Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night air was crisp, tinged with pine and the faint odor of gasoline drifting from a nearby road. Sam paced along a quiet street in Huxley, Iowa, his boots crunching on the gravel sidewalk. His breath misted in the air, a stark contrast to the heat of his thoughts. Dean’s voice replayed in his mind, edged with concern. “Sam, what’s going on with you, man? You’re acting weird.”

Dean was onto him, and Sam knew that if he was going to keep this secret, he’d have to avoid suspicion for as long as possible. Dean didn’t trust Ruby—and to be honest, neither did he, at least not initially. But she had helped him so far: training him, feeding him leads, and getting him and Dean out of dangerous situations. Hell, she’d saved his life. So when Dean questioned him, Sam brushed off his words with a half-hearted excuse and a strained smile, but the lie stuck in his throat like a shard of glass.

The brothers had worked hard to reach this point of trust. After a childhood of burying their emotions and powering through like soldiers numb to the world, they had finally reached a place where they understood each other. But now it was back to secrets and lies, and when Dean found out what Sam was doing… Sam wasn’t sure their relationship could recover from that.

For months, he’d been working with Ruby in secret, honing his powers. It had started when Dean was in Hell, a way for Sam to feel strong and in control, but even after his brother’s return, he couldn’t let it go. He needed that strength. They had to stop the apocalypse, to stop Lilith, and after too many dead ends, Sam was desperate.

He remembered the first time he drank her blood. It had been disturbingly casual, like she was offering him a beer. They were in a rundown house outside Lincoln, Nebraska, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and decay.

“You want to be stronger, don’t you?” Ruby had asked, eyeing the flask of her blood on the table. She wrapped her arms around him, her hands slipping below his waistband as she kissed down his spine.

Sam shivered at her touch, his gaze fixed on the flask, torn between revulsion and curiosity. He knew what she was doing—trying to manipulate him, to bend him to her will—and it was working.

“You’re scared,” she whispered against his skin. “But you don’t have to be. With power like this… you’ll never have to be scared again.”

Sam spun suddenly, pinning her against the wall. She gasped but didn’t cower under his stare. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They were so close, he could feel her breath as she spoke. “Don’t I? Because what I see is a man so insecure, he’ll do anything to prove he’s good enough. That’s why you’re here. Justify it however you want, Sam, but you can’t hide from yourself forever. Give in to the darkness.”

He backed away, releasing her, the tension tightening around his chest. He hated how easily she could get under his skin, how she knew exactly where to press. But she wasn’t wrong—and that scared him even more.

Ruby picked up the flask and held it out, her gaze piercing. “You need this, Sam. Don’t you want to be strong enough to stop the apocalypse?”

“I’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way,” she insisted. “Think of how many people will die if you don’t stop Lilith. If you want to end this, once and for all, this is how we win.”

But at what cost? Every step forward with Ruby felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss, and lately, it was hard to tell if he was moving forward or falling. As much as he wanted to stop Lilith, to end the apocalypse before it began, he also knew that once he crossed this line, he couldn’t turn back. But if he didn’t stop her who would? He’d sworn his life to save the world, and he couldn’t back down now just because he was afraid. 

He took the flask from her hand, ignoring the way his stomach twisted as he brought it to his lips. The first sip burned all the way down, a raw, electric power surging through him like a live wire. It felt good—too good—like waking up from a restless sleep. But there was a darkness to it, a bitter undercurrent, like the whiskey his dad and brother always drank—a harsh taste that lingered long after the warmth vanished.

The memory faded, but the sick feeling remained. Each time he caught sight of his reflection in a grimy motel mirror or the Impala’s window, he found he barely recognized the man looking back at him. He’d sworn he wouldn’t let the demon blood change him, but the moment he took that first sip, something inside had splintered beyond repair.

He couldn’t bring himself to tell Dean what he was becoming, so he lied. But each time Dean asked why he was up all night, or where he went when he disappeared, Sam could feel his brother’s worry deepen, suspicion sharpening. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this hidden before it was revealed by no decision of his own.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered, raking a hand through his hair. The impulse to call Ruby clawed at him; he craved a sip of her blood to dull the ache in his chest. Each drop only made him yearn for more, each drink masking his helplessness with a false sense of control. His life was becoming a beautiful disaster, a cycle of questionable choices disguised as heroism.

His phone buzzed. It was Dean, probably on his way back from interviewing witnesses and asking what Sam wanted for dinner. Sam stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the answer button. If he answered now, his voice would betray him. He let the call go to voicemail.

Sam sank onto the bench just outside his motel room door and pressed the heals of his hands into his eyes trying to soothe the dizziness of early withdrawl. But then, a dark realization crept in: he was becoming more like their father than he wanted to admit. John Winchester had buried himself in the hunt after their mother’s death, losing himself in liquor and vengeance at the expense of his sons’ childhoods. Now, here was Sam, four years down that same path. He was drowning, and instead of asking for help, he was diving deeper.

He thought back to the days after Jess died, when the crushing weight in his chest had been unbearable. He kept hunting, telling himself that saving people would make up for failing to save her. But at what point would it be enough? He didn’t know if it ever would.

The guilt gnawed at him, a parasite eating away at his resolve. He didn’t want to keep lying to Dean or become the kind of person who let power and revenge consume him. He didn’t want to be his father, the man whose life had been defined by loss and bitterness.

He needed to get back in control. He needed help.

Sam headed inside and opened his laptop, searching for something nearby. He’d considered this before, more for Dean’s sake than his own, but now, the parallels to his own struggles were undeniable. He scribbled the address on a piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket, then set off toward the small community center on the town’s outskirts.

The half-hour walk did nothing to calm the unease in his chest. He never thought he’d end up at one of these places. His dad, or Dean, maybe, but Sam had always believed he was above this—that he wouldn’t let a substance control his life. Now, standing outside this building, he questioned how something he’d started to make him feel strong had ended up making him feel so weak.

The fluorescent lights flickered as he stepped inside. He heard low voices, laughter, and murmured conversations—a stark contrast to the brooding silence that had wrapped around him for months. He hesitated at the door to the meeting room, gripped by uncertainty. What was he doing here? How could he explain himself to people who knew nothing of demons, hunting, or the weight of saving the world? Besides, once they stopped Lilith, he’d quit. No problem.

Suddenly a harsh laugh burst from his chest–even he knew that was a lie.

“First time?” A man’s voice startled him. Sam turned to see an older gentleman with an inviting smile. Sam nodded. “It’s good you’re here, then,” the man said. “Good on you for taking the first step. Come on.” He held the door open. “In you go.”

Sam took a shaky breath and stepped inside. A dozen pairs of eyes flicked toward him, filled with curiosity and empathy. His skin crawled. How was he supposed to spill his darkest secret to a room full of strangers?

The man nudged him gently. “Each one gets easier,” he said. “Find a seat. You might not feel so alone by the end of this.”

Sam took a seat in the circle, the folding chair creaking beneath him. He felt too warm, despite the room’s chill, his body struggling to acclimate to this new environment. The others chatted and smiled, a stark contrast to his turmoil. It was too normal, too mundane, and for a moment, he wanted to walk right back out the door.

But he stayed. As much as he didn’t fit in here, he knew he didn’t fit in anywhere else, either. And maybe that was enough reason to be here.

As the meeting began, Sam kept his head down, listening as others shared their stories. It was unsettling how much he related to them—the desperation, the feeling of losing themselves piece by piece. He considered leaving, more than once. But he stayed, needing something to anchor him when everything else felt out of control.

Across the circle, the older man who had walked in with Sam spoke up. “My name’s Isaiah, and I am an alcoholic.” The room echoed with a chorus of greetings. Sam glanced up and found Isaiah’s eyes on him. “I am thirteen years, four months, and twenty-six days sober.”

Sam blinked, surprised. He’d expected the people here to be just starting their journey, still struggling to wean themselves off the bottle. Now, he realized how naive he’d been.

“When I first came to one of these meetings, oh, twenty-five years ago,” Isaiah continued, “I thought, ‘Sobriety will never feel as good as the high I get from drinking.’ But I can tell you now, cutting alcohol out of my life saved me in more ways than I can count. It wasn’t easy. Hell, withdrawal felt like a death sentence. But the grass really is greener on the other side.”

He paused, his gaze drifting somewhere far away. “My wife—God rest her soul—pushed me to keep coming back, day after day. And the work I did in rooms like these? It gave me the strength to heal, to keep going on my own. Because at the end of the day, if you’re going to stick to your recovery, you have to believe you’re worth fighting for. And you are—every single one of you. Thank you.”

Isaiah’s words hit Sam hard, like being thrown back into therapy with all his defenses stripped away. Did he believe in himself? Did he really think he could stop before he went too far? He wasn’t sure. Maybe this wasn’t the place for him. How could he sit in a room where people were baring their honest truths and lie to them?

But before he could make a move to leave, his turn came. He figured, Why not? He wasn’t doing it for himself–not yet–but for Dean. So that when the truth came out he could tell him he was trying–that he still cared enough to fight the evil inside him.

“I’m Sam,” he began quietly. “And I am...” The words caught in his throat. He could feel the weight of the room pressing in, eyes full of sympathy and quiet expectation. He took a breath, his head hanging for a moment as he pulled himself together. “And I am an alcoholic.”

The room greeted him in unison, a murmured acknowledgment of his confession. When he fell silent again, the group leader—a middle-aged woman whose name he didn’t remember—spoke up gently. “How about you tell us what brought you here today?”

Sam hesitated. “Well… I guess I’m here because I’ve been struggling with… my habit.” He glanced around, noticing several people nodding in quiet understanding. “My brother, he’s been pretty worried about me. Says I haven’t been acting like myself. He doesn’t know I’ve been…drinking. He’d be furious if he found out. But… I don’t want to lose him because of it.” Sam swallowed hard. “I just… I guess I’m worried I don’t know who I am anymore. And I don’t know if I’m ready to stop, but I need to figure things out before it’s too late. Um… thank you.”

His words lingered in the air as he wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans, heart pounding. Had he said too much? Not enough? What was everyone thinking? And what would Dean think if he saw him like this?

The panic tightened around his chest like a vice. Not here. Not now. He tried to clear his throat, but it didn’t help. The person beside him had already started sharing, but Sam felt like all eyes were still on him. Abruptly, he stood up, his chair scraping against the linoleum. He hurried out of the room and down the hall until the cool night air hit his face.

Breathe, Sam.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He sank onto the steps outside the community center and bent over, placing his head between his knees. If he kept hyperventilating, he was going to pass out.

Goddammit. Why was this so hard?

The demon blood thrummed in his veins, like an itch just beneath his skin. It had been days since his last hit, and the urge gnawed, as if Ruby’s voice were whispering at the edge of his thoughts.

“You need this, Sam. There is no other way.”

He shook his head, as if that would free him from the addiction’s grip. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn’t just the blood. It was Ruby—her voice, her touch, the faint sulfur on her skin. Her words twisted around his thoughts like chains, binding him tighter with every step he took down this dark path. She always knew how to make him doubt himself, to make him question whether he was strong enough without her.

“I’m doing this for you, Sam,” she would say, voice low and full of twisted affection. “You have the power to save the world, but you need to tap into it. Let go of the fear.”

He wanted to let go, but every time he did, it became harder to ignore the changes. The power coursing through him was intoxicating, dangerously so. He could exorcise demons with a thought, send them screaming back to Hell. But every time he used his powers, a dark thrill shot through him. He told himself it was just the blood, not his own nature.

But what if that wasn’t true? What if this was just who he was? Inherently evil.

Sam’s breath hitched, choking him. Minutes passed before he managed to slow his breathing, his hands still trembling. When he looked up, Isaiah was sitting beside him.

“Figured you could use some company,” Isaiah said at Sam’s questioning glance. Sam didn’t have the energy to answer, still focused on steadying his breathing.

“You want to talk about it?” Isaiah asked, but Sam shook his head.

The silence settled between them as the meeting ended and people trickled out of the building.

“You’re not the first to leave like that, and you won’t be the last,” Isaiah assured him after a moment. “So do me a favor and take it easy on yourself. Recovery’s hard enough as it is without all the self-hate. Just keep coming back and take it one day at a time.”

Isaiah stood offering Sam a small smile. “Good to meet you, Sam.” Sam watched Isaiah walk away, his footsteps fading into the night.

Sam doubted he’d be back. Some days, he believed this wasn’t a problem at all—just a means to an end, a necessary evil for preventing the apocalypse. But then there were nights when he woke up in a cold sweat, the taste of blood still thick on his tongue, his hands trembling as though the darkness within him was trying to claw its way out. On those nights, he wasn’t so sure he’d ever be able to stop when this was all over.

The closer they got to the final showdown with Lilith, the stronger he needed to be. Ruby knew it too. She pushed him harder with every session, her words a mix of encouragement and manipulation. 

“You’re holding back, Sam,” she’d said at their most recent rendezvous. “You think doing this will make you a monster, but how can you be a monster when stopping Lilith will save so many people? If you lose, all of this will have been for nothing.”

Her words had tightened around his insecurities like a noose. That night, he had taken more blood than ever. He sucked passionately at Ruby’s neck drinking enough that it made her head fuzzy from the blood loss. As the power surged through him he pressed deeper into her, giving into his desires and relishing in the beauty of the sounds she made as her back arched and she clenched around him. 

Intoxicating power coursed through him as he stood over the demon they’d restrained. With a flick of his wrist, he exorcized the demon, sending it screaming back to Hell, ending the misery of the poor vessel it had inhabited–or at least that’s what he told himself. In truth, he had killed that man, and in the heat of the moment, he hadn’t cared. He felt like a god.

But then came the crash. The realization of what he had done slammed into him like a truck, and he doubled over, retching onto the floor. He vomited until his stomach was empty, as if he could purge the darkness from his body, but it clung to him like poison in his bloodstream. Even after his stomach stopped convulsing, the metallic taste lingered on his tongue.His whole body trembled under the weight of killing an innocent man. That was when he knew he was losing himself.

Ruby’s hands were on his back, trying to comfort him. “It had to be done, Sam.” Her touch felt intrusive. He shrugged her off, hastily pulling on his clothes and leaving without another word. He couldn’t stand to be near her, not after what he’d done—what she’d led him to do.

When he returned to the motel that night, Dean was waiting for him.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean demanded, irritated. But his expression shifted when he got a good look at Sam. Pale, shaky, and barely able to stand. Sam was a wreck. Dean was on his feet in an instant, ushering him to a bed. “Sammy, talk to me. What happened? You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Sam seized the excuse Dean had unknowingly handed him. “Think I’ve got a bug or something. Sorry I didn’t call. I was too busy puking my guts out on the side of the road.”

Dean’s concern overrode his suspicion. “Jesus, Sam. Alright, just… lay down. I’ll grab you some water and a trashcan.”

Sam nodded weakly. “Yeah, okay.”

He’d gotten away with it that night, but the lie was flimsy at best. He managed to keep up the charade for a day or two before Dean started asking more questions. Sam’s anxiety grew, coiling tighter with every sideways glance Dean threw his way. And so he went back to Ruby, unsure of where else to go.

Now, Sam stood outside the community center, staring at the building as though it could somehow offer him absolution. He wished this could be the haven he needed, the place where he could shed the weight of his guilt and shame. But the next lead would come soon, and he’d be off chasing Lilith again, digging himself deeper into a hole he wasn’t sure he could climb out of. How could he escape the darkness when it clung to him like a second skin?

Still, he hoped. He hoped that one day he’d be like Isaiah—someone who stopped letting his darkness define him. Someone who could look himself in the mirror without flinching.

But for now, the road ahead seemed more perilous than ever, and the evil inside him showed no signs of letting go.

Chapter Text

The wind howled through the trees as Dean sat on the hood of the Impala, staring at the flickering neon sign of a roadside diner. The warmth of his coffee seeped through the Styrofoam cup in his hands, but it did little to thaw the icy weight in his chest. He’d spent the three hours dialing Sam’s number over and over, each call going straight to voicemail. 

At first, he’d been annoyed. Sam had a bad habit of ignoring his phone, but he usually called back eventually. Then came frustration. Dean hated being left hanging, especially when it came to his brother. But now? Now, he was worried.

A few hours ago, he had gotten back from interviewing witnesses in a nearby town—a tedious but necessary part of their current case. It was supposed to be a simple gig: some reports of strange disappearances, a possible poltergeist. Dean had left Sam at the motel to dig through lore and follow up on leads while he handled the legwork. They’d split up dozens of times like this before, and usually, it worked out fine. But not this time.

When Dean returned to their motel room, Sam wasn’t there. Instead, there was a single note left on the table.

Be back tonight. - Sam

Dean had stared at those three words for what felt like an eternity. It wasn’t unusual for Sam to step out while Dean was gone—maybe to grab a bite or stretch his legs—but the note didn’t sit right with him. For one, it wasn’t Sam’s style to leave such a vague message. Sam liked specifics, details. He’d leave something like, “At the library. Back by 7.” Not this cryptic scrawl. And the handwriting was hurried, almost messy—unlike Sam’s usual neat script.

Dean had tried to brush off the unease. Maybe Sam had gone to chase down a lead and just forgot to elaborate. But after hours of no contact, his frustration began to boil over. He’d left messages, texts, even called half a dozen times. Nothing.

Dean sighed, running a hand over his face as he glanced at the diner’s entrance, where a faintly buzzing neon “OPEN” sign flickered in the darkness. He’d planned to stop by a bar—get a drink, maybe two—but he couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at his gut. If Sam was in trouble, the last thing Dean needed was to be distracted or drunk.

Lately, Sam had been acting… off. More than usual. Restless, distracted, disappearing at odd hours with flimsy excuses. Dean had tried not to push too hard—Sam was stubborn as hell, and pushing too much would only make him shut down completely. But Dean wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way Sam closed his laptop whenever Dean got too close, or how his responses had become more clipped and evasive.

This wasn’t the first time Sam had been like this, and that’s what bothered Dean most of all.

His mind wandered to a night years ago, back when Sam was still a teenager. Their dad had been off on a hunt for weeks, and it was up to Dean to hold down the fort. They’d been squatting in a dingy motel, scraping by on convenience store food and leftover cash.

One night, Sam had come back late—hours later than he’d said he would. Dean had been sitting on the edge of his bed, cleaning his shotgun, his eyes narrowing when Sam stepped through the door.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean had asked, his tone calm but his eyes sharp.

“Out,” Sam had muttered, shrugging off his jacket.

Dean set down the shotgun, rising to his feet. “Out where?”

Sam hesitated, glancing at the floor. “Nowhere. Just needed some air.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice low and steady. “You’ve been sneaking off for weeks now. What’s going on?”

Sam’s jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening. “It’s nothing, okay? Drop it.”

Dean had pushed, demanding answers, until Sam finally snapped. The shouting match that followed was one for the books. Sam accused Dean of treating him like a kid, of being just as controlling as their dad. Dean fired back, calling Sam reckless and ungrateful. They’d gone to bed that night with their backs to each other, the silence between them deafening.

It wasn’t until weeks later that Dean learned the truth. Sam had been sneaking off to libraries, filling out college applications and writing essays for scholarships. He hadn’t told Dean because he’d been scared of how he’d react—and he’d been right to worry. Dean had been furious, not because Sam wanted out, but because he hadn’t trusted him enough to say so. When Sam left for Stanford, it felt like a betrayal, even if he didn’t blame him for wanting out.

Now, sitting on the hood of the Impala, clutching his coffee, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling they were heading down that road again. Sam was hiding something—Dean could feel it in his bones.

“Dammit, Sam,” he muttered under his breath. He tossed the empty cup into a nearby trash can and climbed back into the Impala.

The engine roared to life, and Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly. The motel was only a few miles away, but he wasn’t planning on heading back there without answers. Wherever Sam was, whatever he was doing, Dean needed to find him.

Because if there was one thing Dean Winchester knew for sure, it was that his gut never lied. And right now, it was screaming that Sam was in trouble.

Chapter Text

The cold steel of the panic room door pressed against Dean’s palm, the chill seeping into his skin as if to mirror the weight in his chest. The sound of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out Sam’s frantic shouts from the other side.

“Dean! Bobby! Open the door!” Sam’s voice was a mix of fury and desperation, fists hammering against the reinforced metal. “What the hell is this?!”

Dean stood frozen for a moment, his hand lingering on the door as if he could somehow feel the anger radiating from the other side. Then, with a sharp breath, he turned away, his jaw clenched so tightly it sent a dull ache down his neck.

Weeks had gone by since Dean started to suspect something was wrong with Sam and it all came to a head on their most recent hunt. Now, even though he now knew why Sam had been sneaking around, he felt more helpless than ever before.

Bobby was standing a few feet back, arms crossed but his expression anything but stern. His eyes were heavy with concern, his brow furrowed deeply. “You sure this is the right move?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady. “We haven’t even talked to him yet.”

“He’s drinking demon blood!” Dean shot back, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and despair. “What the hell could he say to make that okay?”

“He’s your brother, Dean. The least you could’ve done on your drive over here was let him explain himself.”

Dean shook his head, his eyes flashing with fury and something deeper—fear. “You didn’t see him.” The words came out low, almost a growl. “You didn’t see what I saw.” He turned away again, running a hand down his face as if trying to rub away the memory.

The image was burned into his mind: Sam on their last hunt, leaning over a demon’s lifeless body, his face twisted in something unrecognizable. And then the worst of it—Sam drinking its blood like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“That thing in there?” Dean jabbed a finger toward the door without looking back. “That’s not my brother.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes, Bobby. He looked just like every other monster we hunt. It might be wearing Sam’s face, but that ain’t my Sammy.”

“And how’re you gonna get him back if he’s all locked up?”

Inside the panic room, Sam’s voice broke through again, desperate and raw. “Dean! You have to let me out. Lilith… she’s coming. I can stop her.”

“I’m going out,” Dean said gruffly, grabbing his keys and leaving without another word. He couldn’t handle this right now, not when he’d hardly had any time to process it.

Bobby watched him go, shaking his head. “Damn fools, both of ya,” he muttered. 

He’d seen this too many times with the Winchester brothers–too much stupidity and too little communication. Still, he needed Dean to cool off if he was going to get through to him, Sam too. He’d let him out, but truthfully, as much as he believed Sam was a good kid, he had no idea what that demon blood was doing to him, and that frightened him.

As Bobby ascended the stairs, he spared one last glance at the panic room door. “Why couldn’t you have just gone back to therapy, kid?”

~~~

Sam hadn’t stopped screaming since the moment they’d locked him up. His voice was raw, each desperate shout laced with pain and anger. The sound still echoed in Dean’s mind even as he sat miles away in a dive bar, drowning himself in whiskey. But no amount of alcohol could silence Sam’s cries in his head.

When Dean finally found his way back to Bobby’s after drowning himself in whiskey at a local dive bar, Sam was still screaming. His voice was raw and strained, but still he shouted, begging to be let out. Dean headed for the couch but missed, landing flat on his ass on the hardwood floor. He didn’t bother getting up.

A few minutes later Bobby joined him. “You alright, son?” Bobby set a cup of coffee and a water bottle on the floor beside Dean. Dean just looked up at him with tired, bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, guess that was a stupid question.”

“How could he do this, Bobby? I knew he was working with Ruby but this…” Dean shook his head. “If he weren’t my brother I would’ve blown his brains out the moment I saw him sucking that demon’s blood.”

“But you didn’t,” Bobby said softly. “And that’s ‘cause you know your brother is a good man. You were the one who raised him to be that way.”

Dean’s breath caught at that. He had raised Sam to be good, which is why right now he felt like such a failure. “There’s gotta be another way,” Dean said finally. “‘Cause I’m not losing anyone else to some demon’s agenda.”

“Then you’ve gotta stop pushing him away, Dean. You’ve heard him screaming down there, begging for more. He’s not a monster, he’s a junkie, and if you’re gonna pull him back from the edge then you’ve gotta be willing to support him even when it’s hard.”

“How am I supposed to do that when I can’t even look at him?”

Bobby’s frustration bubbled over. “You grow a pair, that’s how!”

Dean looked up at Bobby, shocked. “Bobby–”

“Family ain’t easy, but they’re worth the fight and right now you’re just rolling over like a sick freaking puppy.” Bobby thrust the water bottle into Dean’s hand. “And you’re acting awful judgemental for someone who hasn’t been sober for more than a day since you were, what? Eighteen, maybe?”

Dean was too stunned and too drunk to protest. Instead, he just headed back out the way he came, falling asleep in Baby’s back seat before he had enough time to think enough to start feeling.

~~~

The following day, Dean made his way down to the panic room, staring through the small window at Sam. His brother sat on the cot, hunched over, head between his knees. The silence in the room was a stark contrast to the screaming fits from the day before.

Dean cleared his throat, but Sam didn’t look up. “Sam. We need to talk.”

Sam finally raised his head, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale. “I tried to talk to you on the way over here, but you wouldn’t let me. Then you went and locked me up.” His voice was scratchy from screaming and dripping with irritation.

Dean sighed and unlocked the door, stepping inside. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Sam let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Five minutes. Great. Thanks, Dean.”

“Start talking, Sam. Why’d you do it?” Dean’s voice was sharp, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.

Sam rubbed his temples, wincing as he tried to gather his thoughts. “You think I don’t know this is a problem?” he said quietly. “I do. I’m not stupid, Dean. I know what the blood is doing to me. But I…” He paused, his voice breaking. “I’m willing to take the risk. If it means stopping Lilith, stopping the apocalypse… I’ll do it. If I have to give my life to save the world, then so be it.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “And you thought turning into a monster was the best solution? Dammit, Sam. You should’ve come to me so we could think of something better than…this.”

