidbits of words here and there; Lucifer, Sam, Hell in a hand basket, dying planet, all played on a loop inside his mind. None of them painted a clear picture, but he knew none of them could be pretty pictures.

At some point Sam’s hand had tightened around the doorknob and was now aching with the strain. He loosened the grip and felt his joints creak in response. There was a chance Castiel was being... symbolic. It wasn’t like Cas didn’t have a record of saying things that meant something completely different. He had learnt that from the first time he’d spoken with the man. There were some days he was completely understandable, and other days where Sam half wondered if his brother was hiding an alien on their couch. The theory wasn’t that outlandish. It sure as hell was more believable than thinking the Devil was running loose. Something that powerful couldn’t just crawl out of Hell because it woke up one morning and decided to. It would take planning and rituals to pull something like that off. Sam would like to think that if something like that had been going on, the hunters of the world would have known about it in advance.

“Which is why he needs to go with us,” Dean finally concluded to Castiel’s chagrin.

“You will not reconsider then?” Castiel asked, though his tone of voice suggested he already knew the answer. He was not surprised when Dean shook his head. Cas sighed for the second time that morning and turned so his back was once again leaning on the back of the couch. “This is a bad idea,” he said, bringing the conversation full circle. Dean just hummed his acknowledgement.

Knowing that the conversation was well and truly over, Sam reeled his head back into the room and pushed the wooden door back into place. He pressed his back into the door for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. When all he came up with was his thoughts still as jumbled as before, he walked back to his bed and plopped down as lightly as he could. Maybe Dean should have lead with this ominous conversation, because the bubble of hope Sam had felt earlier was starting to feel like a sinking balloon.

--------------------------

Raiding day for Convoy #1 came more quickly that Sam anticipated. The morning Sam had witnessed the confusing conversation between his brother and Cas had been the morning prior to raid. Somehow Sam thought there would be more time between his initial decision and his departure, but it was probably for the best that the convoy’s departure was sooner rather than later. He couldn’t imagine what else he’d use the extra time for other than procrastinating.

Dean seemed even less thrilled with the short time frame, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. The days prior to raids were always set aside for prep work. So while Castiel headed off to gather the crew for a reevaluation of course direction, routes to take, destination and total trip time, Dean dragged Sam off to the garage for prep work of their own.

Dean spent a good portion of the morning doing a thorough check of each Jeep; making sure there was enough gas for each leg of the trip, checking the oil, testing the battery, even going around and kicking each of the tires twice. Sam had never been much help when it came to the interworking of the combustion engine, so he perched on top of the large, cast iron tool cabinet and watched his brother work for the most part. For the other part he half- heartedly listened as the older man rattled off a list of raiding do’s and don’ts.

Mostly it was the same spiel their Dad gave them before each and every hunt, so Sam didn’t feel too horrible when he started to drift off on the more repetitive parts. It was easy to do since Dean’s head was firmly planted under the hood and Sam’s inability to reply didn’t require him to answer. During his drifts he found himself doodling along the edges of his notebook. By the time Dean noticed he was being ignored Sam had already constructed an army of zombies.

Dean snatched the notebook from Sam’s hand before he could even process that his brother was no longer refilling the oil. The protest involuntarily died on Sam’s tongue as his brother’s eyes roamed over his penned army. The older hunter raised an eyebrow at his brother, “You’ve been ignoring me so you can draw Croats?” Dean paused when he eyed the stick figure wielding a stick rifle that shot bullets far too big for the gun’s skinny chamber. The figure was hailing from atop a pile of dead zombies. “And what is this?”

Sam gave the question careful consideration before grinning and pointing at Dean.

“Me? That’s supposed to be me?” Dean’s tone matched his dubious expression. He eyed the triumphant figure once more before moving his eyes back to his younger brother. “Uh huh, nice try, but you’re still in trouble.” The older hunter then pointed to the top of the stickman. “Plus, my hair looks nothing like that mop.”

Sam felt his face heat up at being caught. He tried to pull the notebook back toward him to cover up his embarrassment, but Dean pulled it further back. Sam shot him a confused look when he snapped the thing shut and tossed it into the back seat of the vehicle.

“You don’t need that to listen,” Dean said with a pointed look. He waited for Sam to reluctantly fold his hands into his lap before turning back to the Jeep. When his head was back under the hood Sam gave him a withering look. He was disappointed, but not surprised when his brother didn’t react to his invisible hatred. With no other options left he blew out an annoyed sigh and leaned back against the wall. He couldn’t see, but the smirk was evident in his brother’s voice. Bastard...

Sam was annoyed that he wasn’t allowed to take his notebook once they finished in the garage. Apparently there was no need to talk while checking and cleaning weapons, though Dean’s steady stream of helpful raiding tips never stopped. He idly wondered if his brother was getting some kind of sick pleasure from Sam’s sudden case of ‘mute.’ Was this payback for Sam’s nonstop gibber-gabber when they were kids?

When Sam was finished cleaning his first gun he sullenly handed it over to his brother for examine, but Dean only held it long enough to transfer it back into the duffle bag it came from. Sam’s brows knitted together at the lack of inspection. When he shot Dean a questioning look his brother just shook his head.

“I don’t need to check it, Sam,” Dean said. He never looked up from the rifle he was oiling. “I know it’s right.”

Sam ducked his head and reached for another gun. It was hard to scowl at his brother after that. Especially with the grin that had taken up residence across his face. The last hour or two of the day had been spent out in the field near the tarp covered Impala. Sam didn’t know why they were out there, but it became fairly clear when Dean grabbed him from behind, pinning both arms to his side. His response was immediate; his mind quick working out that Dean’s body was taller than the last time they sparred and drew his foot up and then down to crash his brother’s foot.

There was a hiss from behind him and the grip around him loosened. Taking advance of the slip, Sam bent his arm and jabbed his elbow back. When the jutted bone made contact it was against his brother’s callous palm instead of the bony row of ribs he was aiming for. He heard his brother chuckle from overhead and instead of the arm hold he’d expected Dean shoved him forward. He stumbled across the uneven ground before righting himself and turning to stare at his smug, older brother.

"Not bad," Dean appraised passed his own amusement. "I especially liked the girly toe stump you led with."

Sam shot him a mock smile, one that turned sincere when he thought of his brother's hiss and how well his 'girly' move worked on his brother. Sam really wished he had his notebook right about now, but since it was still back in the Jeep he just held his hands out to the side and put as much emphasis into his smug expression as he could to relay his message...

It worked on you.

Dean looked perplexed by the grin until he took in the change of posture and growing smugness. He scowled at the turn-tabled expression. "Alright hotshot," Dean rolled his shoulders, loosening his leather jacket and letting it slip off. He tossed it out of the way and turned to face Sam again. "Show me what you've got."

A show is exactly what it wasn't. Sam had about the same amount of training as Dean did... nineteen years ago. Dean had the advantage in so many ways now; training, muscle mass, experience. Sam was generally never the victor in their sparring matches, but now it was more like a massacre. Dean schooled him at every move, but at least his brother did take the time to stop and point out what he was doing and how Sam could block it.

In short, Sam was a good fighter. Dean was just better.

Another thing Sam hadn't anticipated was the lack of acceptance from his brother's crew. Convoy's always left early in order to take advantage of maximum sunlight, or whatever light could make it through the permanently gray skies. It was Dean who dragged him out of bed that morning. Convoy mornings were the only times when Sam couldn't wake up before his brother.

The sky was still fairly dark when they exited the cabin. Not many people were up and about, so mostly the camp was quiet. The few people milling about were huddling next to the two awaiting Jeeps. Most were men, busying themselves with last minute preparations-- checking things that Dean had already taken care of--and the other few standing off to the side were accompanied by women. The closeness in which they were standing suggested of intimacy. There were few whispered words between the couples before a sound goodbye kiss sent them back to their tents to await their return home.

The scene made Sam feel like he was heading off to war. It felt like his first hunt all over again. The excitement and the nerves bunched up inside of him and created an odd sort of anticipation. He wondered if this was how Flo felt the day she'd run off to join the army. That feeling was dampened though when the men around the vehicles began to take notice of Dean's presence, or rather Sam's presence adjacent to his brother’s.

"Winchester," one of the men called. The man that approached was about Dean's height with a plaid button down and a medium sized blade of grass sticking out between his lips. If Sam had to guess he'd say the grass was a placeholder for a cigarette. He imagined those were pretty hard to find these days.

"Roderick," Dean replied in kind. "Everything set?"

"Everything is running smooth," the other man confirmed as he tilted his head to indicate the two Jeeps at his back. "The only thing these gals need is their crew."

Dean grinned in appreciate, "Well then, best not keep them waiting." Dean placed an encouraging had on Sam's back and gave him a nudge toward the first Jeep. They barely made it a step before Roderick's voice halted them.

"You ah...," he paused to glance at Sam, taking in the pack slung over his shoulder. "You bringing the kid with us?"

Sam bristled at the use of 'kid.' He was beginning to really hate that method of description. From the look on Dean's face he didn't like it much either, but maybe not for the same reasons as Sam.

"That kid is my brother," Dean clarified tightly. "And yes, he's coming with us."

"Hey, no disrespect, Boss," Roderick held up his hands in surrender, but the amused smirk present on his face spoke otherwise. "The guys and I just wanted to know if you couldn't find a baby-sitter or something."

There was a collective chuckle that came from the group at the end of the second Jeep. Sam leaned around Cigarette Guy to get a good look at the three men standing there. He glared at them, but none of them seemed bothered by it. When he looked back at Dean, his brother hadn't appeared to take notice of the group. He just continued to stare at Roderick with thinly veiled contempt.

Dean's lips pressed into a forced smile, "Haven't found anyone stupid enough to agree to baby-sit the four of you."

Sam snorted, taking delight in the sudden offended retorts from the formerly amused group. Roderick looked surprised by the less than friendly comeback. He opened his mouth to reply, but Dean cut him off with a loud call for everyone to load up. This time when Dean pushed Sam toward the first Jeep no one stopped them.

Castiel was waiting outside the first Jeep. There was a large map spread out over the passenger seat. It looked old and well-worn. There were red inked notes listed
all over the area. Most of them were check marks showing areas that had already been raided. Others were warnings, notes regarding undrivable areas or terrain changes that weren’t previously marked.

He looked up as they approached. Castiel gave Dean a silent nod as he collected the map from the seat and folded it back up so that it resembled a normal sized piece of paper. There was a solid thump on Sam’s back before Dean gave him the same instruction as he had the rest of the crew and then made his way around to the other side of the vehicle. Sam nodded in return, but it was more to himself than anyone else.

Sam glanced at the backseat and noted there was only one other individual there. He couldn’t tell how tall the man was, but his arms were bare and broad and his ample facial hair was well trimmed. He looked like he could handle his own in a fight. Sam only hoped he was friendlier than the other crew seemed to be.But he wouldn’t complain, he had asked his brother for this, not the other way around.

Sam placed his foot onto the outer railed and pushed up so he could climb into the backseat. He barely got his foot off the ground before there was a tug at the collar of his jacket that pulled him back to the ground. He almost expected to find Dean when he turned around—it was a very annoying, Dean-like thing to do—but was surprised to find Castiel standing behind him with a concerned expression. Sam shot him a look filled with confusion, but Castiel just stepped back and gestured toward the front seat. “Front seat, Sam,” the older man said in a way that suggested there was no negotiating that fact.

Sam eyed the strange expression on Cas’ face, before shrugging and climbing into the front seat. Honestly, he preferred the front seat rather than sitting in the back with some guy he didn’t know. He just couldn’t understand why Cas looked so concern by it or why the Raid Coordinator was choosing to sit in back. It seemed like an inconvenient place to be for someone in that position.

Then again, Sam just assumed he was sitting in the backseat. It was a logical conclusion to make for four people riding in one vehicle. That’s what Sam thought until Castiel prodded him to scoot over. Sam’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, but he complied when the prodding didn’t cease. He moved a couple of inches to the left to see if that would satisfy the concerned man, but the frown Cas directed at the small space he’d created on the front seat said otherwise.

Another prod and Sam quickly got the message. He pressed his lips together in irritation, but reluctantly moved across the bench seat until his knee touched Dean’s. Sam waited until Castiel slide into shotgun, knee also pressing against Sam’s, before shooting a glare up to his brother. Dean had the audacity to pretend like he didn’t know what was irking his younger brother. Sam dug quickly through the backpack now resting on the floorboard between his legs. Pulling out his notebook and made a showing of scribbling quickly.

You two are embarrassing

Castiel frowned at the inked declaration. He glanced up at Dean with the same inquisitive grimace, “Have we done something wrong?”

Dean did a poor job of concealing his amusement. The keys jiggled in the ignition as Dean placed his hand over the top of them. The metallic flash of a large silver keychain caught his attention. It took him a minute of staring at the decorative key ornament to recognize the long tongue protruding through lips.

“No,” Dean assured Cas with a smirk. “That’s usually means we’re doing something right.”

Sam huffed but it was lost in the roar of the Jeep’s engine. As if by chain reaction, the Jeep behind them revved to life mere seconds after the first. Dean reached across Sam and toward the radio. It was such a familiar move for his rock music loving brother. He could practically hear the harsh cords of AC/DC trying to melt his brain. So he was a little surprised when Dean’s hand drew back in silence. He glanced over when a black, spiral cord stretched out in front of him and found his brother holding a small microphone.

On first glance, Sam had thought the box embedded in the dash was the stereo. It had enough dials and screens to pass for one. Now he could see that the standard setup had been gutted and a CB Radio inserted in place of the no longer useful technology.

Dean placed the microphone close to his mouth and spoke, “Testing, over,” across the line. Within seconds he received a confirmed response over the crackling line. The older hunter waited for the line to clear before depressing the side button to transmit again. “Castiel’s gone over destination and route with each of you, so there’s no need in wasting time repeating it. Be sure to stay close. If our route changes due to complications you’ll be informed. The trip should only take about three hours, so snipers shouldn’t need to trade out. If you run into trouble, radio immediately. If your radio doesn’t work, then use your flare. Copy?”

There was silence for a moment before the line crackled to life. “Boss, we know this song and dance,” Sam didn't recognize the male voice that came through the speaker. “Now quit trying to show off to your kid and let’s light this candle.”

A couple of “Hoops” and general shouts of excitement came from the vehicle behind them. Despite the fact that he’d been once again called a kid, he couldn’t help the smirk that formed at his brother being called out on trying to impression his kid brother. However, when he looked over his expression quickly melted away.

Dean looked down at the microphone as if he'd never seen it before. His expression quickly settled into something less than pleased and for a moment the lines and shadows formed over the older hunter's face made him look like Dad. It made Sam's pulse quicken, but not because the thought of the elder Winchester still brought about heart wrenching grief, but because that look of anger due to insubordination didn't suit his brother.

Sam had seen that look directed at him so many times, but never had he seen it on Dean's face. It didn't seem right. Dean wasn't the bitter, vengeful, totalitarian leader their Dad was. Dean listened and was understanding and gave a damn about things that didn't just pertain to the hunt. He was a smartass, yes, but not a complete ass. At least that was the big brother he'd known before he 'died' nineteen years ago. Sam painfully wondered what Dad was like before their mother died.

A full scowl was on Dean's face and the microphone was still sitting clenched in his hand. Sam, sensing Dean was about to deliver another less than friendly retort, quickly scribbled on the notebook still sitting in his lap. His brother had just opened his mouth to speak when Sam jabbed one of the notebook corners into his arm. Dean shot him a glare, but he ignored it in favor of tapping the page he'd written on.

Don't be an assbutt.

The incredulous look on his brother's face was priceless. It was so tempting to crack a smile, but Sam upheld his stern face in order to get his point across. Dean's expression settled into a glare, one that Sam held until his brother turned back to the microphone and depressed the button again. He opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated at the last second. Another passed before Dean finally replied through the mic.

"Assbutts," Dean said to Sam's surprise... and to pretty much everyone's surprise. The static filled 'what?' that followed definitely sounded perplexed. Dean closed his eye briefly and sighed. "Just stay close." The older hunter didn't wait for a response before hanging the microphone back on the CB.

When his brother finally glanced over again Sam couldn't hide the grin any longer. Dean scowled, but it looked nothing like the callous one from before.

Dean's eyes briefly glanced pass Sam before rolling them and facing back front. A mumbled, "I hate you both," came from Dean as he flipped the headlights on and illuminated the beaten path before them.

The muttered words had Sam glancing to his right. The awkward, goofy grin on Castiel's face finally pushed Sam over into a soundless, open mouthed laugh. Sam could practically feel another eye roll from his brother as the Jeep slipped into gear and gently pulled away from its parking place and off toward the gate. It took about five minutes to reach the entrance, and by then Sam had managed to regain his composure. The two twins Sam met briefly on his first ride into camp were there. Neither one of them spoke this time, choosing to promptly open the gate as Dean instructed in silence.

They were nearly outside the chain linked barrier when a low whistle caught Sam's attention. Glancing back behind them, Sam just barely caught sight of Flo standing off to the side of a high patch of grass. There were four others with her and Sam instantly knew it was the whole crew of Convoy #1. Even the constantly absent Boo was with them; standing a little further off to the side and with a strange intense look on her face. Just before the two twins locked the gate behind them, Flo tilted her head up and held up her thumb. Sam gave a short snort and returned the thumbs up in kind. He shook his head slightly and turned back around in his seat.

Somehow the space around them felt darker now that they were on the other side of the camp. The copious amount of trees both still standing and fallen half over their path could probably be to blame for that, but somehow Sam knew it was more of a mental thing. His fingertips pressed into his notebook a little as he glanced down at his dead watch and inwardly sighed. Three hours until they essentially reached what Sam considered his second hunt. He only hoped this one would be more successful than the last.

--------------------------

Lansing, Michigan

Sam glanced around as Dean brought the vehicle to a stop just shy of the city limits and killed the engine and lights. From what he could see at a distance, Lansing didn’t look much different than Flint; just another town full of empty dilapidated buildings and abandoned streets. The familiar sight set Sam nerves on edge even more than the trip so far.

The three hours of rough travel had been a bit more exciting than his last drive with Convoy #2. The most challenging thing he’d come across before was the fallen tree that Flo refused to go around and resolved in a twenty minute group effort to heave out of the way. This time they’d encountered a couple of straggler Croats hiding among the trees lining their path.

The first one had just about scared the wits out of Sam as it flew out from the shadows with a deafening scream. It came to a sudden stop in front of their Jeep, much too close for Dean to be able to stop in time. It didn’t prevent Sam from shoving his foot hard into the floorboard in a effort to halt the vehicle. Naturally his effort was pointless. In fact, Sam heard the vehicle rev louder and felt the jolt as it leapt forward to meet the obstacle.

A sickening squish-crunch signaled their impact. Sam had about a second to watch the Croat’s gorgy insides slide up the hood of the vehicle before Dean slammed on the brakes and flung the mutilated body forward and clear of the Jeep. An accompanying squeal of brakes came from behind them just as a shot rang out from somewhere above his head.

Sam’s breathing sounded harsh in the silence that had followed the incident. He belatedly noticed the arm wrapped around his abdomen that kept him from ramming into the CB and possibly getting dumped on the floorboard. He pushed himself back up the seat and patted the arm holding him up. It was a silent gesture to say thank and to also let Castiel know he could let go now.

The Croat was a gross display of road kill at its best, lying out in the middle of the road. As mutilated as its split open abdominal cavity was, Sam didn't think the mess of organs was the cause of death. It took a little something more than just popped seams to take down a zombie. Sam remembered the sound of gunfire just after impact and squinted at the Croat's head. Sure enough, there was a quarter sized hole right in the center of the thing's forehead.

Remembering where the shot came from had Sam looking upward. He was only mildly surprised to see the silent man from the backseat standing on top of the seat with a large rifle rested and steadied on the Jeep's roll bar. Sam suddenly knew what Dean had meant when he'd mentioned snipers earlier.

Sam hoped like Hell this first Croat encounter wasn't a sign of things to come. He was hoping it was just a fluke since the only other two Croats they ran into were slow moving, and Cole, Dean's backseat sniper, had no trouble taking him out with an amount of ease that one would shoot tin cans off a fence with. A fact that made Sam feel both envious and grateful.

“Sam.”

Sam jerked his head up. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the Jeep was now empty. He quickly swiveled around to find the other vehicle nearly as emptied. There was still one man left in the backseat of the second vehicle. He was standing up in much the same position as Cole had been when he’d killed their first straggler zombie.

He turned back to his brother standing just outside the driver’s side door. Just beyond him he could see the rest of the men huddled together. Every few seconds one of them would inch a little closer toward the road leading into town. They were clearly chomping at the bit

to get in there and get the show on the road. From the pointed look he received from one of the men, Sam was obviously keeping them from doing that.

Sam quickly shoved his notebook back inside his pack and slid out Dean’s opened door. When Sam was clear, Dean shut the door behind him. His brother’s callous hand landed on the back of his neck as they walked to join the rest of the group. Dean’s thumb pressed into the muscle there and made a circular movement. It was an unspoken reassurance. He knew his brother was dying to ask Sam again if he was sure about this, but they both knew it was too late for that, and they both knew what Sam’s answer would be.

"About time," one of the men grumbled as they reached the circle.

Sam chose to ignore the quietly spoken comment in favorite of following Dean to the center of the huddle. A military green duffle bag was laid out on the ground, the top zipper opened and its contents in plain sight. It was mostly empty. Only a few guns and rifles and a couple of extra ammo packets were left.

Most of the contents had already been divvied up between the men. Even Castiel was checking over the .45 he'd snagged. It seemed strange somehow to see the man holding a weapon. He'd known for a while that Cas was Dean's hunting partner and a member of the first convoy, but the oddness of it had never registered until now. After spending so much time with the man, it just felt weird to see the normally over-literal man packing heat.

He didn't doubt the man's skills. It was just strange.

Dean was leaned over the bag rifling through what was left. The position made the older man's jacket hitch up, revealing the handgun his brother was already carrying at the small of his back. It didn't surprise Sam. His brother wasn't the type to go anywhere unarmed or allow his self to get the last pick in a weapons pile. He was just surprised to see the familiar marble handle. He was willing to bet it was the same weapon Dad had bought Dean when he turned seventeen. If so, his brother had taken excellent care of it for a very long time.

When Dean stood back up he was holding two handguns and had a high powered rifle hanging over the back of his shoulder. He handed one of the hand guns to Sam. He accepted the weapon and unconsciously began checking it like their father had taught them to do. He felt the weight of it rest against his palm, checked the safety and pulled the clip free before eyeing the barrel for imperfections and checking the sight. When he was done he slipped the loaded clip back into the handle and made sure the safety was still on.

Dean nodded approvingly at Sam's analyst and offered him the other gun. "Here. You can use one as a backup."

Sam slipped his first gun in back of his jeans and gave the second gun the same treatment as the first. When he was done, Dean gestured back at the duffle, "Grab a couple of extra clips of ammo, and there's an extra light in the concealed pocket on the side. Be sure to grab that too."

Nodding, Sam crouched to find the items his brother suggested. When he was done he had an extra loaded clip for each front pocket and a flashlight tucked into the back.

"'You even know how to use one of those, kid?"

Sam looked up and turned to see the man who was throwing him pointed looks earlier was now eyeing him skeptically. The look was weighty and he became acutely aware of the sweat forming between his hand and the gun.

It was easier to look defiant and throw glares at the men back at camp. In an odd way, the camp had slowly begun to feel like home. It was the longest he could ever remember staying in one place, and he felt safe there behind the guarded fences. Exiting the camp gates had more of an effect on him than he thought it would. He felt a case of nerves begin to creep up on him. It felt like his first hunt jitters were revisiting him, but this time they felt even worse. No matter how unlikely the incident was to happen again, Sam just couldn't get the derelict warehouse out of his mind.

It made him feel edgy and unsure of himself, and he hated that. He knew how to handle a weapon and do his job. He knew that. The thought of being left out here alone again was just messing with his head.

The quick shuck-shink of a cocked rifle made Sam jerk and look up from the handle of the gun he was squeezing. His attention shot to his brother, as did everyone else's in the circle. For the most part it looked like Dean was just checking over his rifle much like everyone else had, but the effort his brother put into cocking the rifle was deliberate.

Dean pretended to check his weapon for another second before pushing it back over his shoulder again. His brother's face was blank when he eyed the man who addressed Sam earlier, but Sam could see the concealed annoyance there.

"If you're concerned for your safety, Cameron, then you can take Rick's place and watch the vehicles," Dean offered in lieu of answering.

Cameron sputtered at the veiled insult, but didn't say anything more. From the way his jaw tightened and the knuckles around his automatic rifle turned white, it was clear he wanted to say more. No doubt the only thing stopping him was the stony set to Dean's face.

"Now," Dean finally said once Cameron was sufficiently silenced. "Anybody else have anymore questions they'd like to ask, or can we get this show started while we still have daylight?"

Silence followed Dean's question. The only thing heard were the quiet shuffles of loose gravel and the shifting of weaponry. Satisfied with the lack of response, Dean nodded to himself and spoke, "Alright then. You all know the drill. No one splits until we've checked the main street, then we break off into two groups. Roderick, you stay with your men and Cole. Castiel and I will take Sam. The town isn't too large so we'll plan to meet back at the split point in three hours. If you run into trouble then give a shout or use the flare. Is everyone clear?"

Several nods and grunts of affirmation floated up from the men. Cameron was the only one who offered nothing more than a shrug. Dean didn't look phased by the noncommittal response, but Roderick didn't seem to take to kindly to his group member's lack of respect. He faced Dean with a wiry smile and spoke on his men's behalf, "We're clear, Boss."

Dean nodded his thanks, "Good, then let's move."

As soon as the words left Dean's mouth a hand dropped onto Sam's shoulder. He jumped, but relaxed when he looked up to find Castiel standing next to him.

"Stay close to us, Sam," Castiel advised.

It was good advice; advice Sam adhered to as they broke from the huddle and made their way down the road leading to the main street. Dean took point, leading the group forward and carefully eyeing their surroundings and approaching buildings for any danger. Sam wasn't far behind. In fact, if he tilted his head just right his skull would be planted right in the middle of Dean's shoulder blades. He could tell by the close movement of footsteps that Castiel wasn't far behind. He imagined they must look pretty silly marching into town in such a close knit line, but the men already thought Sam was an incompetent child. So there was no need to make a big deal out of it, especially if the over-protectiveness made Dean and Cas feel better. And if it made Sam feel a little easier, well, that was just a bonus.

It didn't take them long before they reached the city. From afar the place looked skeletal. The evidence of the buildings and roads were there, etched out against the clouded sky and carved into the scared earth, but the damage in view made them look boney and lifeless. It was a small warning sign of what lay ahead. The true destruction wasn't visible until they stepped out onto the main road.

The town looked worse than what Sam could remember from Flint. This was really saying something. Flint had been a nightmare to experience. Beside the motel, that town in Michigan was Sam’s first real taste of the Croatoan virus. Even after living through Flint, a part of Sam still hoped there were other towns out there that had faired better. It didn’t seem likely with how everyone was so well-adjusted to camp life. It seemed pointless to learn to live life without amenities when there were other towns still surviving. Still, it was a hope Sam clung to; a bubble of hope that Lansing, Michigan’s dismal appearance readily burst.

A lot of the buildings were rubble; windows blown out with parts of their structure crumpled in the street. Other buildings looked a little less ragged. Most the windows there still piles of glass along the sidewalks, but at least these few buildings didn’t look like they would fall in the second their thresholds were breached.

The roads hadn’t faired much better either. In several places the asphalt was deeply cracked, showing the red clay the town had been built on. In other places the black foundation was broken and pushed upward making quite a few large upheavals. Sam was beginning to see there was more than one reason for leaving the Jeeps parked so far away other than not causing a commotion.

The only thing that looked to have faired better in Lansing were the cars. They looked neglected, but they weren’t pulled apart or purposefully bashed in. These Croats didn’t appear to care much for the midsized machinery like the ones in Flint or the one back at the motel.

A low, evaluating whistle came from somewhere behind Sam. He couldn’t help but agree with the wordless appraisal. Lansing was a disaster.

“’Think three hours might be a little too much time here,” one of the men at Sam’s back said. Dean’s grim set features as he turned to face the rest of the group showed the truth in that statement. What buildings were still fit to enter didn’t hold high hopes for many supplies. Most of the buildings strong enough to withstand a zombie invasion had no real use in their situation. The main city bank was still standing, but what use did they have for money? The most promising building in the area was a coffee shop standing on its own down by the corner of the street. Money and caffeine ran the world. It only made sense to build those structures the strongest. Though, neither commodity did them any good right now.

“There is still a good portion of the town left,” Castiel offered from directly behind Sam. “There is a chance we could find something there.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully; giving the buildings behind the groups’ backs a second look before speaking. Sam didn’t hear what his brother said nor did he hear any of the replies. There was something more pressing pulling at his attention; something that was moving a little farther down the street.

The movement came from in front of a ruined clothing outlet. The store was barely recognizable. The only things that gave it away were several overturned clothes rack spilling out through the gaping opening and scrapes of cloth flapping gently in the breeze. Sam almost disregarded the movement as just another piece of clothing caught in the wind, but when it moved again, dragging the entire clothes rack with it, Sam knew it wasn’t just the tattered remains of someone’s blouse.

Now that Sam was looking for it, he could see the dulled eyes of the Croat peering out from under the clothes rack. Its belly was pressed to the ground and its arms were bend, elbows pointed up and palms pressed into the ground. A chill shot through Sam when the thing met his eyes and grew still. Sam had the sickening realization that this Croat was trying to sneak up on them; this Croat was thinking about its attack.

A second was all Sam had to mull that thought over before the Croat dropped all pretenses of a surprise attack and leapt from ground. The clothes rack it was hiding under went flying with shocking strength. The clatter of the rack as it slammed back to the ground drew the rest of the group’s attention, but by then Sam already had his gun sighted and was squeezing off his first shot.

The bang was loud in the mostly empty town. It left Sam’s ears ringing, or maybe that was the adrenaline infused blood pumping through his ears. Whatever it was, it didn’t hinder his vision, allowing him to see the splash of dark red spray from the back of the Croat’s head just before it hit the ground with a resounding thump. Sam waited for the shot to stop echoing before he lowered his gun. The Croat hadn’t moved yet, and that was probably a good sign that he wouldn’t again. The shot had been a bull’s eye.

Sam was still marveling over how his gun got to his hand so quickly when a pair of hands clapped down on each shoulder. The sudden human voice in his ear was the only thing that kept the man behind him from getting shot.

“Hell, son!” the excited voice belonged to Roderick. “Damn what a shot.” The man’s voice then switched directions to address a different man in the group. “You wanna ask him if he knows how to use that thing now?”

Cameron sneered at them from behind his group leader and hefted his rifle up for show. “Lucky shot,” the man grumbled.

Roderick made an indignant noise in the back of his throat and released Sam shoulders. He stalked off toward the unpleasant man as a great deal of obscenities left his mouth, but Sam didn’t pay them any attention. Instead he sought his brother, who was still blinking owlishly at the downed Croat. Sam wished he still had his voice so he could tell his brother how goofy he looked.

Dean must have sensed the eyes on him, because he finally looked away from the zombie to eye his little brother. There were other ways, of course, to express himself that had nothing to do with his voice. As Dean stared at him, Sam lifted the barrel of the gun parallel to his mouth and blew, making a hollow whistle as he blew away the imaginary smoke.

His brother's eyes narrowed down into a knowing glare.

"Runt," Dean spat good naturedly. His glare softened into a smirk, one that didn't hide the pride Sam could see shining behind his brother's eyes. "Not bad for someone who just graduated from coke cans."

Sam knew the next move in their little mock fight was for Sam to look affronted, but all he could do was grin at his old brother. It didn't take long for his older brother to drop the act and return with a grin of his own. The moment of shared pride was short lived though. The commotion between Roderick and Cameron suddenly escalated, taking on an urgency that had nothing to do with the youngest member of the convoy.

The reason for the uproar was soon clear as another Croat stood crouched on top of a nearby vehicle. It eyes held a certain amount of intelligence as it’s gaze swept the group. The Croat’s gaping mouth drooled out a trail of blood as it moved its head. It only took a few seconds, but it felt like forever that the zombie stood towering over them. Its head soon paused, its eyes landing on Sam before letting out a guttural sound. Sam felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as the eyes bore into him and the bones-in-a-grinder sound set his teeth on edge.

Dean yelled something intangible just before the rifle in Cameron's hand went off. The Croat's shoulder jerk and it lost its footing on the domed roof of the car. It slid down the windshield and landed on the hood with denting force. Despite the jarring fall it bounced back quickly and huddled behind the windshield. The sound of a rifle being cocked caught Sam's attention just before Roderick's frantic voice registered. "Hold your fire, you idiot!"

Dean yelled something along the same line, but neither command was heeded as the rifle discharge again with a sharp retort. The bullet sliced through the back window with an explosion of glass and embedded itself into the dead center of the steering wheel. The bullet didn't even touch the Croat, but blaring sound of the malfunctioning horn startled it enough to knock it off balance. It fell to the road with a crack and a scream.

Dean wasted no time in stepping forward placing a bullet in the stunned Croat's head. It jerked, but ultimately remained still. Next he shot the driver's side window out and rapid fired into the steering wheel until the horn fell blissfully silent.

It took a minute for the echoes of the dead horn to dissipate. Sam hesitantly removed the hands he hadn't realized he'd cupped over his ears. It was quiet again, but even that didn't last long as Roderick grabbed Cameron by the collar of his jacket and shook him.

"What the hell were you trying to pull?" he yelled "I was trying to kill the thing!"

"Yeah?" Roderick's outrage was colored with something Sam dreadfully realized was fear. "You gave away our position. Now you've killed us all!"

"Quiet! Both you!" Dean barked over both of the men's yelling and soon the town fell quiet again.

The silence was ten times eerier than it was before. Sam felt his nerves skyrocket in the face of Roderick's declaration. He nervously flicked his eyes around from one building to the other, looking for signs that anything had heard the blaring dinner bell Cameron had set off. He turned and stepped back as he looked around, accidentally bumping into Castiel's side. He moved to step away from the man, but Cas quickly laid his hand on the nape of his neck, much like Dean had done before, and squeezed.

"Stay still," the older man whispered and Sam felt his body go rigid with the command. After another moment of harsh breathing and trying to press as far into Castiel's side as he could, Sam thought it might actually be safe. That was when he heard the first scrape of something moving behind him. His body tensed, but he didn't move, even when the scrape turned into several other scrapes and uneven, scuffled footsteps.

The group's backs were turned to the sound. The only one who could see was Dean, who was still standing next to the car. His face was tight and stony. Sam could only imagine what his brother was seeing, but it had to be bad. He only proved that when he opened his mouth.

"Castiel," Dean managed through his tight set jaw. The hand over the back of Sam's neck tightened. "Take Sam and run."

Sam wanted to protest that order, but the sudden close proximity of the Croat's growl struck him dumb and he was in no position to fight against the hold that suddenly tugged him forward when his brother yelled, "Now!"

As soon as Sam moved the cacophony of gunfire and low guttural screams assaulted him. Castiel's pull was relentless, but as they turned the corner, cutting a path as close to the little coffee shop as they dared, Sam got his first look at the horde of Croats behind them. They were definitely out numbered, but what sent a cold bolt of fear down Sam's spine was that every Croat on the road was looking at him. Sam didn't resist as Castiel tugged him passed the shop and farther into the town.

Chapter Text

The other half of the town wasn’t as untouched as they hoped it would be. Not that it mattered much now. Raiding for supplies was the last thing on Sam’s mind. Castiel’s hand was like a vice around his bicep, tugging him farther down the narrow street in the area of downtown they’d charged into. Their pace had slowed since their initial sprint away from the main street, but not by much. The only reason it had slowed at all was because of the more tightly-knit stores crowding the maze like street. Buildings like that created more places for Croats to hide.

Sam couldn’t imagine there being any other Croat’s around besides the ones trailing after them. From the glimpse he’d managed to steal before he rounded the street corner, Sam felt sure the whole town’s population had shown up to greet them. The image made him shiver and at the same time caused his steps to falter. Running away from a fight was a foreign concept to Sam, but what felt even more alien was leaving his brother to face a fight alone. Sure, his brother wasn’t completely alone. He could still hear multiple gun shots in the distance, but he didn’t know those men well enough to trust them with his brother’s life. He should be back there helping them, helping Dean, instead of running off like the child he claimed not to be.

Sam hadn’t noticed he’d stopped altogether until a sharp pull at his arm jerked him forward. “Sam,” Castiel insisted. There was a note of pleading to his voice as he gave Sam’s arm another tug, but he still refused to budge.

Sam sent the older hunter a pleading look and turned back in the direction they had come from. He tried to move forward, but he was held fast. They needed to go back and help Dean, but Castiel wouldn’t release his grip. Sam felt frustration well up inside him, but it deflated a little when he turned to find an expression of understanding staring back at him.

“I know,” Castiel assured. His eyes glanced over his shoulder for a moment, then back. There wasn’t an increase of panic in the man’s eyes, so Sam assumed there was nothing behind him. At least for now.

“Your brother will be fine.” The note of conviction in Cas’ voice helped quell his fears for his brother, but it was the tight jaw and next words that reminded Sam why he ran in the first place. “It’s not your brother they’re after.”

Sam nodded reluctantly at the grim reminder. It was hard to forget the weight of a couple of dozen dead eyes staring at him. All of which were headed toward him, heedless of the armed men standing in their way. He found it odd. Zombies weren’t really known for their higher brain functions. An out-and-out charge into the line of fire wouldn’t have been a red flag in a normal case, but Sam had seen the higher thought process behind the first two Croats’ dulled out eyes. The short glimpse he had gotten of the mob behind them showed a different type of intelligence. There was a single minded determination to the group that no ordinary zombies should have. At least not when it didn’t involve food.

Sam just couldn’t figure out why that intense attention had been bestowed upon him. The best he could think of was that he’d shot one of their comrades, but then again, so had Dean. Whatever the reason, he didn’t have time to give it anymore thought. The sounds of gunfire at his back were getting louder, signally their group’s and the Croat’s rapid approach.

The sound made Sam look over his shoulder again. The corner they had darted around was still clear, but he didn’t think that would be the case for much longer. Sam whipped back around, egged on by the approaching battle, only to freeze as his eyes shot straight over Cas’ shoulder. Sam shouted the older hunter’s name, but nothing other than a desperate, strangle noise came out. Thankfully, that was enough of a warning for Castiel to get the picture.

The older hunter wheeled around in time to catch the Croat’s decayed arm as it tried to reach around him. The thing opened its’ mouth in an angry scream, showing both of them its’ bloody, swollen tongue and rotted teeth. The image was only made worse when Cas managed to pull his gun up and blow the Croat’s jaw off its’ hinges. The thing screamed and slumped to the ground. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it would stun the zombie for a bit.

“Go!” Castiel yelled, and this time he didn’t have to be told twice. Sam ran.

This time there wasn’t a hand gripping his arm and pulling him along. Sam didn’t need any more motivation. Clearly these things had fixated on him for whatever reason, and standing still would only get Cas hurt. This meant that turning around and going back would only bring more trouble to Dean and his crew. Sam couldn’t do that, not after he’d been the one to practically force Dean to take him on this raid.

He could feel Castiel hot on his heels. He didn’t know where he was leading them, but he was pretty sure there wasn’t a set destination in mind. His main priority was putting as much distance between himself and the Croats as possible. Which was something that was easier said than done, especially when random ones kept crawling out of their hiding places along the store fronts.

The slower moving ones were easy enough to deal with. Castiel was a pretty good shot and Sam wasn’t exactly a slouch either. Most of their surprise attackers could be stopped with a quickly aimed headshot. It was the faster moving ones, like the one they’d just run into along the way, which managed to waste more of their bullets and halt their progress.

Sam couldn’t remember seeing this many zombies in Flint. Initially, he’d only seen the one lurking a few buildings down, but after the motel incident, one was enough. It made Sam dizzy to think of how many more he might have run into had he not hunkered down in the Hardware store when he did. He flinched when another shot went off behind his head. A wheeze and a crunch shortly followed.

“Alley to your right,” Castiel’s panted, his words short and brisk from the rapid intake of air. He nudged the back of Sam’s shoulder to point his attention in the right direction. “We need to get off this road.”

Sam changed his course without question, heading for the alley Cas had indicated to. Any idea at this point sounded like a winner to Sam, and he was more than happy to take a detour away from the Croat infested street. His boot scuffed against the cement sidewalk as he made the sharp turn into the alley. The narrow path between the two buildings was thankfully still intact and for the most part clear, with the exception of the beaten dumpster pushed against one side. They gave the wreaking receptacle as wide a berth as possible. When nothing jumped out at them they picked their pace back up.

There were no gaping holes or structural indents in the bricks along the alley. The only exceptions were the doors on each side of the building leading into the back part of the stores. Sam half expected something decaying and Hulk-like to smash out of them as they passed by, but thankfully they remained closed. The walls pass that point were solid brick. It made keeping pace some much easier when all they had to concentrate on was the distance ahead rather than what might jump out at them at any moment.

The unhindered escape route was too good to be true, and in Sam's experience that meant their good fortune couldn't last much longer. Despite knowing that, the dead end they nearly ran into came as a shock.

Dread washed over Sam as he looked up at the tall, bricked obstruction. He ran his free hand over the surface, looking for any type of imperfection he could use as a foot hole. His breath panted out loudly as he searched. He hadn't realized how out of breath he was until he was forced to stop and concentrate on something besides not getting eaten. The equally exhausted pants to his right told him he wasn't the only one suffering the effects of their spur of the moment sprint downtown.

Sam punched his fist into the brick structure when he couldn't find a way to scale the wall. Out of all the ruined, dilapidated buildings in this town, this was the one thing that managed to remain intact.

He glanced back at the alley behind him, making sure the narrow path was still clear. When he was certain nothing was lurking behind them, he looked over to find Castiel, who was doing his own assessment of the wall. The older hunter was looking up at the top area of the wall and around the sides. Sam could practically hear the calculations computing inside the man's head. The wall was roughly nine feet tall, but knowing the height didn't really do much for them. They still had no way to climb it. He supposed if push came to shove they could try rolling the abused dumpster over and using it as a step latter. Though, Sam wasn't really keen on trusting his weight to the rust bucket.

Castiel looked back, just as Sam had, and then tucked his weapon in the back of his jeans. Sam was confused by the action. Now was definitely not the time to be putting their weapons away, not when they were cornered and leading a straggling trail of zombies. He was even more confused when Cas laced his fingers and offered them to him.

“Hurry,” the hunter encourage, shakes his joined hands to get his attention.

Sam quickly took the hint and stepped forward, placing his foot in the makeshift stirrup and his hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“Ready?” Sam nodded. It was all the warning he received before Castiel pushed his hands up, sending Sam up the wall.

He wobbled for a moment from the loss of sturdiness the ground provided, but thankfully he managed to grab a hold of the top ledge without toppling over. His elbows hooked over the ledge, taking most of his weight and leaving him to dangle for a moment as Castiel’s hand disappeared. His feet scraped uselessly against the bricks, searching for leverage, before he managed to heft his lower body up until he could drag his knee over the ledge. The top ledge was narrow, so it was hard to establish his balance. It was going to be even harder trying to pull Castiel up, especially when there was no one left on the ground to hoist him up, but there wasn’t another option.

When he did manage some semblance of balance, he reached down to offer his hand to the older man, but found that Castiel already had his gun back out and was facing back down the alley. Sam squinted in the same direction. There was slow scraping scrapping noise, like someone was dragging something at a snail’s pace, but other than that Sam didn’t see anything. He snapped his fingers in order to gain the man’s attention. If they hurried, Sam could probably pull Cas up before whatever was at the mouth of the alley could make it to them. Castiel spent another second eyeing the narrow path before looking up at Sam. Something like dread dripped into Sam’s stomach when the older man shook his head to his offered hand.

Sam didn’t know how to interpret that. What exactly did ‘no’ mean in this situation? Was not going over the dead end an option? A look of regret settled on Castiel’s face. It only made the confusion and dread Sam was feeling worse.
“I’ll only pull you down,” the hunter offered in way of answer. Sam could feel his head begin to automatically shake in denile of the man’s reply, but Castiel ignored it. “Is your side clear?”

Stiffly, and carefully, Sam turned his head so he could see the alley behind him. It looked a lot like the one they’d just ran through, minus the industrial garbage can and shop doors. By those standards it was classified as better, but it was also minus his appointed guardian, and that—to Sam’s standard—made it worse than the other. He got the feeling Cas was looking for the standard, so it was with great reluctance that Sam nodded his head in response.

Castiel nodded his head in return, as if he already knew the answer to that question, and replied, “You need to keep going and get off this street. The further out of town the less Croats there will be. I’ll find another way around and meet up with you.”

Sam immediately shook his head and tried to project as much defiance as he could into that one action. Castiel’s features soften at the displaying, telling Sam that his failed attempt at stubborn had only succeeded in showcasing his fear and anticipation. He couldn’t help it. The thought of being alone again was too much like Flint. There were too many emotions connected to that experience: fear, abandonment, hopelessness. He didn’t want to go through that again. It was silly, but it felt like if he let Castiel out of his sight he wouldn’t find the man again, and Dean by extension.

His thoughts must have broadcasted across his face, because Castiel immediately responded to it. “We will find you Sam. Dean and I won’t leave you here."

Sam bit into his bottom lip. He didn't know how the older man could promise that. Sam didn't have any way of alerting them to his location. He was pretty sure Dean still had the flare from the Jeep. His own voice wouldn't even provide a sufficient way to call for them. He jerked a little when a hand wrapped around his ankle, but relaxed when he saw that it was still just Castiel standing there.

"Don't we always find you?" There was a small, reassuring smile at the edge of Castiel's mouth.

Sam snorted slightly and returned the twitch of a smile. He couldn't help but to think of all the times Dean had tracked him down when he'd snuck off at the camp. Or all the times Castiel seemingly appeared out of nowhere to cart him back off to his brother. They both had plenty of practice finding Sam, but all those times had been in an enclosed camp. How hard was it to find one kid in a fenced in area? The sentiment was heartening, but Sam still had his doubts.

The slow scraping from the front of the alley came again, this time sounding louder and closer than before. Castiel dropped his hand and turned to fully face the approaching threat. "Go, Sam," Castiel threw over his shoulder. His eyes were firmly fixed on the Croat crawling out from the shadows of the alley. The thing looked distinctly female with wide splits on each side of her jaw and a skinny pole protruding out her back. The bottom of the pipe scraped along the ground, spiting sparks as she slid forward.
The sight was so disturbing that Sam nearly forgot he was supposed to be leaving. The reminder came in the bark of Castiel's voice. "Now, Sam!"

He hesitated for a moment longer before reluctantly sliding off the other side of the brick wall. He caught himself on the top ledge, hoping to soften the impact, but when he let go and hit the ground the fall was still hard enough to jar the bones in his legs. He grit his teeth in an effort to ignore the pain. There was no time to waste on pain management. If Sam had to run, at least he was going to do it right and get out of town like he was instructed to do.

Sam took off down the alley, keeping an eye out for the shop doors as he passed them. He felt like a coward. Even though Castiel had insisted that he go, he couldn't help but feel like a deserter as well. As much as he feared being left out here on his own, there was a part of him that hated leaving his friend behind even more. He didn't know what he would do if something happened to Castiel.

In a lot of ways, Cas reminded him of Dean. Not to say they looked alike or even had similar personalities. Sam seriously doubted the scruffy man who slept on the couch and had just recently kicked a pot smoking habit enjoyed the hard cords of Metallica or fast cars and leather jackets. However, what they did share in common was their fiery over- protectiveness and their stupid willingness to put their lives on the line for Sam.

He understood why Dean acted that way. Dad had it drilled into his head so many times to 'watch out for Sammy,' that it just became habit. Not to say that Dean wouldn't do the same without being told. Dad's order was just an added reinforcement. Part of him wondered if Castiel was suffering from the same loyalty issue. Maybe too many times of Dean telling him to 'keep an eye on my little brother,' had forced the same habit onto him as well. Sam would like to think it was more than that. He'd spent enough time with the man, shared enough late night board games and walks around camp, to grow fond of his brother's odd partner. He knew if their roles were reversed he would willingly stick his neck out for either one of them. So maybe it wasn't appropriate to say Castiel was like Dean. Maybe the more appropriate thing to say was that, in a lot of ways, Castiel possessed traits Sam had come to label as 'Big Brother.'

Unfortunately, that did nothing to make him feel better about leaving the older man behind. He had already left Dean to fight his own battle on the main street, and now he'd left Castiel alone back in the alley. The stacks of guilt coupled with his growing anxiety were making Sam feel sicker by the minute. He tried not to dwell on it as he cleared the opening of the alley. He just had to keep reminding himself who the Croats were really after. Dean and Cas would probably fair a lot better without him around.

Sam slowed to a stop in the new open area. He worked to get his breathing under control as he took in the wide cemented expansion. The large area was relatively empty, save for a few downed light poles and a couple of car in various stages of disrepair. Most importantly there were no Croats around that he could see.

Taking advantage of the reprieve, Sam bent over at the waist and placed his hands on his knees. He eyed the minute yellow flecks of paint on the broken cement as he tried to let some of the adrenaline dissipate from his blood stream. He followed the pattern of yellow into something vaguely line shaped. As he stood back up he noticed there were other broken lines of yellow scattered across the area. It was a weird place to put a parking lot, or that’s what he thought until he found the rusted over sign hanging precariously from one of the light poles.

  mploye

     Parki

An employee parking lot situated behind the line of store fronts made more sense. It also explained the dead end in the middle of the alley. Whoever had built these structures didn’t want any non-authorized personal getting back here.

Sam jerked his head up as a thought suddenly occurred to him. If the front part of the parking lot was this well guarding, then there was a good chance the rest of it was too.
He stepped over the fallen pole and jogged across the lot. It didn’t even take him to the halfway point before the rustic red, chain linked fence came into view. He felt his shoulders slump at the tall enclosure. He had zero desire to climb over another obstacle, but at least this one he could climb.

Sam puffed out a breath. Unless he could find an opening somewhere along the fence line to squeeze through he would have to go over. Either way, he was probably looking at torn cloth and tetanus. The smooth metal finishing along the top was mostly broken and askew, leaving some of the twisted, clipped pieces of fencing sticking up. No doubt any opening he found cut into the bottom would look about the same.

Despite how unpleasant either method would be, he wasted no time in starting his search. His situation wasn’t lost on him. He knew if anything decided to come through one of the backdoors of the many connecting shops, he would essentially be facing a cage match. The thought that Castiel would use that route to get to him crossed his mind, but he quickly discarded it. The older hunter wouldn’t enter one of the shops alone, especially not in such a Croat infested area. There were too many unknown variables in the shops, too many hiding places that could easily get him ambushed. Still, Sam couldn’t help but feel a little bit of hope when the hinges of one of the doors creaked open.

That hope was quickly dashed as what appeared in the doorway was definitely not Castiel. Sam stood stock still as the zombie peered around the spacious lot. It was an involuntary action to freeze, but a childish part of him hoped if he stayed still the thing wouldn’t see him. It was a severely flawed theory, and one that was proven wrong the second the gangly, hunched-over figure’s eyes stopped on him. Sam’s breath caught in his throat... and then the thing started running. One of Dean’s favorite curse words slipped from Sam’s mouth as the thing approached with unnatural speed. Of course it had to be one of the faster moving Croats.