“You weren’t here, Dean,” Sam spat. “You couldn’t live without your brother, so you sold your soul and passed the burden to me.”

“I saved your life, Sam.”

“Bobby didn’t tell you what happened while you were gone, did he?” Dean shook his head. “I spent weeks trying to figure out a way to pull you out, but there was nothing I could do, no deal I could make.” Tears began to flow down Sam’s cheeks. “So, I holed up in a hotel and put a gun in my mouth.” Dean flinched. “That’s when Ruby showed up. Said she could make me strong enough that I could pull you out myself. And even though everything in me was screaming not to trust her, that tug of hope was the only thing that managed to pull me from my grief.”

“Sammy, I-”

“I still got a few minutes,” Sam said, holding up his hand. “When Castiel pulled you out, I tried to cut her off. But she helped us, even when I didn’t ask her to, even without getting anything in return.” He rubbed his hands down his face. “And I figured, if drinking her blood was going to make me strong enough to pull you out of Hell, then surely it would be enough to stop Lilith. So, yeah, what I’m doing may not be the perfect solution, but right now it’s all we’ve got.” Sam stood from the bed and took a step towards his brother. “I’m saving people, Dean. Isn’t that what we do? Isn’t that what you raised me to do?”

Dean turned away, tears in his eyes. “Not like this, Sam. It’s my job to protect you and I can’t do that when you’re sneaking around with a freaking demon. Do you actually think she’s helping you? She’s manipulating you, Sam!”

Sam’s hands curled into fists, but his voice stayed calm, though strained. “I know that. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s giving me the tools to fight. What do you have, Dean? A shotgun? Dad’s journal? That’s not enough anymore. We’re facing something so much bigger than we ever could’ve imagined. Our normal solutions aren’t going to cut it.”

“If telling yourself that you’re doing the right thing helps you sleep at night, then keep believing that, but I’m not letting you out of here until your head’s screwed on straight.”

Sam let out a frustrated shout. “I’m trying to meet you halfway here, Dean. I’m not denying I’ve got a problem, I’m not denying that what’s happening to me is bad, but if you want me to stop then I’m going to need to hear a better solution.” Sam exhaled shakily and retreated back to the cot, plopping down heavily. “Why’d you come in here? You’re not even listening to what I have to say.”

“That’s because I don’t know if what I’m hearing is my brother talking, or some monster I’m going to have to kill.”

“Then do it,” Sam said sharply. “Put me out of my misery.” Sam eyes bore into Dean with an intensity that told Dean he meant every word. It overwhelmed Dean, and as a suffocating silence spread between then, Dean realized he was holding his breath. He turned and wrenched open the door, rushing out, and collapsing to the floor as it locked behind him, in a puddle of tears.

Chapter Text

Three days later, Dean awoke to an unsettling silence that clung to the house like a heavy fog. His heart leapt into his throat as he bolted down the stairs, boots pounding against the worn wood. When he reached the panic room, his worst fear materialized: the iron door stood wide open, the cot inside empty except for a few rumpled sheets.

“Bobby!” Dean’s shout echoed through the house, raw with panic. Within seconds, Bobby was rushing down the steps.

“What is it?” Bobby asked, his eyes scanning Dean’s pale face before darting toward the open door. “Balls.”

“He’s gone,” Dean said, his voice low and tight. “How the hell did he get out?”

Bobby frowned, stepping closer to the door, inspecting it with a critical eye. The sigils remained intact, unbroken and unmarred, and the lock showed no signs of tampering. “This wasn’t him,” Bobby muttered. “He didn’t break out on his own.”

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening. “Then someone let him out.”

“Or something,” Bobby added grimly.

Dean’s eyes flashed with anger. “Ruby. It had to be her. She must’ve done something. I knew he’d run straight back to her the first chance he got.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Bobby countered, though his tone lacked conviction.

“Oh, come on, Bobby,” Dean growled. “Where else would he go?” He stormed up the stairs, grabbing his jacket and duffle from the kitchen. “I’m going to kill that demon bitch,” Dean said, snatching his keys off the table. Sam was a good hunter, but Dean had taught him everything he knew. He would find him. He needed to find him, before it was too late.

“Dean,” Bobby called after him, “just… don’t do anything stupid. Sam’s lost, but he’s not gone. You hear me?”

Dean didn’t answer, slamming the door behind him as he left. Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face. “Idjits. Both of ‘em.”

~~~

Contrary to what Dean believed, the first place Sam went wasn’t to Ruby or even to find Lilith. Instead, he found himself parked outside the community center in Huxley, the one he’d visited months earlier in a fleeting attempt to regain control. Now, he was waiting for the sun to go down and the meeting to start, hoping it would help.

Anxiety and shame twisted in his gut as he stepped inside. The faint smell of coffee and disinfectant wafting through the air made him uneasy, like everything here was a little too put together.

The circle of folding chairs in the meeting room brought back memories of his first visit—the tension, the vulnerability, and the way he’d fled before the session had ended. Would tonight be any different? He didn’t know. But he hoped. God, he hoped.

As Sam lingered in the back of the room, doubts clawed at him. He wasn’t here because he was ready to quit—not now, not yet. The thought of giving up the power coursing through his veins felt insurmountable. Ruby’s blood gave him strength he’d never known, a twisted sense of control in an otherwise chaotic world. No, Sam wasn’t ready to stop. He needed this to stop Lilith, but he knew he couldn’t stay on this path forever. Eventually, when this was all over, he would get clean. He needed a safety net for when that time came because deep down, he didn’t think Dean would be there for him.

Dean’s love was fierce but often felt conditional, tangled up in expectations and betrayals neither of them knew how to untangle. Sam could already hear the anger and mistrust in Dean’s voice, the words of judgment that would cut deeper than any blade. He needed a place where he wouldn’t be condemned, where he could find understanding and support when he finally chose to let go. And tonight, this room was the closest thing to that sanctuary.

“Sam?” a familiar voice said softly.

Sam turned to see Isaiah standing a few feet away, his gray hair and kind eyes radiating calm despite their situation. Isaiah had shared his story the last time Sam had been here, a tale of falling, breaking, and climbing back up again. Sam had wanted to believe in the climb then, even if he wasn’t sure he could manage it himself.

Isaiah studied him for a moment, his gaze flickering to the slight tremble in Sam’s hands and the dark circles under his eyes. “You okay?” he asked gently.

Sam nodded, though it was far from convincing. “I… yeah. Just… it’s been a rough few days. Rough few months really.”

Isaiah didn’t press for details. Instead, he smiled faintly and simply said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

~~~

But by the time Dean tracked Sam down, he wasn’t at a meeting. The session had come and gone, and Sam had moved on—back to another hit. He’d rented a fancy hotel room to throw Dean off his trail and called Ruby to him. She’d arrived eagerly, her presence a dark comfort Sam couldn’t bring himself to reject. But even with all his precautions, Dean found him within hours.

Dean’s fists hammered against the door of the hotel room. The sound echoed through the corridor, each pound louder and angrier than the last. When the door finally opened, Dean’s eyes landed on Ruby, leaning against the far wall with a smug smile curling her lips.

Dean stormed inside and shoving Sam out of the way. “You bitch,” he growled, drawing the demon blade from his jacket and lunging for Ruby.

Sam intercepted him, grabbing his arm and yanking him back. “Dean, stop! We need her.”

Dean’s glare burned into Sam. “You don’t need her, Sam. She’s using you. She’s turning you into something you’re not.”

“She’s helping us stop Lilith. That’s all that matters right now.” He turned to Ruby, his voice cold. “Go. I’ll meet up with you later.”

Ruby hesitated, her eyes flicking between the brothers before she smirked. “Try not to kill each other before then,” she said, slipping out the door.

Dean’s anger erupted. “What the hell, Sam? You break out of the panic room just to run back to her?”

“Dean, I don’t know how I got out, but it needed to happen. Lilith is so close to breaking the final seal. I need to be strong enough to stop her. Once Lilith is dead, that’s it, I promise.”

“Your promise, Sam?” Dean scoffed. “You think this is under control?” Dean’s voice was sharp, his disbelief cutting. “You’re hooked, Sam. You’re not gonna just be able to quit thi cold turkey. And drinking more blood is only making it worse.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Sam shot back. “This is bigger than us, Dean. It’s bigger than you or me.”

Dean’s fist flew before he could stop himself, connecting with Sam’s jaw. Sam stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. He lifted a hand to his face but didn’t retaliate. “I’m not going to fight you,” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the sting of betrayal in his eyes. “You’re my brother. And I know you don’t trust me, but everything I’m doing… it’s for you. For the world.” Sam grabbed his duffel bag from the floor and headed for the door. “Don’t follow me, Dean.”

Dean’s expression hardened, his breathing ragged. “If you walk out that door, we’re done. You hear me? You’re not my brother anymore..”

Sam’s heart clenched, his eyes filling with tears. “If that’s what it takes,” he said quietly. “If losing you is the price I have to pay to keep you alive, I’ll pay it.” He paused for a moment, tears pricking his eyes. “Goodbye, Dean,” he said softly, and then he was gone.

Chapter Text

The moment the final seal shattered, the world seemed to hold its breath. Lilith’s blood traced a slow, inevitable path across the stone altar, its dark red rivulets gleaming in the dim light of the chamber. The room crackled with unnatural energy, the air thick with the acrid stench of sulfur. Dean stood over Ruby’s lifeless body, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, the demon blade slick with her blood. His hand trembled, the weight of what had just transpired pressing down on him like a physical force.

Sam stood frozen, his wide eyes locked on the spreading pool of blood. The enormity of what he had done crushed him. He had trusted Ruby, fallen for her manipulations, and now, he had unknowingly broken the final seal. The apocalypse was here. The reality of it hit him like a punch to the gut, his legs threatening to give out beneath him.

“What the hell did you do?” Dean’s voice cut through the oppressive silence, sharp and accusatory.

Sam turned to his brother, his face pale and streaked with sweat. “I didn’t—She—” His words faltered, his mind too chaotic to form a coherent explanation.

Dean’s anger boiled over. “I told you, Sam!” he shouted, shoving Sam back with enough force to make him stumble. “I told you not to trust her. I told you not to go down this road, but you didn’t listen! You never listen!”

“Dean, I—” Sam’s voice cracked, but Dean didn’t let him finish.

“How could you be so damn stupid?” Dean’s voice was raw with emotion, his words cutting like knives. “You thought you were saving us, but you were just her puppet all along.”

“Dean, I’m—” he choked out, his voice hollow and broken, but there was nothing else to say. No excuse could undo what he’d done. He had trusted Ruby, fallen for her lies, and in doing so, he had damned the world. Sam opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. His legs felt weak, like they might give out beneath him. He wanted to say he was sorry, to swear that he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. But what good were apologies now? He had ignored every warning, broken every promise, and now the world was paying the price for his arrogance.

Dean’s expression was twisted with disgust. “You think ‘sorry’ is gonna cut it?” he spat. “You just kick-started the goddamn apocalypse, Sam! Because you thought you knew better, because you had to be the hero!” He turned his back, as if the sight of his brother was too much to bear. 

The air in the chamber shifted, growing heavy with an ominous presence. A blinding burst of light erupted from the altar, sending both brothers stumbling back. The walls of the room seemed to pulse, vibrating with a dangerous energy as the sound of a high-pitched ringing filled their ears.

Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. “He’s coming.”

Dean’s eyes widened in realization and dread. “What the hell have you done?” he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief.

The light intensified, forcing them to shield their eyes. The air around them vibrated, thick with power. “We gotta go,” Dean said, grabbing Sam by the jacket and pulling him toward the exit. But before they could reach the door, it slammed shut with a deafening bang, trapping them inside.

The brothers exchanged a look—one of grim resignation, knowing this could be the end. They dropped to their knees as the piercing shriek intensified, tearing through their skulls. And then, as suddenly as it had started, the noise ceased. When they opened their eyes, they found themselves on a plane headed toward where they’d just been, as if reality had folded in on itself and spit them out again.

Saved, but only for the moment.

~~~

The tension hung thick in the air as they sped down the highway, the hum of the Impala's engine the only sound cutting through the silence. Dean gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white, his jaw clenched in barely suppressed fury.

The radio buzzed with nonstop news reports of catastrophic events erupting across the globe—floods, earthquakes, and fires consuming entire cities. The static-laden voices painted a grim picture of the world unraveling at the seams. Sam finally reached over and turned the radio off, the silence that followed feeling heavier than the noise. He stared out the passenger window, his reflection distorted in the glass. Guilt clawed at him, unrelenting, each passing mile a reminder of the devastation he had unleashed. He could feel the weight of Dean’s anger pressing down on him, unspoken but suffocating.

Sam swallowed hard, the words he wanted to say sticking in his throat. Finally, he broke the silence. “Dean…” his voice cracked. “I—”

“Don’t,” Dean cut him off, his tone icy and final. He didn’t even glance at Sam. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s started, and now we’ve got to stop it.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped. He hesitated before speaking again, his voice quieter, almost trembling. “It’s… still in me, Dean,” he admitted, staring down at his trembling hands. “I can feel it.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to him briefly before returning to the road. “I thought you said that blast zapped your powers. Cleaned you out.”

Sam shook his head, the shame in his expression unmistakable. “Not the powers. The… evil.”

Dean’s foot hit the brake harder than necessary, and the Impala screeched to a stop on the gravel shoulder. He turned to Sam, his eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. “I need your head in the game for this, okay?” he snapped. “So either you fight whatever’s inside you, or you give in—but I need to know where you stand. I can’t do this with you if you’re gonna act like some strung-out junkie.”

Sam’s gaze met Dean’s, the weight of his brother’s words sinking deep. He knew lying and saying he could handle it would only lead to more betrayal. “I don’t know if I can resist another hit,” he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I can still feel it tugging at me, pulling me toward… evil.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, his hand gripping the steering wheel until the leather creaked. “Dammit, Sam!” he burst out, the anger in his voice cracking under the weight of his pain. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Why? Why did you trust her over me? After everything we’ve been through, why would you believe a demon instead of your own flesh and blood?”

Sam’s voice broke as he replied. “I thought…” He paused, his throat tightening. “I thought I could stop it. I thought I could make things right.”

Dean let out a rough yell, pounding his fist against the dashboard. “I know you did, Sammy. I know. But I can’t trust you—not right now.”

Sam closed his eyes, the sting of Dean’s words cutting deep. “Just drop me off at the next motel,” he said quietly.

Dean’s voice was tight, teetering on the edge of frustration. “And what then?” he demanded. “You already said you might not be able to resist. What’s your plan, huh?”

“Go find Castiel,” Sam answered, his voice steadier now. “Figure out a way to stop what’s coming. I can’t help you like this. I… I gotta get this—this poison out of me before I can get back on the road. Stopping the apocalypse can’t wait for that.”

Dean studied him for a long moment, his expression torn between worry and anger. The thought of leaving Sam alone, especially after seeing how brutal the withdrawal had been before, filled him with dread. But hunting required trust, and right now, even sitting in the car with Sam felt like being next to a ticking bomb. It was as though the evil was seeping out of his pores.

“You better fix this,” Dean said finally, his tone softened but still firm, as he started the car again and pulled back onto the road. ‘Cause I can’t do this without you.”

~~~

Sam didn’t remember how he got here. His mind was a haze of guilt and despair. It had taken him two days to make it out here, and he wasn’t even sure if Bobby would let him in after what he’d done. He brought his knuckles against Bobby’s door softly, unsure if he wanted the older hunter to hear it. But then there were footsteps approaching, and Bobby opened the door, his eyes widening as he took in Sam’s disheveled appearance—the earliest stages of withdrawal had already taken hold. There was no judgment in Bobby’s gaze—just wary concern, like he expected the worst but hoped for something better.

“Bobby, I… I need help,” Sam said, his voice rough and unsteady. He looked down at his trembling hands. The shakes had already set in, and he had emptied his stomach twice that day. He was pale and gaunt, his eyes dull from lack of sleep. “I can’t do this anymore. The blood… it’s killing me.” His throat tightened as he forced the words out. “I need to get clean. Tie me down, lock me up—whatever it takes. Just don’t let me out until it’s out of my system.”

Bobby crossed his arms, his expression hard but not unkind. “You’re still hooked, ain’t ya? Even without your powers?” Sam nodded miserably.

“This better be the last time,” Bobby said gruffly, stepping aside to let Sam in. Sam opened his mouth to tell him it would be, but Bobby held up a hand. “Don’t go makin’ promises you’re not sure you can keep.”

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. “I’m gonna try, Bobby.”

“I know you are,” Bobby said softly. He led Sam to the panic room, its iron door and sigil-painted walls built to keep out monsters—but now, it had to keep one in. Sam lay down on the narrow cot, staring at the ceiling with grim resolve. He needed this—needed to fight his way back to solid ground, to purge the darkness from his veins.

“You sure about this?” Bobby asked, securing the chains around Sam’s wrists and ankles. “It’s gonna be rough—maybe worse than the first time.”

“I deserve whatever’s coming,” Sam replied numbly despite the fear clawing at him.

Bobby shook his head, an old sadness flickering in his eyes. “I’ll be upstairs,” he said. “Holler if you need anything… Not that I can do much, but I’ll be here.”

Sam gave a faint nod, his jaw already clenched in anticipation. As Bobby closed the heavy door behind him, the silence enveloped Sam, pressing in from all sides. He took a shaky breath, bracing himself as his muscles twitched and the blood burned its way out of his system. It felt like fire raging inside him, tearing through his veins, setting every nerve alight.

Chapter Text

Dean stormed into the dilapidated barn Castiel had chosen as his meeting point, his boots crunching against scattered hay and broken wood. Castiel stood in the center, his trench coat as stiff and unyielding as his expression. Dean didn’t waste any time.

“What the hell, Cas?” he barked. “You’ve been radio silent for days and now you drag me out to some barn to talk?”

Castiel tilted his head, his piercing gaze steady. “I’ve been searching for answers, Dean. Answers about Sam.”

Dean’s stomach churned at the mention of his brother. The events of the last few days had left him raw and hollow. Hell, he didn’t even know if where his brother was right now. Dean felt like he didn’t know anything anymore and that powerlessness was terrifying.

“Yeah? What did you find?” Dean demanded, his voice laced with a mix of hope and desperation. “Because he’s falling apart, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Sam… is dangerous.”

Dean scoffed. “No kidding. But he’s my brother, Cas. He’s all I’ve got. I need to know if there's a way to pull him out. I’m not letting him go full darkside”

Castiel hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “I’m not sure you can, ‘pull him out’.”

The weight of those words hit Dean like a punch to the gut. He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a growl. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Sam has… changed,” Castiel said carefully, his eyes flicking to the ground as if searching for the right words. “The choices he’s made, the powers he’s embraced, the blood he’s consumed… They’ve left a mark. He is… an abomination.”

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, his entire body trembling with suppressed rage. “You don’t get to call him that!” he shouted. “You don’t know him like I do. Sam’s still in there, and I’m gonna bring him back.”

Castiel’s gaze snapped back to Dean’s, sharp and unrelenting. “The worst for Sam is yet to come. He’s on a path that will only end in ruin.”

Dean’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Castiel’s silence spoke volumes. When he didn’t answer, Dean grabbed him by his coat, shaking him. “Dammit, Cas, if you know something, spit it out!”

The angel didn’t resist. He simply looked at Dean with a mixture of sadness and resignation. “If I tell you, it will only make the burden heavier.”

Dean released him with a frustrated shove. “Yeah, well, newsflash: I’m already drowning here.”