Finding an opening in the fence was no longer an option. It was up and over or not at all. Sam refused to let the latter come true. He closed the five remaining feet to the fence as quickly as he could and leapt onto the chain linked fence. It only boosted him up by a couple of inches, but at least that was a couple of inches extra that he didn’t have to climb. He would take whatever he could get when he had an undead track star chomping at his heels.

The rust caking the fence made the ordinarily smooth metal rough and it scrubbed unpleasantly at his palm, but he paid little attention to it. He was nearly to the top of the fence when he felt something slimy and cold curl around his ankle. It felt nothing like the reassuring touch Castiel had bestowed upon him early and Sam immediately panicked. He kicked out, trying to dislodge the bruising grip, but the thing wouldn’t relent. Sam held firm to the top fencing as the Croat tried to jerk him down. The whole fence shook with the powerful tug, and Sam noted with a spike of terror that the effort caused his grip to slip. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on through many more of those pulls.

Sam readjusted his white knuckled grip and pulled up as hard as could. When there was no give, Sam reluctantly looked down at the Croat. The whites of its’ eyes were colored red with blood and sunken in above a long slender nose. He gave his foot one more pull and then crushed his boot directly into the thing’s nose. He felt the nose sink under his foot with a blood squish, and then his world flipped over. Unfortunately he’d still been pulling at the top of the fence with all his might when the Croat released his ankle, sending him toppling over the fence. He felt the twisted metal teeth tear into his jacket, before a sense of weightlessness fell over him. It didn’t last long before the unforgiving ground slammed into him.

A weak cough left Sam’s lungs, taking what little air he had left in them. His left hip throbbed where it had taken the brunt on the nine foot drop. It was a point of concern, but right now he was more troubled by his inability to draw air. He knew the wind had been knocked out of him, and it would return soon, but it was still hard not to panic when he couldn’t breathe. He pressed his forehead into the dirt when his lunges finally decided to once again take in air. It wasn’t much better, but Sam was glad to feel the grainy, dirty ground beneath him. It still hurt like Hell, but hitting a concrete slab would have been so much worse. Plus, he hoped that the lack of man-made flooring meant he was getting closer to being out of this town. He didn’t care if he ever saw Lansing, Michigan again.

Sam pushed up onto his shaky arms. The dirt stuck to the sweat formed over his arms and forehead. He made a half-hearted attempt to brush the dirt off his face, but only succeeded in smearing it around. He rolled up into a sitting position and bit his lip at the lance of pain that shot through his hip bone. He didn’t think it was broken, but there would definitely be a nasty bruise.

Small pings off distressed metal caught Sam's attention. He glanced over his shoulder and then jolted as if someone had stuck an electric prod to him. Dust kicked up as he quickly scrabbled to his feet. His injured hip protested the jerky movement, but staying on the ground wasn't an option anymore. Despite the crushed nose and obsessive amount of blood running down its' face, the Croat was still eager to climb the fence to get to him.

Sam turned and bolted before the thing reached the top of the fence. He didn't know which way he needed to go to get out of town, but keeping to the dirt path felt like the best course of action. It was the path that led way his nose-less zombie and seemed the least promising to take him to any more shops in town. His feet pounded hard against the dried, compacted earth. The harsh movement jarred his injury, but there was no way he was stopping. He couldn't let the echoing set of fast approaching footsteps catch up.

The makeshift dirt road didn't last for long before turning back into concrete. Sam didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but right now he would settle for anything that got this particular zombie off of his back. A bullet was his best option, but when he reached for his gun it was gone. He was afraid it was laying somewhere at the bottom of the fence, lost in the tumble when he was too stunned to notice it was gone. It was too late to go back and get it. He was too far out and didn't think he could get around his pursuer to double back and grab it. He needed to find another weapon or someway to lose the Croat. His answer came in the form of a row of large, gray, rectangular buildings. Even from a distance Sam could make out the sturdy stainless steel exterior. It felt weird to see any metal buildings that were actually silver instead of rusty brown and red.

There was no mistaking what these buildings really were. Sam had enough nightmares about another, similar building to know what a warehouse looked like when he saw one. He wasn't thrilled at the thought of using one to barricade himself in to get away from his undead stalker. He was aware that there could be more Croats lurking in the building, and he had no weapon to defend himself. It was a risk, but it was one he had to take. It was either that or trip over something in his exhaustion and become the cliché victim in some crappy horror movie.

He used the last of his waning energy to push himself faster toward the first building. He could sense he was gaining ground from the Croat. It wasn't much, but maybe it would be the extra few steps he needed to secure a door between himself and the nose-less zombie. Sam was immensely grateful to see that the first in the row of buildings looked to be in the best structural condition. He wasn't sure he would be able to hold up his pace to make it to one a little further out. The wide, gaping door of the warehouse was both welcoming and foreboding. His boots skid across the loose gravel on the cement as he took the sharp turn into the entrance.

It took a precious second to find the crank for the roll up door. There wasn’t much light seeping into the building, but he was able to find the crank attached to the floor on the right side. The Croat was just preparing to bolt over the threshold when Sam found the release lever on the crank and kicked it as hard as he could. The mechanism gave a sharp clink and then chains were rattling violently as the door unrolled and slammed into the ground with a resounding thud.

Sam held his breath as what little light in the building was snuffed by the door closing. There was still a tiny amount of light coming from somewhere overhead, but it was only enough to highlight vague outlines of what he knew should be there. He could still see the metallic ridges along the door. It was really the only thing he could focus in on. He was afraid to look away for fear of the zombie barreling through the metal door like a football player through a tissue paper sign.

A minute passed as Sam waited, eyes glued to the door. A steady stream of white puffs left Sam’s heaving chest. As thrilled as he was to hear silence from behind the door, he was also wary of it as well. That damned zombie had chased him too far and for too long to just give up because it had a door slammed in its’ face. At the very least Sam had expected some angry banging. He knew firsthand how much Croat’s loved to bang destructively on things.

Something wasn’t right. Sam took a step back, eyeing the floor crank to make sure the lever had clicked back into the locked position. As much as he hated it, he knew he wasn’t as safe here as he had hoped. There was something off. He just couldn’t figure out what. Sam belated remembered the flashlight tucked into his pocket. He went to tug it free from his back pocket, but before he could reach it a loud snap echoed from behind him and suddenly the room was filled with light. The change left Sam reeling with bright spots dancing over his eyes. He stumbled around, blinking rapidly at the rest of the warehouse until his vision finally cleared. And when it did, he wished it hadn’t.

“Hey, Bucko.”

The little white wisps of air coming from Sam’s mouth trailed off as his lungs seized to a halt. The grin on the demigod’s face was just as Sam remembered; wide and strangely earnest. His stature was still on the petite side, but there was something about his presence that expanded passed his frame and made him feel larger than life itself. Sam felt the urge to a step back. That something was probably the fact this demigod, Loki, had already taken his life once.

Loki puffed out a breath of exasperation, “Don’t be so melodramatic. I never killed you.” The demigod rolled his eyes upward and looked to be mentally weighing something. “Put you away for safe keeping? Yes. Kill you? No.”

Safe keeping, Sam’s mind echoed back. What exactly did that mean? How the hell was tossing someone out into a zombie infested world nineteen years later safe keeping? He felt anger and frustration well up at the thought of what this thing had done to him. And not just to him, but to Dean also. For a moment the anger sitting in the pit of his stomach outweighed the fear he’d been constantly feeling. It felt good. The look on Loki’s face darkened a bit, and Sam felt himself internally wince. Just like that the anger took second fiddle to fear.

“You were supposed to be safe. Things were supposed to be different,” the demigod insisted. His tone was bitter, at least on the surface, but Sam couldn’t help feeling curious at the slight undercurrent of sadness he detected. Loki suddenly grinned. It wasn’t as wide as normal, maybe even a little fake, but it was enough of a mood change to throw Sam off his train of thought. “But you know what they say about best laid plans,” the demigod snorted as an afterthought. “They usually go to Hell in a hand basket.”

Sam’s mouth worked open and closed for a moment. He didn’t know how to reply to that. Not that he could reply to that. Not unless the trickster was going to slide him a piece of paper and a pen. Another snap echoed through the room, causing Sam to involuntarily flinch. Something solid formed in his hand. It was instinct alone that his fingers curled around the object. His eyebrows furrow as he pulled up his hand. Needless to say he was surprised to see a light blue notepad with a pen clipped to the top in his grasp.

“Not sure why you need it?” Sam jerked his head up to eye the demigod still standing in the middle of the room. The trickster inclined his head to the pad in Sam’s hands. “I can hear you just fine,” he added with a finger tap to his head.

It took all of a second for Sam to understand the meaning behind the being’s words. He dropped the notepad in his hand as if it had burned him and took a side-step away when it fell too close to his feet. He ignored the indignant sound from the demigod in favor of concentrating on the panic thoughts running through his head.

This thing could hear his thoughts?

The thought was barely formed before Loki’s face fell. He looked distinctly insulted as he replied in a deadpan, “Yes, this thing can hear you.” There was a pause before he added, “And it also has feelings too... in case you were wondering.”

Sam wasn’t. The only thing he was wondering was how he could get out of this warehouse or if he could find a weapon. He was pretty sure the latter was unless. It was hard to forget how the demigod had rendered their weapons completely useless before. Still, it made him feel better to have the façade of protective. Right now all he had was a discarded notepad courtesy of said demigod.

There was always the option of exiting the way he came in. If only that option wasn't the epitome of a double edged sword. He hadn’t forgotten what he’d left just outside the warehouse door in the first place. His choices consisted of death by zombies or what this demigod planned on doing. A bleak choice at best, but Sam wasn’t so stupid to think the choice was his anyway. He didn’t really think the door would open if he tried. It was nice to believe he had a say in the matter though.

"I can assure you that you're a lot better off with me than what's behind door #1," Loki said, indicating to the door with his thumb.

Sam didn't think so. At least with the obsessive Croats he knew where he stood. The zombies were hungry and as far as they were concerned Sam was fast food. With Loki, he didn't know what the demigod wanted. He didn't have anything else for the guy to take. Sam had already lost his family and his voice. For a hunter, that was about the extent of his claim in life. He only had one important possession left. A sickening thought occurred to him and just like that the panic twisted into something ugly and desperate and his mind all but screamed, "You can't have Dean!"

The eye roll he received for an answer was over-exaggerated and ridiculous. "I don't want that chucklehead you call a brother."

"Then what?" Sam's thought was loud inside his head. He could still hear the desperation in his own head no matter how hard he tried to mask it. There were just too many other emotions working against him, and not just today's. Ever since he'd woken up in that demolished warehouse over a month ago, Sam had felt afraid, angry and confused more times than he cared for. It was exhausting, both mentally and physically, and all he wanted to know was why.

For once the trickster god didn't look amused or terrifying. His face was unreadable as he stared at Sam with an appraising look that made him want to squirm. Thankfully he managed to keep from doing so and after another moment the demigod's stare broke off with a soft sigh.

Loki snapped and plopped down onto a chair that appeared underneath him. Another chair had also popped into existence beside the demigod’s own and he gestured out a hand toward it. "Sit down, kiddo."

Sam would be lying if he said the chair didn't look inviting. It wasn't just any chair. It was one of those overstuffed lazy boy recliners. Sam knew at this point he could crawl on top of it and happily sleep for the next twelve hours straight. Its’ only tragic flaw was its’ creator and how close it was in proximity to said creator. Sam feeling were divided about turning it down, but he shook his head firmly and refused to go any closer.

Loki sighed again, but this time in annoyance. The demigod slid forward to sit on the edge of his own chair and eyed Sam with a seriousness that belied his normal nature. "I meant what I said before. I did this to help you."

"Help me?" Sam thought incredulously. "Help me how? How has this helped anybody?"

"Things were supposed to be different, okay?" The trickster barked, causing Sam to wince. Though his anger sounded more self-afflicted than anything else. "I thought if I could hide you away for a while, then I could put a stop to this runaway apocalypse train. I mean, you can't have a conductor without a train, right?"

Sam's brow scrunched together in confusion as he slowly shook his head. He had no idea what Loki was rambling about. What did his continual existence have to do with the zombie apocalypse?

Loki's own expression turned confused as he watched Sam try to puzzle through what had just been told to him. It was clear something wasn't clicking as it should, and after a moment the trickster frowned as whatever it was must have dawned on him.

Sam frowned in return, "What?"

Loki gave him another appraising look. "You're brother didn't tell you, did he?" He paused to let Sam answer but changed his mind at the last second. "Of course he didn't. Why would he? Dean-o probably thinks if he doesn't tell you then it won't be true." The demigod snorted at the absurdity of his own comment, but sobered up quickly before voicing his next thought. "I wonder if Lucifer is of the same opinion."

Sam stiffened at the mention of the Devil's name. It was the second time in two days he'd heard both that name and his name in the same correlation. The first time he wrote it off as one of Castiel's odd moments of rambling, but it was a little harder this time.

"What--I, what are you talking about? Tell me what?" Sam knew he was shaken when even his thoughts started to come out sounding stuttered. He couldn't help it. He knew what he was about hear wouldn't be good. It couldn't be if Dean had insisted on hiding it from him, but this was obviously something he needed to know. He needed to understand what was going on for a change.

Loki nodded, no doubt hearing his internal debate. "Sure you don't want to sit?" He offered the chair again, but Sam just shook his head. Just because this guy was playing nice and offering up info, didn't mean Sam had suddenly forgotten what he was.

"Fine," Loki conceded and placed his focus directly on Sam, gauging his every movement as he spoke his next damning words. "Before I 'put you away for safe keeping,' you, Sam Winchester, were destined to start all of this." The trickster waved his hand around to indicate not only the warehouse but the Hell going on outside it. "The apocalypse going on right now--the real apocalypse--that little accident was supposed to be all you, pal. And Lucifer? You're his prized vessel. Apparently you're the only meat suit he can ride into battle to end the world."

Once Loki was finished the space around them turned so quiet a dropped pin could be heard. Sam just stared at the demigod for the longest time, but no matter how long he stood there the words just wouldn’t sink in. How could they? Did this god of mischief really expect him to believe one person could be responsible for the destruction of an entire planet? It was crazy! Loki was crazy, and stupid to boot if he thought Sam was falling for any line of that bull. Why would Lucifer even need a vessel, more or less choose Sam to be that vessel. Sam’s ‘vessel’ wasn’t anything special. If Lucifer really needed some walking- around-skin then he could just possess someone else like every other demon.

“Lucy isn’t a demon,” Loki answered, sounding slightly perturbed on the Devil’s behalf. Because referring to him as a woman was less of an insult. A twitch of a smile appeared on his face, telling Sam the trickster had heard that last thought, before disappearing again. “Eternal damnation or not he’s still an angel, and angels need permission before they can take a vessel.”

Sam frowned and looked down at his hands. So the Devil needed permission. That didn’t explain why he needed Sam? There were so many other people who were bigger than him; smarter, stronger, people who didn’t look like an awkward adolescent.

“Come on, Sammy, you’re supposed to be the smart one.” Loki said, his over-exaggerated tone sounded disappointed. “You’re not looking at the big picture here.”

Sam shook his head, but whether it was in denial or just a general answer he wasn’t sure anymore. He didn’t want to buy into the trickster story any further, but what picture was bigger than the apocalypse.

“Ever wonder why the Demon was hanging out in your nursery?”

Sam visibly tensed at the mention of that particular event. It was not something the Winchester family was allowed to talk about even though their whole life was built around it. It was weird hearing it so openly mentioned.

“It wasn’t just there on some courtesy call.” Loki continued, taking advantage of Sam’s full attention. “He was shopping for Daddy’s new suit for his welcome home party.”

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Sam’s stomach. They never knew why the Demon was their house that night, or what it had wanted, but Loki’s story made a strange kind of sense. It explained why the Demon had only killed his mother and not him. That was something he did not want to think about. If the Demon had only come for him, then that meant it was his fault....

“Hey,” Loki snapped his fingers, catching Sam’s attention immediately. Sam expected something to suddenly appear like all the times before, but when nothing happened he realized the trickster was only trying to grab his attention. "Stay with me, Kiddo, and leave the misplaced guilt thing to the Winchester who's good at it."

Sam blinked at the being, and wondered for the first time how this demigod knew so much about his family. Now that he thought about it, why was a pagan god--a god who delighted in upsetting the balance of the universe--so interested in stopping a chaotic event that was a primary Christian belief?

"Each religion has it's own kudagra." Loki shrugged as if it was just one of the facts of life. "Gods wouldn't survive very long if we didn't notice when another one of us was about to implode. You see, it's not a very interesting world if there's no one left in it to mess with."

Sam could see the logic behind that idea. Loki's interference here was nothing more than him looking out for his own best interests. In essence, he could understand that. Sam looked back up at the demigod still perched on the end of his chair. But he had meddled into Sam's life--turned it upside down and on its' ear--and regardless of it all they were still looking at a world on the brink of destruction. Lucifer was still out there looking for his vessel which, now that Sam thought about it, could not be him. He wasn't around to start the apocalypse. That meant Loki had to have the wrong person.

Loki began shaking his head just as soon as Sam started to get his hopes up. "Sorry, kid. It's still you. You and your brother's fates were written down a long time ago. It can't be anyone else."

Sam shook his head. The motion was easily becoming his default answer for whatever the demigod said. With each passing minute he liked their conversation less and less, and now it seemed Dean was getting dragged into it as well. At the mention of his brother's name Sam latched onto it and shot Loki a confused look.

"Your brother was supposed to break the first seal, did break the first seal--there are sixty- six seals that have to be broken before Lucifer can be sprung from his trap," Loki elaborated when Sam grew more confused than before. "Once the first is gone the next sixty-four are easy enough. It's the last one that's the real challenge. It has to be broken by a special individual."

The demigod trailed off with a sigh and finally pushed back into his chair so that he was no longer sitting on the edge. He looked off to the side, glancing at something Sam couldn't see before turning back. " I thought 'special individual' meant you, his true vessel," Loki gestured to Sam before dropping his arm back to the over-stuffed chair. "But apparently a special person only means someone with natural psychic abilities and a gut full of demon blood."

Sam's face turned to a look of disgust at the idea of drinking some demon's blood. The thought of drinking blood at all was enough to turn Sam's stomach on a good day.

"Yeah," Loki made a face to let Sam know he agreed with that sentiment before continuing. "Though it seemed Lucy was under the same impression I was. He tried to use the brat the Demon had primed to pop his lock, but the kid wasn't his true vessel and eventually burned out, and all too quickly at that. You can imagine how well that went over. He never took not getting his way very well, if you know what I mean," Loki inclined his head on the last part as if he was sharing with Sam. When he made no reaction Loki tipped his head back up and considered Sam for a moment. "He's been burning through vessels ever since, and he'll keep doing it until he finds the one he's looking for."

Sam stood still, once again facing down the trickster for longer than necessary, but this time the words were getting through. It was hard to deny them in the face of all the evidence. The Demon had been in his nursery and yet spared him the same fire that stole his mother away. According to Loki the very same Demon had found someone to release the Devil.

Each fact tied into another--starting with one he knew to be true--and led down through a list of events where each verified the previous. That meant that, no matter how damning or how hard Sam wished that they weren’t, what Loki was saying was probably true. Best of all, Sam couldn't forget Dean and Castiel's conversation the previous morning about both him and Lucifer; “And what will take care of Lucifer if he decides to show up? As far as he’s concerned he never got his shot.” It was just too big of a coincidence, and Sam had been in the family business long enough to know there were no such thing as coincidences. That only led to one conclusion.

Sam hadn't felt his legs give out until his butt landed on something fluffy. He barely noticed the lazy-boy by Loki was now gone. About the only coherent thought Sam had was, "I'm Lucifer's vessel," and it was steadily looping around on repeat.

“Deep breaths, kid,” the demigod advised. Loki had abandoned his chair for the sake of moving closer. Sam wasn’t thrilled by the closer proximity, but at least the trickster managed to maintain some form of distance between them.

Sam pulled in a deep breath as instructed and blew it back out. It helped, but not nearly enough to dispel the trembling in his limbs or the frantic thoughts circling his brain. He didn’t think there was enough oxygen he could intake that would make his situation any better. He had spent nineteen years in limbo, hiding from the devil himself, and to what end?

Nineteen years was a lot of time to lose, especially with a father who clearly didn’t have time to spare. The worse part of it was that it was all for nothing. There was a huge chunk of Sam’s life missing and somehow Lucifer was still walking around. Sam gripped the fluff of the armrest and tried to still the shaking in his hands. Why was he back? If Lucifer still needed his vessel then why had Loki even bothered to bring Sam out of ‘safe keeping’ in the first place?

“I didn’t.”

The simple reply was the thing that finally interrupted the buzz of thoughts in Sam’s mind. He looked up at the demigod. His mind was completely blank, but the question he wanted to ask was written all over his face.

"I didn't bring you back," the trickster explained. Loki took a step forward, but stopped when Sam tensed up. The sigh that followed was filled with annoyance, but his tone was informative and smooth. "I've been looking for you for a little over a month now. I hadn't been able to find the first trace of you until today, which is good for you. It means little brother is still taking his job seriously, even though he's well under-qualified for it now."

"Little brother?" Sam's mind played back and looked to the demigod in wordless question.

"Pretty sure you've met the guy." Loki shifted his stance so that one hip jutted out as he beginning ticking points off his fingers. "Generally clueless, loyal to a fault, usually stoned; that ringing any bells?"

It wasn't ringing bells. Just the one big bell that made his heart sink into his stomach. There was only one person Sam knew who fit that description. He refused to think it or say it out loud, though it didn't really matter, Loki still tutted as if he knew what Sam was thinking regardless. At least the demigod didn't go into it, and instead chose to continue with his story.

"After Lucifer was released, I fully intended to leave you where you were," Loki admitted.

Sam's face paled a little at the remark. It was one thing to suggest being left in isolation, but quiet another when hearing the demigod say it so flippantly, like it wasn't a big deal if he left Sam there for another nineteen years.

Loki merely proved that point further when he just shrugged and continued. "And that worked for a while. Lucifer concentrated a good chuck of his efforts into locating and resurrecting you. It wasn't until recently that he caught onto my trick. 'Kind of hard to resurrect someone who’s not really dead, right?"

Loki paused for an answer, but when all Sam gave him was his ever-present shocked expression, he just sighed and went on. "By the time I figured out what was going on, it was too late to stop him. He was already pulling you out and I couldn't stop him without revealing myself. So I did the next best thing." He paused to tap his fingers against his own throat in illustration, "I took away your ability to say 'yes,' and cloaked you for as long as possible. Unfortunately, by the time it wore off I could find neither hide nor hair of you."

That at least explained why Sam was alone when he woke up. What it didn’t explain was why Loki was so willing to ruin his life back all those years ago to keep him away from Lucifer, but when the real danger got a little too close the demigod didn’t want to interfere for the sake of ‘revealing himself?’ Sam felt anger rise up in him. So it was okay to ruin Sam’s life for the sake of the world, just as long as it didn’t interfere with Loki’s continued existence? How could a demigod—a being as old as time itself—be such a damned coward?

“Hey,” Loki growled, this time sounding exactly how his toned suggested. “I didn’t have to stick my neck out for you at all, pal. You should be grateful—”

“Grateful?!” Sam vaulted up from the chair. He was pretty sure his anger was the only thing keeping his legs from folding under again. “What am I supposed to be grateful for?” He mentally seethed. “Maybe I should be grateful that you didn’t leave me in limbo for another nineteen years! Or maybe I should be grateful that Dad and I had a disagreement before YOU helped me, and now I can’t fix it anymore because he’s dead! Or maybe I should just be grateful that the pack of apocalyptic zombies didn’t eat me on the way in!”

Sam was physically huffing when he finished his rant. He hadn’t said one word out loud, but the amount of strain and frustration that went into his mental rant was enough to make him feel as if he’d physically exerted his self. For his part, Loki just stood there quietly, taking in everything Sam had to mentally dish out with a stony face. He didn’t know what the demigod was thinking, but if he had to guess it probably wasn’t good. It wasn’t smart to yell at a being that was capable of ending his life with a snap of his fingers, but Sam was upset and didn’t care. Whatever the trickster decided to do with him couldn’t be much worse than what was already waiting for him outside the warehouse.

Loki’s stony stare finally relented, and Sam was surprised to see no hint of true anger on the beings face. In fact, for a minute he could have sworn he saw something close to remorse flicker over ancient god’s face. The trickster pushed a hand back through his hair. “Like I said, things were supposed to be different.”

It sounded like an apology. The words were wrong, but the almost hidden sentiment in Loki’s voice implied it was there. Still, it wasn’t an apology on the surface, and to Sam that was just more proof that the demigod was incapable of showing his true face and not hiding behind his cloaks and facades.

“Then take me back,” Sam’s mind whispered. It was a far cry from the anger Sam had unleashed not five minutes ago, but the words were no less intense. Loki cocked his head slightly, painfully reminding Sam of someone else he knew. It took the demigod a minute, but the meaning behind Sam’s thought finally dawned on him. “I can’t.”

Sam bristled slightly and screwed up his face. "Can't or won't."

"Can't," Loki replied, his mouth a tight line across his face. "I can't change what's already happen." An argument flared to life in Sam's mind. He wanted to ask why he couldn't change things now when he didn't appear to have any trouble before, but stopped as Loki held up a silencing finger. "Yes, I could change the course of thing, I could change how things happen, but not in the same way I could then. Sure, I could take you back. You might get a couple of more years with your family. You might even get that apple pie life you always wanted. But it would only be temporary. We'll always end up here," Loki gestured his hand around the hollowed out warehouse, but Sam got the impression he wasn't talking about the warehouse in general. "You can't erase what’s been written."

Sam wanted to do something childish like stomp his feet or maybe kick and scream, but he knew it wouldn't do him any good. The trickster wouldn't take him back. Those years with his family, his whole family, were gone and so was any chance of a normal life. It hurt to know he could have had at one time, however temporary it might have been. "Why are you here then?" Sam asked; a heavy tone of resignation even in his thoughts. "If you won't help, then why bother showing up here?"

Loki frowned; clearly not liking the way the question was phrased, but didn't make a comment on it. "You'd prefer to be left in the dark?

"I've been left in worse." The thought was out of Sam's head before he realized it, but it was true and he wouldn't take it back.

"I guess you have," Loki regarded Sam for another moment, before continuing. "But it's nothing compared to what it will be if Lucifer gets his hands on you."

Sam reflexively swallowed; his throat trying to work passed the uncomfortable lump forming there. He didn't want to think about that. He knew Biblical things about the Devil from some of Pastor Jim's sermons. Those facts alone had Sam shying away from ever wanting to come face-to-face with the entity. He could only imagine how much worse the fallen angel actually was. "It wouldn't be if you helped us," Sam shot back and wasn't surprised by the narrowed look he received in return.

"I can't," Loki repeated. Sam was about to repeat his previous answer, but the trickster beat him to it. "I can't. This isn't my mess to clean up. I did what I could and it didn't make a difference; game over. You humans are on your own now." Loki held up his hand, fingers posed and ready to snap. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Sam knew this was the end of their conversation. The demigod had come and done what little he planned to do and now he was done with Sam. He knew it was probably fruitless, but Sam couldn't help the last thought that slipped out. “Your brother... not even to help your brother?”

Loki’s arm dropped a fraction, letting Sam know the thought had caught the demigod’s attention. A grim expression appeared on his face. “Kid, you have no idea,” the demigod shook his head. An ironic smile twisted up one corner of his mouth, implying just how much Sam didn’t know. “I did this for my family.”

“You didn’t do this for your family,” Sam shook his head in return. Maybe he didn’t know as much, but there was one thing he was sure of. “I would die for my brother, but you’re already willing to give up on yours.”

Sam was also sure that last remark wouldn’t go over well with the demigod, and from the way Loki’s face darkened, he was right. He expected the trickster to say something in return, but instead his mouth just tightened further and snapped his fingers together. Sam physically felt the ripple that shot through the room. He shielded his face and when he looked back up the light that had permeated the room and the two chairs were gone. Sam sighed and wiped a hand over his face. He vaguely took notice of the still shaking limb. His mind was buzzing with everything he’d had thrown at him in the last half hour. So much so that he hadn’t noticed the door to the warehouse was somehow open again until a snarl echoed around the empty room.

His whole body tensed at the realization. The echo disorientated him and made it hard to determine where it had come from. By the time he finally saw the Croat—fingers dug into the floor and bleeding from dragging its’ legless body around—it was too late. Before he could move away, the thing jolted up and dug its’ strong fingers into his leg and bit down into the muscle of his calf. The scream Sam let out was never heard.

Chapter Text

The surprise of the attack coupled with the sudden blow to his lower leg bowled Sam over. The cement floor was unpleasant as it hit his back, but it was only a secondary point of discomfort compared to the searing pain radiating from his left calf.

Sam gritted his teeth and reflexively kicked out against the thing attached to his leg. It made impact, but all it succeeded in doing was jarring the razor sharp teeth embedded in him. Despite the lack of results, he kicked out again with his right leg and nailed the Croat in the Shoulder. He repeated the action again and again, hitting various body parts until one particular vicious blow caught the zombie's head. The feel of teeth sliding in deeper registered a split second before the new wave of pain set in. A scream fell from Sam's mouth, but the only thing heard was the Croat's angry, muffled screech.

Sam bit into his bottom lip and scrambled uselessly against the floor in an effort to get away from the zombie. The combination of teeth and bruising fingertips held him fast. Kicking at the thing had proved to be unhelpful, and he hesitated to reached down and pry the thing off. He didn't want to pull it loose just to have the thing bite off a couple of his fingers.

He desperately searched the floor around him, looking for some kind of weapon he might be able to use. Unfortunately, the downside to being stuck in the only standing building in town was the serious lack of debris. The only thing on the floor was the notebook Loki had left behind and a thick layer of dust. So unless the Croat was planning on inhaling the dust and then dying of an allergic reaction, Sam’s options were pretty limited.

Sam gritted his teeth and managed to propel himself up into a sitting position. Despite the cold weather a fine sheen of sweat was beginning to form over his skin. He dragged his free leg underneath him for leverage and grabbed at the Croat’s head. The feel of the cold, dead skin under his hands made him ill, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he drove each of his thumbs into the side of the zombie’s jaw and pried at the hinges.

The Croat let out a disgruntled yell at the unwelcomed pressure, but didn’t let up. Sam increased the pressure and nearly lost the content of his stomach when one of his thumbs punctured through the rubbery skin and hit bone. The zombie didn’t take much of a liking to that either. It thrashed its’ head in order to dislodge Sam’s fingers, but didn’t let go of Sam’s leg in the process.

Sam let out another silent scream as the violent jerk tore at the skin and muscle of his leg. He practically felt the nerve endings fraying under the brutality of the Croat's teeth. His hands shook as the pain became like liquid that raced up through his bloodstream, but he was determined not to let go. He didn't know if he would be able to get back up if he fell back now. In a last-ditch effort, Sam pulled out the hand embedded into the zombie's jaw and used his fingers to jab forcefully into the thing's eye sockets.

The Croat screamed, and Sam could have sobbed in relief when its fangs slid free of his legs. He didn't have time for that though. As glad as he was to be free, he was by no means in the clear. Sam scrambled back, and this time his body followed along without hesitation, a thin line of blood smearing the further he dragged his leg away. The Croat was blind for a moment as it clawed at its face in the same fashion someone would after walking through a cobweb. The jerky swipes were violent and ill-aimed. The thing was likely doing more damage than good, especially since the damaging object had already been removed.

Sam had only managed to get a good couple of feet back when the thing suddenly stopped its flailing to pinned its bloody stare on Sam. The Croat's left eye was completely gouged out and leaking ribbons of dark red. However, its perfectly operational right eye was like a laser point on Sam.

He scooted himself backwards again in order to put another fruitless few inches between himself and the Croat. The thing screamed at the sudden movement and reached its' bony hand forward in pursue, but paused when a noise from outside startled it.

"Sam!"

The zombie, torso raised up from the floor and supported by its straightened arms, turned this head and screeched at the open doorway. Sam, on the other hand felt frozen in place, just staring at the Croat as the sound of the familiar voice from just outside the warehouse washed over him. The sense of relief and safety that sound inspired nearly knocked him flat.

Clearly finding nothing of interest in the doorway, the Croat swiveled its head back to Sam and once again swung its arm out to move forward. Sam didn't even have time to recoil. The zombie barely made it an inch before a loud pop echoed in the hollowed out building and the zombie's shoulder jerked with a spray or torn flesh and blood.

Having nothing more than arms to hold itself up, the Croat collapsed in a twisted heap. Its shoulder was cleanly destroyed. There was a large portion of bone visibly poking through the upper part of the shoulder where the bullet had shattered the brittle socket and pushed the jagged humerus up and out the shoulder. Needless to say the zombie wouldn't be getting around very quickly anymore, but that didn't mean the brainless creature wouldn't try.

The Croat scratched persistently at the dirty cement floor in an effort to scoot closer to Sam. Like before, the thing barely got an inch before another gunshot fired. This time the bullet buried itself right in the zombie's temple. The thing gave another jerky snarl before growing still.

Sam watched the line of blood sluggishly drain from the hole in the Croat's head as the other side oozed gray, lumpy gore. The proof that the thing was finally dead was laid out in front of him, but Sam found he couldn't take his eyes away from it. He felt like if he did it might reanimate and continue its pursuit. It wasn't an unfair assumption considering every other zombie in Lansing had made it their mission to hunt him down.

There was a sudden scuffle of movement to his right. Sam jerked; the adrenaline still pumping through his system, wreaking havoc on his nerves. His instinct was to push back and away from the coming threat, but the denim clad legs morphing up into a leather jacket stopped him.

Dean dropped to his knees in front of Sam, successfully blocking out the mess of zombie he'd been transfixed on. "Sammy," the tone was urgent just like the hands that fluttered over his arms and chest looking for concealed injuries. One hand came to rest on the nap of his neck while the other searched for bumps hidden under his mop of hair. "Are you hurt?"

Sam could only stare at his brother as he fussed over him. The shock of Dean being here and the Croat now laying deceased behind him was still gripping him. At the thought of the zombie he'd let out of his sight, his eyes wandered past his brother's shoulder to where he'd last seen the thing. He was surprised not to see the zombie, but a concerned looking Castiel staring down at the ground.

"Sam!" Dean lifted his hand from the top of Sam's head and palmed his cheek. A gentle shake accompanied the contrary tone in an attempt to get his attention. It worked. For the first time since Dean entered the room Sam took a good look at his brother. The man looked battle weary and had a gash just above his left eyebrow. It looked worse than it was due to the way the blood was smeared. It did a good job of covering up some of the worried lines carved out into his forehead, but it did nothing to hide the pure concern shining out from his brother eyes.

A part of Sam had worried he'd never get to see that worried-to-death, over-protective stare again. Leaving Dean to fight his own battle in the middle of Lansing's main road had been the hardest thing he'd ever done. So seeing him whole, for the most part, and here made Sam dizzy with relief. It was that relief, the knowing that Dean was safe and that now maybe this zombie nightmare could be over, and the sheer exhaustion that had Sam's eyes turning hot and his hand curling in the material of his big brother's jacket.

For his part, Dean didn't call Sam an emotional girl or princess. He just circled his arms around his brother and tugged him close with a soft expression only reserved for Sam.

Sam buried his face into Dean's shoulder and breathed deep. The adrenaline was slowly working its way out of his system. He could almost forget he was in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of zombie land if it wasn't for the sudden stabbing pain he felt shoot up his leg. He sucked in a quick breath and tightened his hold on his brother to try and counteract the pain he was again feeling.

Dean easily pulled out of the grip and held Sam back at arm’s reach. "What? What is it?" He asked, but didn't wait for an answer as he started to check Sam's back. There was no doubt he would find a couple of forming bruises back there, but that wasn't what made Sam want rip his leg off to escape the pain.

"Dean."

The older hunter paused his assessment to look briefly over his shoulder at the other man. "What, Cas?" Dean asked. He sounded less than thrilled to be interrupted, but at the same time he knew, that given their environment, it was best not to ignore anyone.

Sam felt fingers at the edge of his pants leg, gently rolling them up so that the infected area was showing. He dug his fingertips into Dean's arm as the denim unavoidably brushed over the wound. Dean hissed a bit at the bruising touch and looked back to give his younger brother a look of half concern/half confusion.

Once the rolled up cuff stopped moving up his leg there was silence. Dean had gone back to trying to location the point of Sam's discomfort, and Sam was too preoccupied to shrug his brother off. He was too busy watching Castiel as he was stared down at the marred flesh of his leg. It was so hard to see this man--or, whatever--as anything related to Loki, especially not when the look on his face was so earnestly concerned.

After a moment Dean realized Castiel had not replied and paused to turn his upper body to the other hunter. "Cas, wha--?" the question died almost as soon as it was born. Sam couldn't see--Dean's body was shielding him--but he could imagine how it looked from the way his brother's face paled as he locked eyes on the bite.

The implication of what that bite meant had not been lost on Sam, but in all the chaos he hadn't had much time to focus on it. There wasn’t any way that at least some of the nasty Croat’s saliva had not gotten into the wound. The infection probably wasn’t deep at this point, but given their lack of tools and remote location, there was no way to get the infection out without someone else getting infected in the process.

That was going on the assumption that there was a way to remove it. If he had to guess, he would say there wasn’t, given the looks on his companions’ faces. Also the fact that Dean hadn’t touched the area or leapt into his emergency first aid training was another good indication.

Sam blinked away the moisture from his eyes and balled his fist a little tighter into the leather of his brother’s jacket. He had been chased from one end of Lansing to the other only to be bested by a zombie with no legs. It was insult to injury.

Dean looked up at the feel of Sam clinging just a little bit tighter to him. The desperation of realization in his brother’s eyes was heartbreaking. Part of him wished he still had his voice so he could comfort the older man, but another part of him knew that even if he had his voice he wouldn’t have the words. There wasn’t anything that could make this better. Sam was going to die and Dean was going to have to go through the same loss he did nineteen years ago, and the fault rested solely on Sam. If he hadn’t pushed so hard to come on this trip none of this would have happened. Worst of all, Sam knew Dean would blame himself for this too.

His brother opened his mouth to speak, but the sudden click of several guns being cocked caught his attention. Dean’s gun was out before he could even register the group of men standing in the opened doorway.

“The hell, Winchester,” one of the men from the convoy stood with his gun raised and pointed at the three of them, or more specifically at Sam. “That kid’s been bit.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as did the grip on his gun. He slowly raised, knees popping as he straightened out from sitting on the floor, and stood so that he was positioned in front of Sam. The drawn weapon was one thing, but the blatant shield he created between his kid brother and the rest of the convoy spoke volumes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the same man sputtered in disbelief. “You can’t protect him! He’s infected!”

Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face from where he was sitting, but he could see the way Dean’s shoulders tensed and his hackles rose at the man’s words. As fruitless as it was, you don’t tell Dean Winchester not to protect his brother. Sam was pretty much the only one who could get away with that, but that certainly didn’t mean his brother ever listened to him. “We don’t know that,” Dean replied, tone even but tight.

“The hell we don’t,” another man piped up. From around Dean’s legs Sam could see it was Cameron. “You get bit, you go Croat. When has it ever not been that way?”

Sam winced at the harshness of the fact. He knew what was going to happen, but having it so crudely spelled out was like a slap to the face. His teeth dug into his bottom lip as he turned away from the confrontation. Now that Dean wasn’t blocking his lower half, he could see the torn puncture wounds in the shape of a circle on his calf. Blood was still seeping from it sluggishly and pooling on the floor beneath him.

A hand rested on the unmarred skin just above the painful area. For the most part it blocked out a good portion of the damage and forced Sam to focus on the owner of the hand. He found Castiel attached to the appendage, still crouched on the ground with one hand grounding Sam and the other hand equipped with a loaded gun. It wasn’t raised, but it could be quickly if needed. Sam offered the man a waning smile before realizing Castiel’s face and focus were turned toward the men.

“You’re not shooting my brother,” Dean growled. “You’re not shooting anybody.”

Sam glanced between his brother and the men, noting with some concern that he must have missed a crucial part of the argument.

“Where was that leniency when you had Evan shot, eh?” Cameron returned with as much heat and outrage as he’d shown during most of the trip. “Where was that mercy when he was bitten?”

"Evan was beyond help--"

"And so is he!" Cameron cut in as soon as Dean had finished his sentence. "Now, you might be willing to risk the lives of this convoy, but I sure as hell ain't."

The re-cocking--the reaffirmation--of Cameron's gun and promise to put Sam out of his misery made him jump. Dean's reaction wasn't much better; although, his was on the opposite side of the spectrum. His brother had never been one to take well to threats, especially when that threat pertained to his brother.

Dean took a jerky step forward, presenting his gun to match his opponent's. Sam briefly registered the lost of Castiel's presence next to him before the man was standing
and holding Dean in place by an arm. The action didn't deter him from voicing his own threat. "You think you can squeeze one off faster than me?"

Cameron looked distinctively unsettled for the first time since arriving. He twisted his hands to get a better grip on the gun and put on a poorly executed poker face. “Don’t need to be faster. Just have to have the right aim.”

Dean made to move forward, but was halted by the unyielding grip Castiel had on his bicep. A growl emitted from him when he couldn’t move forward, but the anger wasn’t directed toward his restraint. “As I recall, it was your aim that got us in this mess in the first place!”

“You can’t blame this on me,” the other man indignantly pitched his voice up a higher octave. "You think none of us noticed how every Croat in this town didn't care for nothing other than getting their cold, dead paws on that kid? Something's been off with him from the start. People just don't come back from the dead unless they're one of them." Cameron tipped his head toward the mangled zombie still lying where it had fallen when Dean gunned it down.

Tense silence fell over the room when Cameron had finished. Sam could still feel the anger rolling off his brother in waves even though he chose to remain silent. Dean knew there was something wrong with Sam, and now Sam knew as well. Looking at the anxious group of men and at his stony brother, Sam knew that Dean’s younger brother being the vessel of the devil was a secret he had not shared with his crew. It was probably a fair assumption to believe no one else from camp knew either. He couldn’t imagine a group of apocalypse refugees willingly harboring the devil's meat suit. Not that it mattered much anymore. How keen would Lucifer be to occupying a puppet infected by the Croatoan virus? That was only assuming the group of men let him live past this warehouse.

"Alright, enough. Put your damn gun down," Roderick spoke up for the first time, aiming his last thought to Cameron as he reached over and pushed his weapon down. Cameron looked disgruntled, but stayed quiet. Obviously the man didn't have the balls to stand up to two people. Sam was still surprised that he had the nerve to stand up to Dean.

"Everybody just calm down a second," Roderick held his palm straight out and waved it in a frustrated motion. When a few more guns around the group lowered, Roderick shoved his hand into the short crop of hair on his head and scrubbed at his scalp. After a moment he breathed in slow and let out the breath in a deep sigh. He let the hand scrub down his face and rub over his mouth before hesitantly ticking his eyes up to meet Dean's.

"This sucks," Roderick finally said. That hadn't been the reply Sam expected, but he wholeheartedly agreed. He then continued with a bitter expression, like he didn't like his own words in his mouth. "But the bastard is right; you get bit, you get turned." An unhappy grumble came from the aforementioned bastard, but Dean and Roderick gave him no attention as they stared each other down.

The staring contest wasn't like the one between his brother and Cameron. It was less confrontational and more appraising; each man trying to figure out what the other was thinking. After a bit, Roderick dropped his gaze to the hand containing his weapon. Dean tensed again, ready for action, but saw there was no need for it, as the other man did nothing more than slip the Glock down into his front pocket.

Roderick held out his arms, "So what do you want to do here, Boss? This is your call. You decide, and we'll respect that decision."

The only sound of protest came from Cameron. Even the other men in the group chose to keep their opinions to themselves. He idly wondered if that was out of respect or fear. Dean remained silent, no doubt mulling over the million dollar question. Sam didn't think it was all that complicated. Far be it from him to agree with the group douche, but what other option did they have? The only cure for "Croat" was the business end of a gun.

Sam didn't want that. The thought of it made his hands shake and his heart beat jump. He was only sixteen and very much the kid he hated being called. There was so much he'd missed out on and wanted to make up for. He wanted more time with his hard-ass big brother. He even wanted to play stupid Candyland with Castiel. Yet the only thing he would get was a hot piece of fast moving led. There was moisture gathering in his treacherous eyes again. At least there was one good thing that would come out of this. Lucifer couldn't take his vessel if it was rotting in some warehouse in Lansing, Michigan.

A sudden jangle of keys caught Sam's attention. Dean had dug free the Jeep keys from the pocket of his leather jacket and was turning them over in his hand. The keys were dull, scuffed up, and the dulled sheen barely shone with the small amount of light in the room. His fingers curled around them for a moment as he looked back at Sam. The expression on his face was one Sam knew well. He shook his head to discourage his brother, but it did little good. Dean was about to do something exceedingly stupid all in the name of family.

The key ring flew from Dean's hand with a soft ting and landed in Roderick's hand with a muted plink. The man studied them for a moment before looking up at Dean for an answer.

"I want you to leave," Dean said simply. His voice was a little thick, but even like any good commander's should be. "I want you all to take the Jeeps and head to the camp. Don't turn around, and don't come back."

Roderick pinched his lips together in a tight expression. He looked distinctly unhappy at the sight of the keys in his hands. He jostled them around for a second before tightening his grip on them and shoving his hand into his pocket with a hesitant nod. "Not what I wanted to hear, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't expect it. You're sure then?"

“Yeah,” Dean nodded; just a firm dip of his head and then back up to eye his convoy companion. “I’m sure.”

“If you do... that’s suicide!” came from one of the men standing at the back of the group. Sam couldn't put a name with a face, but he agreed with the guy wholeheartedly. He couldn’t let his brother stay behind because of him. There wasn’t any hope for Sam, but Dean could still get out. He could go back to the life he’d managed to build for himself and for all the people in camp. It wouldn’t be the same as it was before, it couldn’t be, but Dean had learned to live without Sam for nineteen years. He would learn to do it again. It might even be better that way. Lucifer not getting his vessel had to be a plus. Maybe if Sam was out of the picture for good, his brother would have a real chance at beating the devil. He knew if anyone could do it, it would be Dean.

Sam reached out and snagged the bottom cuff of Dean's pant's leg. He gripped the fabric tight enough to warrant his brother’s attention, but that attention wasn’t given. Sam tugged at the cuff a little harder, but Dean’s stiff posture never so much as twitched in his direction. He knew his brother felt the pull. It had been hard enough to move his foot slightly, and yet Dean didn’t react at all. He just continued planning his own funeral as if Sam had no say in the matter whatsoever.

“Thought so,” a frown marred Roderick’s face, but there was an air of respect to it. The man was sad to lose a friend, a captain, but at the same time he understood Dean’s need to stay behind. The look both dazzled and terrified Sam. Surely they would not agree to go along with his brother’s stupid plan. Surely they wouldn’t leave Dean alone to watch his baby brother turn into a monster.

It appeared that’s exactly what they were going to do though as Roderick dipped his head in acknowledgement and called back to the remaining men at his back. “You heard the Boss. Get your ugly asses out of here.”

There was a collective hesitation in the group before eventually, one-by-one they turned their gazes away from the interior of the warehouse and ambled out of the building. Roderick spared one last look to their convoy leader before following the rest of the group out.

Sam visibly panicked when the men began disappearing from the room. Even Castiel was following the steady stream of bodies exiting the building. The image was a hard sight for Sam to process. How could these men, his brother’s crew, just leave Dean behind? Surely they knew what that meant. How could they leave his brother to die?

The thought made Sam livid. He was beyond angry at the members of the convoy, but mostly he was mad at Dean. His stupid brother couldn’t just make this decision without asking him first. What the hell made Dean think he could just throw away his life because Sam didn’t have much of one left? That wasn’t his decision to make.

Sam didn’t trust the members of this convoy further than he could throw them, and he certainly didn’t trust them with his brother, but right now leaving with them was his brother’s best hope. He was going to make sure that happened.

Sam grabbed a hold of Dean’s leg again, this time harder than before, and pulled himself closer. The movement jarred his injured leg, but stuffed the pain into the back of his mind. He latched his other hand around his brother’s leg and used both hands to pull and squeeze, anything he could think of to get Dean’s attention.

He wanted to growl when his brother continued to ignore him. When he looked up he noticed Castiel was the only one still left in the doorway. Another spike if panic shot up through Sam and his actions became more desperate. He eyed the back of his brother’s knee before flattening his hand and chopping at the bend. The hit made Dean’s leg buckle for a moment and finally, finally, Sam got a response.

Dean growled and turned to intercept Sam’s next blow. He caught Sam’s fist with minimum effort and crouched down so he was at his brother’s eye level. Sam threw another punch out of spite, but again his brother blocked it and caught his arm to ensure he didn’t try to attack again. He gritted his teeth and tried to pull free, but Dean’s grip was too strong.

“Stop it, Sam,” Dean barked and gave his brother a shake for good measure. “Stop, damn it.”

Sam gave his brother a defiant glare and pulled again to no avail. How he wished he could yell or scream or curse right about now. The best option he had at the moment was the notepad Loki had left behind laying about a foot away. He didn’t really want to touch the thing, but he didn’t have much of a choice at the moment.

His glare was still in place when he gestured the best he could toward the notepad. Dean hesitantly followed Sam’s hand gesture and frowned upon seeing the discarded item. He was rightfully confused as to how it got there, but didn’t ask. He just gave Sam a calculating look before carefully releasing one hand and reaching to slide the notepad over. Sam immediately snatched it up when it was close enough and began scribbling as fast as he could.

I don’t want you here

Sam knew the words were hurtful, but he would gladly repeat them if they got Dean out of this warehouse and back to camp where he would be safe.

“Tough,” Dean replied. He squeezed the arm he still had a hold of. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam felt anger flare through him again and his vision blurred. Panicked, angry words and thoughts flooded his brain and came out on paper in a jumbled mess.

Stupid... Ignorant... Jerk!
Why?? You’ll die here!
Just go!

Dean clinched his jaw at the sloppy handwriting and shook his head, “No.” He caught Sam’s hand as he tried to write again and stated more firmly, “No, Sam. I already left you behind in one warehouse. I won’t do it again.”

Sam just stared at his brother. His vision was still blurred, but he could see the slideshow of emotions playing behind Dean’s eyes. Sam moved one of his captured hands forward and fisted it into the hunter’s shirt. His brother had never left him anywhere. If anything, Sam had been the one to leave Dean—albeit involuntarily—but of course trying to tell Dean that would be like trying to tell him to give up on Sam and walk away now. It just wasn’t something that was going to happen. It was a hard realization for Sam to come to. He didn’t want Dean to die here with him, and at the same time, a treacherous part of him was glad not to be alone in this.

Dean smiled; not a true one, but one that showed he was glad to see his brother relent. He leaned forward to swipe at the wet tracks running down Sam’s face. Sam hadn’t even known he was crying. He should probably feel embarrassed about it, but right now he couldn’t find it within himself to care. He had earned the right to shed a few tears.