Castiel took a step back, adjusting his trench coat. “I’m sorry, Dean. But this is a fight you can’t win for him. Sam has to choose the light, or he will fall into the darkness. That is all I can say.” And then, he vanished, leaving Dean standing alone in the eerie quiet of the barn.

~~~

Dean made his way back to the Impala and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. He sat there for a while, staring out at the empty field beyond the barn, his mind a whirlwind of anger and despair. The faint smell of leather and motor oil did little to ground him as Castiels’s words echoed in his head.

An abomination. The worst is yet to come.

He slammed his fists against the wheel again, letting out a guttural shout. He hated the helplessness, the uncertainty. Most of all, he hated the doubt creeping into his heart—doubt that Sam could ever come back from this.

His mind drifted to a memory, unbidden but sharp as a blade. Sam was eight years old, thin and wide-eyed, clutching a stuffed dog as they crouched together in the closet of a run-down motel. Their dad was off hunting, and Dean had heard something scratching at the door. He’d told Sam to stay quiet, to hold his breath if he had to. Sam had looked up at him with complete trust as if Dean was invincible.

“You’ll keep me safe, won’t you, Dean?”

Dean’s heart had swelled with a fierce determination. “Always, Sammy.”

The memory faded, leaving behind a hollow ache. He’d promised to protect Sam, to always have his back. But now? Now it felt like Sam was slipping through his fingers, lost in a darkness Dean couldn’t reach.

And what if Castiel was right? What if Sam wasn’t just lost—what if he was gone? Dean thought about all the times they’d faced monsters together, all the times he’d seen that spark of goodness in Sam. Could he really snuff that out? Could he kill his own brother if it came to that?

The thought made him sick. But wasn’t it his responsibility to stop Sam if he became a threat? Wasn’t that what family did—make the hard choices?

Dean leaned his head against the steering wheel, closing his eyes. He wasn’t ready to give up on Sam. Not yet. But the seed of doubt had been planted, and it was growing faster than he could control.

He started the Impala and drove off, the rumble of the engine doing little to drown out the question gnawing at his soul.

How do you save someone who is beyond saving?

Chapter Text

The panic room was oppressively still, its walls pressing in on Sam as he lay curled on the cot, trembling uncontrollably. The fever spiked and dipped, leaving him drenched in sweat, his skin burning, his muscles locked in an unrelenting ache. His body felt like a war zone, each nerve ending screaming in protest as his blood alternated between ice and fire. He gritted his teeth against a fresh wave of chills, his fingers twitching against the sheets, the restraints digging into his raw wrists. The stench of sweat, metal, and something acrid—his own sickness—clung to the air, suffocating.

He tried to focus on the rhythm of his breath, but it came ragged and shallow, more a series of gasps than anything steady. The world spun, tilting at cruel angles, and he clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms, willing himself to hold onto reality. But reality was slipping through his fingers like sand.

His mind splintered, fracturing under the fever’s hold, dragging him between the past and the present. Reality bled into memory, the lines blurred beyond recognition. Time stretched, minutes dragging into hours, hours into an eternity of suffering. Each moment was a reckoning, a confrontation with the choices that had led him here.

His fingers traced the edge of the cot, seeking something—anything—to anchor him, but all he found was the cold, unyielding steel. Memories clawed their way into his consciousness, sharp and unforgiving. He saw Ruby, her face a mixture of seductive allure and manipulative cunning, holding out the flask with her blood like a chalice of salvation.

"You need this, Sam," her voice echoed in his mind, taunting him. "You want to be strong, don’t you?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it didn’t help. Not when he could still see the look of fear and betrayal in his brother’s features, or the disappointment Bobby held in his eyes.

But then, in the depths of his fevered haze, a soft voice reached him, cutting through the maelstrom. It felt like the sun on a winter’s day—warming him when all he knew was icy darkness.

"Sam."

The voice was gentle, unmistakable.

His heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. He knew that voice as well as his own, a sound that belonged to a life long gone. He forced his eyes open and turned his head toward the corner of the room, his vision swimming. There she was, standing in a soft, ethereal light—Jess.

She appeared just as she had in life, with her long blonde hair framing her face and her eyes bright with that lively spark he remembered so vividly. She wore a plain pair of athletic shorts and a cropped graphic tee, like she used to lounge around in at their old apartment. For a fleeting moment, the room wasn’t swallowing him whole.

"Jess…" he whispered shakily. "Is it really you?"

Jess took a step closer, her expression pained but tender. "Does it matter?" she asked softly, her tone touched with sorrow. "Whether I’m real or just in your head… you need me, don’t you?" Her gaze drifted down from his face, landing on the chains and sweat-stained sheets. Her brow pinched. "What happened, Sam? What happened to the man I loved?"

Sam tried to sit up, wincing at the pain that shot through his muscles. "Jess, I—I’m sorry," he stammered. "I… I did this for you. I thought… I thought I could make it right. I was trying to avenge you." His eyes searched hers, desperate for forgiveness, for some sign that his choices had meant something. "I thought if I got strong enough, I could stop it from happening to anyone else. I thought I was saving people."

Jess tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing into a faint frown. "Saving people? Is that really what you’ve been doing?" Her tone wasn’t accusing, but it held a quiet disappointment that cut deep. "Or just trying to save yourself from the guilt?"

Sam’s chest tightened, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words. "I—I had to do something," he said, his voice hoarse. "After you died… I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing. I had to fight."

"My death wasn’t your fault, Sam," Jess said softly. "It was fate."

"That’s not—that’s not fair," Sam insisted, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"It occurred as it had to." Jess offered him a sad smile. "I always believed in you, Sam. Believed that you were better than the life you were born into—more than just your father’s soldier. That you were your own man. A strong, steady, good man. But now…" She shook her head. "Now, I don’t know if you’re that man anymore."

The words crushed him, tearing at the fragile resolve he had left. "Jess, please," he begged, his voice rising in desperation. "Everything I did—it was for you! You were taken from me, and I… I couldn’t just let that go."

"Do you think I wanted this?" Jess asked, her voice suddenly harsh in a way he’d never heard it. "For you to become a monster in my memory?" She scoffed. "You’re not the Sam I fell in love with."

Sam’s eyes widened. "Jess… I just… I needed to be strong enough."

"And look where that’s gotten you," Jess said. "You’re here, in chains, detoxing from demon blood. You’re not strong, Sam. You’re broken." She took a step closer, her gaze boring into his. "You became the very person you feared."

“I’m not like him,” Sam said, but his voice was hollow, lacking conviction. “I’m not like my father.”

“Aren’t you?” she replied quietly, a sad, knowing look in her eyes. “You’re chasing revenge, letting your anger drive you. Just like he did. You’re repeating his mistakes, letting it consume you.”

“No,” Sam choked out. “I was… I was trying to be better.”

“Better?” she echoed. “No. You are just the same pathetic man your father was—making all the same choices, choosing power over everything and everyone. Call it what you want, but ever since I’ve died you’ve been running. You’re the same scared little boy you’ve always been.”

Sam’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edges of the thin mattress. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispered. “I didn’t know how to keep going without you.”

Jess knelt beside him, her voice softening. “I know,” she whispered. “But this path… it won’t bring me back, Sam. It won’t fill the emptiness.” She reached out, her touch gentle and cool against his fevered cheek. “I don’t want you to lose yourself trying to hold onto me.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into the touch that felt so real, so agonizingly real. “I’m trying not to,” he whispered. “I don’t… I don’t want to be like him.”

“Then stop,” Jess pleaded quietly. “Stop chasing revenge. Stop trying to bury the pain with power. Let yourself heal, Sam. Because the more you try to outrun it, the more it’s going to consume you.” She took a deep breath, and for a moment, it looked like she was fighting back her own tears. “I loved you, Sam. I believed in you because you believed in yourself. But if you keep going down this road… I don’t know if you’ll ever find your way back.”

Sam felt his chest clench. “What do I do?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How do I fix this?”

Jess’s hand fell away from his cheek. She stood, looking down at him with a mixture of love and sadness. “You have to let me go,” she said softly. “And you have to let go of the idea that you have to fight alone. You don’t have to carry this by yourself. There are still people who care about you, people who believe in you—even if you don’t believe in yourself right now.” She stepped away, slowly fading from his sight. “Find a way to be the man I always saw in you. And don’t let your father’s past mistakes become your future.”

“Jess, wait—” Sam called, but she was already gone. He slumped back onto the cot, his body wracked with silent sobs. She was right. He was letting his need for vengeance lead him down a path of darkness.

He wasn’t just battling the demon blood—he was battling his very nature.

And if he had any hope of becoming the man Jess believed in, he would have to find strength without the anger, without the power, and without the demon blood. But as he lay there, staring into the darkness, he feared it might already be too late.

Chapter Text

Two days later, and Sam's body ached with relentless exhaustion—the kind that no amount of sleep could ease. Every muscle screamed, every nerve felt like it had been stripped raw. The blood coursing through his veins had turned his insides out, set his brain on fire, and left him so malnourished and weak he could hardly roll over. The withdrawal was merciless, gnawing at his bones, hollowing him out. The only thing he craved was another hit, just a drop of the demon blood his body had become so dependent on.

He had screamed, begged, wailed—his voice hoarse and broken—trying to convince Bobby that he needed it, that without it, he was dying. But Bobby hadn’t given in, no matter how much it tore him up to see Sam like this. Bobby sat at the top of the basement stairs, silent and grim, listening to every agonized sound that escaped Sam’s lips. But he wouldn’t come down. Wouldn’t acknowledge Sam’s pleas. He knew better than to give in. And deep down, Sam knew Bobby was right. That didn’t make it any easier.

Sam was curled in on himself, sweat soaking through his thin shirt, shivering despite the heat pulsing through his fevered skin. His stomach clenched violently, another wave of nausea rolling through him, but there was nothing left to bring up. Just dry heaves and pain.

Then, a voice—low, familiar, laced with contempt.

“Well, well, look at you,” the cold voice sneered. “Pathetic.”

Sam’s blood ran cold. His eyes fluttered open, his fevered vision struggling to focus. A figure stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, a sneer twisting his lips.

John Winchester.

Or at least, some twisted version of him.

Sam knew it couldn’t be real, but that didn’t stop the sickening lurch in his stomach as the apparition stepped closer.

“You think chaining yourself up in a basement is gonna fix this?” John scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think you can just sweat this out and suddenly be a different man? You really are delusional, Sam.”

Sam swallowed hard. His throat was raw, his breath uneven. “You… you’re not real,” he whispered, his voice trembling. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the hallucination didn’t disappear. “You’re dead.”

“Oh, I’m real enough,” John said, crouching down beside him, his face just inches away. “And you know I’m right. You’ve always known. Nothing you can do will fix this. You’re not like the rest of us, boy. There’s something wrong with you. There always has been.” His voice dropped to a low, menacing whisper. “You’re evil, Sam.”

The words hit Sam like a physical blow. His breath hitched in his chest. He tried to turn away, but John’s grip was suddenly on his shoulder, iron-tight, forcing him to look up into those familiar eyes—eyes that held no warmth, no compassion. Only cold, unwavering judgment.

“You’ve always been the freak,” John hissed. “I should’ve ended it when I had the chance—back when I first saw those powers of yours. Should’ve taken you out back like a sick dog and finished the job.”

“Shut up,” Sam choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re n-not real,” he repeated, his conviction faltering. “You’re just… you’re just in my head.”

“That’s right, Sam.” John’s grip tightened, his fingers digging painfully into Sam’s skin. “I am in your head. Always have been. You think you can run from me? From what I taught you?” He gave a mocking laugh, low and bitter. “Addiction runs in this family, boy. Your grandfather, me, and now you. But leave it to you to pick the worst vice of all. Drinking demon blood? Hell, I thought hitting the bottle was bad, but even I didn’t stoop this low.”

John released Sam’s shoulder with a shove, the weak bed frame rattling. He stood over him, looming like a dark shadow, his face twisted with disgust. “I always knew you’d let us down,” he said. “Dean—now, Dean had some potential. He was the good son, the one who actually listened. The one who cared about family.” He laughed again, a harsh sound that cut through the air like a knife. “But you? You were never anything but a burden.”

Sam flinched at his words, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. “Shut up,” he choked out, his voice breaking. “You’re not real. You’re not—”

“Shut up?” John’s eyes flashed with fury, and in an instant, he was on Sam, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him up from the cot. “You don’t get to tell me to shut up!” He backhanded Sam across the face, the impact snapping his head to the side. Stars burst in his vision, and a coppery taste filled his mouth as he bit down on his tongue.

“I’m not like you,” Sam said weakly.

“You’re right. You’re worse,” John spat. “You’re not just an addict, Sam. This isn’t something you can overcome—it’s who you are. Primed for Lucifer’s taking.”

“W-what?”

“That’s right—Sam Winchester, Lucifer’s perfect vessel. All those years in the Cage waiting for you to release him so he could claim you as his own, stripping every ounce of humanity you have left. And Dean?” John laughed bitterly. “He belongs to Michael. Both of you, destined to be nothing but tools in their war.”

Sam’s stomach lurched, but there was nothing in his stomach to puke up when he gagged. His skin crawled, almost as if he could feel Lucifer already inside of him. “No,” he gasped, shaking his head frantically. “No, that’s not true. I—I won’t let it happen.”

“You don’t have a choice, Sam,” John said, his voice low and merciless. “This is your fate. You were born for this. Everything you’ve done, everything you’ve tried to escape—it’s all been leading you here. You’re not fighting for yourself anymore. You’re fighting for them.”

Sam’s chest tightened, panic rising in his throat. He could see it now—the path that had been laid out before him, the trap that had been set long before he even knew it existed. Now the parallels were clear.

“You can’t run from this, Sam. You’re weak. You’re broken. Perfect for the taking.”

“You’re lying. You’re not real.”

John released Sam and he crumbled to the floor in a heap. Then, his voice shifted to a hauntingly playful tone.

“Oh, but I am, Sammy.”

When Sam looked up, his father’s eyes flashed red. Horror consumed him.

“I’m just borrowing Daddy Dearest here to come say hey. See you soon.”

Then, as suddenly as Lucifer appeared, he was gone, taking the ghost of John with him into the darkness.

Sam’s mind reeled. Was his fate really sealed? Was he always going to become the worst version of himself? The helplessness he felt then only made his urges stronger. He called out to Bobby, begging for a hit, just to get him up off the floor, but Bobby wouldn’t come. Sam’s screams echoed against the walls, surrounding him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to draw in a deep breath as panic and despair pulled him further under.

This isn’t real.

This was just another hallucination meant to tear him down, and he wasn’t going to let it. No matter how much it hurt, he had to keep fighting. Because if he didn’t, then everything he had done—everything he had sacrificed—would truly be for nothing.

He wasn’t his father. He wasn’t Lucifer. He was Sam—good, moral, strong, human.

Sam clung to that stubborn last ounce of defiance as the darkness closed in even further.

He wasn’t done fighting yet.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Dean sat in the Impala, parked on the side of a deserted highway, the low hum of the engine barely masking the weight in his chest. The sky overhead was a stretch of ink-black, scattered with dim stars that offered little comfort. The world around him was still, unnervingly so, the only movement coming from the occasional rustle of dry grass along the roadside. It felt like the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to make a decision he wasn't sure he had the strength for.

His phone felt heavier than it should in his calloused hand, Bobby’s number glowing on the screen like an accusation. He had been staring at it for what felt like hours, his thumb hovering over the call button. Every part of him resisted, but the silence had become unbearable. The Impala, his sanctuary, felt suffocating, the familiar smells of leather and motor oil doing nothing to calm his restless mind.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, he pressed the button and brought the phone to his ear. Each ring sent a pulse of dread through him, tightening the coil in his chest. Then, on the third ring, Bobby answered, his voice rough and tired.

“Yeah?”

Dean swallowed hard, forcing a casual tone he didn’t feel. “Hey, Bobby. Just… checkin’ in. How’s Sam?”

There was a pause, the kind that spoke volumes, before Bobby sighed, a sound thick with exhaustion. “He’s… well, he’s alive, I’ll give you that much. But he’s got a ways to go, Dean. When he’s not screamin’ like he’s being torn apart, he’s talkin’ to people who ain’t there.”

Dean shut his eyes, jaw clenching. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, the leather groaning under his grip. “Any idea who he’s seeing?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Bobby admitted. “People from the past, probably.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “So… you think he’s getting better?”

There was a beat of hesitation, then Bobby said carefully, “Maybe. He’s not tryin’ to rip the chains off anymore, and the screaming’s not constant. That’s somethin’, I guess. But if he’s gonna stay better after all this, he’s gonna need more than a panic room and some tough love.”

Dean frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s gonna need people, Dean. Support. Someone to keep him grounded. And let’s face it, I’m an old man with a junkyard and a grudge against the world. I can only do so much. That boy needs his big brother.”

Dean’s throat tightened. He didn’t respond, and Bobby took that silence and filled it with something worse.

“He’s been mumblin’ your name, Dean.”

Dean’s breath hitched. “What?”

“For the last hour or so,” Bobby continued, his tone weary but insistent. “He’s out of his head, sure, but he’s callin’ for you. Figured you’d want to know that.”

Dean’s stomach twisted. He could picture it too easily—Sam, sweat-soaked and trembling, eyes unfocused, voice broken and raw, whispering his name in the dark. The image burrowed deep into his chest, carving out something hollow and aching.

Bobby sighed. “He needs you here, Dean.”

Dean pressed a hand over his face, fingers digging into his temples. “I don’t think I can do that, Bobby.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. When Bobby finally spoke, his voice was edged with frustration. “And why’s that?”

Dean swallowed, throat dry. “Because I don’t trust him.” The words cut like glass as they left his mouth. “He lied to me, Bobby. Over and over. He went behind my back, worked with Ruby, drank that… that crap. He started the goddamn apocalypse! How am I supposed to trust him after all that?”

Bobby’s tone sharpened. “And how’s he ever supposed to earn your trust back if you ain’t around to give him the chance?”

Dean flinched. That one hit home. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His anger was a fragile thing, barely holding together the mess of guilt and pain beneath it.

Bobby wasn’t done. “You think leavin’ him alone to deal with this is gonna fix anything? You think he ain’t already drowning in his own damn guilt? Hell, Dean, the kid’s barely got his head above water, and you walkin’ away ain’t gonna do a damn thing but push him under.”

Dean’s hands trembled. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to breathe through the emotions crashing over him like a riptide. “You think it’s that easy?” he shot back, voice hoarse. “Just stick around and pretend everything’s fine?”

“Didn’t say it’d be easy,” Bobby replied, steady as ever. “But you’re his brother, Dean. The one person he’s always looked to. You walk away now, and he’ll know it. He’ll feel it in his damn bones. And it’ll break him.”

Dean closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. The weight of it all was suffocating. Sam had broken his trust—shattered it, really—but the thought of abandoning him now? That felt just as wrong.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Dean admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

“You think you’ve got a choice?” Bobby shot back. “You’re a Winchester, boy. And Winchesters don’t quit on family. You don’t have to trust him right now, but you damn well better be there if he’s gonna earn it back.”

Dean bristled at the words, frustration boiling over. “Yeah, well, thanks for the lecture, Bobby,” he snapped before ending the call with a sharp jab of his thumb.

The silence that followed was deafening. The Impala’s engine idled beneath him, the rhythmic rumble doing nothing to steady the storm inside him. He stared up at the car’s ceiling, as if expecting some kind of divine intervention—some neon sign telling him what the hell he was supposed to do.

But there was nothing. Just the highway, the stars, and the truth pressing against his ribs.

A lump formed in his throat, and he exhaled shakily, gripping the wheel tighter. The road stretched endlessly ahead of him, a path that led nowhere and everywhere all at once. His gut twisted, torn between turning the key and driving off into the night or turning around and facing what scared him most.

One thing he knew for sure though was that even if he wasn't ready to face Sam yet, he wasn't ready to give up on him either.

Chapter Text

Sam’s head pounded in rhythm with his heartbeat, each pulse sending a jolt of pain through his skull. The air in the panic room was heavy and stagnant, pressing on his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake. He was caught in a haze, drifting between consciousness and the void, where time lost meaning, and the line between reality and hallucination dissolved. Days had passed—at least, he thought they had—but in his fractured state, he couldn’t be sure. Every sound, every shadow seemed alive, taunting him with the memories he’d tried so hard to bury. He tried not to think about what Dean or Bobby would have to do if he couldn’t beat this. Killing him would be the safest option, but if they couldn’t do it, Sam was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

“Dean? Dean, where are you?” A small, frightened voice pierced the silence, familiar yet distant, filled his ears. “Dean?”

Sam’s vision swam like it always did when he forced his eyes open. The world tilted and blurred, and for a moment, he thought it was just another cruel trick of withdrawal. But when his eyes focused, he froze. A small boy sat on a yellowed motel mattress. His wide, frightened eyes darted around the dark room, only his face peeking out from the moth-bitten blanket he clutched tightly.

Sam’s heart stopped. He recognized that kid. The shaggy brown hair, the tear-streaked cheeks—it was him. A younger version of himself, maybe eight years old, and scared out of his mind.

“Hey…” Sam’s voice cracked, hoarse from days of screaming and dehydration. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m not—I’m not going to hurt you.”

But young Sammy yelped at the sound of his voice, his eyes finally landing on Sam with a look of sheer terror. It was the kind of look a child might give a monster—the thing that lurked under the bed, waiting to strike.

“Dean!” Sammy cried, scrambling backward on the bed, clutching the blanket tighter. “Dean, help!”

Sam staggered to his feet, the effort nearly toppling him as his legs threatened to give out. He took a shaky step toward his younger self, his hand outstretched. “Please, don’t be scared,” he said, his voice trembling. “It’s okay. I’m you.”

Sammy flinched, pressing his back against the wall. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. “Stay away from me!” he shouted, shaking his head and covering his ears. “Stay back!”

A door that hadn’t been there before suddenly flew open, and another boy burst into the room, his hair damp like he’d just showered. He was older, but still young, not yet a teenager. Dean. “Sammy, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, rushing to his brother’s side and wrapping a protective arm around him. Sammy immediately clung to him, sobbing.

“Shh, Sammy,” Dean murmured, his voice calm and soothing. “It’s okay. I’m right here.” He pulled Sammy closer, rubbing his back. “What’s the matter, Sammy? Bad dream?”

Sammy buried his face into Dean’s chest, trembling. “There’s something in here,” he whispered. “A monster. It’s looking right at me.”

Sam felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He looked down at his trembling hands, the hands that had spilled so much blood, made so many compromises. “No… I’m not—”

Dean glanced up, his gaze sweeping across the room right over Sam. But there was no recognition in his eyes—only a hard, protective glare that said nothing was allowed to touch his baby brother. “There’s nothing here, Sammy,” he said, his voice firm. “Monsters aren’t real. It’s just your imagination.”

Sam stared at his brother, who looked exhausted even at twelve years old. The sight of him broke something inside Sam. Dean’s eyes, even in this hallucination, held that same weight—the burden of responsibility far beyond his years. “Dean, it’s me,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “It’s Sam.” He took a step forward.

Sammy screamed and clung to Dean tighter. “It’s getting closer!” Dean’s grasp instinctively tightened on his brother. He looked up again, scanning the room as if daring the invisible threat to come closer. He pulled Sammy closer, shielding him with his own body.

“Dean, I’m not—” Sam’s voice faltered. The words felt hollow, empty. He wasn’t sure if he even believed them himself. “I’m not a monster.”

Dean turned his attention away from the empty space in front of him and back to the smaller boy in his arms, stroking his hair with a tenderness that Sam remembered so well. “It’s okay, Sammy,” he whispered. “I’m right here. Nothing’s gonna hurt you. I promise.”

"How about a story?" Dean suggested. He reached into his duffle and pulled out a tattered copy of The Velveteen Rabbit, flipping to the first page. He didn’t read to Sammy as much as he used to, but he’d still kept this book after all these years. “Remember this?” he asked gently. “You always liked this story.”

Sammy sniffled and nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean began to read, his voice low and gentle, every word an echo of nights from Sam’s childhood when he was scared and Dean would do anything to make him feel safe. “‘There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid...’”

Sam stumbled back until he hit the cot and collapsed backward. He remembered those nights—the way Dean would hold him, tell him stories, promise him that monsters weren’t real, that everything would be okay. But now, seeing the way Sammy clung to his brother, the terror in his eyes as he looked at the older version of himself, it was like looking at a mirror and seeing the darkness reflected back at him.

"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Please don’t be scared of me. I’m still… you."

Dean continued reading, his voice steady and calm, drowning out Sam’s pleas. It was like he was a ghost, a figment, something that didn’t belong in their world. As Sam watched, helplessness crushed him. He tried to reach out, but his limbs felt heavy, the weight of the truth crushing him. He was a monster. Maybe not the kind with fangs and claws, but he had let darkness into his life, let it consume him bit by bit until he could no longer recognize himself.

Sammy peeked over Dean's shoulder, his frightened eyes locking onto Sam’s one last time. “Go away, monster,” he whispered, with quiet defiance. “You’re not real. You can’t hurt me.”

The words hit Sam like a knife to the gut. This poor kid had no idea that a year from now his dad would hand him a gun to kill the monster in his closet or that in fifteen years he would become one. “I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m so, so sorry.”

The two figures faded into the darkness, Dean's voice trailing off mid-sentence, as if the memory itself was rejecting Sam, leaving him alone once more in the suffocating silence of the panic room.

Sam pulled his knees to his heaving chest, every breath a struggle. He could still hear his own, younger voice, calling out for Dean to save him. But this time, there was no one to answer. No one to protect him from the darkness inside. He was alone, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever find his way back to the person he used to be.

Chapter Text

Bobby’s phone buzzed on the kitchen table, shattering the heavy silence that had settled over the house since Sam had stopped screaming a few days ago. The absence of those raw, agonized cries should have been a relief, but instead, it left a hollow unease hanging in the air. Sam was sleeping now, his body wrung out from the relentless torment of withdrawal, but earlier, he’d been lucid—talking to Bobby almost like things were normal.

Bobby glanced at his cell phone. Dean’s name flashed across the screen. With a deep sigh, he answered, bracing himself for whatever storm was brewing on the other end.

“Dean,” he said gruffly, voice laced with exhaustion and wary resolve. “I got news.”

There was a pause, the faint crackle of the line stretching between them before Dean’s voice came, low and guarded. “What kind of news, Bobby? Cas and I keep coming up empty, and we don’t have time for more dead ends.”

Bobby rubbed a hand over his face, staring at the cold cup of coffee he’d forgotten to drink. “It’s about Sam,” he said carefully. “He’s lucid—at least today. That’s a good sign. I think he’s almost clean.”

“Clean?” Dean repeated, the word dripping with skepticism. “It can’t be that easy, Bobby. The other shoe’s gonna drop sooner or later.”

“There ain’t nothin’ ‘easy’ about what he’s going through,” Bobby shot back, his voice rough. “You saw him last time.”

“Yeah, and I saw him go right back for a fix the second we let him out,” Dean snapped. “What makes you think this time’s any different? Besides, it’s too little, too late—the apocalypse is here.”

Bobby’s grip tightened around the phone, his knuckles white. “I know it’s late. But he’s tryin’. He came here on his own, Dean. Said he wants to get better—and he means it this time. He’s fightin’ it. Whether he slips or not, he doesn’t want this controlling him anymore.”

Dean scoffed, the sound bitter and cutting. “He should’ve meant it months ago. If he’d just listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this mess. He trusted Ruby over us, Bobby. Now we’re all paying the price.”

“Yeah, and I’m mad too,” Bobby snapped. “What he did was stupid, ain’t no arguing that. But he was manipulated, Dean. Ruby played him, twisted his fears, made him think he had no choice. And the addiction? That demon blood twisted him up from the inside out. But he’s tryin’ to crawl out of that hole now. He needs help.”

“No,” Dean insisted, his voice cold as iron. “He’s a hunter. A trained killer. He doesn’t need powers to be dangerous. As long as that demon blood’s inside him, I can’t trust him. Being ‘almost clean’ changes nothing.”

“It changes a lot, Dean,” Bobby countered. “Look, I get it. You’re hurt. You got every right to be. But don’t act like you don’t know what it’s like to drown yourself in a bottle when you feel powerless. You and me, we’ve both been there.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his breath heavy in the receiver. “When I left him,” he said after a long pause, his voice quieter now, “I could feel it. The evil—it was pouring out of him.” He swallowed hard. "I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve a chance to fix this. But he waited until the world’s falling apart to try.”

“Maybe he’s doing this now because he finally realized how far he’d fallen,” Bobby said simply. “And remember, he didn’t ask for this. That demon blood was forced on him before he even had a chance to fight it. Now he is fightin’. And you can help him, or you can leave him there.”

There was a long silence before Dean let out a weary sigh. “I’ll think about it,” he said quietly, and then the line went dead.

~~~

The familiar old scrap cars and piles of rusted machinery did little to settle the tension coiled in his chest. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows over the yard, and the air carried the faint smell of rust and motor oil. He had been dreading this, but his caretaker instincts wouldn’t let him stay away. Still, he didn’t know if he could do this. The thought of seeing Sam again—broken, detoxing, and maybe still dangerous—was almost too much.

He barely had time to steel himself before a raw, agonized scream tore through the house. He stopped cold, his blood turning to ice.

Sam.

He had heard Sam cry out before, but this was different. This was something raw and too painful to truly put into words. Inside those walls, his brother fighting for his life–-for his sanity.

Dean forced his feet forward, into the house where Bobby sat hunched at the table, cradling a glass of whiskey in hands that trembled with exhaustion.

“Thought you said he was lucid,” Dean whispered, his voice hoarse.

“He is,” Bobby said, rubbing rubbing his  neck. “Some days. Today ain’t one of ‘em. Hard to know what a day’s gonna bring ‘til it’s whalloping him.”

Another strangled cry, then broken, desperate words.

Dean shook his head. He couldn’t do this. Not now.

“I… I just need a minute,” he muttered, turning away and heading back outside. He could still hear Sam’s cries echoing from below, and each one felt like a knife twisting in his chest. If Sam didn’t get better, if he said stuck in the throes of addiction and withdrawal, Dean wasn’t sure he would ever be able to face him.

For four days, Dean spent his time out on the porch, just far enough away to muffle the sounds coming from the basement, but not far enough away that he could let himself forget the hell Sam was going through. How hard he was fighting the evil inside of him.

Still, sometimes the sounds coming from the depths were unbearable—Sam’s voice breaking as he begged for relief, the thuds as he fought against his restraints, the moments when he went eerily quiet and left Dean wondering if he was still alive. In those moments Dean would go for a long drive, the purr of Baby’s engine and the open road offering a much needed reprieve.

It was on day five when Bobby emerge from the house, sinking into the chair beside Dean as he let the bone deep exhaustion melt him. “Fever broke. Even got him to eat somethin’,” Bobby sighed. I’m hopin’ that means he’s gonna start actin’ a little more like himself.”

It was time.

Dean knew he couldn’t keep avoiding this. Soon, Sam would have his head screwed on enough to know Dean hadn’t been there for him, and the guilt of that made Dean’s stomach sour.

Dean’s legs felt like lead as he descended the stairs to the panic room. The metal door groaned as he pushed it open, and a shiver ran down Dean’s spine as he braced himself for what he would see.

The dim light flickered over Sam’s gaunt face. He lay on the cot, trembling, his eyes half-open but glassy and unfocused. His skin was pale, his cheekbones sharp against his hollow face, and he looked like a shadow of the man Dean used to know.

“Sam?” Dean said softly, crouching beside him. The room wreaked of sweat and despair, the air carrying the stench of an agonizing internal battle.

Sam’s head shifted, but his gaze didn’t meet Dean’s. He look terrified and utterly broken.

“Sam,” Dean said again. “It’s me. It’s Dean. And… I’m real. I’m really here.”

Dean felt awkward saying it, but then again he had no idea what Sam had seen. He just hoped his brother believed him now.