“I’m not leaving you, Sammy,” Dean repeated, and this time it wasn’t Sam doing the tugging, but he willingly followed as Dean pulled him to his chest and wrapped his arms around him. He pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder, letting the leather smear the rest of the tears from his face and rested there for a moment. The comfort from the embrace helped calm the shaking from both the physical and emotional pain wreaking havoc on him. He wished that was all it took to make things better, but that was unrealistic. In a few hours a bullet would be the only solution to his problem.

The sudden noise of the roll up door banging against the floor made Sam jump and pull back from Dean. His heart jack rabbited in his chest as he sought out the cause of the sound. He was surprised to find Castiel standing inside the building with his foot pressed into the release lever on the floor. The man examined the lever for a moment and then frowned at whatever he’d found. He pressed down a little harder until there was a metallic groan and the lever snapped and fell to the floor broken and useless. The door crank was now broken in the locked position. Which meant nothing came in and nothing went out. It was a rather loud and conclusive statement for a man Sam thought had abandoned them only minutes earlier.

“Cas,” Dean started, but stopped as soon as Castiel turned to face them. Sam had never seen the man look so solemn, not even when they’d found themselves stuck at a dead end with Croats slowly closing in. This Castiel looked defeated, weighed down, guilty.

"The lever is broken," Castiel announced, and then added a further explanation. "So I can't leave."

Sam watched the play of emotions on his brother's face change to the edge of protest, to understanding, to gratitude before he offered the man a small smile; much like the one he offered Sam previously. "No, I guess you can't."

Sam wanted to cry all over again. He did not want Castiel to come to harm anymore than he wanted his brother to, but he couldn't deny the insane sense of relief he felt in knowing there would be someone here for Dean when worse came to worse. He hoped Cas would keep his brother from doing something stupid in the aftermath. Knowing Dean, that would be a huge undertaking, but Castiel had to know that by now and chose to stay anyway.

The scruffy hunter squatted down beside Sam. His dulled, unnaturally blue eyes held an unnecessary apology. Sam replied with a weak, but earnest smile. Seeing the man like this, it made Sam realize something. Whatever Castiel was or wasn't, there was one thing for sure. He was nothing like Loki. Castiel stayed.

"We should wrap this," Castiel gestured toward the still leaking bite mark. "Maybe move somewhere more comfortable."

First aid was an unnecessary precaution, but Sam could see the purpose it gave his brother in the determined set of his jaw. It was always best to keep his brother’s mind set on what he could fix and instead of on what he couldn’t. Moving was the first order of business. Sam never thought that something as simple as moving six feet over to a wall could be so painful and time consuming. Every little move sent jolts of pain up Sam’s leg. It was a good thing Dean was wearing a jacket; else Sam was sure his brother would have bloody, crescent shaped marks on his side where Sam clung as he hobbled along.

It felt good to lean back into the wall, even if his bitten leg and bruised hip were still screaming at him. Dean made sure he was comfortable as he could be before pushing up on the pant’s leg to get a better look. Sam bit down on a hiss to try and keep it from escaping. His brother was careful as he prodded around the bite—making sure not to come into contact with any of the blood—but it still felt less than pleasant. Dean paused to poke at one particularly deep tooth mark, causing Sam to yelp and curl his fists into the denim over his knees.

“Sorry,” Dean apologized and soothed the abused area with his thumb.

Sam acknowledged the sentiment with a nod, but kept his hands tightly fisted as the pain still zinged through him. He startled a bit when something warm and solid came to rest at his side. He had been so focused on the pain that he hadn’t noticed Castiel’s approach. So when he looked over he was somewhat surprised to see the man sitting beside him with his hand held out toward him. Sam eyed the outstretched hand with confusion before sending a questioning look to Cas.

“You can hold it if you want,” Castiel answered, indicating to his offered hand. When the confused expression on Sam’s face deepened, he clarified. “It is supposed to help with pain; particularly in situations such as field amputation and child birth.”

Sam didn’t really know what to say to that. Talk of child birth and especially field amputation wasn’t exactly something he wanted to hear given his predicament. It was a kind offer. The thought that Castiel wanted to help in whatever way he could was endearing, but at the same time there was no way he was going to hold the man’s hand. Crying was one thing; it was excusable under certain circumstances. He was sure there was no escape from the ridicule for hand holding.

He was conflicted on how exactly he could communicate that when he felt the cool touch of fabric wisp against his leg. He didn’t even get the chance to look and see what was happening before fire encased his lower leg and sent stars bursting across his vision. His whole body tensed and his hands seized together.

“Easy, tiger,” he heard when the high pitched, drawn-out tone quit ringing in his ears. The cuff of his pant’s leg was being unrolled and pulled back down over his injury. “Had to pull it tight to stop the bleeding.”

Another solid presence pressed against his other side, which now put Castiel on one side and Dean on the other. He looked over and watched his brother’s situated himself back against the wall. His flannel shirt, normally splayed open under his jacket, was now buttoned up, but not so much that Sam couldn’t tell the undershirt was missing. He figured that was the source of the makeshift bandage he was now sporting.

“You okay now?”

‘No,’ Sam thought, but looking at his brother’s worried face, he didn’t have the heart to say it. Somehow he didn’t think Dean was referring to his overall status anyway, so he gave the man a small nod instead. It was mostly true. At least the pain was slowly starting to ebb away. Though whether that was desensitized nerves or from lack of circulation, he didn’t know.

Dean accepted the answer with a small nod. His eyes strayed down for a moment and his eyebrows rose. Sam's own eyebrows scrunched together in question, but Dean just shook it off with a small, surprisingly amused smile. That only made Sam more curious, but he had no way to ask.

The amusement on Dean's face stayed as he looked away and out through the rest of the warehouse. Sam felt himself scowl, irritated that Dean was somehow taking joy at his expense. His brother tilted his head to the side where he could see Sam from his peripheral vision. The look of annoyed 'what?' written into Sam's features finally made his brother crack.

"It's nothing... just," Dean started and immediately Sam didn't like the sly look he shot him. "You accused me and Castiel of being together, yet I'm not the one holding his hand."

Sam was a bit taken aback by the comment until he took notice that his right hand was indeed wrapped tightly around something. He looked down to where Dean had been staring earlier only to see the sight he was hoping he wouldn't. Sure enough, his hand was latched firmly around Castiel's. He must have blindly grabbed the older man's hand earlier when Dean had tied on the makeshift bandage. The tight grip had to be hurting Castiel's hand, but the look on his face suggested otherwise.

He began pealing his hand away from Cas' with an apologetic expression, but the scruffy man just shook the kinks loose from his hand and eyed Sam. "Did it help?"

Sam thought about the question for a moment. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding the man's hand, so he seriously doubted it had helped with the physical pain. However, when Sam needed comfort Castiel had been there to offer it, and that's a form of help too.

Castiel appeared to brighten a bit at Sam's nod. "I am glad."

Sam offered a small smile at the man’s earnest response before turning to work the kinks out of his own hand. He was surprised when he didn’t receive another snarky comment from Dean, but when he glanced over his brother was back to staring out at the warehouse with a somber look on his face. And with that the brief moment of levity was gone; no doubt the reason for the hand holding sufficiently killing it. Sam looked away and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

The warehouse fell silent as the three sat huddle against the interior wall. The building was drafty. There was no resistance against the November chill seeping through the nooks and crannies. Sam jacket felt inadequate against the cold steel at his back; not to mention the heat radiating from his wound made the rest of his body feel twice as cold.

He wondered how long they would have to sit here before... well, just before. It was a miserable task in its own right, one that Dean was adamant on drawing out by not putting a bullet in Sam right now, but the cold and quiet made it much more so. There was too much time to think about what was to come. That was something none of them needed.

A small scrapping noise caught his attention. It caught Dean’s as well if the tensing of his body and repositioning of his hand near his gun was anything to go by. Though, it turned out to be a false alarm. The sound came from the discarded notepad Castiel had scooped up from the floor. Sam hadn’t even noticed him retrieve it, but at the time he was more concentrated on limping five feet without passing out rather than on his form of communication.

He expected the man to pass the notepad over, but instead he placed the pen against the paper and began drawing. Curious, Sam leaned over to get a better look. He felt Dean do the same on the other side. When he was where he could see, he could see the lines running over the page forming a pound (#) sign. When Castiel was done he placed a large ‘X’ in the middle square and passed it to Sam.

He studied the neat lines and their formation before taking the pen from Cas and writing across the top.

Tic Tac Toe?

Dean’s face scrunched up in dismay at the title. Unfortunately for him Castiel misread the expression.

“Don’t fret, Dean. You may play the winner,” the scruffy man promised as Sam marked up a thick circle in the upper right corner.

The frown Dean shot the man was priceless. “Oh boy,” his brother said, the tone dripping with false joy and contradicting the lack of any real delight on his face. Castiel tilted his head slightly to the side, trying to decipher the opposing emotions, but gave up the thought process when Sam passed the notepad back to him. Sam wanted to laugh at the ease of their familiar game time, but he was afraid it might come out as a sob.

------------------

Around the one hundredth game of tic tac toe, Dean officially banned the game and threatened to hurl the notepad across the room if Castiel didn’t stop suggesting other games they could try. Sam guessed three hours of a nonstop nine square strategy game would get the best of anyone. There were only so many moves you could makes before you started figuring out a person’s favorite patterns and then learning to block them.

It only took about thirty minutes to figure out Castiel had an affinity for the middle square. It took some time over an hour to figure out Dean’s strategy, or lack thereof. As it turned out Dean was just content to mark whatever, wherever in an attempt to end his turn as quickly as possible. The unpredictability of it actually made his brother a little harder to beat, but that was something he would not be admitting to anytime soon.

The quick, repetitive game progressed on like that for a couple of hours. It was hard to judge exactly how long it had been since they first started playing, but if he had to guess he would say the games went on without a hitch for about two hours.

It was the third hour when Sam started noticing the subtle changes in his older brother. His growing lack of interest in the game didn’t set off any alarms at first. After all, he hadn’t exactly been a willing player from the get-go. What did grab Sam’s attention was the decrease in smack-talk or boasting when he did win. The general lack of playful comments through Castiel's predictability an Sam's over-concentration of a thirty-second game slowly trailed off with every minute that ticked by.

Sam snuck glances ever now and again. He didn't like the stormy features Dean's face was slowly adopting. Sam could see the growing strain the passing hours were putting on his brother. Another hour passed was another hour gone. It was time neither one of them could get back, nor was it something they had a lot of. His brother was a man of action; a shoot now ask questions later kind of guy. He knew the fact that Dean could do nothing to stop what was coming was slowly eating away at Dean, and there wasn't anything Sam could do to reassure him because truthfully he wasn't doing all that better.

Dean's emotional default had always been anger, so after the fourth hour it was really no surprise when Dean finally snapped and put an end to their little pass time. The fifth hour was by far the worse. At some point, Dean's stubborn denial of the situation had slipped and his brother had drawn his gun from the small of his back. Sam hadn't meant to flinch at the sight, but it was hard not to when he knew there was a bullet in that chamber with his name on it. It was not to wonder if Dean had finally come to his senses in the silence of the warehouse. Sam wouldn't stop him if that was what he chose to do, but that didn't make the fear any less.

Dean had felt the jump--it was one of the pitfalls of being huddled so close together--and it made him freeze. He slowly lowered the gun to his side where it was in reach but out of Sam's sight. Out of sight, out of mind wasn't always effective. Sam didn't have a difficult time picturing his brother's shiny, marble handled, .45 glock laying just beyond his hip.

"I don't want anything sneaking up on us," Dean had said, but Sam didn't think that was the complete truth. Not with the way his brother was trying to shield Sam from the sight of the weapon he'd pulled.

Sam hadn't been able to relax after that. Not that there was much relaxing before, but the hours of sitting on the floor waiting on a demon virus to destroy him from the inside out mixed along with his previous injuries and his adrenaline fueled sprint through town was wearing thin on him. The only thing keeping him awake was the thought that he might never wake up again or he might wake up to his body not under his own control.

By the sixth hour Sam's nerves and frame of mind were pretty much shot. The warehouse seemed a lot colder than before. At some point he had found himself wedged under Dean's arm and sharing the heat his brother's body was emitting. Castiel had also scooted a bit closer in an attempt to conserve heat.

Sam had found a semblance of comfort dragging the pen over the pages of his notepad. Mostly they were just doodles. Nothing like the doodle he'd drawn while Dean had checked the Jeeps over, but practical things like the pattern wallpaper of the last motel he remembered staying in or the dog he'd always wanted but could never have.

After a while the pictures turned into words. Mostly they were just nonsense, random tidbits he'd read from books or lessons he'd learned from his father. His mind was really too tired and stressed to concentrate on what was coming out. All he knew was the flow of ink from his pen was something to focus on and it was keeping him awake.

He hadn't meant to write. It was just one of the more troubling facts floating around in his scrabbled brain. He thought about scribbling it out, but with the way Castiel suddenly stiffened next to him, he realized it was too late for that.

"Dean," Castiel called. His face was as troubled looking as it sounded.

Dean made a grunting noise in response, but when Cas didn't reply he huffed out a put upon sigh and turned to the other man. "What?" Again, Castiel didn't answer, but he really didn't have to. The answer was found by following the stricken man's gaze down to the notepad Sam was holding. Sam felt the exact moment Dean saw the phrase that first caught Castiel's attention.

Lucifer's Vessel

Chapter Text

“Why did you write that?”

Sam stared at the two words scratched out in ink across the page. He really hadn’t meant to write them. He barely even wanted to think them, more or less have them sitting out in the open for the world to see. It made them feel more real, and that was so far away from what he wanted.

“Sam!” Dean’s tone was firm with a note of anger behind it. His body was no longer tucked around Sam, but turned so that he was facing him fully. He stabbed his finger at the black ink. “Why would you write this?”

Hearing Dean’s anger over the subject was probably the best confirmation other than a solid ‘yes.’ His brother wouldn’t get upset over something that wasn’t true. Still, he needed a definite answer. He didn’t think he would like the answer any better than he did the first time, but he still needed to ask.

Is it true?

Dean glowered at the new writing, obviously not happy with having his question side- stepped again. “Is what true?”

Sam added an ‘I’m’ over the top of his original writing and then put a question mark at the end.

I’m
Lucifer’s Vessel?

Shock registered across Dean’s face at the question. He looked more surprised by these words than the last. It only lasted for a moment before his face morphed back into stark anger. If he looked angry before that, he looked downright murderous now.

“No,” he bit off far too fast and forcefully for Sam’s peace of mind.

“Dean,” Castiel shifted next to him. His sympathetic tone didn’t go any further then that as Dean interrupted him.

“No, Cas, he’s not. End of story.” Dean’s words were final, but as he looked back down to the notepad in Sam’s hands, his face darkened and he added, “And if you’ve told him otherwise—”

“In all the years we have known one another, when have I ever betrayed you or gone against your wishes?” Castiel’s voice was raised to match Dean’s. There was an underlying layer of hurt to his question, but he didn’t let up. The only indication that Dean had also heard it was the courtesy the hunter was showing by keeping his jaw clenched tightly as Castiel continued. “I warned you that he would figure things out for himself. It is clear that he already has, so don’t insult him with your denial or me with your distrust. None of us have the time for it.”

Sam felt out of breath just listening to Castiel’s rant. It was the most he’d ever heard the man say at one time. The lack of awkward flow spoke for a clarity only achieved through anger and conviction. He’d never heard the man like this before, and based on the chastised look on his brother’s face, he’s only seen it a few times his self. The pen felt heavier under the newly tensed atmosphere. The words felt even harder to write than before.

So it’s true then?

Dean looked resigned as he watched the new question form across the paper. He didn’t speak right away, and Sam didn’t rush him. He wasn’t keen to poke at the thin façade of calm Castiel had managed to verbally beat into the hunter. After a moment Dean shifted back so he was leaning against the wall again. He side was pressed back against Sam again, and he relished the return of the extra heat source.

A sigh escaped his older sibling. “Who told you?”

It wasn’t a yes or a no, but coming from Dean that would be the clearest yes he would get on the subject. Sam felt sick all over again. A part of him had known the trickster was telling the truth, but there was another part that still hoped the demigod was just messing with him. Now that hope was gone. Sam subtly pinched his thigh, hard, to keep his emotions in check before answering his brother.

Does it matter?

“Yes,” was Dean’s immediate response. A little bit of suspicion bled into his tone as he eyed Sam for an answer. Sam sighed out a shaky breath and reluctantly began penning his answer. He had a feeling the temporary calm was about to shatter all too soon.

Loki

“What?” Dean all but yelled, confirming Sam’s notion. Even Castiel sat forward to stare at the name. The look on his face was strangely indifferent. “What the hell, Sam?” The older hunter shot his kid brother a look of disbelief. “That bastard was here, and you didn’t say anything?”

Sam glared up at his sibling with the same incredulous look being offered to him. Loki had been the last thing on his mind when Dean had shown up. He was more focused on the Croat hanging off his leg, and the large group of men trying to kill him just after that. Not to mention how hard it was to relay any message when he was mute and bleeding everywhere. He scowled as he scribbled down his reply.

Preoccupied

Dean made a face, but didn’t argue Sam’s point. Instead he focused in on the real question. “So what did he want? He come to ‘help’ us again? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, I don’t think I can take anymore divine intervention.”

Sam’s brow pulled down in confusion. Divine wasn’t exactly the description he’d give a demigod, but he couldn’t agree more. Loki’s idea of help had only caused trouble and heartache, and when they really needed help he had decided to abandon ship. They didn’t need anymore help of that kind.

The exact opposite actually

Sam caught a slight movement from his right. When he glanced over he found that Castiel was no longer staring at the words on the notepad, but watching Sam with rampant interest. It was a bit unnerving, but thankfully Dean spoke up and drew his attention away.

“Exact opposite? What is that supposed to mean?”

The notepad crinkled as Sam flipped over to a fresh page. He didn’t know how much more clear he could be. The demigod who had thrown their fat into the fryer under the pretense of helping wasn’t sticking around to help clean up his mess.

It means he’s not helping. We’re on our own.

No sooner were the words down on paper, when he felt Castiel stiffen at his side. Sam looked, trying to see what was wrong with his friend, and frowned at the stricken expression he found. Castiel’s eyes were glued to the only two sentences written at the top of the notepad.

“Damnit,” Dean cursed under his breath just before Castiel shifted from his position on the floor and pushed himself to his feet. Dean called a little louder, “Cas,” but the man didn’t turn to look. He just stood there, staring out across the vacant warehouse.

Sam opened his mouth to say something. He wasn’t sure what, but he needed to say something that would remove the desolate expression from the older man’s face. Unfortunately, like always, when he tried to speak nothing more came out than a strangled puff of air. At least it seemed to make enough of a distressed noise to catch Castiel’s attention.

Some of the worry disappeared when Castiel saw Sam was not in any real distress. Sam took that moment of distraction to read back over his last words and then quickly scribble down his next. He was glad to see Cas was still watching when he looked back up. He lifted the notepad so the man could read it.

He said you’re his brother

It wasn’t a question or an accusation. It was just Sam trying to understand Cas’ actions. Demigod or not he knew he’d be pretty devastated if his brother gave up on him.

Castiel’s expression turned tight lipped. He moved to look at Dean for a moment before his eyes landed back on Sam. Seeing the exchange, Sam also glanced up to his brother just in time to catch a brief movement that looked vaguely like a nod.

“Yes, Gabriel is my brother, and though he hasn’t been a part of the family in quite some time, he and my father seem to share in the same opinion.” The words were bitter, but Sam could hardly blame him. The only thing he was confused about was who Gabriel was. He was pretty sure they had been talking about Loki, the trickster demigod.

Gabriel?

“Apparently Loki is only his day job.” Sam glanced over at his brother’s snide remark and frowned. Was his brother trying to say that the coward of a trickster wasn’t even the man he claimed to be?

Castiel nodded. “Loki is a form of rebellion from our father and a mask for him to hide behind, but no matter what, at the end of the day he is still Gabriel, Archangel and Messenger of the Lord.” Castiel paused for a moment to watch Sam. The man was no doubt reading the shock plastered all over his face. Of all the things he expected Castiel to say, he didn’t think archangel of the Lord would be one of them. He was also feeling a healthy dose of confusion. If Loki was really an angel, then why was he not helping? This was the apocalypse, why wouldn’t an angel help them take down Lucifer? It didn’t make sense. Another thought suddenly occurred to Sam. His eyes widened slightly. He didn’t have to even write his question as it must have been written all over his face.

Castiel nodded again. “Yes, I am also an angel. Or I was at one time. It would seem Heaven has no place for those who go against its plans.”

Sam’s jaw worked uselessly as he tried to take in the huge information dump. He shook his head to try to clear it, but it only seemed to shake loose more questions.

I don’t understand

Dean snorted, grabbing Sam’s attention. "Castiel is the only angel who doesn’t want to see the world self-destruct. So as a reward they clipped his wings. He’s completely human now.”

Sam watched Castiel physically deflate at Dean’s last words. He felt like he should be a little insulted on behave of his race, but he knew there was more to it than that. Sam could see the underlying sadness in the ex-angel’s face, one that had nothing to do with losing his racial status and everything to do with him being booted from his own family. There were a lot of times Sam felt the need to get as far away from his family as he could, but that was just him needing space, wanting room to find himself. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be kicked out of his family with no way of returning. He offered Castiel a sympathetic smile. It was pretty weak considering, but the ex-angel appeared to accept it appreciatively. Sam placed his pen back to his notepad. Something his brother had said was eating away at him. Surely that was not what his sibling meant.

Only one? The other angels... they want this?

“Yes," it was Castiel who answered. The serious look on his face was almost creepy. He found himself sliding a little closer to Dean. He didn’t think he would like what the ex-angel was about to say. “The angels want this apocalypse to happen so that Michael and Lucifer can have their fight, and when Michael wins they can have their paradise on Earth. Of course, none of that can happen unless Michael and Lucifer can take their true vessels.”

Sam pursed his lips together. It seemed like the easiest way to keep either side from winning would be to keep both true vessels from giving consent. Unfortunately, that didn’t put an end to the crippling devastation going on outside, but at least it put a stop to things getting worse.

Does Michael have his vessel?

“No,” the angel answered with relief and confidence. Sam also felt a sense of relief at the answer, or at least he did until Castiel continued. “The vessel of Michael can only be the righteous man who first spills blood in Hell and breaks the first seal. At this point, Michael’s efforts have been devastated and he has given up hope on ever gaining permission from Dean.”

All the air left in Sam’s lungs came out in a rush. He felt like Castiel’s declaration was nothing more than a long, hard punch to the gut. He could not have heard that right. He couldn’t have.

There was a sharp, bark of Castiel’s name followed by the ex-angel arguing that Sam would have found out eventually and that it was better to hear it from them. Sam didn’t think that was true at all. There was no way to deliver that kind of news without punching a hole straight through his heart.

Dean seemed to agree when he replied to Cas with a, “Not this way! Not now.” This just confirmed to Sam that he had heard right after all. “Sammy.”

Sam immediately started shaking his head at his brother’s tone. It was the tone he used when he thought Sam was broke and needed fixing, but Sam hadn’t been the one to go to Hell. Why would Dean need to comfort him when he was the one put away safe and sound and unable to do a damn thing to help his brother?

“Sammy, hey,” Dean tried again, tugging a little on Sam’s arm to get his attention, but Sam pulled away angrily and began writing furiously on his notepad.

You died!

Dean’s eyes flickered over the two words. He let out a sigh. “I’m fine, Sam. I mean, clearly I’m not dead now.”

Sam shook his head again, the force of it making his hair whip around his face.

Not fine. You died and ~

“Sam,” Dean barked and grabbed Sam’s hands mid-sentence, causing a squiggle at the end of his writing. Sam tried to object, but all he could do was glare and listen to his brother. “Look, I’m not going to pretend Hell didn’t suck, because it did. But that’s over. I’ve been out for a while and I’ve learned to deal with it. There’s no need for either of us to dwell on it, okay?”

Sam just shook his head and pulled his writing hand free from his brother’s grip. He heard Dean’s sigh and grumble something that sounded like ‘stubborn,’ but he didn’t pay it any attention.

How did you die?

A sense of hesitance fell over Dean as soon as he read the newly penned question. Sam could see it in the way he eyed the paper and the way he searched Sam’s face when he finally looked up.

“It happened after Dad died,” Dean started. His tone was gentle, but there wasn’t any way to soften that intro. Sam couldn’t help the involuntary flinch, but nodded for Dean to continue when he looked like he might stop then and there. Dean eyed him tentatively, but continued. “I told you that Dad kind of lost it after you... ‘disappeared.’ He became reckless. He barely finished one case before jumping into another. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with him. I’m actually surprised it took so long. I was still shocked when it happened though. Just some low level, shit demon who got a lucky hit,” Dean spit out the last part as if he could still picture the demon in his head. He probably still could.

Dean paused for a bit longer, no doubt gathering his thoughts. He wiped a hand slowly over his mouth before continuing. “We had just finished up a case down South that turned out to be nothing but a bunch of demon deals come due. I had seen what dad had become after you and mom. Losing you nearly broke me and dad was all I had left. So I made a deal.”

Sam wanted to protest, to tell Dean not to be so stupid, but he knew none of that would do them any good. This was the past, and as Loki—Gabriel had so delicately put it, you can’t change the past. It still didn’t make listening any easier.

“Stupid bitch wouldn’t let me barter for you—I think a part of me hoped that meant you were still alive somewhere—but she would let me have dad back for one year. There was never really an option, so I took the deal.” A humorless laugh slipped out of Dean’s mouth and the crinkles around his eyes made them shinier than they already were. “As it turned out, Dad didn’t fair any better than he did before. He was dead before I made it topside again. All that trouble and all I had to show for it were a couple of truck loads of painful memories, a dead father and a pain-in-the-ass angel dogging my every step.”

“You are welcome,” Castiel offered in a voice that made it hard to tell if he was serious or not. Dean still shot him a glare, but the fondness behind it was visible.

Sam, for his part, felt like crawling in the nearest corner and dying. It wouldn’t be all that difficult. He was already halfway there. All he had to do was drag his bitten and bloodied leg into the nearest corner.

From the way his vision was blurring he knew his eyes probably didn’t look any better than Dean’s did. He ducked out of the way when his brother reached for his face. Now that he was concentrating on it, he could feel warm tracks running down his face, evidence of more tears split. He had no doubt that was what Dean was trying to wipe away, but right now Sam didn’t deserve that kind of comfort.

You died. You both died, and I wasn’t there to stop it.

“How could you, Sam?” Dean raised his voice a little in order to make his point. “You were dead too in case you forgot.”

Sam shook his head. He definitely had not forgotten. He thought he’d been dead too, but he also hadn’t forgotten what Gabriel said earlier.

Not dead. Safe keeping

Dean paused, looking at the words with knitted eyebrows. “What are you talking about, Sam?”

Gabriel put me away to confuse the devil, to keep me from him.

His brother looked a bit stunned when he looked up to face Sam. His jaw worked open and closed a few times, but nothing ever came out. He looked up at the ex-angel still standing over them before looking back to Sam. His features were a bit tighter, and this time when he opened his mouth sound came out. “Cas and I ran into that son of a bitch four years ago. He told us he’d gotten rid of ‘Lucifer’s vessel’ for good and to stop looking.”

Sam shouldn’t be surprised, but it was hard not to be. Four years ago... did that mean his brother had still been looking for him just four years ago? Even after Dean got out of Hell he still looked for him.

“It makes sense.” Sam glanced at the sound of Castiel’s voice. The older man looked pensive over the new tidbit of information. “Lucifer could try, but he can’t resurrect someone who isn’t dead.”

“So why now?” Dean interjected. The bitter inflection in his voice made it clear that he didn’t care one bit for the genius thought process behind the archangel’s plan. “Why bother bringing Sam back now when the devil is still on the loose? Doesn’t really go along with his master plan.”

Castiel looked at a loss for an answer to that one. A quiet scribble punctuated the silence that fell after Dean’s question, and they both looked down as Sam finished his writing.

He didn’t. Lucifer did.

Silence fell again as both seemed to take in the implications of those four words. When the silence was finally broken it was Castiel who spoke. “And Gabriel?”

Didn’t want to be discovered, so he cloaked me and took away my ability to say ‘yes.’

Sam watched the array of emotions flicker over his brother’s face; anger, guilt and finally hesitant understanding. All the same, Dean looked up to Sam with a question in his eyes, and a hope that he’d misunderstood. Sam swallowed thickly at the expression and hated that he couldn’t give his brother that hope. All he gave him was a pathetic nod as his fingertips pressed over his throat.

The pure hatred on Dean’s face was instantaneous. “That son of a bitch! I’ll kill him!” The older hunter’s voice echoed through the building, amplifying the already harsh sound. He made to stand, as if he was going to match off and end the archangel right now, but was halted by Sam’s hand clinging to his bicep. Dean was about to protest, yell for Sam to let go, but quickly deflated when he found pleading re-rimmed eyes staring back at him.

Sam couldn’t believe the amount of relief he felt when Dean sank slowly back to the floor and didn’t push Sam’s hand away. In the face of all the information, Sam didn’t think he could bear to watch his brother get up and walk away, not now. He knew it made him a selfish, hypocrite. He had all but kicked Dean out of the warehouse earlier, and now he wouldn’t even let him get off the floor.

It was an irrational fear that drove him; fear of what might happen if Dean left, and fear of what might happen if he stayed. Sam hadn’t forgotten why they were here in the first place. In a few hours Sam would be dead and the choice would be taken from him. Keeping Dean here was only further endangering him, but for some reason he couldn’t make himself let go. He didn’t want to die alone. Sam’s breath huffed out in a stutter and something wet splashed down onto his notepad. He ignored it as he forced his numbed, exhausted mind to help his hand form two little words.

I’m sorry

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for. He just needed for Dean to know he was sorry, for everything. He should have been there to stop Dean from going to Hell, and he should let Dean go now instead of holding on a little tighter. Everything was so messed up and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Hey, hey. Listen to me, okay?” Hands came up around his face and tugged until he was facing Dean. His brother’s face looked more confident and determined than it had throughout their whole conversation. “You have nothing to be sorry for, do you understand me? None of this is on you. The only person who can claim fault here is that wannabe trickster, and believe me, when I track his sorry ass down again the joke’s gonna be on him.”

Sam heard the words, but they just weren’t getting through. He sniffed at the stuffy feeling in his nose and shook his head.

“Stop, Sam,” Dean instructed gently and shook him a little to make him stop moving his head. When Sam finally stilled, Dean took a few moments to study his face. He could only imagine what his brother was seeing. No doubt the red-rimmed eyes of someone who had been crying like a girl on and off for the last seven of so hours. Or maybe the barely hidden fear he felt for his brother and Castiel and their situation in general. He didn’t want his brother to see that. He didn’t want Dean to see what a coward he was in the face of everything. Needless to say, Sam was a bit surprised that when Dean was done with his assessment he didn’t say any of those things.

“You’re tired.” Dean concluded with a half-hearted smile. He stretched his thumb over to rub at one of the tear tracks and intercept a thicker drop trying to travel down it. “You’re exhausted and overwhelmed. It’s messing with that big brain of yours. You need to get some sleep.”

Sam shook his head immediately at the suggestion. While sleep sounded like the best idea he’d heard in a long while, it was the last thing he wanted to do right now. What if he went to sleep and just never woke up? If he was going to go, he wanted to spend his last little bit of time with Dean.

“Yes, you do, just for an hour or two. No buts,” Dean’s said as he interrupted Sam from going for his notepad. He felt both the pen and the notepad pulled from his grip and handed off. Sam watched as Dean settled down next to him and then tugged him closer so that his head was resting against his brother’s chest. “Just close your eyes for a bit. I won’t let anything happen to you while you’re asleep.”

Sam struggled for a moment. It wasn’t a promise Dean could keep. Asleep or not, this virus thing was going to happen, and his brother couldn’t stop it. Though convincing Dean of that was an entirely different story. After a few more attempts of fruitless struggling Sam stopped and went boneless against Dean’s chest. Despite not wanting sleep it seemed his body was on Dean’s side. He curled his fist into the flannel under his sibling’s jacket and pressed his face into the skin warm leather. At least he would be with Dean as he slept, and maybe slipping away quietly into the virus would be easier on his brother. Dean didn’t need to see Sam suffer before the end. He didn’t need to remember Sam that way.

Sam’s eyes were just starting to droop when he felt another warm body settle down on his other side and press close. He knew without looking that it was Castiel. He didn’t bother to look until he felt his hand being moved and encased by another. He was too tired to shoot Castiel a questioning look when he found the man holding his hand again, but thankfully Castiel seemed to see the question anyway.

“This is for a different kind of pain,” the ex-angel said.

Sam didn’t have the means to reply, but as his head dropped back to Dean’s chest, he managed to squeeze the other man’s hand. He didn’t let go until his body finally shutdown on him and took the sleep it needed.

-------------

When consciousness came back, Sam was a little surprised at the lack of appetite for human flesh or the urge to mindlessly bang on the nearest metal structure. Mostly he just felt groggy and heavy with sleep. Sam was never more thrilled to feel the weariness of premature awakening, because that was very much a human reaction.

He was still bone tired, and very much content with just going back to sleep. He couldn’t even understand what had awoken him in the first place. He was almost willing to write it off as his mind playing a cruel trick on him by making him evacuate the peace of his dreamless sleep until he heard the steady hush of voices. Sam scrunched up his face as the solid chest beneath his head buzzed with the vibrations of his brother’s gravelly voice.

“Are you sure?”

There was a pause before, “It’s been a little over twelve hours, Dean. If it was going to happen, it would have done so by now.”

Something cold touched the side of his face. He instinctively jerked away and tried to bury his face further into Dean’s flannel shirt. The touch returned, but this time it settled on his jacket covered shoulder and tugged him a little closer.

“Looks like we’re dealing with a different kind of infection now.”

“At least it’s one we can fix.” He recognized Castiel relieved voice just before it dipped back down into worried. “But not here.”

Sam felt the rumble of discontent raise up out of his brother’s chest. “I need to check his leg. There’s no telling what crap from this warehouse got into there.”

Dean shifted, like he couldn’t figure out how he was going to check Sam’s leg and still hold on to him. Thankfully Castiel came to his rescue and offered to check. Sam felt grateful as well when his temporary bed finally settled back down. However, it was a short lived peace as Castiel started pulling on the bandage and sending little jolts of pain up his leg. The fabric didn't feel great as it slid free and scraped over his wound, but it felt better than the gentle prodding of Castiel’s inspection.

He was able to tolerate it, right up until Castiel touched a little too close to one of the deeper teeth marks and Sam nearly hit the roof. Whatever small visage of sleep was still lurking around Sam’s mind was gone now. The violent jerk of his body due to the pain made sure of that. His eyes immediately popped open, taking in the scene and his leg jerked instinctively away. Unfortunately that only caused more pain as his leg jarred from bumping against the concrete floor. The fist he still had closed in Dean’s flannel shirt twisted and he screwed his eyes shut to stave off the pain.

“Whoa, whoa,” Dean tried to sooth as he grabbed both of Sam's shoulders to hold him still. "Deep breaths, Sam. And go a little easy down there, Cas."

"My apologizes," the ex-angel's hands stilled over the injury but he didn’t look up from the damaged area. "The lacerations are feverish and swollen. They need to be treated. Preferably soon," he added.

Dean sighed, the expelled air blew Sam's hair, causing it to tickle the back of his neck. "I don't suppose you have a first aid kit you can magically pull out of your ass?"

That caught Castiel's attention. He finally lifted his eyes off the bloody row of teeth marks and looked up at Dean with a clear look of confusion on his face. "Why would I keep one there? It is not exactly the ideal storage facility."

"I wasn't... you're right. Don't know what I was thinking."

Sam blinked at the odd conversation he was listening to. He may be awake now, but his mind was still playing catch up and trying to tie the information he'd heard while half asleep to what he was hearing now. He wasn't exactly having an easy time of it with comments like that.

"There might be one back in town," the ex-angel suggested and then offered, "I could go look while you watch Sam."

"No," Dean dismissed quickly with a tone that brooked no argument. It was a attitude Dad used a lot when giving orders and one that Dean had adopted when he was dead serious about something. "I got a pretty good look on the way through, enough to know this town doesn't have anything to offer, and we don't have time to check on the off chance that it might."

Castiel looked a bit reluctant, but conceded Dean's point with a small nod. As much as the man didn't like it, he and Sam had gotten a pretty good look on their sprint through town and knew Dean was probably right. The only thing this town had to offer was a never-ending supply of Croats.

"Our best bet will be the camp then," Castiel said with a frown. "But with the convoy gone it will take us the better part of a day to make it back on foot, and that is without factoring in complications."

The corners of Sam's mouth pulled down. He didn't like the way Cas said complications and judging by the matching grimace on Dean's face, either did his brother. Dean's expression turned thoughtful as he peered out one of the windows on the side walls. From what Sam could see the dim amount of light that managed to worm its way through the permanently clouded sky looked fairly muted. It looked a lot like it had just before the convoy left camp, but Sam couldn’t tell if that meant it was a new morning or if the sun was setting on an old day. Given the way Dean pursed his lips, he would guess sun setting.

"We better not waste anymore time then," the older hunter concluded. "If we leave now, we might be able to locate the road before we lose the sun completely."

Leave? Sam scrubbed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes. He hoped clearing the sleep crusted around his eyes would subsequently clear the fog from his head as well. It didn’t really have the desired effect, though he was able to see more clearly. His mind became preoccupied as his unbandaged leg came into sight. He could see now what the man meant by feverish and swollen. The wound looked angry, with bright red coloring around the puncture wounds and even shiny in some places where the swelling was significant enough to stretch the skin.

It looked about as painful as it felt. It was clearly infected and could use a good round or three of antibiotic cream. A little Holy Water probably wouldn’t hurt either. None of that really mattered though. This infection was insignificant in the face of the other infection. Which brought him back to his first thought: they were leaving?

“Hey, you with me here, Champ?”

Sam came back to himself to find Dean had moved out from behind him and crouched in front of him where Castiel was only moments ago. His brow scrunched together and he looked around the room for the ex-angel. He found him positioned on the far end of the room, checking around the seal of one of the lower hanging windows.

“Sam, come on, buddy. I need you to wake up and focus here,” Dean lightly tapped on the side of Sam’s cheek and forced his head back toward Dean. Sam scowled at the treatment and shoved his brother’s cold hand away. His scowl deepened when Dean rewarded the action with a smug grin. “Just making sure you’re in there.”

Sam glared at his brother for a moment longer, rubbing his own hand over his assaulted cheek, and glanced around his immediate area. He vaguely remembered Dean taking his notepad just before his forced nap, but it still had to be nearby. There wasn’t a lot of places his brother could store it and he didn’t think he would keep it from him now that he was awake and at least somewhat rested. A small scrape on the floor signaled the arrival of the notepad as Dean slid it across the floor to stop at Sam’s side. The pen followed after with a plop. Sam scooped both up and began scratching on the paper surface.

What’s going on?

“We’re leaving,” Dean stated without hesitation.

A loud crack came from across the room, pulling both of their attention to where Cas was standing. There was a large crack running up the length of the window and with the way Castiel raised the butt of his gun to strike again, Sam figured there would be a second crack very soon.

“Just as soon as Castiel makes us another way out, since he broken the traditional way out,” Dean’s voice increased in volume toward the end so that the statement could be heard from across the room. However, Castiel seem unfazed by the comment and never once looked up from wailing away at the thick glass. Dean just shook his head and looked back to Sam.

Sam just stared back, letting the words really sink in this time. It was what he’d been trying to get Dean to do from the start, but now that he was actually doing it, Sam couldn’t help but feel a little panicked. Though unlike before, his mind was rested and more capable of keeping his selfish side in check. It would be best for them to go, so Sam wouldn’t stop them.

Another crack temporarily drew Sam attention. The view outside was fractured by web-like cracks originating from the center. Though it wasn’t so damaged that Sam couldn’t see the long stretch of empty road leading back toward the town. He glanced back down at the notepad in his hands and bit his lip. Something Sam vaguely heard Castiel say earlier nagged at the back of his mind.

Convoy’s gone. You’re going to walk back?

“Yeah, which is why the sooner we leave the better,” Dean answered absentmindedly. He was busy refolding the makeshift bandage so the stiff, dried blood wouldn’t pull and snatch at the injury. He had just barely laid the cloth back over the teeth mark before Sam pushed it away. “Wha—?”

Just leave it off

Dean frowned at the words, but when he looked up his eyes softened sympathetically at the pain he saw there. “I know it’s not pleasant, but we can’t let anything else get into the wound. You need about a gallon of antibiotic cream and probably a couple of stitches, but since none of us have a med kit, we gotta do what we gotta do until we can get you back to camp.”

Back to camp? Sam had all of two seconds to ponder why that action included him before Dean pulled the bandage tight and sent white hot sparks of pain tingling up his entire body. He hissed and thumped his head back against the wall. The action did little to help transfer focus from one pain to the other.

He could feel Dean holding both of his knees in order to keep his legs from jerking and causing more pain. Sam listened to the quiet shushing noise in the background until he felt like his leg wouldn’t spontaneously drop off just to get away from the source of pain. After another moment, he swallowed thickly and nodded to let Dean know he was okay, though it took his brother a bit longer before he was satisfied enough to release his knees with a gentle pat to the uninjured leg. Sam searched the floor at his side where he’d felt the notepad slide off in his sudden pained struggle. He found it quickly enough and convinced his hand to stay steady long enough to write.

Can’t go back to camp

“Yes you can. Even if I have to carry you there, you’re going.” The determination with which Dean spoke startled Sam. How could his brother take him to camp? Had he forgotten the very reason they stayed behind in the first place? Unless something had changed in the last few hours, he was still running on borrowed time.

The infection...

Sam let the ink trail off into little dots, each a word in their own right, but in the end not words Sam could write down. He knew his brother would know what each one of them meant, so he left them at that.

“Sammy.”

Sam jerked his head up from the notepad. His brow reflexively crinkled into that of confusion at hearing the thick relief in his brother’s voice. Of all the reactions he had expected from the older man; that had not been one of them. He shook his head to try and convey his lack of understand, but was only further confused when Dean just smiled.

“You’re passed the twelve hour mark. Slept right passed it.” Dean stated like it was the best thing in the world, but Sam was just trying to figure out why it was significant. He must have looked completely lost, because Dean took pity on him and continued. “Croats don’t sleep, Sam. They do drool,” Dean trailed off with a smirk as he pointed down to a damp spot on the chest area of his flannel. “But that was pre-existing problem for you.”

Ordinarily, now would have been the best time to call his brother a jerk, but right now Sam’s brain couldn’t think passed the implication his brother was making. His unsteady hand went to the notepad and wrote the only word that came to mind.

What?

Dean’s smirk softened a bit in understanding. He leaned forward to press his palm firm against the nap of Sam’s neck, the tips of his fingers splaying over the top nobs of his spine in a comforting gesture. “It’s been thirteen hours with no signs of the virus, which, according to Doctor Quinn over there, means you’re in the clear.”

Sam just stared at his brother for a minute, watching his own reflection in his brother’s suddenly bright eyes. Logically he knew what Dean was saying, but he was still having a hard time wrapping his head around it. He had spent the last thirteen or so hours convincing himself that he was going to die here on the floor of some godforsaken warehouse in the middle of Croatoan Capitol, and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Now he was suddenly getting a very unexpected reprieve. It was definitely a shock to his already frayed mind. It almost didn’t feel real.

I don’t understand

“You and me both,” Dean confessed with a little shake of his head. “Standard protocol says ‘you get bit, you turn.’ You shouldn’t have been immune to it.” The older hunter paused, a tight-lipped, thoughtful expression appeared on his face, but before Sam could question it Dean flexed the hand on his neck and squeeze the muscle underneath with a firm but comfortable pressure. Smirk back in place, Dean added, “But then again, we’ve never really been the kind for standard protocol.”

Sam couldn’t help the snort that escaped. Truer words had never been spoken. Dean squeezed his neck one last time before moving his hands back down to the wound on Sam’s leg. He watched as his older brother maneuvered the denim back over the makeshift bandage as carefully as he could. Sam gave out a hiss when the material ghosted across the surrounding, sensitive flesh. It was a low noise, but Dean still heard it and frowned in response.

“Sorry,” his older sibling mumbled as he fussed with straightening the cuff over Sam’s shoe. He eyed the bloody tear marks in the jeans before her looked up to Sam with two, unconcealed worry lines running along his forehead. “It’s the normal infection we have to worry about now. I don’t like how swollen it is in some places and you already have a low grade fever. Which is why we need to leave as soon as possible.”

Sam slowly nodded, letting that information turn over in his head. He had seen the bite mark with his own eyes and understood Dean’s concern. Their father had taught them the importance of proper first aid. They both understood the damage of a neglected wound and the bite mark on Sam’s leg was definitely that. The infection was setting low in his leg for now, but if it didn’t get some form of assistance to fight off the bacteria crawling around in the open wounds soon, it would spread.

A loud shattering noise suddenly rented the air in the warehouse. Both Sam and Dean glanced up from their position on the floor to find the window Castiel had been hacking around properly shattered with only a few sharp pieces sticking up from the sides of the frame. The ex-angel was currently working at clipping away those pieces with the butt of his gun.

“That’s our cue,” Dean said with a little grunt as he pushed off from the floor. His knees popped loudly from his prolonged kneeled position, as did a couple of other body parts as he stretched his arms over his head. Sam thought about making an old person joke, but didn’t think it was the best idea to ridicule the person about to help drag half of his weight back to Detroit.

Sam grimaced at the thought. The act of having to walk any further than the window on his chewed up leg was more unappealing than he could express, but it was not like he had much of a choice. The alternative was to sit in this warehouse and wait for the infection in his leg to finish him off. Also an unappealing option, and one he knew his brother wouldn’t accept.

Dean gestured for Sam to pass him up the notepad. He was confused by the request, but understood when Dean ripped out a few clean pages from back, folded them and then stuck them inside his jacket. It would be unreasonable for them to tote around a notepad, especially not when Dean would have his hands full with Sam, but at least this way Sam would have the option to talk if he absolutely needed to say something. After Dean pocketed the pen, he moved to Sam’s side and pulled his left arm over his shoulder. Sam could feel Dean’s other hand twist around the belt loops at his waistline in order to get a better grip.

“Ready?” The older man asked. Sam was tempted to say no, but seeing as the question was really only a warning instead of a real question, he just nodded his head and braced himself the best he could. Dean didn’t even bother to count to three. As soon as Sam gave the word Dean was pulling him to his feet. Dizziness assaulted him the minute he was upright, no doubt a product of the blood loss. Thankfully Dean seemed to foresee the issue and held Sam steady. When the room finally stopped spinning Dean urged him forward toward the window.

The pain in his leg was very real. His limp was heavy and every little jarring movement set his leg on fire. He had to bite the inside of his cheek several times to keep the pain at bay, but they made it to the window with relatively no trouble. It was a very small distance compared to the one that lay ahead. Sam didn’t know how he would make it that far, but he would damn sure try.

“Sam,” Castiel greeted, but the hidden question regarding his condition underlying it. Sam did the best he could to convey how fine he was through a nod, even though he felt far from it, but obviously the effort wasn’t that great as Castiel sent him an uncertain frown. Fortunately the ex-angel didn’t pursue the topic any further.

Castiel was the first to climb out the window. He made it look effortless with the mere seconds it took to boost himself up into the window and then drop down on the other side. Once he hit the ground, he pulled his gun and made a quick visual search of the surrounding area. When nothing vaguely human and decayed jumped out at him, he pocketed his weapon and turned back to the window.

Sam didn’t relish any part of having to climb out a window with his busted leg, but he wasn’t given an option when Dean all but shoved him up toward the window. It took
a minute before he had a good enough grip on the jacket covered ledge to pull himself up and perch there. When he felt it was manageable, he glanced over his shoulder and down to the ground on the other side. Now that he was sitting in the window, somehow it looked a lot further down than it had before.

Reluctantly, he reached down to take Castiel’s proffered hand before beginning the slow process of moving one leg from one side of the window to the other. He pulled his bad leg through first, allowing Dean to keep a grip on his good leg to help anchor him on the ledge. Once it was through it was easy enough to swing the other over. The only thing left now was the drop. The thought of his bitten leg taking the shock from the impact made him vaguely nauseous.

Favoring his bad leg, Sam stretched his fully functioning one down as close to the ground as he could manage. It still wasn’t close enough for his liking, but it would have to do. He braced himself before sliding free from the ledge as slowly as he could only to find his descent significantly slowed by a set of arms wrapped around his waist. The drop was still jarring, but with Castiel taking most of his weight the impact hadn’t been nearly as bad as he thought it would be. Sam spared a grateful smile, but the ex-angel attention had already slipped back to their surrounding, making sure they were still in no initial danger.

A soft thump at Sam’s back signaled Dean’s arrival. His brother’s head swiveled from side to side, checking the same areas Castiel had before deeming it safe. He took a moment to pull the jacket free of the window seal before saddling up next to Sam.

“I got him. Any specific way you want to go about this?” Dean offered the jacket back to the ex-angel and in turn pulled Sam’s weight from the man and onto his shoulder.

Castiel lips pursed together as he eyed the row of buildings and the empty expansion behind them. Obviously the area had been earmarked for construction, but never got that far. Just beyond that was a line of thinning, half standing trees that lead to a thickening forest area. “The forest would be our best bet, but given Sam’s condition and our limited schedule I wouldn’t suggest it.”

Sam tucked his chin down a little. They were barely out of the warehouse and he was already slowing them down.

“Well we can’t go back through the main street. We managed to take out a couple of dozen, but I wouldn’t be surprised it there were more.”

Castiel nodded in agreement and turned his eyes back to the forest area. His dull, blue eyes skirted from one broken tree to the next until his gaze settled on the town. “Then we walk the tree line,” he finally concluded. “It should keep us as far out of town as possible without us having to maneuver through heavy brush.”

Dean appeared to mull that idea over, but in the end deferred to Castiel’s judgment. “Alright,” he conceded before narrowing his eyes and switching gears. “How many rounds do you have left?”

The ex-angel dug the handgun from the pocket of his jeans and stared at it with a look of dismay. Sam could see why when the clip was ejected and only four copper color bullets gleamed out at him from the side.

“Is that your backup?” Dean asked, but judging by the grimace on his face he already knew the answer. Castiel’s nod was just confirmation.

Four bullets wouldn’t do much if they were attacked by a group anywhere near the size of the one before. More than likely the only thing four would do was announce their presence and then leave them defenseless.

Dean squeezed the wrist of the arm Sam had slung over his shoulder. Sam took the cue for what it was and took back some of his own weight so Dean could let go and check his own weapon supply. The shift in weight made Sam reposition his stance, which made him acutely aware of the rectangular object resting inside his jean’s pocket. He’d nearly forgotten about stashing it there earlier.

Sam released the grip he had moved to Dean’s arm in order to free the object from his pocket. He heard Dean’s questioning voice, but ignored it in favor of pulling the extra clip from his pocket and offering it to the scruffy ex-angel. Castiel’s brow wrinkled in confusion, but accepted the clip with a small frown. He didn’t understand Castiel’s hesitance until Dean spoke up with the same confused expression.

“Where’s your gun, Sam?”