Sam’s breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as he closed his eyes, retreating into himself. Dean’s hand hovered over Sam’s shoulder before he gently placed it down, trying to ground him. Sam flinched violently at the touch, but Dean held steady.

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly. “And I know you’re hurting, but I need you to listen to me, Sammy.” Dean took a slow, deep breath. “I was mad at you. I was. And… I guess I still am. Not because I think you’re evil but because I know you’re good. I never wanted this for you, Sam.” Dean paused to swallow the lump in his throat. “I can’t lose you. I can’t…I can’t live in a world without you in it.”

Sam’s breath hitched, his head lolling as he struggled to stay conscious. “De…” he slurred, his voice barely audible.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. “Sammy, you gotta kick this whole addiction thing in the ass, you hear me?” he whispered, leaning closer. “You can beat this. I know you can. You’re stronger than this.”

Sam didn’t respond, his eyelids flutter closed as sleep pulled him under, a faint sigh escaping his lips as he drifted off.

Dean stayed there for a long while, watching over him. His eyes stung with unhshed tears as he desperately fought for control in a world where he felt like he was drowning in helplessness.

Dean picked up the thin, worn blanket that was crumpled on the floor and draped it over Sam’s frail looking body tucking it around him like he used to do when they were kids.

“Sleep tight, Sammy,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

Then, with one last look at his brother, Dean stood up and walked out of the room, the echo of the door clanging the last sound he heard before deafening silence.

Chapter Text

The air in Bobby’s kitchen was thick with tension, the silence stretching between the brothers like an uncrossable chasm. The faint clatter of Bobby washing dishes was the only sound, but even that felt muted. Dean’s footsteps echoed faintly on the wooden floor as he entered, just back from a long drive, the weight of the last few days hanging heavy on his shoulders.

Sam was already at the table, his posture stiff and his hands clasped tightly in front of him, fingers gripping each other with barely restrained anxiety. He looked up briefly when Dean came in, but quickly dropped his gaze, unable to hold the scrutiny he felt in his brother’s eyes. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale, and the lines of guilt and weariness carved deep into his face made him seem far older than he was.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his jaw set in a tight line. He knew this day would come sooner or later. He and Bobby had discussed it at length—when they would let Sam out, how they would handle their new dynamic.

Turned out the way Dean handled it was by running out the door. The second Sam stepped across the threshold of the panic room, Dean realized that as much as he wanted to believe Sam was better, his doubt was too strong. Distrust and hurt overwhelmed him and before he knew it, he was cruising down the highway, on his way to anywhere but there. Now, after five hours, a few too many beers, and countless calls from Bobby, Dean was back and still woefully unprepared for the conversation ahead.

Bobby glanced between the two of them, his expression a mixture of frustration and determination. Finally, he set down the coffee mug he’d been drying with a decisive thud. “Alright, you two. Enough of the bullshit. Dean, you’ve got things to say, so say ‘em. And Sam, quit lookin’ like you’re waitin’ for the executioner.”

Dean pushed off the doorframe, pacing a few steps before stopping to glare at his brother. “What do you want me to say, Bobby? That I’m fine with all this? That I trust him again just because he’s done detoxing? Because I don’t.”

Sam flinched but nodded, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke. “I know,” he murmured. “And I don’t expect you to. Not yet.”

“Damn right, not yet,” Dean snapped, his anger bubbling to the surface. “Do you have any idea what it’s been like? Watching you lie, seeing you go behind my back? Finding out you were drinking freakin' demon blood?” His voice broke slightly, and he ran a hand through his hair, the frustration barely contained. “And now, because of you, the apocalypse is here. So yeah, I’m pissed, Sam. I’m beyond pissed.”

Sam’s head dropped further, his shoulders hunching under the weight of Dean’s words. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “I know that doesn’t fix anything, but I am. I… I screwed up, Dean. Big time. And I hate myself for it. I hate what I’ve done, what I’ve become.” He looked up then, his eyes red-rimmed and pleading. “But I’m trying. I’m trying to be better. To make up for it. I just… I don’t know how.”

Dean stared at him, his own emotions swirling in a chaotic mess. He saw the pain and remorse in Sam’s face, the same face he’d seen countless times through their lives—fearful, hopeful, desperate for his big brother’s approval. But it wasn’t that simple anymore. The stakes were too high.

“I don’t want to lose you, Sammy,” Dean admitted, his voice softening. “I want to get back to where we were, but that’ll be a hell of a lot of work that I don’t have time for. Not with everything else going on.”

“I want to help,” Sam said quickly.

Dean shook his head. “I can’t have you out there with me. Not until I can trust you to have my back.”

Sam nodded, swallowing hard. “I get it,” he said. “I… I’m not ready to go out in the field anyway. I’m weak and… hurting.” His voice cracked, and he hesitated before continuing. “But I want to help. However I can. Research, tracking leads… whatever you need.”

Dean looked at him for a long moment before nodding. “Alright,” he said, his tone reluctant. “But I need some space, Sam. For now, I think it’s best if we work separately.”

Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line, the hurt flashing briefly in his eyes before he nodded. “Okay,” he said dully.

Dean sighed, his emotions heavy on his heart. “I love you, little brother. But I don’t forgive you. Not yet.”

Sam flinched at his words, but he couldn’t blame Dean for feeling that way, not after everything he’d done. “I understand,” he whispered.

Dean looked away from him, unable to bear the look on his brother’s face that had a way of making his walls crumble in an instant. Eyes fixed on a splinter sticking out of the table, he continued. “You stay here, help Bobby with research, keep your head down. I’ll take care of the hunts and the legwork. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” Sam parroted.

A silence fell over the room. There was so much left unsaid, but neither of them were ready to dive deeper just yet.

Bobby cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Well, that’s a start,” he said, his gruff tone laced with approval. “Now, if you two are done tiptoein’ around each other, we’ve got an apocalypse to stop.”

“Yeah,” Dean said determinedly. “Guess we do.”

~~~

Later that evening, Dean leaned against the Impala, the night air cool against his skin. He’d left Bobby’s not long after his tense conversation with Sam, but the distance hadn’t brought him any peace. The weight of it all still clung to him like a second skin. He could still see Sam’s expression—the regret, the quiet desperation—burned into his mind, making it impossible to push past the ache in his chest. Being there had felt suffocating, yet being away felt just as wrong.

He’d jumped at the first excuse to leave—a hunt in Missouri—but less than an hour into the drive, he’d pulled over, unable to outrun the gnawing anxiety sitting heavy in his gut. He was furious with Sam, still drowning in betrayal, but beneath it all was fear—fear that his brother would slip again, that everything they’d fought for would crumble, that this was just the beginning of another downward spiral. And no matter how much he wanted space, he couldn’t just turn his back completely.

With a deep breath, he looked up to the stars and called out to Castiel.

A familiar rustle of wings swept through the night, and then Castiel was there, his trench coat shifting slightly in the breeze. "Hello, Dean."

Dean swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, Cas." He hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. "Listen, I… I need a favor."

Castiel studied him, his piercing blue gaze unreadable. "What is it?"

Dean let out a slow breath, the words reluctant. "I need you to keep an eye on Sammy for me."

Castiel’s head tilted slightly. "I always watch your brother. He is a high-level threat to humanity."

Dean frowned. His own anger at Sam had been simmering just under the surface all night, but hearing someone else say it so plainly—someone who didn’t carry the history, the love, the pain—stoked something defensive in him.

"He’s trying," Dean said tersely. "He’s trying to get better, and I’m trying to believe him. Which is why I need you to make sure he’s safe. Okay?"

"You want me to watch over him. Like a guardian angel?"

Dean huffed out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. Something like that. Just… make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And let me know if he—" His throat closed around the thought, the fear he couldn’t voice. 

If he falls. If he goes dark again. If I lose him for good.

“...if he needs me.”

Castiel nodded. “I will monitor his habits.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, mild relief mingling with the lingering guilt in his chest. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me many,” Castiel corrected, and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “Take care of him, Cas."

"I will," Castiel assured him.

With a rustle of wings, the angel vanished, leaving Dean alone once more. He lingered there, staring up at the stars, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger, guilt, and aching hope. Finally, he slid into the Impala, the leather seat familiar beneath him. He smoothed his hands over the steering wheel, filling his lungs with slow, steady breaths. Then, he turned the ignition, and drove off down the dark, uncertain road ahead of him.

Chapter Text

The sky was a dull gray over Bobby’s scrapyard, casting a somber light across the rusted metal and piles of old cars. Sam leaned against the porch railing, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his worn jacket. The week since Bobby had let him out of the panic room had stretched into an eternity, each day dragging on with an aching slowness. The worst of the withdrawal had passed, but something deeper lingered—a hollow, aching emptiness that coiled in his gut and refused to leave.

The demon blood was gone, burned out of his system, but it had taken something with it. Strength. Purpose. A sense of self. Now, all that remained was the void. A void, that left space for the voices to come in. Or rather, one voice, hauntingly loud in his mind.

Lucifer.

"Poor Sammy," he purred, the disembodied voice slithering through the silence like oil across water. "You think that just because that demon’s not after you anymore that you’re safe? That you could just stop being what you are?"

Sam stiffened, his jaw clenching as he squeezed his eyes shut. The voice was familiar, sickeningly so, wrapping around his thoughts with an intimacy that made his stomach twist.

You’re not real, he told himself, his breath shuddering as he forced air into his lungs. You’re not real. You’re just in my head.

Lucifer chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Of course I’m in your head. Biding my time until you say yes. Then I’ll be inside you. Kinky right?"

Sam’s fingers dug into the wood of the railing, the pressure grounding him as he forced his eyes open. The scrapyard was still the same—silent, unmoving. But the voice lingered, whispering at the edges of his thoughts, curling around his doubts and insecurities like ivy creeping up a crumbling wall.

The days passed in a blur of exhaustion. Sam forced himself to move, to function. He helped Bobby with repairs, stacked books, did whatever menial task was set in front of him. But no matter how much he tried to lose himself in the work, the silence was deafening.

And worse, he wasn’t really alone.

"Do you really think he forgives you?"

The voice would come at night, slithering into the empty spaces where his thoughts should be. It was always the same—Lucifer’s voice, smooth and patient, filled with the kind of understanding that made Sam sick.

"Dean doesn’t trust you. Bobby watches you like you might snap at any moment. And why shouldn’t they? You’re evil, Sam. Just accept it."

Sam really tried to convince himself that he wasn’t evil, but as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his choices over and over in his mind. He saw the faces of those he had hurt, the people he had failed to save. He saw Dean’s face, a mix of anger and disappointment, and it cut him deeper than any knife ever could. The guilt was suffocating, an ever-present reminder of how far he’d fallen.

Sleep offered no relief. Most nights, Sam would wake up gasping, his hands fisting in the sheets, his skin clammy with sweat. Lucifer’s voice still bouncing around in the chasm of his brain. He tried not to think about what it meant—that Lucifer’s voice wasn’t fading, that it wasn’t getting easier. But it was impossible to deny that his worst fears were coming true.

I’m a monster.

Sam stood in the middle of the junkyard after another night of tossing and turning, staring at his phone like it might burn him. He had Dean’s number was pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button.

They hadn’t spoken since Bobby forced them to and honestly, Sam wasn’t sure if Dean would even pick up. But he needed something—anything—to anchor him.

He pressed call.

The phone rang twice before Dean answered. “Sam?” There was a wariness in Dean’s voice, like he was bracing himself for bad news.

Sam hesitated, his grip tightening on the phone. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Dean everything—not about the visions, not about the weight of being a vessel. Not yet. “Hey,” he said, his voice rough from disuse. “I, uh… I just wanted to check in. See if there’s been any progress with… you know, stopping the apocalypse.”

There was a pause, then Dean sighed. “Cas and I are working to tracking down some rings,” he said, his tone guarded. “I’ll fill you in later,” he said vaguely. “How are you holding up?”

"Like you actually care."

Sam ignored the voice. "I’m… okay," he lied. It came out unconvincing, even to him. "I just feel like I’m not doing enough to help."

Dean’s voice hardened slightly. "You’re not ready, Sam. You’re still getting your strength back."

"I know," Sam said quickly, frustration curling in his gut. "But I just— I need to be useful."

Dean was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke, his tone was unreadable. "If you want to help, look into Lucifer. See if you can dig up anything about why he was locked in the Cage, what kind of lore there is about him escaping. Anything useful."

More research. It wasn’t what Sam wanted—he wanted action, a chance to prove himself—but at least Dean was keeping him in the loop… kind of. And maybe, if he worked hard enough, if he found something crucial, it would prove he wasn’t just some tool for Lucifer to use.

“So when are you gonna tell him about me?”

“Shut up!”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, sorry. Just… okay,” Sam murmured. “I’ll see what I can find.”

"Good," Dean said. Then, softer, "Just… don’t push yourself too hard, alright? Stay out of trouble."

Sam nodded, even though Dean couldn’t see him. "Yeah. I will."

He wished it were that simple.

~~~

The days bled together in a blur of monotony.

Sam threw himself fully into the research, spending hours hunched over Bobby’s books, flipping through brittle pages, chasing answers he wasn’t sure he wanted. But no matter how deep he dug, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t enough.

"You can’t outrun this, Sam," Lucifer murmured. 

Lucifer came and went, sometimes leaving him alone for days on end just to return when Sam finally thought he’d found peace. His words curled around Sam’s thoughts like smoke, the stench lingering. Some days, he could push it away. Other days, it pressed against his ribs like a knife. The weight of it all was pulling him under.

Maybe I was never meant to be saved.

He caught himself lingering too long at Bobby’s gun cabinet one evening, fingers ghosting over cold metal before he forced himself away, bile rising in his throat. The fear of that thought alone was enough to shake him.

Something had to give.

That was how he found himself digging through his jacket pocket for the crumpled piece of paper—the address of the community center. The last time he had been there, he had felt exposed, out of place. But Isaiah’s words echoed in his mind, pulling him out the door. “You have to believe you’re worth fighting for.” 

“I want to believe I’m worth fighting for,” Sam whispered to himself as he drove himself to the only place where no one would judge him for struggling.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Sam stepped into the community center, the murmur of quiet conversations drifting through the hall. His stomach churned as he hesitated at the meeting room door, heart hammering in his chest.

He could hear voices inside, and the urge to turn around was overwhelming. But he forced himself forward, one step, then another, until he was standing at the back of the room. The folding chairs were arranged in a circle, just like last time, and the people around him were sharing their stories with an openness that made Sam’s skin crawl. He felt like a fraud, like he didn’t belong here, and he hated that he couldn’t let go of that anxiety.

When it came time for him to speak, Sam kept his head down, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I’m Sam," he muttered. "And I’m… I’m trying to figure things out." He swallowed, forcing the words out. "It’s been rough."

That was all he could manage, and no one pushed him for more.

When the meeting ended, he was making a beeline for the door when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Hey, Sam."

He turned and saw Isaiah approaching, a warm smile on his face. “Good to see you back,” he said.

Sam exhaled shakily. "Yeah. Uh… I haven’t been doing so great, but I’m ready to try again."

Isaiah nodded. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Look, recovery’s not a straight line. You’re gonna have good days and bad days. The important thing is that you keep trying. It’s all part of the process.”

Sam nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I’ve just… I’ve been feeling really alone lately,” he confessed. “The addiction… it made me push everyone away. It put a wedge between me and the people I love. That’s why I’m here.”

Isaiah’s gaze softened with understanding. “You’re not alone, Sam,” he said gently. “That’s why we have these meetings—to remind ourselves that we don’t have to go through it on our own.” He took a step closer, his voice lowering slightly. “Even after being sober for so long, I still come to these meetings. Because you never know when you might need a little extra support.”

Sam took a deep breath, letting Isaiah’s words sink in. He had been so focused on the idea that he needed to fix everything on his own that he hadn’t allowed himself to accept that it was okay to ask for help. He had been so afraid of his own darkness, so convinced that he was beyond saving, that he had forgotten what it felt like to have someone stand by his side.

“Thanks, Isaiah,” he said quietly. “I appreciate it.”

Isaiah clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll get through this, Sam,” he said. “It’ll suck for a while, but you’ll get through it.”

Sam didn’t know if he believed him, but he hoped more than anything that he was right.

Chapter Text

The cold night air bit at Sam’s face as he leaned against the hood of a rusted pickup, parked on the outskirts of a cemetery. The open field stretched before him, shrouded in moonlight, the old gravestones casting jagged shadows. He had been standing there for hours, the frost creeping into his bones, running over the plan in his head until the details blurred together.

It was a simple hunt—a vengeful spirit haunting a small town. The signs pointed to an unmarked grave, the final resting place of a woman murdered decades ago. Salting and burning the remains should have been second nature.

But as Sam stared into the dark expanse of the cemetery, his chest tightened with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Fear.

His first hunt since detoxing, and it felt like he was stepping into battle unarmed. Without the demon blood thrumming in his veins, there was no rush of power, no sharpened senses. No assurance that he was strong or capable.

He was just… Sam.

And that didn’t feel like enough anymore.

You’re weak, a voice in his head taunted. He was grateful that it was his own, but that didn’t mean it was a comfort. You’re broken. And sooner or later, you’ll fail.

Sam shook his head, as if the simple motion could dispel the thoughts. He pulled his jacket tighter around him, feeling the weight of his body in a way he never had before. Everything felt heavier these days—his limbs, his steps, his thoughts. He couldn’t stop wondering if he had made a mistake, if his decision to stop using the demon blood had left him defenseless.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, making him flinch. He pulled it out with cold fingers, Bobby’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hey,” he answered, his voice a little shaky.

“How’s the hunt?” Bobby’s voice was steady, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. “You burn the bitch yet?”

Sam glanced back at the dark outline of the cemetery. “Working on it.”

“Working on it, huh?” Bobby’s skepticism was clear. “You okay, kid?”

His throat tightened. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell Bobby he had it under control. Instead, he said, “I… I’ll call you when it’s done.”

And he hung up before Bobby could press further.

Taking a deep breath, Sam grabbed the duffel bag from the passenger seat and headed toward the graveyard. The shovel felt awkward and heavy in his grip, every step toward the unmarked grave feeling like a march to his own execution. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the sounds of the night. The demon blood had always dulled this part of the hunt, the nervous anticipation, the doubt. Now, every rustle of leaves and distant hoot of an owl sent a jolt through his body.

By the time he reached the burial site—a patch of disturbed earth near the gnarled roots of an old tree—his pulse was hammering. He jammed the shovel into the dirt, muscles straining. The damp earth clung to the blade, each scoop a physical reminder of how weak he felt. His breath came in short gasps, but he forced himself to keep digging.

If he couldn’t do this, how could he ever hope to stop Lucifer?

The name sent a chill through him, colder than the wind slicing through his jacket. He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he saw was Lucifer’s blood-red stare. His breath hitched.

"Not now.”

He willed himself to focus, slamming the shovel into the ground with more force than necessary.

"Not now."

But the fear didn’t fade. It clung to him, suffocating, insidious. He thought about the progress he’d made—the detox, the meetings, the nights spent trying to stitch himself back together.

What if it was all for nothing?

What if, in the end, he wasn’t strong enough to resist?

Then, just as his shovel scraped something solid, a wail tore through the night.

Sam froze, fingers tightening around the handle. The temperature plummeted, and an icy wind howled through the trees. Slowly, he turned, his flashlight cutting through the dark.

A pale figure hovered just beyond the grave—her face twisted in rage, her eyes hollow pits of grief.

“You don’t belong here,” she hissed, her voice like nails on glass.

Sam raised the shotgun, rock salt loaded. “I’m just here to put you to rest.”

The spirit shrieked and lunged. Sam fired. The blast shredded her form into mist, but it wouldn’t last.

He turned back to the grave, digging frantically now, dirt flying. His hands trembled, breath ragged. Every snap of a twig, every gust of wind made his pulse quicken.

Then she was back.

A furious screech, and suddenly he was airborne—flung back with inhuman force. His body hit the frozen ground hard, pain splintering through his ribs. The shotgun landed feet away, just out of reach.

Sam rolled, scrambling toward it, but the spirit struck again, sending him skidding across the dirt. The world spun. He gasped for breath, vision blurring.

She loomed over him, her presence pressing against his chest like a stone.

You’re weak.

His fingers closed around the shotgun.

You’ll never be strong enough.

He fired blindly.

The salt round ripped through her, and she vanished with a shriek.

Sam didn’t wait for her to reform.

He staggered to his feet, grabbed his duffel, and ran.

He didn’t stop until he was back in the truck, slamming the door shut, hands gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His chest heaved, heart pounding.

He had bailed.

He had run.

Shame crashed over him, thick and choking. He had failed.