Sam frowned and felt slightly ashamed at being caught without a weapon. He thought back to the scene in the parking lot and the fence that he’d toppled over so spectacularly. His hipbone ached dully at the memory. He knew that was where his gun had to be. This didn’t do them a bit of good, so he just shrugged dejectedly and gestured vaguely toward the town.

Dean’s lips twisted down in a frown, but it didn’t look disappointed like Sam had suspected it would. After another second, Dean shrugged it off and reached into his side jacket pocket to produce a sturdy, black flashlight. He passed it over to Sam, who accepted the surprising heavy light. “You get to man the flashlight then.”

Sam nodded absently as he searched the surface of the light until he found the power source. He aimed the bulb toward the ground and depressed the button, causing a strong beam of light to illuminate a large portion of the ground. Satisfied that it was in working order, Sam depressed the same button and killed the light. He glanced back up when Dean continued. “It’ll only last for eight hours, so don’t use it until we absolutely have to.”

Sam nodded and noticed out the corner of his eye that Castiel had waiting until the conversation had ended before pocketing the proffered ammo clip.

“Alright, we need to get moving,” Dean flashed a quick surveying eye around the area. The area was again empty, but Sam could tell his brother was having a hard time with the thought of having to put his gun away to help his brother walk. It was two different, strong instincts fighting against one another. Eventually Dean turned to give Sam an appraising look. Something like guilt flickered over his face, and Sam could tell his brother hated himself a little for the question he was about to ask. “Do you think you can hang on to just this arm?” Dean frowned, indicating to the arm still wrapped around Sam’s waist.

Sam wasn't sure if he could or not, but he wouldn't tell Dean that. He was already slowing them down enough as is. The last thing Sam wanted to do was handicap Dean because he couldn't manage to carry some of his own weight, so he nodded an affirmative.

"You sure?" Dean asked when Sam curled his arm around his brother's bicep and fisted a hand full of leather. He shot his older man an exasperated look, one that turned into an eye roll as Dean just raised his brows in further questioning. His brother always did respond better to annoyance, and it seemed this time was no different.

"Alright then." Dean readjusted his grip on Sam as well as his gun and gestured to Castiel with a tilt of his head. "Led on, Sacagawea."

The ex-angel paused at the comment and glanced over his shoulder. A look of confusion was written over his features.

"Clark and I will be right behind you," Dean encouraged. The grin on his face was clear evidence that Dean was having a little fun at the man's expense. Castiel frowned, but didn't say anything before turning and heading toward the sparse tree line.

The pace was mercifully slow. The position he was in wasn't ideal, but he hadn't realized how much more strain it put on him and his ability to keep up. His concentration was split between keeping his injured leg from making the least amount of contact with the ground as possible and keeping his upper half pulled up and not pressing down further onto the wound. The loop of pull-limp-fire was slightly maddening. He tried to keep the inside of his cheek tightly clenched between his teeth, but it still couldn't keep the pained grunts from escaping every now and then.

"You know, Castiel probably knows a lot about that expedition crap," Dean offered, tugging Sam a little closer. Sam could tell his brother was trying to take on a little more of his weight, but it really wasn't possible in the position they were in. "The guy's like, old as dirt. He's probably even met that Indian chick."

"I never met her," the ex-angel corrected from his point position. He moved his head back and forth, keeping a constant vigilance of both the town and the tree line. If the man was insulted by the ‘old as dirt’ comment, he didn't mention it. "There were parts of the expedition I was charged to oversee, but never to intervene in. There are several things about the event that are missing or incorrect in your history books."

Sam pulled himself up a little higher on his brother's side and peered at the back of Castiel's head. He couldn't deny the appeal at having an inside look at things he'd only been able to read about in class. A sudden groan from his left pulled his attention toward his brother who looked over-dramatically pained. "I can't believe I'm stuck walking around for the next god knows how long with two of the biggest nerds I know."

Sam shot his brother a mock sympathetic look and then swiveled back to Castiel when he began speaking.

"Yes, for example, the recorded incident of Lewis being mistaken for an elk and shot in the buttock by one of his group members is not exactly accurate. I have it on good authority the event was very much on purpose." The ex-angel never turned around from his task of keeping watch so he missed Sam's raised eyebrows and Dean's grimace of sympathetic pain. When Cas spoke again, his voice sounded thoughtfully concerned. "I just hope that, in this case, history does not repeat itself."

Sam just stared at the back of the man's head, trying to decide if the ex-angel was really concerned or making a deliberate jab at his brother. It was hard to decipher Castiel's words sometimes since his tone and words often contradicted one another. Still, he couldn't help the bark of silent laughter when his brother finally caught on.

"What does tha... wait, hey!"

Chapter Text

They were seven miles outside of Lansing when Sam finally collapsed.

"Sammy," Dean grunted as his younger brother slid to the ground and for the most part took Dean with him.

Sam's leg was on fire. It wasn't the first time his body had tried to give out on him, but every time up until now he had been able to catch himself on Dean's shoulder or the reflexes in his knees had kicked back in and saved him. But this time his body refused to come to his aid and the sweat slicked grip he had on Dean's jacket wasn't able to hold his sudden dead weight.

"Sam," his brother knelt next to him, keeping his arm wrapped around him so he wouldn’t crash the rest of the way to the cracked asphalt. His injured leg had mercifully landed stretched out in front of him instead of crumpled beneath him like his other had.

"Hey, come on, bro. No time for a break," Dean shook the arm he had around Sam to get his attention, but was careful not to jar anything else. "Who's gonna hold the flashlight if you're sitting down on the job?"

There was a smile on Dean's face, but it didn't reach his eyes. The concern was very clearly there. Sam wished he could take that away from his brother, but that reassurance wasn't within his control. With the way his leg was throbbing, he was fairly sure it was making a clear statement. His leg wouldn't carry him any further. Sam shook his head and gave his brother the most apologetic look he could muster. He mouth the word, “Sorry,” and hoped his brother saw it with just the dim light coming from the away turned beam of the flashlight Sam had dropped in the fall.

Apparently Dean had seen it if the resulting narrowed eyes were anything to go by. “Not acceptable, Sam,” the shadows of a frowned accompanied the gruff tone.

Sam frowned to match his brother’s. He didn’t know what to tell him. Acceptable or not, getting back up right now didn’t feel like an option. And if he did, how much further would they get before this became a repeat performance? He wasn’t even sure a break would help at this point, which hardly matter since they couldn’t afford to take one anyway. The longer they stayed in one place, the more likely it was for a Croat to cross their path.

He figured they were due another zombie encounter soon. After all, they hadn’t come across the first Croat since they’d left the warehouse. It hadn’t seemed like anything other than good luck at the time, but now that he thought about it, it seemed pretty odd. Even if they did stay as far away from the city as the tree line would allow, Sam presumed they would at least see one off in the distance. He didn’t think that was an unreasonable assumption given the amount of zombies that had crawled out of the woodworks when they first stepped into Lansing.

As good of a hunter as his brother is, he didn’t think Dean and his crew had been able to wipe them all out. He wasn’t even sure they had been packing enough ammo for something like that. So where had they all gone?

Sam was brought out of his musing by the sound of scuffling concrete. It alarmed him for a moment, but he relaxed when he noticed Dean seemed unperturbed by the movement. A hand was briefly illuminated by the flashlight’s beam before it latched onto the handle and upended it. There was moment of complete darkness as the flashlight was turned in a circle around them. When the light landed on nothing threatening it turned back and shined down on both him and his brother. Sam squinted at the sudden bright light and brought up his hand to shield his eyes.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean grumbled and made a shooing gesture. Thankfully the light receded, but not enough that Sam didn’t still have to squint at the brightness.

“Dean,” Castiel said from somewhere behind the flashlight’s beam. The ex-angel took a step forward, subsequently bringing the light back closer again. Sam sighed, but didn’t make a fuss. He just closed his eyes and hoped the man would get the hint soon.

Sam jumped when something suddenly touched his face. “Easy,” he heard his brother say, but it was hard to be easy when Dean was pressing his freezing cold hand to his cheek. Sam scowled when the hand moved to his forehead, but the expression fell as soon as he saw the raw concern bloom over his brother’s face. Sam’s tongue darted out over his dry lips. He mouthed, “What?” but Dean wasn’t paying attention.

“He’s burning up,” Dean commented and dropped his hand from Sam’s face.

Sam didn’t think that was right. The November temperature had dropped even further as the small amount of sun peeking through the cloudy sky finally fell behind the horizon line. He was pretty sure this was the coldest he’d ever felt in a place that wasn’t snowing. The skies were always so cloudy and overcast, a part of Sam wondered why it wasn’t snowing, but then again, the ever-present clouds never looked much like any clouds Sam could ever remember seeing. He was afraid to think about what might rain out of the dirty-looking clusters hanging above them; frogs or locusts perhaps?

He glanced down when he caught sight of Dean’s hand moving. His mouth twisted down when he found the hand hovering a bit too close to the bloodstained legging stretched out in front of him. He tried to draw in the throbbing appendage to keep his brother from touching it, but the result was pretty much the same either way. White, hot pain shot through his leg, causing him to still his movement and fist fruitlessly at the asphalt beneath him.

The look of concern on Dean’s face amped up as he witnessed Sam’s impression of a wounded animal. His hand hovered in midair for a moment longer before it dropped back to his side. After a moment he looked up at the man standing over them. Sam followed his brother’s gaze to find that the flashlight had dropped a little and he could see Castiel staring down at him with basically the same look Dean had given him. Those unnerving blue eyes, slightly shadowed by the flashlight regarded him intensely. Sam would squirm if he didn’t think it would cause pain. Thankfully, they didn’t stay there long before turning to regard Dean with a tightly lipped nod.

“We need to keep going,” Cas concluded more to Dean then to both of them.

Dean agreed with his own grim nod before turning back to Sam. Needing to move was one thing, having the capability to do so was another. Sam gritted his teeth as his brother maneuvered closer. This was going to hurt like Hell and probably only last a couple of more minutes before he was right back on the ground. He could feel the weak tremors in his leg that were spreading like a disease to the rest of his limbs.

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean’s voice was softer than he ever remembered it being. “Don’t give up on me now. I’m going to get you the rest of the way there.”

His brother smiled, genuine this time, and scooted as close to Sam’s torso as he could before turning and presenting his back. Dean swung his hand back and patted Sam’s thigh encouragingly. “Come on, dude. Just like when we were kids, huh?”

Sam stared at his brother’s for a moment before reaching hesitantly out to fist Dean’s leather covered shoulder. A thought occurred to him. True, his leg was in pain, but he didn’t really know the true meaning of ‘hurt like Hell.’ The only person who knew what that was like was the man crouched in front of him; His brother, who had in fact been to Hell and back and still had strength enough to lend Sam, to carry Sam. Suddenly, his pains didn’t seem relevant. Dean had never given up on Sam, not even when he was in Hell. So how could Sam ever think of giving up now?

Sam wrapped his other arm around Dean’s neck, not tight enough to strangle him, but tight enough that he could scoot his body closer and pull his undamaged leg out from under him. Dean looped his arm under Sam’s knee when he brought it up to his side. It took a little bit more effort and some help from Cas, but eventually Dean got his other arm looped around the knee of Sam’s injured leg.

“Ready?” Dean asked over his shoulder, and Sam nodded even though he was far from ready.

Dean let out a strained grunt as he pushed up with his legs and came to stand at an awkward hunched position with Sam draped over his back like a huge backpack. Both of their faces were pinched in discomfort.

“There, nothing to it,” Dean finally breathed out, though the breathy, gravel tone would suggest otherwise.

“I can take him when he becomes too heavy,” Castiel offered as he collected Dean’s discarded gun from the road and pocketed it. Dean didn’t look like he could carry anything else. Not even something as light as a handgun.

Dean hitched Sam up a little further on his back as gently as he could. “He ain’t heavy,” his brother answered seriously enough, but a second later his face lit up with the inadvertent quote. He grinned up at Castiel, almost expectantly, but the ex-angel didn't show any inclination to understanding the older hunter's reference.

"Your stooped posture and increased level of oxygen intake would suggest otherwise," was the only response garnered from Cas, and it only served to burst Dean's bubble.

Sam tilted his head forward so his temple rested against the flat of his brother's shoulder but still allowed him to get a good look at the older man's face. He felt a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth at the unimpressed, half lidded expression Dean was shooting the man.

Dean opened his mouth, but paused and thought better of it. There was no doubt an explanation sitting on the end of his tongue before he quickly realized it wouldn't do much for the other man. "Well, he's definitely my brother," he finally concluded with a self-satisfied grin.

Castiel offered the hunter a befuddled look. "No one is questioning your brother-hood, Dean."

A tired but full smile crossed Sam’s face. Dean once again looked like someone had stuck a needle straight through his party balloon.

“We should probably go.” Dean finally relented, giving up on any hope of having a classic rock moment with the ex-angel, and then added on a more serious note, “I’ll help keep an eye out as much as possible, but plugging Croats is all up to you now.”

Castiel glanced down at the gun and flashlight occupying both hands. The light was bulky, but with some maneuvering he was able to hold it under the gun so both it and the beam of light were pointing in the same direction. He looked back up to the brothers when he was satisfied that he could maintain both item efficiently.

Dean nodded. “Alright then, so on we go,” he announced, giving one last shot at saving the dying quote, but true to form it sailed right over Castiel’s head. Dean could only bringing himself to shake his head in amusement as the ex-angel nodded gravely and turned to reclaim his position as point.

“Well,” Dean patted Sam’s good leg to let him know he was addressing him. “You get it though, right?”

Sam nodded, his head rubbing against his brother’s shoulder so he could feel the answer.

“Atta boy,” Dean praised affectionately as he took a heavy step forward to follow Cas. “I knew there was some reason I kept you around.”

Sam’s fist tightened into the leather as they eased into a steady pace. With Dean’s lower body absorbing most of the shock, the pain in his leg decreased to a manageable level, giving Sam a little respite for the first time and what felt like days.

It was easy to get lost in the steady motions of Dean’s gait. At some point Castiel had started up his monologue of historical facts again. All of that coupled with the increased darkness from his loss of the flashlight made Sam feel sleepy. He was still cold, and he was able to use that to keep him awake for a while, but somewhere after the 200th tree Sam had counted he felt his eyelids droop of their own accord.

“Hey,” Dean barked and rolled the shoulder Sam was resting his head against. The sharp sound and action made him jump and tightened his grip that he hadn’t realized had loosened. “No sleeping up there. If I have to listen to the Greatest Hits of History then so do you.”

A little disgruntled puff escaped Sam’s lungs as he tried to scrub his knuckles over his eyes without removing the grip he had on Dean. He tried to rest his head again, but Dean just shrugged again, forcing him to prop his head up. He made a special point to dig his bony chin into his brother’s shoulder.

“Brat,” his brother narrowed his eyes to the right so that he could glare at him. Sam returned the glare, but his was a bit smugger.

Both glares were completely lost when Dean suddenly ran straight into something. It knocked his precariously balanced brother off kilter, which made Sam reflexively latch on just a bit tighter. He heard Dean make a small strangled noise as a result, but thankfully the older hunter was about to work passed it and steady his grip on the statue they’d run into.

“What the Hell? Cas?” Dean exclaimed when he was able to get a good look at the person standing directly in his path. “What are you—?”

“Shhh,” Castiel quickly shushed and held up a hand to emphasize the point.

Dean’s mouth immediately closed with a click. He lowered his eyebrows at Cas for a further explanation. The ex-angel answered by pointing to his ear in a silent command to listen. Dean’s brow furrowed in confusion, but he kept his mouth shut and tilted his head forward to try and hear whatever it was that had caught Castiel’s attention.

Sam made an effort to stretch out his sense of hearing as well, but so far he hadn’t managed to pick up anything out of the ordinary. The only strange thing was the lack of normal nightly sounds such as crickets and noisy nocturnal creatures that parade around in the dark. Virtually the only sounds around him were three sets of breaths and a low rumbling noise somewhere off in the distance. Sam’s mind quickly latched onto the out-of- place rumbling and tried to hone in on it as best he could. He could tell his brother was doing the same by how still and rigid every muscle in his body had become. It was definitely familiar and getting louder by the second.

“It sounds like,” Castiel paused as his eyes trailed off to some indefinite point up the road.

“An engine,” Dean concluded just as two pinpricks of light become visible through the darkness. They were rapidly growing in size and brightness as the rumble grew louder. A soft curse spilled from the older hunter’s mouth as he watched the approaching lights. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Don’t tell me these bastards figured out how to drive.”

“Unlikely,” Castiel replied as he clicked off the flashlight and went for Dean’s handgun tucked away in his front pocket. A light tap on Sam’s knee was the only warning he received before Dean lowered him to the ground. It was just enough time to get his good leg straightened out beneath him to take the weight. He stumbled for a moment as all his weight once again came to rest on one leg, but thankfully it held.

The shink-shink of Dean's gun brought his attention back to their fast approaching problem. There was no way for them to hide from the illuminating headlights that were barring down on them. Even if they could make it into the trees surrounding the road, the pines were too tiny and too sparse to hide much of anything. Fighting was their only option. Sam just hoped they had enough bullets to get them out of this new disaster.

The vehicle began to slow the closer it go to them. Dean reached a hand back and grabbed a fist full of Sam's shirt. When he was satisfied that Sam was as close as he could get, Dean raised his gun up and aimed his shot just above the headlights. "Stay as close as you can to me, got it?"

Sam nodded, but Dean never looked back to receive the answer. There was no need to. His brother trusted him to do as he was asked and that's exactly what he was going to do.

The vehicle, which they could now tell was a bulkier model from the set of the headlights, finally rolled to a stopped only a few feet away from them. Even though they were so close, the brightness of the headlights still kept them blind to what was actually driving the vehicle. Sam eventually had to avert his eyes away from the light. He could see from the narrowed squint that the brightness was hurting his brother's eyes as well, but he refused to take them off the threat in front of them. It felt like an eternity, but finally one of the figures that

had been blotted out from behind the lights stood up and leaned forward. Dean tensed up as he redirected the focus of his gun.

"Winchester," The slim line of the silhouette jutted out to accommodate a sharp elbow that elongated down into the hip area. "You think you might want to point that thing somewhere else?"

Dean's aim faltered, but he didn’t lower his weapon completely. He kept one hand on his gun and pulled the other up to shield his eyes. "That depends," he yelled back over the noise of the idling engine. "You gonna turn your damn lights off?"

There was a pause of contemplation before the figure moved its' hand near the steering wheel. Sam recognized that voice. The slight condemnation in the tone and cocky outlined of the posture was a dead giveaway. He knew who was standing up behind the wheel even with the lights shining in his eyes.

The lights didn't completely turn off, but they were dimmed and pointed at the ground so that they lit up the surrounding area and not just the road in front of them. It was just confirmation for Sam when a head of messy, black braided hair peered out at them from over the Jeep’s windshield.

“Florence,” Dean concluded and finally lowered the gun to his side. There was a general distaste in the name, but it was mostly concealed by the perplexed tone in his voice. Flo seemed quite pleased with herself for being the cause of the confused look on Dean’s face, but it dimmed slightly when she gave them all at once over. When she eyed the half-visible form of Sam where he was still standing partially behind Dean, the corner of her mouth turned down into a frown.

“Well, the three of you certainly look like shit,” Flo commented a little drily. Her eyes lingered over them for a bit longer as if she was making sure of something. Sam thought he saw a flicker of something close to relief, but figured it was a trick of the light when it was gone the next second and Flo continued on in the same dry tone. “But you don’t look like Croat food to me.”

Not far behind the Jeep, there was the sound of a door opening and closing before hurried footsteps began approaching them. Sam hadn’t noticed the second Jeep pull in behind the first, but he knew it must have when the sight of a tall, dark skinned man came into view. The man was carrying a gun, but it was held low at his side and forgotten all together when he came to a halt in front of them. Sam recognized the unnaturally tall man as he came into view. The former negotiator looked relieved to see them, but also just as baffled as Dean did to see them standing in front of him.

“Boss,” Kevin addressed the hunter. His eyes ticked over each of their faces before pausing on Sam’s just as Flo’s had only a moment ago. Thankfully Kevin didn’t linger too long before his narrowed, bewildered eyes moved back to Dean. “Your convoy came back a couple of members short. They said there’d been an accident...”

Dean nodded at the information relayed to him. “There was,” Dean agreed hesitantly. The reluctance to remember what had happened in the warehouse was something Sam could

understand, but it was harder for him to forget with the throbbing reminder carved into his leg. Dean’s mouth thinned out and his eyes narrowed a bit as he flicked his eyes over to Flo. “And I’m pretty sure I told them not to come back.”

“And they didn’t. You’ll be proud to know that every single one of them tucked tail back to their tents like the cowards they are.” Flo was smiling, but she sounded like she felt anything but the pride she suggested Dean should feel. “One heck of a crew you got there, Winchester.”

“They were following orders. You know, that thing you have such a difficult time with.” “I’m not following any order that asks me to leave a man behind.”
“You would endanger your entire convoy for a couple of dead men?”

“Unconfirmed dead men. Your crew wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details.” Sam thought if Flo leaned any further over the vehicle’s windshield she might just toppled over it. He didn’t know why she felt the need to bring her glare any closer to Dean. It was perfectly potent from where he was standing. “And you’re damn right I would.”

Sam could practically feel the anger pouring off the two convoy leaders, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. The two were so busy bickering over their separate points that they couldn’t see how similar they were. Neither one of them wanted to see someone left behind. Dean had chosen to avoid that by sending his crew and transportation home, and Flo had done it by throwing precaution to the wind and heading up a search and rescue party. Basically, what it came down to was two martyrs bickering over who got to take the bullet. Sam would have laughed if he had the voice and air to do it. He was surprised by how easily tired he had become just from supporting his own weight for no more than ten minutes.

“Alright, enough, both of you,” Kevin’s authoritative voice sounded off from the sidelines. The man hadn’t raised his voice, but the finality with which he spoke brought a pause to the squabbling. Not wasting any time with the precious silence, Kevin quickly shot Dean an all- business look. “What your crew did manage to tell us was that your brother was bitten by a Croat and that you two,” the tall man moved his finger back and forth between Dean and Castiel, “were suicidal enough to stay behind with him.”

“I’m not leaving Sam out here,” Dean stated firmly and almost a little defensively.

“None of us want that, Boss,” Kevin held his hand up, palm out to halt the hunter’s line of thought and try to calm the big brother flaring to the surface. "I'm just telling you what we've been told, which I'm starting to question." He trailed of to spare a long, appraising look over Sam. "Besides looking like he's ready to drop, Mo doesn't look like he's ready to eat any of us."

Sam could see the confusion even from the back of his brother's head. It took Dean a moment to realize who Kevin was referring to, but when he did he whirled around and looked at Sam with a guilty grimace. In all the excitement of the new arrivals, Dean had left Sam to manage on his own. Sam just shook his head at his brother unspoken apology and

let out a content sigh when Dean wrapped an arm back around his waist and pulled Sam's arm over his shoulder. It felt good to have some of the weight taken from him again.

"He was bitten," Castiel answered for them. A quiet gasp came from Boo--who Sam had just noticed was sitting silently in the passenger seat next to Flo--and a shadow moved sharply in the backseat. Sam squinted at the figure and was just able to make out the form of Devan. He found it odd that the normally snarky man was just was silent as Boo.

A general uneasy fell over the gathering, but it wasn't like the uneasy that fell over Dean's convoy. The men at the warehouse had been panicked and worried for their own safety, and more than willing to use weaponry to solve their problem. This time the tension felt more concerned, and though weapons were available no one moved to draw one.

"That was well over twelve hours ago," the ex-angel clarified to their stunned audience. "He hasn't shown any signs of turning, and after twelve hours I don't believe he will."

"But... no one survives the bite," Boo's voice was quiet, mystified, and though it wasn't really pointed at anyone it seemed to catch everyone's interest. Boo shrunk down a little under the attention and chose to stare at the dashboard rather than the people around her.

Flo was the first one to look up from the girl. Her face still looked pensive as she turned to Castiel. "You sure?”

The ex-angel blinked his dull blue eyes up to the dark haired woman and replied without hesitation, "I am."

A slow, decisive nod was offered to them before Flo said, "Alright, good enough."
Sam was a little shocked at how simple that was. Apparently so was Dean. He hadn't even realized how tense his brother way until the easy acceptance was given and Dean slumped slightly forward. Dean's grip loosened a little with the momentary show of relief and as a result he had to readjust Sam. The move made him stumble a bit and brought his face a little more into the surrounding headlights.

Flo's eyes narrowed as she undoubtedly got a good look at Sam's less than healthy looking complexion. "How bad is that bite?"

"It's..." Sam could hear the hesitance in his older brother's voice. The sideways look he shot Sam told him the hunter was thinking about fudging on the truth, but something in Sam's face convinced him otherwise. He sighed in discontent. "It's not good," he admitted. "I hope one of you is packing a first aid kit."

"We've got one in the back," Kevin offered and signaled them to follow. "The three of you can ride with us and see about getting him patched up the best we can on the way back to camp."

Dean wasted no time in getting Sam moving when Kevin gave them the signal, but he was only a few steps toward the second Jeep before he was stopped.

"Oh no," Flo protested as she leaned back away from the windshield and watched them over the passenger door. She jutted her thumb out in the direction of Castiel. "Wingman gets to ride with me. It doesn't take five people to perform first aid and someone needs to fill me in on what exactly went on here."

Dean narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to protest, but Castiel cut him off. "That is acceptable," he nodded to Flo before glancing over to Dean. "Take care of your brother while I attend to this matter."

Cas didn't even give Dean a chance to response before changing directions and heading around the side of the first Jeep. Sam kind of felt sorry for the ex-angel when the only seat available was the one next to Devan, but at least the disagreeable man didn't appear to care for conversation. That was something.