Again. 

~~~

Two nights later, Sam sat in his truck outside the Huxley Community Center, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. His phone lay on the passenger seat, the screen dark except for the blinking notification light.

Missed calls from Bobby.

He hadn’t answered a single one.

After fleeing the hunt, he had holed up in the nearest motel, drowning in the weight of his failure and enough whiskey to warrant a liver transplant. Bobby’s calls had come in waves, each one a reminder of the trust Sam had shattered. He couldn’t bring himself to hear the disappointment in Bobby’s voice.

So he let them go unanswered.

Now, sitting in the dim parking lot, exhaustion pressed against his skull. He didn’t know why he was here. He just knew he couldn’t be there.

Inside, the meeting had already started. He slipped into a chair at the back of the room, keeping his head down.

When it was his turn, he hesitated. The silence stretched, waiting. Finally, he forced out the only truth he could admit.

“I’m Sam,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t really want to talk today. I just didn’t want to be on my own.”

A murmur of understanding passed through the group. No pressure. No judgment.

The meeting moved on, but Sam could feel a pair of eyes on him. When it ended, Isaiah walked right up to him, hoping to break through his walls.

“Want to tell me what’s got your tongue tied?”

Sam shrugged, staring at the floor. “How am I supposed to talk about what I’m going through if I don’t even know who I am anymore?” His voice was raw. “I feel… weak. Empty. I know I can’t go back, but I don’t know who I am without it.”

“Let me ask you something, Sam. When you were drinking, did you really feel like yourself or did it feel like you were wearing someone else like a mask?”

Sam frowned, his brow furrowing as he considered the question. “I… I don’t know. It felt like I was in control. Like I was stronger.”

Isaiah nodded slowly. “I get that. But the truth is, when you’re drinking, you’re further from yourself than you ever will be. That’s the thing about addiction. It’s a liar. It twists you up, makes you think you need it to feel whole. But the longer you let it run your life, the harder it gets to come back to who you really are. And losing yourself? That will make you feel weaker than sobriety ever will.”

Sam shuddered. He thought about the cemetery, the spirit, the way he’d frozen. He’d convinced himself his failure was about his powers when really it was about him . 

I don’t know who I am anymore.

“You’re here, Sam. You’re trying. And what that tells me is that you’re not beyond saving.” Isaiah tapped his fingers on Sam’s chest, atop his heart. “You’re still in there, Sam, and you’re fighting to be free.” Isaiah leaned forward, resting gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “And you deserve to be free. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Got it?”

Sam swallowed hard, blinking back the sting of tears. 

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Isaiah offered a small, encouraging smile. “Just keep showing up, kid. You’ll find your way.”

But unfortunately for Sam, showing up wasn’t always that easy.

Chapter Text

Months of non-stop solo hunting just to get his head back in the game had done anything but. At first, Sam made it work—spending a few days on the road, taking down whatever creature needed ganking, then driving back to Iowa for a meeting, crashing, and repeating the cycle. It wasn’t sustainable, but it kept him moving. Kept him from thinking too much.

But exhaustion crept in faster than he expected. The hunts wore him down, the hours on the road bled together, and soon, he started making excuses to skip meetings. One here, another there. He told himself it was fine. He was fine. But now, holed up in a cheap motel room with no case and no leads, he had nothing to do but stare at the wall and listen to the creeping silence in his own head. 

The research he’d been doing on the apocalypse was mind-numbing, full of loose ends and grim inevitabilities, and every passing day left him feeling more useless. The knowledge that he was Lucifer’s vessel—that the devil himself could take hold of his body whenever he chose—left him feeling powerless. Every day, he was terrified of what he might become. The darkness was always there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for any moment of weakness.

And lately, that darkness had been calling to him in Lucifer’s voice more and more.

The Devil’s words seeped into his brain day in and day out, tugging at the fraying seams of his mind. They left him feeling him hopeless, twisted words slithering into his brain, telling him there was no escape. And maybe there wasn’t. Maybe it was too late. 

Sam flipped his knife absently in his hand, the worn handle molded to his grip after years of use. The repetitive motion usually soothed him, but right now, even something so familiar failed to combat the fear swimming in his gut.

It terrified Sam to know he was loosing control—to know he was helpless to stop it—and so he spiraled. He could feel the old hunger—the addiction he thought he was free from after so many months clean—start to haunt him again. It began subtly, a faint tingle in his fingers as he recalled the power once coursing through him. But now, it was overwhelming, consuming his every thought. But then, his mind jumped to an alternative: death.

The world would be better off without me in it.

The thought came fast, slicing through the fog in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. It scared him how easily it settled into place, or worse, how quickly it felt right. It had never felt like that before. Usually, those types of thoughts scared him, but now it felt like he was staring freedom in the face.

The knife stopped flipping. Sam stared at the steel, the way the dim motel light glinted off its surface. It had been a gift from Dean, and Sam had never gone on a hunt without it. But now, as he looked down at it, it felt foreign, wrong. How could he have used this blade to kill so many monsters without once considering that the person wielding it might be just as bad?

Without thinking, he dragged the edge across his forearm. The sting was immediate, the shallow cut welling with blood. It wasn’t deep—just enough to feel it, to feel something. The air against the wound made him shudder, the sensation making him feel more alive then he had in weeks. The blood pooled, dark and rich against his skin, and for the briefest moment, Sam felt a twisted sense of control. 

He watched the rivulets begin to drip down his arm, frowning. It didn’t look evil. Then again, all blood looked the same when it was spilled. Good or evil, at the end of the day, even monsters bled red.

Almost instinctively, he lifted his arm toward his lips, desperate to feel the fleeting rush of control, the kind he used to feel with Ruby. The metallic taste flooded his tongue, but before he could fully register it, he felt something hard press against his thigh.

His free hand fumbled into his pocket, pulling out his sobriety chip—worn but still intact, its edges smooth from months of handling.

The weight hit him like a freight train.

Sam stared at the chip in one hand, the blood on the other. His stomach turned. A choked sob wrenched out of him as he realized what he was doing. The taste of blood turned rancid on his tongue, and he spat into his palm, nauseated. The knife slipped from his fingers onto the mattress with a dull thunk.

Blood dripped from between his fingers and traced lines down his arm. He watched with fascinated horror.

What the hell was he doing?

What had he let himself become?

 How could he crave something he knew was poisoning him?

His breath came in shallow, panicked gasps as he pressed his fingers to the cut and rushed to the bathroom. He wrench the faucet on, shoving his arm under the stream. Water ran over his arm, mixing with the blood, swirling pink down the drain. If only it were that easy. If only he could just wash it all away. The motel soap burned as he scrubbed at the cut, but he didn’t stop until the water ran clear.

Slumping onto the bathroom floor, he pressed his fists into his eyes, willing the tears away. He’d sworn he was past this. He’d fought so damn hard to claw his way out of that pit. It might not have been demon blood he drank, but he still slipped. And knowing how desperate he was for it to be the real thing terrified him more than anything. 

His phone was in his pocket. He toggled to Dean’s name, then Bobby’s.

He didn’t call.

They wouldn’t get it. If they knew he’d screwed up again, Sam didn’t think he’d ever stand a chance at fixing things. 

Sam swallowed hard, shoving the phone back into his jacket. He had to fix this himself.

With a shuddering breath, he grabbed his keys and drove to the only place that still felt safe. 

The small community center just outside Huxley had been his anchor, even if he’d been avoiding it for weeks. Even now, as he drove in that direction, he was afraid of what would happen when he walked through those doors—afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth. But he was even more afraid of what would happen if he kept bottling it up.

Still, when he got there, he hesitated. He sat in the parking lot, gripping the wheel until his fingers ached. Eventually though, he found the courage to walk through those doors.

By the time he made it inside, the meeting was already underway. Sam quietly pulled up a chair, avoiding eye contact as he took his seat. The others in the circle were sharing their stories, their voices low and somber, the weight of their struggles hanging in the air. Sam kept his head down, listening, absorbing, and trying to forget the haunting sensation of his own blood on his tongue.

When his turn came, he barely found his voice.

“I’m… Sam,” he said hoarsely. “And I haven’t been doing great.”

A few murmurs of understanding rippled through the circle, quiet and accepting.

Sam took a breath, his fingers clenching in his lap. “Before I came here, I… I had a drink.” His throat tightened. “I thought I needed it. Thought it would make everything hurt less. But that was just another lie I told myself. The second I tasted it, I spat it out, but…” His voice cracked. “I guess I’m not better after all.”

Tears burned in his eyes, but he forced himself to look up, meeting the gazes of the others in the room.

“So, um… hi,” he whispered. “My name is Sam, and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Sam,” the woman leading the meeting responded, the chorus of voices following. “We’re glad to have you here with us.”

After the meeting, Sam lingered in his seat, unsure of where to go next. He didn’t want to go back to the motel, didn’t trust himself alone.

A familiar hand landed gently on his shoulder. Sam flinched.

“You want to talk about what happened?” Isaiah asked, settling into the chair beside him.

Sam shrugged, staring at the floor. “Scared the hell outta me,” he admitted. “Didn’t even realize what I was doing until I—” He swallowed hard. “Now I’m back where I started. Feels like all the work I did to get sober was for nothing.”

Isaiah shook his head. “Slipping up doesn’t erase your progress, Sam. It means you’re human. Each time you get sober, you learn a little more about yourself, so the next time you’re better equipped to handle it when things get tough. You got yourself here tonight, didn’t you?”

Sam hesitated, then nodded.

“I’ve been thinking for so long that I need this to be okay,” he murmured. “That I have to drown myself in something to fix my problems. But every time I give in, I feel anything but okay. Like it’s turning me into someone I’m not. Someone I don’t want to be.”

Isaiah nodded. “That’s what addiction does. It warps your sense of self, makes you believe you’re nothing without it. But you are something, Sam. You are so much more than your addiction. You’re here. You’re trying. That’s what matters.” He gave Sam’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “It’s not about falling off the wagon. It’s about getting back on. Every single time.”

Chapter Text

Ever since Sam had committed to going to meetings more regularly, he had started to feel a small sense of stability he hadn’t thought possible. Meeting by meeting, he chipped away at the layers of isolation he had built around himself, and even though each time felt like peeling off a layer of his skin—exposing the raw wounds underneath—he kept going back. Listening to others share their stories, he learned to open up, to confess his darkest urges and regrets, even if just in pieces.

Still, his recovery was far from linear. Some days, he walked into the room feeling like he could finally shake this. Other days, shame buried him so deep he could barely force the words out. But over the course of a several months, Sam grew a little more certain that he could be in control of his life, that he could do something to help himself before it was too late.

But Sam could never tell the whole truth, not to a room full of civilians, and that weighed on him. Sure, they all understood what addiction was like, but none of them were carrying a secret as life-altering and horrifying as being Lucifer’s perfect vessel.

Honesty, Sam learned, was a big part of recovery. And if he was going to stay clean, he needed to tell Dean and Bobby the truth.

The thought made his stomach twist. He had no idea how they would react. Bobby had always told him he’d be there for him no matter what, but there had to be limits—and Lucifer was probably one of them. And Dean? Sam had spent the last six months proving to his brother that he wasn’t a monster. This conversation could undo all of that.

He didn’t get to decide when it happened.

It landed in his lap late one night at Bobby’s kitchen table.

They were buried in research, surrounded by the scent of old books and stale coffee. Dean nursed a beer, flipping through another dead-end lead. Bobby muttered under his breath as he skimmed ancient lore. Sam combed through online archives, his fingers hovering over the keyboard, mind somewhere else entirely.

Then, Dean slammed his hand on the table.

“We’ve been at this for months now, and we’re no closer to finding and trapping Lucifer.”

Sam flinched at the name. His palms were sweating, fists clenching under the table. He swallowed hard.

“There’s something I need to tell you both,” he said, voice quiet.

Bobby and Dean turned to him.

“I found something… or at least, I think I did.”

“Well, spit it out,” Dean shouted impatiently.

Sam forced himself to meet their eyes. “When I was detoxing, I—I saw Dad.” He watched as Dean tensed, his face unreadable. “But it wasn’t him. It was… Lucifer.”

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy.

“He told me that I was his perfect vessel,” Sam continued, his voice strained. “And, Dean… you’re Michael’s.”

Bobby’s brow furrowed. “Michael? Like, the archangel?”

Sam nodded, dread coiling in his gut. “We’re weapons for their war.”

The silence was suffocating.

Dean’s jaw clenched. “You weren’t in your right mind, Sammy. The demon blood made you see things that weren’t real.”

Sam shook his head. “I wanted to believe that for so long,” he admitted. “But it’s the truth. I… can hear him sometimes. His voice in my head, taunting me.”

“Sam,” Dean said seriously. “Are you drinking demon blood again?”

Sam’s eyes flashed with hurt, and he looked up at his brother. “No. I’m clean. I swear.”

Bobby exhaled, rubbing his face. “I think he’s tellin’ the truth,” he muttered. He gave Sam a once over. “You look scared half to death, kid, and I don’t know much else other than you’re daddy and the devil that would get you worked up like that.”

“Lucifer’s vessel,” Dean repeated, his voice cold and disbelieving. “You’re telling me that the Satan himself is after you—wants to wear you as his meat suit?”

Sam nodded slowly. “And I don’t think I’ll be able to keep him out when he comes for me.”

“Jesus, boy,” Bobby said, scratching his head. “You can’t catch a damn break, can ya?” He tried to keep his voice steady. “We need get him back in the Cage before that happens.” He tossed an unopened book to Sam. “Better keep reading.”

Sam felt a glimmer of hope at Bobby’s words, but before he could respond, Dean’s voice cut through the room like a knife.

“You lied to us,” Dean spat. “You kept this from us for months.”

Sam’s chest tightened. “I wasn’t sure if—”

Dean cut him off, his voice rising. “You said you were getting better! How the hell am I supposed to trust you when you keep lying?”

“I am getting better, Dean!” Sam’s voice cracked. “But you said it yourself—I was seeing things that weren’t real. I… I didn’t know if what I heard was the truth.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Dammit, Sam! If you had just listened to me, none of this would’ve happened.”

Bobby shot Dean a warning look, but Dean ignored him, eyes burning into Sam.

“You know what? I’m done fixing your mistakes.” His voice was sharp, bitter. “I’m tired of steering you in the right direction just for you to ignore me. You’re so caught up in your self-righteous bullshit, you don’t even see the damage you’ve done.”

Sam clenched his fists at his sides. “You think I wanted any of this?”

“Maybe not,” Dean replied, his tone harsh and cutting, “but you let it happen. And now, thanks to you, the whole damn world is at stake. So excuse me if I don’t exactly feel sympathetic.”

“Dean, that’s enough! It’s not his fault you two were chosen for some godly war,” Bobby cut in. “Arguing ain’t gonna help anyone. Sam came to us because he’s trying to make things right.”

Dean didn’t budge, his glare still fixed on Sam. “Make things right?” he scoffed. “He started the apocalypse , Bobby. He released the literal devil. ‘Making things right’ doesn’t cut it anymore.”

The words stung, and Sam felt his heart sink as he looked down, feeling that familiar wave of shame and helplessness wash over him. No matter how much he tried to do right, to stay on the right path, it never felt like enough. And Dean’s anger only confirmed what he’d been afraid of all along—that his own brother saw him as a ticking time bomb. Someone who was bound to fail.

“I need to talk to Cas. Figure out what the hell is going on, ‘cause clearly you haven’t been much help in that department.”

Seconds later, Cas appeared behind Dean, his brow furrowed, face serious.

“Hello, Dean.

Dean jumped. “Jesus, Cas! Give a guy some warning.”

“You called for me,” Cas said as he titled his head, slightly puzzled by Dean’s reaction. “What is it that you need?”

“Sam said he saw Lucifer and—”

A brief flash of alarm passed over Cas’s face. “You saw Lucifer? When?” he demanded, turning his sharp gaze to Sam.

“The first time was when I was detoxing. He… spoke to me.”

Cas’s expression darkened. “So you know of his plan then? For you and your brother?”

Sam nodded, throat dry. “We’re meant to be vessels. Perfect vessels.”

“Your entire lives have culminated to this moment. Humans believe they have free will when, in fact, their fates are, in large part, already decided. You were both doomed from the moment you were born.”

Sam blinked. “So the demon blood… that wasn’t my fault?”

“Your actions and strong morals made it challenging for the demon blood to influence you, but Lucifer is powerful, even when he was contained. The fragmented peace you have now is merely bait, a temporary illusion of normalcy. Soon, Lucifer will come for you, and Michael for Dean. Which is why we must stop them.”

As much as Sam wanted to feel relieved that this wasn’t his fault, it was more terrifying to know that his choices had never really been his own.

“You didn’t think that maybe that was important information to share with the class before today?” Dean yelled in Cas’s face. Cas remained stoic. “You let us chase leads about stopping the apocalypse and didn’t think to mention that everything we were doing was for nothing?”

“I did not wish to burden you with something you could not change.”

“How the hell are we supposed to stop anything if every choice we make is meaningless?”

“There is much Heaven does not know about you. You are both powerful. If anyone can change their fate, I believe it to be the two of you.”

And just like that, Castiel was gone.

“Great,” Dean scoffed. “Drops that bomb on us and bails. Real helpful. What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

Bobby sighed. “We keep researchin’. We keep huntin’. We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

A tense silence fell over them before Sam spoke, soft and broken. “I need you to both promise me something.”

“What’s that, boy?”

“Promise me that if Lucifer gets me—when he gets me…” He looked up, meeting both of their eyes with the most conviction he’d had in a while. “That you’ll put a bullet in my brain. Do whatever it takes to kill me so I don’t come back.”

“Sam—” Bobby started.

“No. I need you to promise me. Both of you.”

“You know we can’t promise that, kid.”

Dean shook his head. “I’d rather die.”

Sam locked on to his brother’s eyes, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Don’t let me become more of a monster than I already am. Please.”

Dean’s eyes widened. After all the years of protecting Sam, of telling him he’d be there no matter what—when his brother needed him most, he’d turned on him, called him a monster. And now, that had settled deep, weighing on his psyche and becoming what Sam feared most.

“Dean, please .”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean said shakily, his own tears flowing. “I promise.”

Sam nodded firmly and looked to Bobby.

“Kid…” Bobby said one last time, his eyes pleading. Sam didn’t budge. “Yeah… I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then, before either of them could take it back, he left, and spent the evening holed up in one of the upstairs bedrooms, sobbing himself to sleep.

~~~

Sam opened his eyes to the dark bedroom, his body stiff and unyielding. The room around him was distorted in the moonlight, almost as if it wasn’t quite real. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t move. Panic coiled in his chest, cold and suffocating. Then, a voice—smooth, familiar, and terrifying—echoed inside his head.

“Sam! How’ve you been?”

Sam’s throat tightened. He fought to force out the name. “Lucifer,” he rasped, his voice a strangled whisper, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

“Been a while since I paid you a visit, Sam. I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten about you,” Lucifer drawled, his tone almost affectionate. “Soon, I’ll be taking permanent residence here inside your nice, warm body.”

Sam’s breath hitched, fear prickling along his spine. “I won’t let you use me,” he spat.

Suddenly, a shadow materialized in Sam’s vision—tall, looming, with glowing red eyes. The air around him grew thick, suffocating.

“Aw, it’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “I’m stronger than you.”

Lucifer chuckled, the sound slithering under Sam’s skin. “Whatever helps you sleep at night… oh wait, I’m here for that too.”

Sam’s body trembled, his skin crawling as those glowing eyes bore into him. 

“I’ve got plans for you, Sam. Big plans, ” Lucifer murmured, his voice almost gentle, as if he were speaking to a beloved friend. “So don’t worry. You’ll be magnificent. You were made for this, after all. You’re perfect. So don’t let anyone rough you up too much before I get you. I don’t want damaged goods.”

Sam’s stomach twisted, nausea rising. He blinked—and the red eyes vanished, leaving only darkness. But from the void, a whisper slithered through the silence.

“See you soon, Sammy.”

With a strangled cry, Sam jerked awake, his eyes snapping open as he shot up in bed, drenched in sweat. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and he struggled to catch his breath, his hands gripping the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He reached under his pillow, pulling out his gun with one hand as he flipped on the lamp with the other. The room was empty. No red eyes, no shadows. Just him. Just a nightmare.

But soon, he knew, that could become his reality.

Sam’s shaking hands dropped to his lap, and his gaze fell on his arm, where a faint scar still remained, raised and white.

Damaged goods.

Maybe this was the answer. If he could make himself less than perfect, maybe Lucifer would no longer want him as his vessel. Maybe he could break whatever made him right for this. He didn’t know if it would work—he didn’t even know if anything he did mattered anymore, now that he knew how little of his life had been left to chance—but he needed to try.

Before he could second-guess himself, he grabbed his knife from the nightstand and pressed the blade against his skin, watching as it bit into his arm, releasing a thin line of red. The pain was grounding, solid. It dulled the storm of emotions swirling inside him, quieted the fear.

He cut again, harder this time, his breath hitching as blood pooled and slipped down his skin. The sting was sharp but familiar. Reassuring. It was the one thing he could control

As the cuts multiplied, his mind grew hazy, his breaths shallow, his body weakening from blood loss. But there was a strange sense of peace here—a feeling that, for once, he had the power. Over himself. Over his body. Over his fate.

His head spun, and for a fleeting moment, he considered finishing it. He’d killed monsters for years. He knew where to cut to make it quick. But a flicker of fear stopped him. He knew too well that death wasn’t an escape. The dead never stayed dead. And the possibilities of what that could mean for him were terrifying.

Hours later, Sam found himself in the bathroom, the cuts cleaned and wrapped. He didn’t remember doing it, but the bloody droplets on the sink and smeared fingerprints on the wall told him it hadn’t been easy. He braced himself against the counter, head swimming.

He’d have to clean up the evidence in the morning, but he was too exhausted to worry about that now. 

Instead, he pulled on a sweatshirt and sank into bed. His skin burned, but his mind was quiet.

For now, he had created a flaw—a defiance against the fate that had claimed him. And as he closed his eyes again, he let himself enjoy the silence, knowing he had taken some control back, however dark that control was.

Chapter Text

The feeling of being in control was addicting.

Sam found himself marring his skin almost nightly, most of the time without even thinking about what he was doing. Another dead end? Cut. A nightmare? Cut. A fight with Dean? Cut. His skin became his own personal tally board, marking every failure, every frustration, every ounce of pain he couldn’t voice aloud.

It wasn’t a permanent solution. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that. But it was working right now.

And as long as Dean and Bobby didn’t know about it, he figured it wasn’t a problem.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d spent months getting clean, fighting his way through detox, clawing back control of his life, only to fall into this. He told himself it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t addiction, not really. It was different from the demon blood. This—this he could stop whenever he wanted.

Except he didn’t want to.

And deep down, he knew that was the problem.

He had a feeling Castiel knew. The angel’s gaze lingered too long, his piercing blue eyes reading Sam’s soul like an open book. But Castiel never said anything, never confronted him, never demanded an explanation. Sam figured he didn’t care.

Why would he?

To Castiel, Sam was an abomination, a tainted thing walking around in borrowed time. If anything, maybe Castiel saw this as a solution. A broken vessel was a useless vessel, after all. If carving into his own skin made Sam less desirable to Lucifer, wasn’t that a good thing?

And that was the worst part—Sam was glad Castiel didn’t stop him.

At least there was Bobby’s house.

It was the only place that had ever felt like home, the only constant in a life that had been dictated by motels, monster hunts, and the looming threat of the end of the world. Bobby’s place smelled like old books and gun oil and safety. No matter how bad things got, at least he had that.

That, and the meetings.

Twice a week, he’d take one of Bobby’s junkyard cars and drive to the next state over, claiming he had a lead. No one questioned it. It was easier that way. He wasn’t ready for the conversation that would happen if Dean or Bobby ever found out where he was really going.

So he kept his head down, kept his arms covered by layers of flannel and Carhartt to hide the fresh lines of red, and kept moving.

The cycle was relentless. Cut, feel relief, drown in guilt, drag himself to a meeting, listen just enough to remind himself he wasn’t alone, go home, repeat.

He didn’t talk much in the meetings, but even just sitting there, hearing other people share their struggles, helped. Gave him something to hold onto when the weight of everything threatened to crush him.

And then there was Isaiah.

Sam wasn’t sure why he trusted him. Maybe it was the way Isaiah never pushed, never pried, never expected more than what Sam was willing to give. Maybe it was the way he looked a Sam like he was whole. Human and flawed, but beautiful in his own right. Maybe it was the humor—the way he could always slip in a joke to cut through the tension in the room, the same way Dean used to before everything fell apart. 

It made Sam feel… safe.

Or as safe as he could feel these days.

“You’ve been sober for six months now,” Isaiah said one night, a warm smile on his face as he sat beside Sam. “Congratulations.”

He reached out, giving Sam’s arm a friendly pat.

The second his palm made contact, pain shot up Sam’s arm. A sharp, burning reminder of what he had done the night before. Instinct took over, and he flinched, jerking away before he could stop himself.

Isaiah’s smile faded. His gaze flickered to Sam’s sleeve, the realization settling in his eyes.

“I see.” He let out a slow, sad sigh. “You switched one vice for another.”

Sam felt his stomach drop.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sam muttered, forcing his face into a mask of confusion.

Isaiah didn’t buy it.

“How long has this been going on?” His voice was gentle, but firm.

Sam didn’t answer.

Isaiah leaned in slightly, eyes locked onto Sam’s. “How long have you been hurting yourself, Sam?”

Sam choked on his breath. He knew he wasn’t talking his way out of this one.

Still, he only gave a half-answer. “It’s… complicated.”

Isaiah nodded, like he had already expected that response. “Complicated doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”

Sam looked away, jaw tightening.

“I get why you’re doing it,” Isaiah continued. “Believe me, I do. But this will kill you.”

Sam scoffed. “I’ve got it under control.”

“For now. But what happens when the relief isn’t enough? When you have to start doing more just to feel okay?”

Sam hesitated. He had thought about that. He just… didn’t have a good answer.

Isaiah leaned forward, his voice dropping to something softer. “You gotta get a handle on this, kid. This? This isn’t healing. It might feel like it now, but it’s not.”

Sam swallowed hard. “So what? You saying I need to see a shrink?”

“I’m saying you need help.” Isaiah exhaled slowly. “I know sometimes it’s hard to admit that to yourself, so take it from me. Get the help you need before you’re taken from this world before you get to pour all your goodness into it.”

Sam flinched. “I don’t have any goodness to give, Isaiah.” His voice cracked slightly. “No matter how hard I try, I always screw up. I just… I make everything worse.”

Isaiah’s expression softened. “None of that.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m a pathetic, worthless freak.”

Isaiah’s voice was firm. “Now, I don’t know who put all that crap in your head, but it’s not true.”

Isaiah leaned forward in his chairs, elbows resting on his knees as he kept his eyes fixed on Sam. “Put your fingers to your neck. Find your heartbeat.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Just do it.”

Confused, Sam lifted two fingers to his throat, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin.

“Feel that?” Isaiah asked. “That’s worth something. Your life is worth something. You are worth something.”

Sam closed his eyes for a moment.

“A beating heart doesn’t make me a good person.”

“Maybe not,” Isaiah admitted. “But it means you’re still here. And as long as you’re here, you have a chance to prove yourself wrong.” He reached across the space between them, giving Sam’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Give yourself some grace, kid. From what you’ve said at these meetings, it sounds like you’ve been through a lot, and despite that, you wake up and try to be a better man than you were the day before. That’s not pathetic, it’s admirable.”

Tears stung Sam’s eyes.

Isaiah stood, sensing that Sam needed space. “You on your own tonight?”

Sam shook his head. “I got my brother and my uncle back at home.”

Isaiah nodded. “Good. Don’t try to face this alone. It’ll only send you spiraling.” He gave Sam a small smile. “Be safe, Sam.”

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Yeah. You too.”

And then Isaiah was gone, leaving Sam alone in the room, surrounded by empty chairs and the echoes of his words.

Maybe he should go back to therapy. It had helped back then, so maybe it could help again now. But things now were so much worse than they had been when he was in college.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he was struggling. Barely keeping his head above water.

The desire to give in came in surges, stronger than he’d expected. His yearning for death clawed at him, whispering promises of freedom and peace, a dark siren call that made his whole body ache.

And the self-harm… helped. Or at least, it gave him that illusion. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal, that he knew what he was doing. That he was careful. That he knew where to cut so it wasn’t too bad. He justified it by saying it kept Lucifer away, made him feel more in control. But deep down, he knew it was just another excuse. He knew this wasn’t something he could just shrug off. 

It was like all the work he’d done in college had gone out the window and now, once again, he was trapped in a spiral of depression—an insidious erosion of energy and joy—and he felt powerless to stop it.

I need to go back to therapy.

The thought surfaced before he could shove it down.

But then, just as quickly, he dismissed it.

He didn’t have time for therapy.

How could he focus on himself when the world was ending? When Lucifer was still out there, waiting for him? When every lead they had fell apart in their hands?

He just didn’t have time for this.

Sam got up from his chair and rushed out to the car, fighting the anxiety attack clawing at his chest. He slid into the front seat and closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He pushed his feelings back down, forced them into the darkest corners of his mind, out of sight and undealt with. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it. And if he had to keep doing it to save the world, so be it.

When he opened his eyes, he started the engine, focusing on the growl of the old car’s motor.

He could deal with this later.

For now, all he could do was keep going.

One agonizing day at a time.

Chapter Text

Sam sat on the curb outside the motel, elbows braced on his knees, his fingers tangled in his hair. The air was cold, biting against his skin, but he barely felt it. His breath came out in slow, misty exhales, the quiet pressing in around him. The parking lot was mostly empty, save for the Impala sitting a few feet away, its dark silhouette solid and unyielding under the flickering streetlights. It should’ve been comforting—something familiar, something steady—but tonight, it felt like a ghost of the past, a relic of a life he wasn’t sure he belonged to anymore.

And maybe he didn’t.

What was supposed to be an easy hunt, one where Sam could regain Dean’s trust in the field, had gone sideways. Sam had failed yet again, the ache of his shortcomings curling in his chest like rot. He was supposed to save people. That was the job. That was the whole damn point. But despite his best efforts a girl still died, and it was his fault.

Dean hadn’t said as much, but Sam saw it in his eyes. He felt it in the heavy silence in the car ride back, in the way his brother wouldn’t look at him, in the tension that hung thick between them. Sam had barely lasted five minutes inside the tense motel room before he muttered something about needing space and walked out.

But no amount of fresh air could clear his head.

Eventually, he forced himself to his feet, the stiffness in his legs barely registering. The motel door creaked when he pushed it open, and sure enough, Dean was right where Sam had left him—sitting at the small wooden table by the window, nursing a beer. He wasn’t watching TV, wasn’t flipping through a book or cleaning a gun. He was just sitting there, staring down at the bottle in his hand.

His eyes flicked up as Sam stepped inside. “Where’ve you been?”

Sam shrugged, shutting the door behind him. “Needed some air.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head slightly, studying Sam like he was waiting for him to slip up. “Air? Or something else?”

The implication made Sam’s stomach twist. His jaw clenched as he stared at his brother, trying to keep his voice even. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean stood suddenly, setting the beer down with a sharp thunk. “You know exactly what it means. Don’t play dumb with me, Sam. Are you back on the demon blood?”

The accusation hit like a slap. Sam sucked in a sharp breath, his chest going tight. Anger flared, hot and defensive. “No,” he snapped. “I’m not. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Dean took a step closer, his expression hard. “Can you blame me? After everything? After what you did?”

Sam felt his pulse hammering against his ribs. “I’m trying, Dean! I’m doing the best I can, and all you ever do is tear me down. You think I don’t hate myself enough already?”

Dean’s face twisted with anger, but there was something else there too—pain, raw and unfiltered. His voice dropped, tight and trembling. “You think I don’t want to believe you, Sam? You think I’ve been doing this because it’s fun? I’ve stood by you through everything. I’ve fought for you, bled for you, lied for you. Hell, I went to Hell for you. And you… you keep making me feel like none of it even matters.”

Sam’s stomach sank, his anger colliding with guilt. “Dean, I—”

“Can you look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t been itching for another hit?”

The question knocked the wind out of him. Sam opened his mouth—closed it. He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell Dean what he wanted to hear. But the truth was lodged too deep in his throat, too real to ignore.

Dean scoffed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Dean—” Sam started.

“No,” Dean interrupted, his voice sharp. “I’m not done. I can’t keep doing this, Sam. I can’t keep watching you spiral and pretending I’m not scared out of my goddamn mind. You may be my flesh and blood but…” His voice broke, and he took a shaky breath. “But you haven’t been my brother for a long time.”

Sam flinched at his words.

Dean’s eyes glistened, his expression a heartbreaking mixture of anger and hurt. He reached up and wrapped his fingers around the amulet hanging from his neck—the same one Sam had given him when they were kids.

Sam felt his breath catch.

He watched, frozen, as Dean yanked it off. The cord snapped, the small, tarnished charm dangling in his brother’s fingers. Dean stared at it for a long moment, clenching his jaw to choke back his emotions.

Then he walked to the trash can and dropped it in.

The metallic clink echoed in the room.

Sam’s whole body locked up. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He just stood there, staring at the amulet—at everything it meant, everything they were—lying at the bottom of a motel trash can.

Dean didn’t look at him as he grabbed his jacket and stormed out. The door slammed behind him.

The silence left in his wake was deafening.

Sam sank to his knees, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The weight of the moment crushed him, pressing him further into the spiral he’d been trying to claw his way out of.

Minutes passed, maybe hours, as he tried to figure out how the hell he was supposed to keep it together when there was no one left on his side. His chest ached, a slow, crushing pain that pressed down on his ribs. His eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. He just… felt empty.

His legs moved on autopilot, carrying him into the bathroom. His fingers trembled as he dug through his kit, pulling out the razor tucked beneath layers of bandages and aspirin bottles. He hadn’t touched it in over a month. He’d been trying. He really had. But tonight, the hunger was too strong.

The first cut was shallow, barely more than a scratch. The pain bloomed sharp and immediate, cutting through the suffocating fog in his mind. It wasn’t about punishment—it hadn’t been for a long time. It was about control. In a life where everything felt dictated by forces beyond him, this was the one thing he could own.

More lines followed, crossing over old scars that had faded but never truly disappeared. The blood welled up in thin, crimson trails, tracing a map of his failure. Each one was a reminder, a mark he couldn’t hide, couldn’t run from.

His body sagged against the bathtub, exhaustion washing over him like a tide. The razor slipped from his fingers, clattering against the tile. The sting lingered, but the relief was already fading, replaced by something worse.

Guilt.

Regret.

Hopelessness.

His head dropped back against the tub’s porcelain edge. His arms rested limply on his knees, blood drying against his skin. His mind replayed the moment over and over—the sound of the amulet hitting the trash can, the look on Dean’s face when he said those words, the slam of the door as he walked away. The screams of the girl he didn’t save.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut but all he could see was the world crumbling around him because of the apocalypse he started. The weight of his inadequacy smothered him, cutting off his air supply each time he thought he’d get a breath in. 

And as he sat there tears streaming down his cheeks, he wondered if he had the strength to carry on or if he was simply no longer worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

Morning came too soon.

Sunlight seeped through the thin motel curtains, harsh and uninvited, burning against Sam’s exhausted eyes. He hadn't slept. Not really. Just drifted in and out of a restless haze, trapped between nightmares and the gnawing ache of reality. His body felt stiff and sore with deep-seated grief.

The motel room was eerily silent. Dean’s bed was still empty, the covers untouched. Sam didn’t know if that made it better or worse. Part of him had hoped Dean would come back last night, that the anger would have burned out, leaving room for something—anything—besides the cold divide between them.

But he hadn’t.

Sam sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the nightstand. His phone lay there, screen cracked from too many rough landings, a reminder of how fragile everything was. It had rung earlier, vibrating against the cheap wood, but Sam hadn't been able to answer. He had barely been able to move.

Now, as it buzzed again, he exhaled sharply and reached for it, his movements sluggish. Bobby’s name flashed across the screen.

Sam hesitated, fingers hovering over the answer button. Then, with a heavy sigh, he pressed it to his ear.

“Hey, Bobby,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

“How are you holding up, kid?” Bobby’s gruff voice carried warmth and concern, but it only made the knot in Sam’s chest tighten. “Heard you and your brother got into it last night.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Not great,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “It was bad, Bobby. He—” His breath hitched, and he ran a hand down his face. “He ripped off the amulet. Threw it away.”

A pause.

Sam closed his eyes, already knowing how it would sound. But he said it anyway. “He said I haven’t been his brother for a long time.”

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy, stretching between them like a chasm.

Finally, Bobby let out a slow, measured breath. “Damn fool,” he muttered, and for a moment Sam wasn’t sure if he was talking about Dean or him.

“Sam, listen to me,” Bobby continued, his tone gruff but steady. “You know your brother. He’s hotheaded. He says things he don’t mean when he’s pissed. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He’ll come around.”

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t think so this time, Bobby. I think… I think I broke us. Whatever bond we had left, I’ve ruined it.”

Bobby scoffed. “Now, hold on just a damn minute.”

Sam flinched at the sharpness in his voice.

“This ain’t all on you. You’ve made mistakes, sure. But so has Dean. Don’t forget—he broke the first seal. He set this whole apocalypse train in motion same as you did. You ain’t the only one carrying that weight.”

Sam clenched his jaw, but the words burrowed deep. It didn’t change anything. Didn’t make the hole in his chest feel any less hollow.

His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’m so tired, Bobby.”

Bobby was quiet for a beat. Then, “I know, kid.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the phone tighter. “I try so hard. I do everything I can to fix things, but it never matters. It always turns to ash.” His throat burned, and he choked on the words, his breath stuttering. “I’m just… so tired of being a failure.”

Bobby softened. “Sam, you’re not a failure. You’re human. And you’re carrying more than anybody should have to. You need a break, son. Why don’t you come here? Stay at my place for a while. Clear your head.”

Sam shook his head again, silent tears now streaming down his face. “I’m done dragging the people I love down with me, Bobby. I can’t… I can’t keep doing this.”

“Sam—”

But Sam ended the call before Bobby could say more.

The phone buzzed again. And again.

Eventually, Sam silenced it and headed to the bathroom to clean up his arms. He unrolled a small med kit from his duffel, cleaned and bandaged the cuts with mechanical precision, his face expressionless as he worked. Once he was done, he packed up his things, sanitized the bathroom, and headed out. 

He didn’t know where he was going at first, but as the miles stretched out before him, his destination became clear: the small community center just outside Huxley.

~~~

Sam arrived late to the meeting, slipping into the back of the room as someone else was speaking. He kept his head down, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. When it was his turn, he hesitated, his throat tightening. Finally, he stood, his voice a mere mumble.

“I’m Sam.” The words felt foreign in his mouth. He swallowed hard and forced himself to continue. “And I… I’m not doing great.”

A symphony of soft greetings washed over him, but they did little to ease the tension in his chest. He took a shaky breath. “I was doing okay for a while. Keeping busy. Staying on track. But… I feel like I’ve lost my support system. And without that, it just… it doesn’t feel worth it anymore.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “None of it feels worth it.”

He sat down quickly, his hands trembling in his lap.

The group murmured their understanding, but they didn’t know. They thought he was talking about staying sober.

He was talking about staying alive.

He bolted the second the meeting ended.

But before he could make it to his car, a voice stopped him.

“Sam, wait up.”

He turned to see Isaiah approaching, his expression calm but concerned.

“You okay?” Isaiah asked.

Sam forced a weak smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

Isaiah studied him for a moment. Then, casually, “You eaten today?”

Sam blinked. “Uh. No. Not really.”

Isaiah nodded toward his car. “Let’s go grab a bite. It’s on me.”

Sam hesitated. He wanted to say no. Wanted to find a motel, lock the door, let the darkness swallow him whole.

But something about Isaiah’s steady presence made him pause.

Finally, he nodded. “Okay.”

~~~

The diner was small and unassuming, the kind of place Sam wouldn’t have noticed on his own. 

They slid into a booth, and Isaiah ordered coffee and pancakes for both of them before turning his full attention to Sam.

“So,” Isaiah began. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”

Sam shook his head, staring into his coffee. “Not much to tell,” he said. “Just been a rough few days.”

Isaiah didn’t push him. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “You know, I had this friend a while back. Younger than me, a good guy. But he… he always felt like he was falling short. No matter what he did, he thought he wasn’t good enough. I’d try to tell him it wasn’t true, but he didn’t believe me.” Isaiah’s gaze softened, and he smiled faintly. “One day, I told him, ‘It doesn’t matter if you’re perfect. What matters is that you’re here.’ Took him a long time to believe it, but eventually, he did. And you know what? Things got better.”

Sam looked up, his throat tight. “Yeah?”

Isaiah nodded. “Yeah. But he didn’t do it alone. He stuck around because he let people help him. Sometimes, that’s all you need—just to let someone be there for you.”

They finished their meal in relative silence, but just Isaiah’s presence was enough to temporarily distract him from all the pain.

But then the meal ended, and Sam was left to hop in his car and head to the nearest shady motel with a vacancy. He sat on the worn bed, a bottle of cheap whiskey in his hand. He’d bought it on the way, intending to drown himself in it, to let it numb the crushing weight of his despair. But as he stared at the amber liquid, Isaiah’s words echoed in his mind.

What matters is that you’re here.

He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, the burn in his throat a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest.

“Still waiting for that ‘yes,’ Sammy.”

Sam flinched violently at Lucifer’s voice in his head.

He took another swig, his hand tightening around the bottle. Between Lucifer’s voice and the whispering urge to cut, Sam hardly knew what his own thoughts sounded like anymore. All he knew was he wanted to drown it all with alcohol

After a while, he found himself laughing, the sound bitter and hollow. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He went to AA meetings to cope with a non-alcohol addiction, and now he was using alcohol to stave it off. It wasn’t a perfect system. Hell, it wasn’t even a good one. But tonight, it was enough to keep him alive.

Sam slumped back on the bed, the whiskey bottle resting loosely in his hand. The room swam around him, the edges of his despair blurring into the haze of intoxication. 

Tomorrow would come, and with it, the same battles. But for now, he let himself fade into unconsciousness, bottle slipping from his hands and onto the floor as he held on to the faint echo of Isaiah’s words and the fragile hope that maybe, he could find his way out of the darkness.

Chapter Text

Dean didn’t make it far after storming out of the motel that night after his fight with Sam.

Less than a mile down the road, his stomach twisted with nausea, his body betraying him. The words he’d hurled at Sam echoed in his head, sharp and unforgiving.

“You haven’t been my brother for a long time.”

The bile rose fast, and he barely managed to pull the Impala over before stumbling out into the cold night air. His boots crunched against the gravel as he leaned out of the car, heaving until his stomach was empty, until there was nothing left but the raw burn of acid in his throat and the crushing weight of regret in his chest.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps.

For a long moment, he sat on the edge of the Impala’s seat, one foot planted on the ground, the other still inside the car. The night was quiet except for the faint hum of crickets and the distant rustle of trees. Dean’s hands trembled as he rested them on his knees.

He thought about turning around. Thought about driving back to the motel, waking Sam up, and trying to fix things before they spiraled any further. He could apologize. Tell Sam he didn’t mean it, that he was just angry and scared and didn’t know how else to handle it.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw clenching. Sam probably wouldn’t even listen. One look at Dean, and Sam would probably punch him square in the jaw. And maybe that was only fair. Maybe this was the time Dean had finally pushed too far.

Dean pulled himself together, slamming the door shut as he stared out at the dark road ahead. He couldn’t bring himself to go back there. He couldn’t risk seeing that look in Sammy’s eyes—the one that said Dean had failed him. So instead of turning back Dean just started the engine and drove, no destination, just away from here.

Away from Sam, the man he once called his brother.

~~~

Dean kept driving, letting the road blur beneath him, letting the hum of the engine drown out the thoughts clawing at his brain. He didn’t know where he was going—only that he couldn’t stay still.

It wasn’t until the sun was peeking over the horizon, bleeding orange and gold into the sky, that he realized where his subconscious had been steering him all along.

Bobby’s.

The salvage yard was still the same. Rusted-out cars stacked in uneven rows, the smell of old oil and metal thick in the air. It was familiar, almost comforting, but not enough to settle the storm inside him.

Dean found Bobby hunched over the table inside, surrounded by books and maps, his face set in that permanent scowl he wore when he was deep in research.

The old hunter didn’t even look up as Dean stepped inside.

“’Bout time you boys got here,” Bobby grunted. “Sick of being your damn research hound.” He turned a page in one of the books, his eyes flicking up briefly. Then he frowned. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of a chair before heading to the fridge. He grabbed a beer, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary.

“Not here,” he answered curtly, taking a long swig and dropping into a chair.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “And why the hell not?”

Dean exhaled hard through his nose. “We’re just… not talking.”

Bobby let out a frustrated sigh, slamming his book shut. “Jesus, boy. How many times we gotta do this? Last time you two weren’t talking, it damn near tore you both apart. You think ignoring him is gonna fix a damn thing?”

Dean took another drink, refusing to meet Bobby’s eyes.

“Whatever happened, just talk to him,” Bobby continued. “It’s that easy.”

Dean barked out a short, humorless laugh. “If he wants to talk to someone, he can go back to that shrink he saw in college. Maybe then he wouldn’t be such a mess.”

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Bobby’s glare could have melted steel.

“You think that’s funny?” Bobby’s voice was low, dangerous. “You boys have both been through shit that would send most people straight to the loony bin. So what if he needs a little extra help to work through it? That’s better than what you and I do. You think numbing yourself with liquor is a good long-term solution? That’s how you end up a bitter old bastard holed up in a salvage yard, researching because you’ve ruined your body too much to be out in the field.”

Dean bristled, his grip tightening on the bottle. “It’s not my job to fix him,” he said, his tone hard. “He made his choice when he went with Ruby.”

Bobby scoffed. “Still with the damn demon blood? He’s clean, Dean. And if he’s gonna stay clean, he needs you to stop treating him like he’s some kind of monster.”

Dean’s teeth clenched. “I can’t trust him. Not after what he did.”

Bobby’s expression darkened. “And how the hell is he supposed to trust you when all it takes is one damn fight for you to up and run?” He leaned forward, both hands planted on the table. “Take a good, long look in the mirror, boy. Bitch about it all you want, but you’re not mad at Sam—you’re mad at yourself.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby cut him off.

“And more than that, you’re scared.”

Dean froze.

“You’re scared because you no longer feel in control. You’re scared because for the first time in your life, you don’t know if you can save him. And instead of dealing with that, you’re pushing him away. You’re taking it out on him.”

Bobby’s words walloped him and suddenly Dean felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He reached for the amulet at his chest, the one he’d worn since he was a kid, the one he always fiddled with when he was overwhelmed.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach dropped, the realization of what he’d done slamming into him all at once.

He had thrown it away.

The one thing Sam had ever given him that mattered. The one thing that had symbolized what they had—what they used to have.

And now it was gone.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned. His fists clenched at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said bitterly, though he sounded unsure.

“I’m wrong about a lot of things, but this ain’t one of ‘em.” Bobby shot back. “You’re scared, Dean. You’re mad. And that’s okay. But if you don’t get a handle on this, you’re gonna lose him for good.”

Dean swallowed hard, his jaw locked tight. His instinct was to argue more, but the words didn’t come.

Because maybe Bobby was right.

Dean stood abruptly, shoving his chair back. He couldn’t stay here. Not with the weight of everything crushing him like a vice. Without another word, he turned and walked out, the screen door slamming shut behind him.

Once again, he had no idea where he was going. Only that he needed to move. Because if he stopped, if he let himself think too long about what he’d done, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it.

Chapter Text

Months had passed since Dean stormed out of that motel room, leaving behind a shattered bond and a silence so thick it had become a presence of its own. Neither he nor Sam had reached out—not directly, anyway. They had fallen into an uneasy pattern of indirect communication, using Bobby as their reluctant go-between.

Bobby had grumbled about it often enough, calling them both "pigheaded idjits" more times than either of them could count. But neither Sam nor Dean made any effort to change things. Maybe they were too stubborn. Maybe they were too afraid.

Sam stayed in Huxley, keeping his head down, focusing on the routine that kept him afloat. The town was small, but not too small, the kind of place where people didn’t ask too many questions and he could blend into the background. He set up a makeshift home base in a run-down motel, one that smelled of old carpet and cigarette smoke, but it was cheap, and more importantly, it was his.

He filled his days with research, piecing together omens and potential hunts, but he only took the ones he couldn’t avoid. The rest of the time, he went to meetings. It had started as a desperate attempt to regain control, to remind himself he could stop—could be something other than the thing he had become. Now, it was part of him. Something grounding, something real.

He still had bad days. Days where he felt like his skin was too tight, his hands too empty. Days where he had to white-knuckle through the cravings, gripping the arms of his chair in those dimly lit church basements while others shared their stories. But he was alive. And that, at least, was something.

He had Isaiah to thank for that. Whether the man knew it or not, he was the one that was keeping Sam going right now.

Sam's phone buzzed, shaking him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen.

Bobby.

A pit formed in his stomach before he even answered.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam said, keeping his voice even. "What’s up?"

Bobby didn’t waste time. "You need to get your ass to Sioux Falls. Now."

Sam sat up straighter. "What’s going on?" He was already reaching for his boots, tugging them on with quick, practiced movements.

"Things are heating up," Bobby said vaguely, voice clipped. "You might not be safe where you are. Just get here, Sam."

Sam didn’t argue. He grabbed his duffel, threw it into the passenger seat, and hit the road.

~~~

The drive to Sioux Falls was long, and the weight in his chest only grew heavier with every mile.

He had no idea what Bobby was so worried about, but the pit in his stomach told him it wasn’t about a run-of-the-mill hunt. Something was wrong.

The feeling only worsened when he pulled up to the house, his headlights cutting through the dim evening light.

And there it was. The Impala, parked right out front of the house. Sam gripped the steering wheel, his stomach twisting painfully. Dean.

He wasn’t ready for this. 

With a steadying breath, he climbed out of the car, his boots crunching against the gravel. His heart hammered against his ribs as he approached the house. Before he could knock, the door creaked open.

Bobby stood in the doorway, his expression grim. "Come on in."

Sam hesitated for only a second before stepping inside.

His eyes immediately landed on Dean, sitting at the kitchen table, his arms crossed, face unreadable. The sight of him—after all this time, after everything—hit Sam like a punch to the gut.

Dean looked… tired. Not just the usual road-weary exhaustion, but bone-deep. There were dark circles under his eyes, tension pulling at his jaw. But there was something else too. Something guarded.

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Sam forced himself to look away, turning to Bobby. "What’s going on?"

Bobby shut the door, then folded his arms. "What’s going on is you two idjits are too damn stubborn for your own good." His voice was sharp, his gaze flicking between them. "I’m tired of playing messenger, and I’m tired of watching you both screw up what matters most because you’re too busy wallowing in your damn feelings."

Sam opened his mouth to speak. So did Dean.

Bobby held up a hand. "Nope. You’re gonna sit there and listen," he barked. "Dean, You’ve been shoving all the blame on Sam like he’s the only one who’s screwed up. Newsflash, boy— you ain’t innocent in all this. If you hadn’t sold your damn soul, none of this would’ve happened in the first place."

Dean’s jaw tightened, his eyes darting away. 

Bobby turned to Sam. "And you—you’re lying to yourself and everyone else, acting like the demon blood is the whole damn story. You made bad choices, Sam. Own up to ‘em. You ain’t gonna fix a damn thing otherwise."

Sam swallowed, guilt clawing at his chest.

Bobby let out a long breath. "I love you boys, but you need to pull your heads outta your asses. And I swear, if I have to hear one more excuse about why you’re not picking up the damn phone, I will lose what little patience I got left."

He grabbed his hat off the counter and made for the door.

"I’ll be in the yard. You two figure it out."

The door slammed behind him, leaving them alone.

The silence was unbearable.

Sam stayed standing, arms crossed protectively over his chest. Dean shifted in his seat but didn’t look up.

"This is awkward," Dean muttered.

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. "Yeah. No kidding."

More silence. Sam finally blew out a breath and sat down across from Dean.

"I don’t blame you for not trusting me," he admitted, voice steady. "A lot of the time, I don’t trust myself either."

Dean’s eyes flicked up to his, the hardness in them softening—just barely.

Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, well-worn chip, and slid it across the table.

"Been going to meetings. Staying clean. Ten months now."

Dean picked up the chip, turning it over. "Didn’t know you had a drinking problem, Sammy."

"There’s not exactly a ‘demon blood addicts anonymous.’"

Dean frowned. "Oh." He hesitated. "Ten months?"

Sam nodded. “I started going because I couldn’t keep bottling everything up anymore. Meetings were a place to talk without judgment, and I needed that to keep the urges at bay. It was rocky at first, and admittedly I wasn’t perfect, but…” He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “I’m trying, Dean. Really trying.”

Dean stared at the chip, his thumb grazing the edge. Then, finally, he set it down and looked at Sam.

"I was an ass," Dean admitted. "I accused you of relapsing when I should’ve asked how I could help you stay clean. That night, when I said you weren’t my brother anymore…" He swallowed thickly. "I didn’t mean it. I—God, I didn’t mean it." His voice cracked. "I got in the car and barely made it down the road before I had to pull over to puke. I was so disgusted with myself."

Sam’s throat tightened. "Then why didn’t you call?"

Dean gave a hollow laugh. "Why didn’t you?"

Sam shrugged, voice breaking. "Thought you wouldn’t forgive me."

Dean shook his head. "Thought the same thing."

They sat in silence.

Then, Dean pushed his chair back and rounded the table. Before Sam could react, he pulled him into a tight, desperate hug.

"I’m sorry," Dean murmured, voice thick. "I’m so damn sorry."

Sam clung to him. "Me too."

For the first time in months, the silence between them wasn’t heavy or painful. It was a beginning—tentative and uncertain, but a beginning nonetheless. There were still wounds that needed healing and words that needed saying, but for now, they had taken the first step.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed since Bobby made the brothers confront their own arrogance. Weeks of painful healing, of unspoken apologies and slow, cautious steps toward one another. The wounds between Sam and Dean hadn’t closed cleanly, but they’d started to scar over—rough and imperfect, like everything else in their lives.

They'd driven across half the country since then, chasing down omens, demon signs, and whispered rumors of Lucifer’s movements. They’d spoken to hunters, civilians, even demons just to find a sliver of hope. And through it all, they’d begun to rebuild what had been broken.

It didn’t happen overnight. Dean still kept his guard up, still flinched when Sam spoke too calmly about strategy, too clinically about sacrifice. And Sam still looked guilty more often than not, wore his shame like a second skin. But there were moments, small ones, that marked their progress.

Dean sharing a beer with Sam.

Sam stitching up a nasty blade wound on Dean’s shoulder after a hunt.

A shared joke on a long drive.

They weren’t the same brothers they had been before Lilith’s death, before the Devil walked free, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe they didn’t need to go back. Maybe they just needed to find each other in the middle of all this madness and hold on.