"Come on," Kevin nudged and got them back moving toward the second Jeep. The whole backseat was open, but the step up to get there might as well have been a mountain. Dean’s boost up helped to get him halfway there, but that still left him flailing to find something in the Jeep to anchor himself to. Luckily a hand darted out from the driver’s seat and gripped his arm before he could slip back down.

Sam looked up into the cracked glasses perched on the bridge of Si’s nose and offered the man a grateful smile. Together, he and Dean managed to maneuver Sam until his back was resting against one of the backdoors with his injured leg stretched out along the seat and his other leg spilled over into the floorboard.

Sam closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the cushioned seats and the comforting, steady rumble of the Jeep. He felt the vehicle shift as the two remaining passengers climbed in. He felt Dean plant himself on the edge of the seat next to his leg followed shortly by the sound of items being rifled through. When the noise stopped Sam opened his eyes to find his brother unzipping the flap of a red, cloth bag with a white cross on it.

“Ready to go home?” Kevin glanced back over his seat to eye the two brothers.

Dean paused from digging through the bag—one hand was fisting a roll of gauze while the other hand was still buried deep inside the contents—and looked up at Sam. He could see Kevin’s question re-asked in his brother’s searching eyes and replied with a sigh as his body further relaxed into the bench seat.

Dean smiled a little at the response. “More than ready,” he replied. The nod Kevin returned was one of understanding and he was quick to order Si forward with a slap of the professor’s thigh. It had only been a little over twelve hours ago that the possibility of going home hadn’t even an option. Sam’s lot in life had boiled down to a short existence of a demonic virus followed by the quick reprieve of led to the temple. Even when the threat of the virus had passed, home seemed like a far off promise; too far to be realized on a chewed up and infect leg. Saying he was ready to go home was an understatement.

As if sensing his brother’s tumultuous thoughts, Dean paused to place a steady hand on Sam’s knee before moving both hands down to roll up the cuff of Sam’s jeans. From his slumped position Sam couldn’t see the wound, but he imagined it didn’t look any better or worse than it had before. Whatever state it was currently in his older brother thought it was worthy of a grimace.

“I won’t be able to put the stitches in while we’re moving,” Dean didn’t seem too happy about that, but there was nothing he could really do. “I’m going to at least get some of the anti-biotic cream on it and wrap it. We’ll have to flush it out and stitch it up back at camp.” Dean’s eyes ticked up to the back of Si’s head. “About how long until he get back?”

Si sat up a little straighter at the question and glanced around at the non-descriptive road and tree line. There was nothing remotely identifiable about any of their surroundings, at least not that Sam could see, but obviously Si had found what he was looking for.

“Well, judging by the fewer amount of trees, I’d say we’re closed to the city than not, which means we’re roughly—.”

“You can just ballpark it for me, Bill,” Dean interrupted. He was trying to save both of them a headache, but when the front seat suddenly grew quiet he looked up to see the stricken face of Si staring back at him through the rearview mirror. “Uhhh... or not?” Dean added hesitantly, not really knowing why Si looked like someone had pulled his tongue out and tossed it out in the nearby woods.

Si’s eyes shrunk a little, but the spooked look didn’t quite leave his expression. The way his eyes drifted a little upwards, but still remained on the road ahead showed that the professor had moved his out loud figuring in doors. After a moment he blinked a few times and looked back at Dean through the mirror. "Two hour and thirty-five minutes."

"Thank you..." Dean replied before slowly turning a wide eyed stare at Sam. The expression on Dean’s face made him look like the crazy person he was silently accusing Si of being. Sam smiled tiredly at the exchange. Sometimes it was best to just let Si get all those equations out of his brain so it wouldn't explode. It was just too bad his geek had to leak out on Dean. ...Okay, more like amusing, but Sam was sympathetic.

He hissed as the bandages around his leg were pulled tight. Dean mumbled an apology, but didn't loosen them. It felt like his brother was literally trying to mash the cream into his wounds, which was surprisingly okay with him. Whatever ointment Dean had applied obviously had some kind of deadening agent in it, so as far as Sam was concerned, the more medicine the better.

It didn't take long for the pains in his leg to reduce significantly and an even shorter amount of time after that before it disappeared completely. Without the constant pain poking at his frayed mind, Sam could finally let his mind register the other demand his body had been screaming for besides relief: sleep.

Sam didn't really want to go to sleep, not while they were technically still in Croat territory, but it was hard to ignore his body once it figured out what it wanted. He certainly hadn't meant to, but once he dropped his head to the side against the seat he lost track of time in the blackness behind his lids.

Sam was never one for bed rest. The name hardly fit the definition. He didn't know how something that meant restful could make him feel so restless when it became mandatory. He hated the confinement, and the constant boredom made the time spent stuck in one place feel endless. Needless to say he wasn't thrilled when bed rest was the first thing Dean put him on when they got back to camp.

The first day of it was manageable. He couldn't deny the pain, and the overall stress of the raid had worn him down more than he thought possible. However, by the time the second day rolled around Sam was already trying to come up with excuses to get out of bed. Most of them ended up forwarded by Dean or by the ex-angel who seemed permanently rooted to the couch just outside his room.

Still, there was no way both of them could keep up vigilance forever. With almost a day lost at camp; a day where everyone thought their leader and another important convoy member had been lost to them, there was a lot that needed to be seen to and even more fears to be quelled. After all, Dean’s crew, while generally close-lipped about the incident, hadn’t exactly kept it a secret as to why they’d left a couple of their members behind.

Sam was a little out of it by the time they had arrived back at camp, but the looks on the camp members faces as they immerged from the Jeep and the wide birth they were given was unforgettable. The people were afraid of what had been brought back to their safe haven. The looks hurt, but Sam could hardly blame them. If the tables were turned he would feel concerned as well.

Sam tapped his pen against the composition notebook laid open on his lap. The silver pen Dean had rescued from the warehouse was a strange reminder of what they’d been through. He rubbed his finger over the little black, carved horn on the cap. Sam supposed he should hate the thing on principle considering who it had come from, but he couldn’t. It almost felt like it was a weird badge of honor; no matter what Gabriel had put both of them through they were still alive and together.

It also didn’t hurt that with all the scribbling Sam had done over the past two days, the pen’s ink line had yet to drop even a centimeter. Sam shifted against the worn, leather seat to try and alleviate the cramp building in his knee. His leg was already aching from the walk out, so any unnecessary movement was unwanted. Unfortunately, the longer he sat immobile, the more his throbbing injury became the lesser of the two evils. He frowned as he was forced to stretch the limb out. From his slouched position he narrowly missed banging his knee against the glove compartment.

He sighed when he was finally situated. The new position should last him for at least another thirty minutes before he would have to shift again.

Though, that was assuming he stayed for that long. As much as he was enjoying the peace and quiet, he had already been gone for forty-five minutes without a single sign of Dean or Castiel, and Sam was fairly sure it wasn’t for lack of trying. Another thirty minutes would be cruel and unfair to his worrywart of a brother.

Sam ran his hand along the interior of the door, fingers lightly ghosting over the window’s crank before moving on. He had just needed some time to think. He needed time to process everything without the lingering threat of death hanging over him... or two obnoxious guard dogs barking at him to stay in bed.

The warehouse had been an eye opener to a lot of things. Just a few days ago Sam could have confidently said his strange existence in the future boiled down to a bored demigod and a bad case of wrong place, wrong time. Now, he was sitting in the middle of an apocalypse he should have started with the devil vying for his vessel so he could finish the destruction he started. That didn’t even include the fact that his brother had gone to Hell and was now the vessel for the angel Lucifer wanted to kill the most.

The fact of the matter wasn’t lost on Sam. If either he or Dean gave in and gave consent, it would mean big changes for their already fractured planet, and not good ones. He would like to think Michael would change things for the better. He was an archangel after all, but after hearing how the angels had pushed for this apocalypse, he didn’t put much stock into the archangel’s motives.

Sam didn’t want to even think about what Lucifer would do, what he would make Sam do. He didn’t want to think about what would become of the camp or the people inside it. No doubt it would be the first place the devil hit just out of spite. Maybe the camp members were wise to avoid Sam. It seemed as though he brought nothing but trouble.

Sam jumped out of his skin when the tarp concealing the car suddenly crinkled to life and rose up on the driver’s side. He ducked down in time to see Dean’s face appear behind the driver’s side window with a searching scowl. The minute their eyes connected the scowl dropped and was replaced by a look of relief before disappearing again.

The door creaked loudly on its’ hinges as Dean pulled it open and slid in. An auditable sigh of contentment escaped his brother’s lungs as he sank back into the familiar bench seats of the Impala. Dean had always looked so much at home in the driver’s seat of his baby. Nothing melted away the tension and troubles of the world from his brother’s shoulders like the rumble of the black Chevy’s engine and the passing of road under her tires. Even though they weren’t moving, Sam was glad to see the old car could still give the older hunter that semblance of peace.

All ideas of peace flew out of Sam’s head when Dean finally turned to face him. The glare wasn’t heated, but reproachful. It was enough to pull a sheepish grin from him. They both knew what Sam had done wrong, but they also knew that given his track recorder there was no need in wasting breath ordering him not to do it again.

Dean eventually sighed, not really liking it but letting the matter drop. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Sam’s face scrunched up in confusion. He wondered how his brother came to that conclusion given that all the times he’d snuck away before he’d never once come to the Impala. Sam uncapped his ink pen and wrote down the question, though he hesitated before presenting it to Dean. Another incident like this came to Sam’s mind and he quickly added the thought along with the question.

How did you know? Did you follow the evidence trail?

Dean snorted as he read over the last question. He shook his head. “Nah, we just have similar taste in hiding places.”

Hiding hadn’t been the thought when Sam had left his bed back at the cabin but, now that he thought about it, it made sense. All the pervious times he’d snuck off had been out of curiosity or boredom or just because he wanted to bug Dean. This time when he’d left he didn’t want to explore or annoy anyone. He just wanted a safe, neutral place to straighten out his thoughts. Heading for the Impala had just felt right at the time. Sam ideally wondered how often Dean sat out in the Winchester family home for the same reasons.

“Hey,” Sam snapped out of his thoughts and glanced over at his brother. The older man had his hands positioned on the wheel as if he was driving. Dean even glanced back to the windshield like he had to watch the road for other cars before looking back with a smirk on his face. “Do you remember the day dad gave her to me?”

Sam didn’t even have to ask who his brother was talking about. Dean had always referred to his car as ‘his lady.’ Strangely enough it was probably the longest relationship he’d ever had with a woman.

Your 18th Birthday

“Well yeah,” came the older brother’s automatic response. “But more specifically the day after.”

You mean our failed trip to the Grand Canyon?

“Sammy,” Dean’s voice sounded dramatically stunned. It made Sam want to roll his eyes before he even knew what he was rolling them at. “I’d hardly call eight hours of Boston and being stuck at an all-night rest stop with a broke down bus full of cheerleaders a failed trip.”

Sam did roll his eyes this time.

We weren’t stuck

“Well, we sure as Hell weren’t going anywhere.”

Dad sure had a different opinion

Dean grimaced at the mentioned of their father. Dad had not been too happy to wake up the next morning to find both of his sons and the Impala gone and with nothing more than a vague note that said, “Road Trip! Be back soon.” To this day Sam didn’t know how their dad had tracked them down to that rest stop in Utah, but it was almost worth it to see his brother get hauled off by their angry, bear of a father right in front of the girls Dean had spent more than a couple of hours chatting up. Thankfully, for Dean’s sake, Dad had let his oldest off on a plea of temporary insanity. Apparently inheriting a classic, muscle car could do that to a guy. Still the emotional damage had already been done.

“I couldn’t look a cheerleader in the eye after that,” Dean’s gaze was pointed inward, as if he was reliving the humiliation all over again. Sam had to poke him with the notebook in order to draw his attention back.

As if you were looking there anyway

Dean scowled at the remark, but couldn’t really refute it. Instead, he looked back toward the tarp-covered windshield. His hands slid up a little further on the steering wheel as he leaned forward, his thumbs tapping out a beat only he could hear. “You know,” Dean started after a moment; his voice oddly wistful. “’Never did get to see the Grand Canyon.”

Sam thought about saying ‘me neither,’ but that much was obvious. He settled for frowning instead. It just seemed a shame that as much as their family traveled around Dean had never gotten to see the one landmark he wanted.

“Probably couldn’t get near the damned place now." The wistful tone was replaced by resentment. “Not without having to plow through a couple of thousand Croats first.”

Sam ducked his head at the bitter tone. It was no secret that the overpopulation of zombies weren’t exactly well-loved. His brother had never shown even a hint of fondness for them, but ever since Lansing that hatred had amped up a few notches. He couldn’t say he blamed his brother. Sam felt a certain animosity for them himself.

As if overhearing the topic, Sam’s leg gave a sharp throb of agreement. He rubbed a hand over the thick bandage lying just underneath his sweatpants. Only a few of the punctures from the Croat’s teeth needed stitching. Thankfully, none of the thing’s teeth had come off inside the wound, and according to his current status of ‘living,’ neither did any of the saliva. A ‘dry bite’ was the current theory immerging among the convoy. No doubt the rest of the camp would pick it up soon. It was believable enough, but Sam didn’t buy into it. He was there. He knew there was nothing about that particular bite that was dry.

“Is it hurting?”

Sam’s hand paused over his wound at the sound of his brother’s voice. It was always hurting. Their severe lack of pain killers made sure of that. But Sam understood what his brother was asking, and the answer was no, it wasn’t hurting anymore than it normally did. It was hurting just enough to remind him that he shouldn’t technically still be here.

“Sam?”

He ignored the question in favor of asking one himself.

Why do you think I was immune?

Dean hadn’t expected that reply. The look on his face was proof of that. Though, he quickly recovered as his face fell into a neutral expression and his body turned slightly back toward the steering wheel. It was a sure sign Dean didn’t want to talk about the particular topic. The older hunter shrugged as if the answer wasn’t a big deal. “Just a dry bite, Sam.”

Sam frowned disapprovingly at the clearly written off answer. He could tell by his brother’s tone that he didn’t believe that, which was not surprising. Dean had been there just as well as Sam and had seen the thing responsible for the damage. It wasn’t exactly the epitome of hygiene. There was just no way something hadn’t gotten into the wound.

You don’t believe that

Dean eyed him for a moment, no doubt looking for a shred of reservation in Sam’s resolve that might allow him to steer his brother’s thoughts back to the safer theory. When he found none his expression turned tight. “No, I don’t,” Dean confessed and gestured vaguely toward where he knew the rest of the camp was. “But they do, so that’s the story we’re sticking to.”

Sam mulled that information over, first going over what had been said and then what hadn’t been. His brother wanted them to believe the easy explanation, because whatever theory Dean was harboring himself wasn’t as simply. Sam got the feeling they were on the same train of thought.

You think it’s because I’m Lucifer’s vessel

Sam hesitated with adding a question mark at the end. He wasn’t sure if he was asking or stating, but when he caught the quick movement of Dean’s averted eyes he knew he’d made the right call by leaving the question mark off. Dean didn’t answer, of course, but it wasn’t necessary. His silence was plenty answer enough. Going back to Dean’s statement, Sam penned out his next related question.

They don’t know, do they?

“No,” came the immediately, resounding response. Dean shifted in his seat to fully face Sam. The grave expression on the older hunter’s face impressed upon him the importance of what his brother was about to say. “They know about Cas, but they don’t know about either of us, and that’s the way it needs to stay.” Dean sighed and rested his shoulder back against the seat. Some of the gruffness passed out of his voice, but the same level of seriousness was still there. “There are a lot of good people, hard working people here, but that doesn’t mean they’re all of the same opinion. People act funny when their survival’s in question. I don’t trust them with that information.”

Sam nodded. An inability to trust was an ingrained Winchester trait, but it was hard not to feel justified in that mistrust when people continuously lived up to it. He agreed with Dean to withhold that information. The news of Castiel’s failing sainthood seemed well accepted, but he was doubtful that the news of Sam being the last piece Lucifer needed to finish what he started would go over as well.

Sam sucked in his bottom lip and bit thoughtfully into the flesh. Not for the first since he’d woken up in the warehouse in Bay City, Sam wished he could go back to the crappy motel near the lake and warn his family of the hunt that lie ahead, but that was a wasted hope. Gabriel had made it clear there was no way of going back or changing what had already been written. No matter what the road, they would always end up here, in the Impala staring out the tarp-covered windshield. He glanced down at his notebook placed the tip of the pen against the paper.

So what do we do now?

Dean stared at the question for a moment. Sam could practically see contemplation on his brother’s face. When the older man finally spoke, Sam expected a more elaborate answer, but he should have known better. Dean was always one for the simple solutions.

“We keep going,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “We keep this camp going and we stay alive. Right now, that seems like the best way to beat the devil to me.”

Sam pressed his lips together. As great as that plan sounded there were flaws in it.

But for how long?

“For as long as we can,” Dean replied. He swiveled his finger around to indicate the area around them that neither of them could see through the tarp. “Castiel has wards set up all along the fence lines. If Gabriel couldn’t detect you through them, then I’m willing to bet Lucifer can’t either. So that means no more convoy trips for you, no more trips period, got it?”

Sam hesitantly agreed. He had no desire to return to the outside world right now, but he knew he wouldn’t always feel that way. It was just a matter of time before sitting cooped up inside the campgrounds would slowly start to drive him crazy, but for now he could agree to it.

And then?

“We’ll work on it,” was the best answer his brother could offer.

Sam nodded again and rested back against his seat. It wasn’t exactly a working plan, but it was time, time they could use to come up with a way to beat the devil. It was the best they could ask for and it was more than Sam had hoped to have a couple of days ago.
It would have to do for now.

They both sat in the silence for a moment, enjoying the quiet and the cleared air. It was so much easier to breathe when everything was laid out on the table. Yeah, they had Hell ahead of them, but for right now they could just sit in the familiar comfort of the Impala. For a moment, it could be like time never passed.

Sam tilted his head to the side. Though... there was something Sam still wondered about. Picking his pen back up, he scribbled down the statement and poked Dean with the corner. The older hunter made a noise of acknowledgement before glancing down. The visibly startled look on Dean’s would have been comical had Sam been determined not to laugh.

You taught an angel to smoke pot

Dean sputtered, searching for an answer that would suffice. “H-He... He was depressed after he lost his grace. What was I supposed to do with a moping angel? He needed a feel good hobby!”

Sam shot his brother a incredulous look and pulled back his notebook to reply.

A hobby is not smoking pot. A hobby is gardening.

Dean pressed his mouth together thoughtfully before replying, "Smoking pot is kind of like gardening. They both involve weed."

Sam just blinked at the older hunter. He wasn't sure if that statement was even justifiable with a response, but he found himself shaking his head and writing anyway.

You are terrible

The grin that spread across Dean's face would be considered goofy at best, and despite his best efforts Sam found himself returning it with a grin of his own. It felt good to talk about something other than the gloom and doom that surrounded them, even if it was a conversation about gardening and pot smoking angels.

Dean leaned over and nudged Sam's shoulder. "Come on. We better go before Cas comes looking. Apparently it's game night and it's his turn to pick."

If possible, Sam's grin widened as he wrote in his notebook.

You know what that means, right?

Dean let out a put-upon sigh and mumbled, "I hate freakin' Candyland."

Is it because you always lose?

Dean tossed an incredulous look over his shoulder, one that turned into a glare when he spotted a very smug looking Sam. The glare might have been intimidating had it not been for the small chuckle that broke through as he spoke.

"Shut up, Sam."

Chapter Text

The view of the city was so much more abysmal from atop the seventh story business building. The wide window panels of the spacious corporate office provided a clear view of the turbulent, gray sky looming overhead.

The only blemish was the large red stain sprayed on the panel directly behind the mahogany desk, but it wasn’t so much a hindrance as it was an enhancement. The crimson mark was beautiful in the way only properly interpreted art could be. It really added something to the room, just like the artist, whose corpse lay sprawled in the corner of the room; a statue of a man who had worked himself to death. He turned back to the view outside the windows. The buildings, once tall and stretching ever upward were now toppled and lay like fallen dominoes in the streets. They looked better that way; broken and on their knees before the only standing building for miles.

His hand came up to rest against the window, pressing against the longer dried spray of blood. The dried substance became warm and slick under his touch, as if it were coming alive. His hand slid through it, making a larger smear and leaving behind tacky little prints. Movement below caught his attention, making his hand pause from its manipulation of the blood stain. A human sat crouched atop of a pile of rubble. It’s boney fingers crudely picked through the twisted pieces of metal without care of cuts or injuries. After a moment it began banging its fists on whatever surface it could find. It was obviously frustrated about something. The scream it let was muted by the office walls, but it was easy to tell it would have been ear splitting at close range.

He smiled at the little human below. It was another one of his little corrections. For as much as his Father loved these little mudfish, he had engineered them incorrectly for their purpose. If God wanted his most beloved creation to have free will, then why weigh them down with something as useless as a conscious?

He grinned as he watched the little thing run off, dragging it injured leg behind it. It was something they didn’t have to worry about now, not with the antidote racing through their bloodstream and reducing them back to their basic urges. Without the weight of consciousness holding them back, they were free to take what they wanted without fear of retribution or rejection.

How much better were his Father’s creations now! This world had so much potential. Even now, as beautiful as he had made it, it still could be so much more. If only he had what he needed to finish his work, to pick up where his Father had so carelessly left off.

He glanced up at the sky again, gaze piercing and searching. He would have what he needed. Heaven may have been denied to him, but he would have this world. He would remake it until it was perfect. He would do what his Father could not. And when his vessel finally came to him, he would cloud Heaven over so there would never another hope of these mudfishes getting there. Where he could not go, neither would they.

The sound of a door creaking open made him turn from marveling over his work. The two larger demons he’d stationed at the door appeared through the door ushering a small woman with them. Her slight build was dwarfed further by the larger men on either side, but her coal, black eyes spoke of a matching strength.

“This underling says she has news for you,” one of the men said. The girl in question sneered at the larger demon but kept her mouth shut.

He regarded the girl for a moment before looking back at the two unnecessary guards and jerking his head in a signal to leave. Neither of the men looked happy with the order, but they both wisely vacated the room. No doubt they had hoped the girl was a fraud. The severe lack of unchanged humans was making his demons antsy for a kill.

“Father,” the girl addressed him with a bow of her head. He wondered if the show of respect was truly for him or for the fact he’d not had her killed on site. No matter, either form would suffice. Besides, the information she held was very important to him.

“Larina,” his smile was bright, nothing less than a father greeting his favorite child. “You were gone for so long. I was beginning to think something terrible had happened.”

The concern should have been encouraging, but the hint of fear on the demon’s face made her falter and step back a bit. He easily repressed the smile that threatened to creep out from her reaction. It would be so easy to just reach out and end her, but he had already been made to wait longer than he preferred. It would be too much trouble to send someone else out to re-gather her information.

He raised his eyebrow when the demon still had not spoken. “I hope you were successful.”

“Y-yes, it took time, but it is as you wished, Father.” The demon’s voice wavered, became stronger with the lead in to good news. “The boy was bitten, just as you ordered.”

“And?” He couldn’t help but to lean forward in anticipation. It was almost shameful how anxious he felt over the news. Being locked in Hell for eternity tended to create patience in one, but now he felt all of that patience slip away in a matter of a moment. But he could not be blamed. He was finally about to know if he would get what he’d been made to wait so long for.

“The boy was immune,” Larina said with much more confidence than she had entered the room with.

His grin this time was much more difficult to suppress. The news of his vessel being in this world again brought him satisfaction equal to his own return to this world. The boy he’d pulled from limbo just barely over a month ago was the boy he’d been waiting on. This was the final piece that had been denied to him, but no longer.

“When will the wards be down?” He asked. All false pretenses of caring were gone. He was all business now.

“I,” Larina started. She was unprepared for the sudden changed in his demeanor so soon after such good news. “The wards at the camp are strong. It will take some time to remove—.”

“You have a month,” he said. His voice sounded final in the spacious office room.

“But,” Larina started, but stopped. Her eyes widened as she realized her mistake. There was a sudden shift in the air. The devil, Lucifer, stood rooted to the ground, his rapidly darkening face bore into the girl in front of him. The demon stumbled back, as if adding any amount of distance between them would make much difference. The temperature around them plummeted until there were puffs of frosty breath coming from the cowering girl.

After a moment he took a breath, just enough to quell his dark features into a look of contemplation. He pressed his lips together and touched a knuckle to his chin. “I’ve already given you a month, and then I give you another month and that’s still not good enough.”

He broke off to place his hands on his hips. That, coupled with the amused smile he was forcing, made him look like the Dad off of some 60s sitcom. “Kids today,” he shook his head. “Give an inch, and they’ll take a whole month and ask for more.”

“Forgive me—,” Larina started, but was cut off by the same abrasive tone from earlier.

“Do not mistake me for my Father. I do not offer forgiveness.” Lucifer looked stormy at even having to bring his Father into the conversation. He took a deep breath. It would not do to level the one building left in Detroit. He would need somewhere suitable to take his vessel. He would not do so in the back alley of some nameless town. It had to be Detroit.

“You have one month,” He reiterated. This time the girl nodded without hesitation. It was always nice to see his children so eager to please.

He didn’t know how much longer he would be able to hold off his distaste for the demon so he dismissed her with nothing more than a glance at the door. With the way she fled, she was ready to be out of his sight as well. If she had any sense of self preservation she was on her way back to that camp she’d been calling home for over a month now.

Lucifer turned back toward the ceiling high windows and peered out at the city below. His work was magnificent now, but in a month’s time it would be truly something to behold. He couldn’t wait to bring his vessel here and show him what wonderful things they would do together. A month felt like an eternity, but he could wait.

For Sam, he would wait.

THE END