And now, after months of research and dead ends, they had a lead.

~~~

The night air in Carthage was oppressively still as Sam and Dean navigated the deserted streets toward the field where Lucifer awaited. The town, once bustling with life, now stood eerily silent, its emptiness amplifying the weight of their mission. The muted glow of the moon cast elongated shadows, turning familiar shapes into ominous figures. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the very ground sought to deter them from their path.​

Dean's grip on the Colt was ironclad, his knuckles blanching under the pressure. The legendary firearm felt both reassuring and woefully inadequate against the adversary they were planning to face. Beside him, Sam moved with a tense vigilance, his heart pounding a relentless rhythm against his ribs. The stories they'd heard, the warnings about the Colt's limitations, echoed in his mind. Yet, stripped of alternatives, hope was their sole companion.​

As they approached the clearing, they could see Lucifer standing there, waiting patiently. He stood near a gnarled, broken tree, its twisted branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. His vessel, Nick, bore a faint, almost welcoming smile, as if greeting old acquaintances rather than mortal enemies. The juxtaposition of his serene demeanor against the backdrop of impending doom was deeply unsettling.​

"Well, well," Lucifer's voice was smooth, carrying an unsettling warmth. "The Winchester boys. Finally. I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.."

Without hesitation, Dean raised the Colt.

The shot rang out, a deafening crack that seemed to momentarily halt time. The bullet found its mark, striking Lucifer squarely in the forehead. He staggered, collapsing to the ground. For a fleeting moment, hope surged within Sam, a desperate belief that perhaps, against all odds, they'd succeeded.​

But then, a chilling chuckle shattered the silence.

"Ow," Lucifer intoned, sitting up and rubbing his forehead as if he'd been struck by a mere pebble. With a casual flick of his wrist, the wound vanished, leaving no trace. "I gotta admit, that had a bite to it, but…" He smiled, wide and mocking. "I’m afraid I’m one of the five things your little weapon can’t kill. Better luck next time."

"You've got to be kidding me," Dean's voice was a mix of disbelief and mounting dread.

Lucifer's gaze shifted to Sam, his eyes softening with a twisted semblance of affection. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, taking a deliberate step forward. "You've been avoiding me. I was starting to think you didn't want to see me."

An invisible force seized Sam, rendering him immobile. Panic surged as he struggled against the unseen bonds, his muscles straining in vain. Lucifer closed the distance, his hand reaching out to gently cup Sam's jaw. The touch was tender, yet it burned with an intensity that made Sam's stomach churn.​

"You're so special to me," Lucifer's voice was a seductive whisper. "I can't wait to be inside you. To wear you. To see the world through your eyes." His fingers lingered, tracing the line of Sam's jaw before he stepped back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Soon, Sam. Very soon."​

“Get away from him, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled.

Lucifer winked at Sam. "Until next time," he said. And then he was gone, leaving nothing but silence and the faint sound of Sam’s ragged breathing.

Dean was at Sam’s side in an instant. “You okay? He do something to you?”

Sam shook his head, though the terror lingered in his eyes. Dean searched his brother's face, seeing not the seasoned hunter but the vulnerable sibling he'd sworn to protect.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said softly, guiding him toward the Impala.

The drive back to the motel was cloaked in a heavy silence. Sam sat rigidly, his hands trembling in his lap, eyes fixed unseeingly on the passing landscape. Every fiber of his being felt violated, Lucifer's touch leaving an indelible mark on his soul. Dean stole glances at him, his concern deepening with each mile.

"It's gonna be okay, Sammy," Dean's voice was gentle, a balm against the raw wounds of the evening. "We'll figure this out. We always do."

Sam remained silent, his throat constricted, emotions swirling chaotically within. By the time they reached the motel, his hands shook so violently that even unbuckling his seatbelt felt like a challenge.​

Inside the room, Sam gravitated toward the bed, sitting on its edge, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself as if to hold together the fragments of his shattered composure. Dean observed him, torn between giving him space and the overwhelming urge to comfort.

"I'm gonna grab a drink. Call if you need me," Dean offered, aiming for nonchalance.

Sam's head snapped up, eyes wide with desperation. "No!" he blurted, voice cracking, tears brimming.

Dean froze, startled by the raw desperation in Sam’s voice. “Whoa, Sammy, hey,” he said, rushing to him. “It’s okay. I’ll stay.”

Sam's defenses crumbled. Tears streamed down his face as he struggled to articulate the turmoil within. "I... I can't..." He shook his head, words failing him. His hands clutched at his shirt, breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.​

Dean's heart ached. He knelt before Sam, placing firm hands on his brother's shoulders. "Breathe, Sammy. Just breathe. I'm right here."

A broken sob escaped Sam as he collapsed forward, his forehead pressing into Dean's shoulder. Dean enveloped him in a protective embrace, rocking gently, murmuring reassurances that he hoped could bridge the chasm of despair.

“You’re okay,” Dean whispered. “I’ve got you, Sammy. I’ve got you.”

As Sam clung to him, trembling and crying like he hadn’t since they were kids, Dean felt his own eyes burn with unshed tears. He hated seeing Sam like this—so raw, so broken. And more than that, he hated the gnawing fear in his gut: that Sam was close to falling apart completely, and when he did, he might turn back to demon blood in his desperation.

The thought made Dean’s stomach churn. He tightened his hold on Sam, his mind racing. He had to keep Sam grounded, had to keep him safe.

“I can’t…” Sam tried. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I can’t be alone right now.”

Dean nodded. “Good thing I’m not going anywhere then.” He climbed into bed beside Sam, still holding him close. “I’ve got you, little brother,” he whispered.

They stayed like that, curled in the quiet dark, for what felt like hours. Eventually, Sam’s sobs ebbed into shaky breaths, and his rigid body gave way to exhaustion. Dean waited, listening to the deep, uneven rhythm of Sam’s sleep until the trembling stopped. Even then, he stayed a little longer, anchoring his brother in the only way he knew how—with presence, warmth, and the kind of love he could never quite say out loud.

When Dean finally slipped from the bed, he was careful to to disturb Sam. Quietly, he pulled the motel door closed behind him and stepped into the night, the cold air slapping him awake. His own hands were shaking now, fists curled at his sides. Anger flared in his chest, bright and helpless.

“Castiel,” he hissed into the dark. “Get your feathery ass down here.”

Wind stirred the trees, and then, with a flutter of wings, Castiel appeared just beyond the lamplight. “Dean,” Castiel said, tilting his head. “What is it?”

Dean closed the distance in a few long strides, his jaw tight, voice low and furious. “Tell your angel buddies to get their shit together and leave us out of it. Sam’s barely hanging on, and all this apocalyptic crap is dragging him down again. He’s doing everything right—going to meetings, staying clean, trying to move forward—but how the hell is he supposed to do that when Lucifer’s breathing down his neck?”

Castiel frowned. “Dean, I understand your anger, but I cannot change what has been set in motion. Heaven has seen this path, and it ends with Sam saying yes. It is destiny.”

Dean’s fists clenched, his anger boiling over. “Screw destiny!” he snapped. “You tell Heaven, Hell, or whoever else is listening that they can do whatever they want to me. I’ll be their bitch, their punching bag, whatever they need. But leave Sam out of it. He deserves a chance to get better, to have a life.”

Castiel’s expression softened slightly. “I will do what I can,” he said. “But I am not favored among my brothers and sisters. I have betrayed them, and they are not quick to forgive.”

“Fix this,” Dean said, jabbing his finger into Castiel’s chest. ‘Cause I’ll burn down every last one of their pearly freaking gates if it means keeping Sammy good. You hear me?”

Castiel nodded solemnly. “I will try to help him.” 

And then he was gone.

Dean stood there alone, heart still hammering against his ribs, his breath clouding in the night air. He slammed his fist against the motel wall before turning and heading back inside.

The first thing he heard was Sam whimper in his sleep as he shifted restlessly beneath the worn blanket. Dean went straight to him and sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through Sam’s hair. His fingers were trembling. 

He didn’t know how to fix this. Didn’t know how to fight something you couldn’t shoot, punch, or exorcise.

But he knew how to be there. Knew how to keep showing up.

So he lay back down and pulled Sam close again, murmuring quiet reassurances until the nightmare eased and Sam stilled. Dean stayed awake long into the night, eyes on the ceiling, feeling the weight of a war too big for two broken men—but refusing to surrender, because Sam still breathed beside him.

And that was all the reason he needed.

Chapter Text

The next lead that came their way seemed almost too good to be true—a spell that could protect Sam from Lucifer's influence, hidden away in an old church on the outskirts of a crumbling ghost town. Bobby had unearthed it in one of his ancient, dusty tomes. The risk was high, but Dean couldn't pass up the chance to give Sam something—anything—that might shield him from the devil's grasp. They packed up the Impala and set out with grim determination, the weight of their biggest fears hanging heavily between them.​

The journey was long and silent, each mile marked by the rhythmic hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper as Sam consulted the map. The brothers had spent the past several weeks rebuilding the fragile trust that had been fractured by past betrayals and secrets. Late-night nonsense conversations, shared hunts, and mutual sacrifices had slowly mended the rift, but the scars remained. They may not have directly talked about the problems of the recent past, but they had gotten back to their version of normal.

Almost.

This mission was as much about protecting Sam as it was about solidifying their renewed bond.​

By the time they reached the desolate town, night had fallen. The church loomed against the darkened sky, its once-proud steeple now jagged and broken, a skeletal finger pointing accusingly at the heavens. The stained glass windows were shattered, leaving gaping holes that resembled empty eye sockets. The air was thick and oppressive, carrying the faint, acrid scent of sulfur.​

Dean killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. He glanced over at Sam, noting the tension in his brother's jaw and the way his fingers clenched and unclenched around the shotgun resting in his lap.​

"I don't like this," Dean muttered, breaking the silence. He reached for his gun from the backseat, the familiar weight grounding him. "Stay close, okay?"​

Sam nodded, his eyes fixed on the ominous structure before them. His gut churned with unease, but if there was even a sliver of hope that they could find something to protect him from Lucifer, he had to try.​

They approached the church cautiously, their footsteps echoing eerily on the cracked pavement. The heavy wooden doors groaned in protest as Dean pushed them open, revealing the devastation within. The pews were overturned and splintered, deep gouges marred the wooden floors, and the altar was smeared with dried blood, the dark stains stark against the faded white cloth.​

Sam swallowed hard, the bile rising in his throat. The desecration was almost too much to bear, but they pressed on, their flashlights cutting through the oppressive darkness.​

Behind the defiled altar, just as Bobby's book had described, they found the artifact: a small, ornate vial inscribed with ancient symbols that seemed to shimmer in the dim light. Dean reached out, his fingers closing around the cool metal. For a brief moment, hope flickered in his chest.​

But the moment was shattered by a low, mocking chuckle that echoed through the cavernous space.​

"You boys really thought it would be that easy?"

The voice was smooth, dripping with malice. Sam and Dean spun around, their weapons at the ready, as shadows coalesced into solid forms. Demons emerged from the darkness, their eyes gleaming with malevolent delight.​

They moved swiftly, too swiftly. Dean fired off a shot, the salt round finding its mark in one demon's chest, sending it staggering back. He swapped his gun for the demon blade, engaging another in a brutal melee. Sam discharged the shotgun, trying to disperse the advancing horde.​

But they were outnumbered. A demon blindsided Dean, knocking the blade from his grasp and sending him crashing against a pillar. Sam fought valiantly, but the sheer force of the onslaught overwhelmed him. Strong hands wrenched his arms behind his back, forcing him to his knees.​

A tall demon stepped forward, its host's eyes obsidian pools reflecting Sam's defiant glare. It grinned, a predatory smile that sent chills down Sam's spine.​

"Lucifer sends his regards," it sneered. From the folds of its tattered coat, it produced a small jar of dark red liquid.

Dean's eyes widened in horror as realization dawned. "No," he growled, struggling against the demons restraining him. "Don't you dare."​

The demon ignored him. Two of its lackeys forced Sam’s head back, prying his mouth open as the leader uncapped the jar. “You missed this, didn’t you, Sam?” it sneered. “Having this much raw power is addicting isn’t it?”

Dean's screams reverberated through the church as the demon poured the blood into Sam's mouth, clamping his jaw shut until he was forced to swallow. Sam's eyes were wide with terror, his struggles frantic but futile. When the demons finally released him, he collapsed to the ground, coughing and gagging, tears streaming down his face.​

"You sick sons of bitches," Dean snarled, rage and helplessness intertwining in his chest. "I'll kill every single one of you."

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the leader began, but before it could continue, a brilliant light exploded through the church like a detonation of grace. The air itself seemed to catch fire, and the demons shrieked in agony as they were incinerated, their vessels burning out in flashes of light and falling, lifeless, to the desecrated floor.

When the light faded, Castiel stood in the center of the carnage, calm amidst the chaos. His trench coat flared slightly as he turned to the brothers, stoic.

“You’re late,” Dean snapped, voice hoarse from shouting, from fear, from helpless rage.

“I came as soon as I could,” Castiel said simply.

Dean looked like he wanted to yell more—needed to, maybe—but then Sam let out a weak groan and rolled to his side, vomiting violently onto the dusty stone floor. The fury drained from Dean’s face, replaced instantly by fear.

“Sammy.” He was at his brother’s side in an instant. He pressed a steady hand to Sam’s back, feeling the tremors ripple through him. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

But Sam couldn’t stop. His body heaved again, and again, until there was nothing left. He curled in on himself, trembling and soaked in sweat, his eyes wide and glazed with panic.

“I don’t want it,” he gasped between retches, voice raw. “Dean—I don’t—I want it out! I want it out!”

His voice broke on the last word, crumpling under the weight of sheer horror. He looked up, and the expression on his face shattered Dean’s heart. That was the look of a man who thought he was already lost.

Dean grabbed Sam’s face gently in both hands. “Hey, look at me,” he said, firm but tender. “This wasn’t your fault. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We always do.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Sam whispered, like a confession. “I didn’t mean to take it…”

“I know,” Dean said. “I know, Sammy.”

He pulled Sam into a rough hug, holding his brother as if he could squeeze the poison out of him. Sam’s fists balled in Dean’s jacket, clutching like a drowning man to driftwood.

Dean closed his eyes, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. He didn’t know what kind of blood the demon had forced into Sam—civilian blood, demon blood, Lucifer’s blood. He didn’t know what kind of hold it might already have. But he knew one thing: Sam needed help. Real help. Now.

“Take me back to Bobby’s,” Sam rasped. “Please. Lock me in the panic room. I don’t care how long. Just… just keep me away from everything until Lucifer is dead.”

Dean hesitated. “Sam…”

“And if you can’t kill him…” Sam grabbed Dean’s wrist, his grip desperate. “Kill me instead. Burn my body. Salt the bones. Don’t let him take me.”

“I can’t do that, Sammy,” Dean’s eyes filled with tears. 

“You promised me,” Sam said. His voice cracked. “Don’t let him get me, Dean. Please. I’ve already done enough harm. Don’t let me do more.”

Dean didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just stared at Sam, eyes stinging, torn between everything he felt—grief, guilt, helplessness, and love so fierce it was almost agony.

Then, softly, from just behind them, Castiel spoke.

“Should it come to that,” the angel said, “I will ensure you cause no further harm.”

Sam stilled. Dean did too.

Even as a sob caught in his throat, Dean was grateful for the gesture. He wasn’t sure, if the time came, he would be able to let Castiel kill his brother, but he sure as hell knew he wouldn’t be able to do it himself.

“Thank you,” Sam said quietly as relief flooded his eyes.

“No one’s dying today,” Dean said after a moment, his voice gruff. “You hear me? You’ll get clean. You’ve done it before. You can do it again. Just gotta hang on a little longer, alright?”

Sam nodded, too drained to speak.

Dean helped him to his feet, supporting most of his weight as they staggered out of the church. The night air was cold, the stars overhead pale and distant. Dean got Sam into the back seat of the Impala, careful and gentle, like handling something fragile. He folded a sweatshirt behind Sam’s head and tucked a plastic grocery bag on the floor, just in case.

Dean rounded the front of the car, but Castiel stopped him with a glance.

“I’ll make sure you’re not followed,” the angel said.

Dean didn’t thank him. He just nodded and got behind the wheel.

The silence inside the Impala was thick and heavy, broken only by Sam’s soft, uneven breathing.

Dean drove with one hand on the wheel and the other gripping his phone. He dialed Bobby.

“Yeah?” Bobby answered, gruff as ever.

“No time for chit-chat. Demons got to Sam. Fed him something—blood. I don’t know what kind. We’re heading back.”

Bobby was silent for a beat. Then, “Is he…?”

“He’s still Sam,” Dean said quietly. “For now. I don’t know how long that’ll last.”

There was another pause. “The room’s ready if we need it.”

“Good.” Dean glanced in the rearview mirror. Sam’s eyes were closed, his head lolling slightly against the seat, his skin pale and slick with sweat. He looked so young like that. So lost.

“I’m not gonna lose him,” Dean said, more to himself than to Bobby.

“We’ll figure it out,” Bobby said gruffly. “Just get here.”

Dean ended the call and kept driving. Every so often, he’d glance back, watching for any flicker of black in Sam’s eyes. He didn’t see any. But the fear was still there, heavy and constant.

As the miles ticked by, Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know what that blood would do to Sam. But he’d be damned if he let his brother go without a fight.

Chapter Text

Sam had always viewed the panic room as a temporary lock-up—a place to weather the storm until the skies cleared. But as hours turned into days, a harrowing realization took hold: this iron box, with its cold, unyielding walls and suffocating silence, might become his permanent reality. Perhaps it was better this way. Outside, he was a liability; in here, he was contained. Safe. Yet, as he sat curled against the far wall, his body weakening, he questioned whether this existence was truly living or if he was slowly fading away.

Time had lost meaning since Sam voluntarily confined himself, isolating from the world to protect those he loved. Dean and Bobby had made numerous attempts to coax him out—initially with gentle words, then with growing urgency as they watched him deteriorate. Each time, Sam refused, insisting he needed to stay. The echoes of Lucifer’s taunts haunted him, and the memory of demon blood forced down his throat made his stomach churn.

"Sam, you're fine," Dean had pleaded, desperation evident in his tone. "No cravings, no freaky demon powers. You're not gonna turn into..." He never finished the sentence. "Please, just come upstairs. Help us stop this."

But Sam's resolve remained unshaken. "I can't," he murmured, those two words becoming his mantra.

The monotonous hours blurred together, marked only by Bobby sliding meals through the narrow slot in the door. Sam barely touched the food; his appetite had vanished along with his sense of self. He ate just enough to prevent collapse, but it wasn't sufficient. His clothes hung loosely on his emaciated frame, his skin pallid and drawn. Dark circles framed his eyes, testaments to relentless exhaustion.

Sleep became a cruel torment. On the rare occasions he drifted off, Lucifer awaited him, turning rest into a battlefield.

Tonight was no different.

As Sam's eyes closed, he was transported. The air was thick with damp earth, the moon unnaturally bright overhead. He stood in a field that felt eerily familiar—a place he'd never been but had visited countless times in nightmares.

Lucifer was there.

"Sam," Lucifer greeted, his voice dripping with feigned warmth. "You're looking... well, not great, actually. That panic room isn't agreeing with you?"

Sam remained silent, fists clenched at his sides. He'd abandoned efforts to banish Lucifer from these dreamscapes; the devil thrived on reactions, and Sam refused to indulge him.

Lucifer’s smile widened, unconcerned. “Still giving me the silent treatment? That’s okay. I enjoy our little chats, even when they’re one-sided.”

Sam didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Lucifer began to pace slowly around him, the field stretching endlessly in every direction. “You’ve been down there a long time, you know. That iron tomb. The sweat. The hunger. The fear. And for what? You think you’re keeping the world safe? That you’re protecting Dean by wasting away in a basement?”

Sam forced out a breath. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not wasting anything,” Lucifer replied, voice light and easy. “I’m being patient. That’s what you never understood. I don’t need to force you, Sam. I just need to wait. You’ll break eventually. Humans always do.”

Sam shook his head, his voice hoarse. “Not happening.”

Lucifer sighed, disappointed. “You always say that. But every time, you get a little weaker. A little closer. Do you even recognize yourself anymore?”

He stepped closer, and Sam tried to back away—but his feet wouldn’t move. He was rooted, stuck in place as the devil leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that curled like smoke against his skin.

“You’re already breaking. I can see it. The self-loathing. The fear. You want this to be over? All you have to do is say yes.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, his chest tight with rage. “I won’t.”

Lucifer’s eyes softened, almost pitying. “Oh, Sam. That’s what makes this so much fun. Because deep down… you know I’m right. This ends with you saying yes. You’re not strong enough to change that.”

The words slithered into Sam’s mind like poison, wrapping around every crack he was trying to hide.

“You’re going to say yes,” Lucifer whispered. “And when you do… it’ll be glorious.”

Sam woke with a strangled gasp.

He was drenched in sweat, his entire body trembling. His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon. The panic room felt smaller than ever. The walls pressed in on him, the ceiling too low. He dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair and let his head fall back against the cot’s thin pillow.

His stomach twisted. He felt hollow, poisoned. Like every word Lucifer spoke had stayed behind, echoing off the iron walls.

“Dean,” he whispered, voice raw and broken. It was barely more than a breath.

There was no answer.

He wanted his brother—wanted to feel Dean’s arms around him, to hear him say it was okay, that he had him, that Lucifer didn’t get to win. Like he did when they were kids and the nightmares came. But now the monsters were real, and the nightmares didn’t stop when he woke up.

Sam pulled the blanket tighter around himself, curling smaller, trying to breathe. The silence was deafening. He wondered how much longer he could do this—how long he could keep resisting before he simply gave up.

Chapter Text

Sam's body had become a prison. 

Every breath felt heavier, every movement a stark reminder of his waning strength. The panic room hadn’t just stripped him of demon blood; it had stripped him of everything—his pride, his hope, his self-worth. He’d thought isolating himself would be an act of love, a sacrifice. But now, as the dull lights overhead buzzed like a dirge, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe all he’d done was force the people who loved him to watch him rot from the other side of a reinforced door.

Weeks dragged on, each day blurring into the next. Sam’s body grew frailer. His limbs ached constantly from disuse, muscles weaked and skin clammy with cold sweat. His hands trembled, not from withdrawal anymore, but from sheer fatigue. 

His mind fractured into new pieces with each passing moment.  Lucifer's visits were relentless, each dream or whisper in his head more vivid and insidious than the last. Sam had ceased fighting the nightmares; he simply endured them, bracing for the torment that awaited each time he closed his eyes.​

And it was in that hollow space between one nightmare and the next that the thought came, uninvited and persistent: I can’t do this anymore.

Not because he was weak. Not because he was scared. But because he’d become something poisonous, and he didn’t want to keep infecting the people who still believed in him. Dean. Bobby. Even Castiel.

He was a burden. And Lucifer was right: Sam didn’t have it in him to win. The only way to stop hurting people was to remove himself from the equation entirely.

But first, he had to confess.

That evening, he stood at the panic room door, swaying slightly. His hand trembled as he lifted it, knuckles rapping weakly against the metal.

"Dean," he croaked, his voice sandpaper.

A minute later, he heard footsteps, then the heavy click and high-pitched creak of the door opening. Dean stood there, his face etched with concern, eyes searching Sam's.​

“Sammy?” he breathed. “You okay?”

Sam nodded slowly, every movement costing him. “I think… I think I’m ready to come out. For dinner.”

Dean blinked, like it took a second for the words to register. Then a slow smile stretched across his face, shaky and real. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Come on.”

He didn’t rush to touch Sam. Instead, he hovered, just in case Sam needed his support. Sam followed him, barefoot and unsteady, up the stairs.

Bobby was in the kitchen, flipping burgers, the scent of grease and onions curling through the air. When he saw Sam, spatula in hand, he froze—and then his face cracked open in a smile that made Sam’s chest ache.

“Damn good to see you upright, boy,” Bobby said.

Sam sat at the table while Dean set a plate in front of him—burger, chips, a cold beer. He picked at it, taking small bites just to give his mouth something to do so it didn’t all come spilling out. Bobby and Dean didn’t push, didn’t ask questions. They just kept the conversation light, like they were trying to remind him what normal felt like.

After dinner, the three of them sat on the old plaid couch in the living room watching a Clint Eastwood movie. Bobby laughed out loud at the cheesier parts. Dean threw popcorn at the screen. Sam even smiled a little, because he wanted their last memory of him to be with a smile on his face, even if he was faking it.

When they weren’t looking, he slipped sleeping pills into their beers—ones he’d swiped from Bobby’s medicine cabinet earlier when he’d gone to the bathroom. Just a few each. Enough to put them under and keep them out for a while.

By the time the credits rolled, Dean was snoring gently, head lolled against Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby’s hand rested limp over the arm of the couch, his chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths.

Sam stood. His heart felt like lead. He looked at them for a long moment, memorizing the lines of their faces in the soft glow of the TV.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Then he turned, shouldered his beg he never unpacked, and slipped out the door.

~~~

The sun was just beginning to rise as he reached the edge of Huxley. It bathed the sleepy streets in pale gold, softening the edges of reality. He sat in the lot of the community center from sunup to sundown, waiting for the moon to come up to tell him it was time to head inside.

He sat in the back, hands clasped between his knees, the skin around his fingernails chewed raw.

When it was his turn, he stood, his voice hoarse. “Hi. I’m Sam. And I’ve been struggling.”

Murmured greetings. Quiet acknowledgment. A space carved open just for him.

“I fell off the wagon,” he said. “It wasn’t my fault, exactly. It was… forced on me. But that doesn’t make it feel any less like a failure.”

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking.

“I thought isolating myself away was the answer. That if I stayed away from everyone, I couldn’t hurt them anymore. But all it did was give me time to wallow in everything I’ve done wrong.”

He hesitated, breath hitching. Then, he pushed through.

“I’m tired. Of fighting. Of screwing up. Of hurting the people who love me. And I think—I think maybe some things just can’t be fixed.”

The room held its breath. Sam sat, folding in on himself. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. It felt like there was nothing left inside him but dust and old pain.

After the meeting, Isaiah approached him, his brow furrowed with concern. “Hey, Sam,” he said softly. “Rough night?”

Sam managed a weak smile. “Something like that.”

Isaiah hesitated. “Do you want to talk about what happened? About your slip?”

Sam shook his head. “No. I’m putting that behind me. Looking to the future.”

Isaiah’s eyes lingered on him. “Okay. Just remember, you’ve got people who care about you. People who believe in you, even when you don’t believe in yourself.”

Sam’s smile faltered, but he nodded. “Thanks, Isaiah. For everything.”

~~~

That night, Sam checked into a cheap motel. Small. Anonymous.

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone buzzing beside him. Dean’s name flashed on the screen, then Bobby’s. Missed calls. Voicemails. All ignored.

This had to be quick.

He placed the phone on the nightstand and headed to the bathroom.

He pulled a blade from his bag—the same one he’d used before. Familiar. Cold. He ran his fingers over the edge, then pressed it to his skin.

The first cut was shallow. The next, deeper.

Soon the strokes became erratic, careless. He didn’t care what vessels he hit. Not anymore.

Blood flowed freely, pooling on the floor as he sank to his knees. His vision blurred, and for the first time in weeks, he felt a twisted sense of peace. He hoped Dean and Bobby would burn his bones. That was he couldn’t come back and hurt anyone else.

His heartbeat thrummed in his ears as his head spun.

And then he saw Dean’s face.

The twist of anguish, the broken tears pouring from his eyes as he held his baby brother limp in his arms. The thought made Sam sick.

He heaved on the tile bringing up the measly dinner he’d choked down the night before.

Then, his lips moved in a desperate prayer.

Sam blinked and Castiel was there, his face stricken as he took in the sight before him. “Sam,” he said sharply as he knelt beside him. “What happened?” His palms glowed softly hovered over Sam’s arms and Sam felt the warmth of his grace as his wounds sealed shut, the blood vanishing.

Castiel studied Sam for a moment. Then, “You did this to yourself. Why?”

Sam tried to hold back, but the dam broke. “Because I can’t do this anymore,” he shouted as the tears came hard and fast. Before he could stop himself, the truth came pouring out in breathless sobs: the AA meetings, the self-harm, the isolation, and his plan to end it all.

Castiel’s expression was a mixture of sorrow and confusion. “I don’t understand,” he said softly. “Human life is so precious. Why would you throw it away?”

“Because I don’t even know if I am human anymore.”

Castiel’s hand gripped his shoulder. Firm. Steady.

“You are human, Sam. It is your humanity—your morals, your emotions—that makes you untouchable to Lucifer. That is why he tries so hard to break you.”

Sam blinked up at him, eyes wet. “Do you really believe that?”

“I do,” Cas said. “If anyone can change what is fated—it’s you and Dean.”

Sam swallowed hard as that weight settled on him. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the hum of the motel AC.

Finally Castiel spoke again, “Dean is worried about you. I can feel it. We should call him.”

Sam shook his head quickly. “No. Not yet. Please. Promise me you won’t tell him.”

Castiel hesitated but eventually nodded. “As you wish.”

Chapter Text

Sam hadn't planned on going back to Bobby’s.

He hadn’t planned on anything, really. He wasn't supposed to be here right now.

After Castiel saved him, after the blood vanished and the wounds closed like they’d never been there, he didn’t feel relief, only shame. The angel had sat quietly beside him in that cheap motel bathroom like he understood that some silences couldn’t be filled. And when Cas finally stood and reach out his hand, offering to bring him home, Sam had nodded, not because he was ready, but because he didn’t know where else to go.

The days that followed blurred together in a suffocating haze. He barely remembered the trip back. He’d refused to let Castiel teleport him directly to Bobby’s—something about that felt too sudden, too raw. So they drove back in complete silence.

Now, standing just inside the doorway of Bobby’s house, Sam felt like a ghost of himself—something half-dead and running on instinct alone. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, and his skin felt too tight over his bones. And his mind was worse—flayed down to nothing.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected walking in. Maybe yelling. Maybe silence. Maybe nothing at all.

Dean and Bobby were in the study, their heads bent over books, papers, whatever hunt they were neck-deep in. It was Bobby who looked up first, eyes narrowing beneath the brim of his cap. Dean followed, and the moment their eyes locked, Dean went rigid.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Sharp. Disbelieving. “What the hell—”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out before Dean could say anything else, choked and raw. “I’m sorry, I—”

But his voice faltered. The roar in his ears drowned everything. His chest clenched so tight it felt like something inside might snap.

He staggered, barely catching himself on the doorway.

Dean was in front of him in an instant, hands gripping his arms. “Sammy, breathe. Look at me—hey, look at me.”

Sam couldn’t. He shook his head, his breath hitching, panic crashing over him like a wave. Dean’s touch was grounding and infuriating all at once. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve his brother’s worry, or Bobby’s shocked concern. Didn’t deserve Castiel’s quiet patience.

He was a failure. Again and again, he’d failed.

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore,” Sam rasped. “I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just stayed away, if I just kept myself from hurting anyone—but I keep screwing everything up. I keep making it worse.”

His knees buckled. Dean caught him, easing him down to the floor. His body shook with sobs, sharp and uncontrollable, ripping out of him like his soul was splintering apart.

“I’m not strong enough,” he cried. “I’m not—I never was.”

Dean was on his knees beside him, holding him, speaking quietly—words Sam couldn’t quite process. He caught something like “You’re okay” and “I got you,” but it all felt too far away, like he was underwater.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Castiel in the doorway, unmoving and stoic. He knew Sam’s secret, but kept it tucked away, even as he watched Sam crumple into his brother’s arms. For that, Sam was grateful.

Bobby knelt down on Sam’s other side, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Look, kid,” he said softly. “You’re not a failure. You hear me? You’re not alone in this.”

Sam let out a rough, hollow laugh. “You don’t understand. I can’t—I can’t keep living like this. My head—it’s not quiet. Not ever. I can’t breathe.”

Dean shook his head. "We’ll figure it out, Sammy. We always do."

But Sam pulled away, blinking through tears, his voice rising. “No, you don’t get it! Nothing’s working. I need—I need something . Please. Tell me you’ve got a lead. Tell me there’s something out there that can give me hope because I don’t know what I’ll do if there isn’t.”

Dean and Bobby exchanged a look. Bobby looked reluctant, rubbing a hand over his face, but Sam’s desperation was clear.

“Sam,” Bobby started. “I don’t know if you’re in the best headspace to be thinking about leads right now.”

"Tell me,” Sam’s voice cracked as his desperation grew. “I need something to hold on to because right now all I feel is hopeless. Whatever it is, however grim our odds are, I need to know there’s a chance.”

Bobby hesitated, but Dean nodded, understanding all too well what it felt like to need the distraction of a hunt. "Alright, fine,” Dean scrubbed his hand down his face. “We’ve been tracking down the Four Horsemen.”

Sam blinked at him, bewildered. “Like The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

Castiel nodded. “They have been wreaking havoc on your world for months now.”

“And how exactly are they going to help us stop Lucifer?”

“The Horsemen have rings—gives them their mojo,” Dean explained. “We get all four, we can open The Cage and trap him.”

“We’ve got three already,” Bobby told him. “We just need one more—Death.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Death?”

“Hard son of a bitch to track down, but Cas has a lead on him. We get his ring, we can stop this once and for all—the apocalypse, Lucifier, all of it.”

Stopping the apocalypse.

That was the goal, wasn’t it? But for a moment, all Sam could think about was how final that name sounded.

Death.

The end of everything.

Maybe even him.

If anyone could end him—truly end him—it was Death. If he could just ask. If he could just get close enough.

He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said quietly. “I’m in.”

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “Sam, you just collapsed in the doorway. You’re barely upright. You sure as hell don’t look ‘in.’”

But Dean interjected. “Bobby, sometimes it’s the only thing that helps. The job. The focus. You know that better than anyone.”

Bobby grunted, not convinced. “Fine. But you start slipping, you say something. You don’t get to disappear on us again.”

Sam nodded, but it was a lie. Because this time, he wouldn’t just slip up, he’d slip away. Let Death finally put an end to his life so he could stop ruining the lives of so many others.

Chapter Text

Sam didn’t sleep that night, or the night after.

He managed a few fragmented moments of rest in the backseat of the Impala, head against the cool window, dreams too thin and sharp-edged to offer anything like peace. Mostly, he stared out at the dark blur of highway, the hum of tires beneath them the only thing anchoring him to the present.

Chicago loomed ahead—what was left of it.

The sky was wrong here. Colorless and heavy, like it had forgotten how to be anything but gray. Buildings stood hollowed out and crumbling, like carcasses picked clean. Cars clogged the streets in rusted knots. Whatever lives had once moved through this place were long gone, swallowed up by something bigger, older, and colder than war.

It felt like the end of the world.

It felt like where he belonged.

Sam chewed at the skin around his thumbnail, trying to ignore the way his stomach turned over. Not from nerves. From anticipation.

Death.

The oldest Horseman. Older than the Earth. Older, some whispered, than God.

If anyone could finish what Sam didn’t have the strength to do, it would be him.

If he could just get close enough. If he could just ask.

“Hell of a calling card,” Bobby muttered from the passenger seat. He leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. “Wherever Death goes, he sure doesn’t leave much behind.”

Dean’s hands tightened around the wheel. His knuckles were pale. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope he’s still here.”

Sam stayed quiet. His throat was tight, his hands clammy. His mind kept circling back to Castiel’s face from two nights ago—tight with worry, voice low and serious as he tried to stop Sam from going.

“You cannot go through with this,” the angel had warned, following Sam up to the guest room. “Giving up your life is not the solution. It will only take a good soldier out of battle.”

“Yeah, well maybe I’m sick of fighting the world’s goddamn battles.” Sam tossed his duffle on the bed. “Every day I wake up and I have to put myself in harm’s way so other people can live their lives in blissful ignorance, and I’m tired, Cas. I’m tired of dealing with it all, and I’m tired of screwing up, and I’m tired of diappointing the people I love.”

“Sam–”

“No. Whatever you’re going to tell me about how precious human life is, I don’t want to hear it. Just leave me the Hell alone.”

Castiel nodded sadly, and then he was gone.

But now, Sam wished he’d asked him to stay. Maybe if he’d let him in, he wouldn’t feel like his heart was going to fall out of his chest and turn to dust, forgotten like all the other lives Death took.

He was so exhausted and worn thin that he could hardly see straight. His thoughts felt slippery, his grip on reality tenuous at best. One minute, he was watching the cracked pavement roll by beneath the tires; the next, he was standing in the middle of the ruins, ankle-deep in bodies, his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his. The acrid tang of sulfur filled his nostrils.

“Sam.”

That voice. Smooth, confident, mocking.

Lucifer.

“You really think this is going to work?” Lucifer mused, like they were old friends sharing a drink. “That Death’s gonna take pity on you? End it all with a snap of his bony little fingers?”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through the panic.

I’m in the Impala. This isn’t real. I’m in the Impala. This isn’t real. 

But Lucifer was already beside him, crouched close. “You’re unraveling, Sam. You feel it, don’t you? You’re paper-thin. It wouldn’t take much. Just one good gust of wind.”

A sudden jolt to his shoulder. Reality slammed back in.

The car wasn’t moving anymore, haphazardly pulled to the side of the road.

Dean’s voice was sharp. “Hey. You with us?”

Sam blinked, sucked in a breath. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Dean didn’t look convinced. His mouth opened like he might say more, but in the end, he just settled for silence.

“Need to take a walk, boy? Clear your head?” Bobby suggested gently.

“No. Let's just–” Sam drew in a slow, shaky breath. “Let’s just keep going.”

Dean hesitated a moment longer before finally pulling back onto the road. He watched Sam in the rearview the rest of the drive, searching for signs that his brother was breaking into pieces.

Too bad shattered had become so normal for Sam that no one would notice a few extra cracks.

~~~

They found the diner exactly where Castiel said it would be—untouched, pristine, lit up in flickering neon like a memory someone had tried to preserve in amber. A single man sat at the counter, dressed in black, pale fingers delicately holding a fork over a slice of deep-dish pizza.

He didn’t look up when they entered.

“You’re late,” Death said, voice calm and precise, like he was noting a mild inconvenience.

Dean stiffened. “Sorry. Traffic was a bitch.”

Death smirked, wiped his hands, and finally turned to face them. His eyes settled on Sam almost immediately.

“Sam Winchester,” he said. “You’re looking unwell.”

Sam flinched. He hadn’t expected kindness, but the forwardness of the statement still stung.

“I know why you’re here.” His gaze flicked to Dean, then Bobby. “Each of you.” His eyes went back to Sam, reading him like a book.

Dean stepped forward. “We need your ring.”

Death leaned back, looking almost bored. “Of course you do.” He tapped long fingers on the counter. “And what will you do with it?”

“Use it to stop Lucifer and the whole damn apocalypse,” Dean answered without hesitation.

Death smiled faintly. “And you, Sam?”

Sam’s throat closed. He hadn’t thought Death would ask him directly. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“You didn’t come here for the ring, did you?” Death said softly, almost gently.

Dean turned, alarmed. “What the hell is he talking about?”

Death ignored him. “You came here looking for an end. A permanent one.”

Silence fell over the diner. Dean turned sharply to Sam. “Sammy, what the hell is he talking about?”

Sam thought about lying, but he knew it was no use. He kept his eyes on the floor. “I thought—” He swallowed hard. “If I weren’t alive, Lucifer couldn’t use me. I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t hurt anyone else.”

Dean’s face twisted—anger, fear, grief tangled into something raw and wild. “Goddammit, Sam.”

“I’m not strong enough,” Sam said, the words cracking out of him. “I’ve tried. Over and over. And it keeps getting worse. Maybe this is the only way to fix it.”

Dean’s voice was hoarse. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave me to clean this up without you.”

Death sighed as if this were all very tiresome. “You think your absence would stop the inevitable? You think Lucifer wouldn't find another vessel, another path? You overestimate your importance—and underestimate his.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged under the weight of it. The guilt, the helplessness. The gnawing certainty that he was destined to survive just to live a life of pain and misery.

Dean stepped closer, jabbing his finger into Sam’s chest. “We fight this. Together. You and me, ever since we were kids.”

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not when Dean’s words sounded foreign. All he wanted was to keep Sam alive so he could be there hero. Another person he saved as he ran from his own issues. 

Sam figured from Dean’s perspective, his life didn’t look so bad when he could compare it to his fucked up little brother—if he even called him that anymore. He wasn’t sure these days if he was Dean’s brother or his burden.

Death let the moment stretch before he spoke again. “You’ll be needing this,” Death said, slipping the ring off his finger. “But your plan only works if both of you are alive. So I suggest you avoid any untimely meetings with me, Sam.” He placed the ring in Dean’s palm.

“So what now?” Sam asked.

Death picked up his fork and began eating. “Now? Your plan is to stop Lucifer, isn’t it? Unless you’re having second thoughts.”

“No,” Dean said firmly. He grabbed Sam’s wrist, tugging him toward the door. “Just a few kinks to work out.”

“Good,” Death said. “Because you’re holding the fate of this world in your hands.”

Sam swallowed hard. No pressure.

Chapter Text

The drive back from the meeting with Death was suffocatingly silent.

Dean’s hands strangled the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw clamped so tight that the faint grind of his teeth filled the car like static. Bobby sat rigid in the passenger seat, shooting frequent, worried glances into the back, where Sam slumped listlessly against the door, his forehead pressed to the cool glass.

He barely registered the landscape sliding past.

Gray fields. Shattered barns. Empty roads. The end of everything.

Sam felt hollowed out, scraped raw from the inside.

He had gone to Death with a single goal—to end himself, to make sure Lucifer could never use him again—and he had failed. He failed at everything.

Lucifer’s voice was louder now. Constant. A low, poisonous whisper threading through every thought.

"Pathetic," he sighed. "You really thought Death would make it that easy? That you, of all people, deserved an easy way out?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut. It didn’t help. Lucifer only laughed.

"Look at them," Lucifer murmured. "Dean. Bobby. You can see it, can’t you? The pity in their eyes. The disappointment. They know now. They know you’re weak. You always have been."

The Impala suddenly jerked to the side. Dean wrenched the wheel, tires screaming against the cracked asphalt as he yanked the car onto the shoulder. The car lurched to a stop.

For a second, there was only the sound of the engine ticking in the heavy, broken silence.

Then Dean threw the door open and slammed it behind him so hard the whole frame shuddered.

Sam sat frozen.

The next thing he knew, Dean yanked open the back door, grabbed a fistful of his jacket, and hauled him out into the open air.

Sam stumbled, unresisting. His boots scuffed the gravel shoulder as he tried to steady himself, but Dean was already on him, shoving his shoulder hard enough to stagger him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Dean exploded, his whole body shaking with rage. His face was red, eyes wild—wide with anger. "Were you just gonna throw yourself at Death’s feet and hope he’d do you a damn favor? That was your grand plan?"

Sam opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. What could he say? That was what he’d planned. He didn’t see another way out.

Dean shoved Sam, hard, "Say something! Dammit, Sam, talk to me!"

Sam dropped his gaze to the ground, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was nothing left to say. He had nothing Dean wanted to hear.

Dean let out a bitter, broken laugh and turned away, dragging a hand down his face like he wanted to tear his own skin off. "You wanna die that bad? After everything we’ve fought for? After I spent years keeping you alive? How the hell do you think that makes me feel, Sam?"

Sam flinched. He wanted to tell Dean it wasn’t about him, but the words shriveled up in his chest.

Lucifer's voice was still there, oily and persistent.

"He’s furious. But more than that?" Lucifer breathed. "He’s scared. Because he knows he can’t save you. He’s finally realizing you’re already gone."

"Dean," Bobby said sharply. He grabbed Dean by the back of his collar and tugged him away from Sam. "Back off. Yelling’s not gonna fix this."

Dean shook him off, chest heaving. "I can’t—I can’t just stand here and watch him—" He broke off, voice cracking. He clenched his fists like it physically hurt to keep them at his sides.

"I know," Bobby said, more gently now. "But he’s not hearing you when you come at him like this. You’re just driving him deeper into it."

Dean spun away, scrubbing both hands over his face, trying to find air. Trying to find words.

Bobby turned to Sam. "You alright, kid?"

Sam blinked at him like Bobby was speaking another language. He wasn’t alright. He didn’t even know what “alright” was anymore.

"You’re nothing," Lucifer whispered. "You never were. Just meat. Just a weapon waiting for someone to pick you up and swing you."

Before Sam could force a reply, the air crackled.

Castiel appeared a few feet away, silent and still, like he'd been standing there the whole time, watching. His eyes went immediately to Sam and a flicker of worry crossed his usually stoic face.

Dean turned to Castiel, still seething. “Tell him, Cas! Tell him how stupid he’s being!”

Castiel didn’t answer Dean. Instead, he took a step closer to Sam. “Killing yourself won’t work,” he said simply.

Sam’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs. His head snapped up to meet Castiel’s gaze.

"I know you believe it is the only solution," Castiel continued, his face grave, unreadable. "But Lucifer will find another way. You cannot outrun this by dying."

Sam knew Castiel was right, Death too, and that truth settled into the hollow in his chest where hope used to be.

"You are not disposable," Castiel said. "You are necessary."

Sam didn’t respond. All he could think was: I didn’t ask to be necessary. I never wanted this.

“You are worthy, Sam," he continued, "Worthy of a good life despite the shortcomings of your past. But redemption can only happen if you learn to forgive yourself.” 

Castiel let his gaze linger on Sam for a moment, flicking to his wrists to check for signs of injury before getting back to the task at hand. He turned to Dean and Bobby. "We should keep moving. We’re running out of time."

Dean let out a short broken laugh. “Sure thing,” he said, stomping back to the driver’s seat. “Business as freaking usual.”

Wordlessly, Sam and Bobby followed him back to the car. It felt smaller now, and it wasn’t just because of the additional passenger.

The engine roared to life. Dean pulled out onto the road with a lurch. The silence was louder than before.

Sam leaned his head back against the window and closed his eyes, letting the vibration of the road seep into his bones.

They had the rings. They could open the Cage. All that was left to figure out was a plan. One that defied impossibility, and maybe even let Sam escape his demons.

Yeah right, Sam thought bitterly. I’ll find a way to screw this up like everything else.

The thought tightened his chest painfully. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath until a quiet voice broke through the thick haze of his mind.

"I believe in you, Sam," Castiel said, so softly it was almost a prayer. "I only hope that someday... you will too."

Sam kept his eyes closed, but a hot prickling started behind them anyway. 

Thanks, Cas , he thought, as a few stray tears dripped down his cheeks. Maybe someday.

Chapter Text

Sam knew they were watching him.

Bobby kept pretending to be busy, flipping through pages in dusty old books that none of them had any real faith in anymore. His pen scratched against a yellowed notebook, but every few minutes, his eyes would lift and flick toward Sam, watching for more cracks.

Dean didn’t even bother hiding it. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, gaze pinned to Sam like he knew Sam would shatter any second.

And Castiel... Castiel just stood there. Silent. Unmoving. Like he was preparing for the inevitable.

Sam couldn’t even blame them.

Hell, if he were in their shoes, he’d be the same way.

Lucifer’s whispers hadn’t stopped. If anything, they had grown more persistent, weaving through his thoughts like poison.

“They think they can stop me,” Lucifer murmured. “They think they can protect you. But we both know how this ends.”

Sam pressed his palms hard against the table, focusing on the burn of pressure, anything to drown Lucifer out.

In the center of the table, the four Horsemen’s rings gleamed under the weak light.

Small. Simple.

Deadly.

They had everything they needed.

Now it was just about moving fast enough—before anyone else paid the price for their hesitation.

"We should consider Michael," Dean said suddenly, slicing through the brittle silence like a blade. "He put Lucifer away once. Maybe he can do it again."

"No," Castiel said instantly. No hesitation.

Only certainty.

Finality.

Dean’s jaw tightened. "You got a better idea?"

Castiel didn’t flinch. "Michael will not save you. His loyalty is to Heaven. Not you. Not humanity. If you summon him, it will not be a rescue. It will be annihilation."

Bobby let out a low, exhausted sigh. "Cas is right. Michael shows up, best case scenario he shoves Lucifer back in the Cage and takes half the planet with him for good measure. And that ain't exactly what we're looking for."

Dean pushed away from the wall, pacing tight, angry loops. His boots scuffed harsh against the worn floorboards. "So what? We just sit here? Wait for Lucifer to kill his way through the next town? How many more people die while we’re jerking each other around looking for the perfect plan?" Dean scoffed. “It’s not like we can just ask him to walk into the Cage on his own.”

Lucifer laughed softly inside Sam’s mind. "He’s right, you know. The clock’s ticking, Sammy. You're running out of time."

Dean slammed his fist down on the table. The rings jumped and clattered. "We need something now."

Bobby leaned heavily against the table, shoulders sagging under the weight of all of it. "Sam, you got anything? Cause right now it looks like no matter what we do we’re screwed six ways from Sunday."

“You’re out of options, Sam. Just say yes,” Lucifer cooed.

Sam’s mouth had gone dry. His heart thudded in his chest as an idea formed in his mind. One he couldn’t say out loud. Because if he told Dean and Bobby they’d try to stop him, and Sam was tired of letting the people he loved get hurt when he could do something to fix it.

“No,” he croaked. “Dean’s right. If we want to stop Lucifer we have to play Heaven’s game.”

~~~

Later, when the house had finally gone quiet and the windows rattled in the night wind, Sam found Castiel outside.

The angel stood stiffly under the stars, staring up at the sky like he could see some far-off battlefield waiting for them.

Maybe he could.

Sam hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer.

"I need to ask you something," he said, voice barely more than a breath.

Castiel turned his head, his face shadowed and grim. "Go on."

Sam swallowed. "If I say yes to Lucifer. If I let him in... can I force him into the Cage?"

Castiel was silent for a long time. Too long.

Sam could hear the distant creak of the house settling, the wind whistling as it kicked up dirt in the yard.

Finally, Castiel answered.

"Lucifer is powerful beyond human comprehension. Once he is inside you, resisting him will be... almost impossible.”

Sam's fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. "Almost, but not completely?"

Castiel frowned. "No. If you are strong enough—if you can resist him for even a moment—you could open the Cage. You could trap him."

The cold, brutal logic of it settled into Sam's bones. There it was. The only move left on the board.

“And what happens to me?”

Castiel’s eyes, so often distant, so often unknowable, softened with something almost like sorrow. “You would be trapped with him. For eternity. It is a fate I wish on no one.”

Sam swallowed hard. He had expected that answer, but hearing it out loud made it feel heavier. Still, if it meant ending this, if it meant stopping Lucifer for good, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Castiel stepped closer. “Sam, you must understand. There is no escape from the Cage. If you do this, you will never return. You will suffer endless torture.”

Sam looked away. “I know.”

Castiel stepped closer, voice almost pleading.

"You are not alone in this. You do not have to carry this burden by yourself."

Sam looked away. The knot in his throat burned, but he swallowed it down.

Castiel was wrong. He did have to do this alone.

Because if he didn’t, more people would die. More lives would burn because of him. And Sam Winchester had burned enough for one lifetime.

This needed to be over. Fast.

Before Dean could get himself killed trying to fix his mistakes. Before Bobby paid the price for seeing good where there wasn’t any. Before the whole world crumbled because Sam hadn’t been strong enough to do what had to be done.

Chapter Text

Sam slipped back into the house to grab his keys, moving as quietly as he could. The floorboards creaked under his boots, and before he knew it, Dean was there, wide awake and pissed off.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" 

Sam clenched his jaw and turned slowly. Dean stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his whole body thrumming with suspicion—and underneath it, something rawer. Fear.

Bobby was a few steps behind him, watching Sam the way you might watch a wounded animal about to bolt.

"I just need to get out for a bit," Sam said carefully, keeping his voice low, steady. Like if he made himself small enough, careful enough, Dean might let it go.

"Out where?" Dean snapped. "We’ve got work to do, Sam. You don’t just get to take off whenever—”

"I need a damn meeting, Dean!" Sam snapped, harsher than he meant to. He ran a hand through his hair.  "I just—I need a day. I need to clear my head."

Dean stared at him like he was trying to see through him, and Sam felt every inch of that stare like it was peeling him apart. "You disappearing like this?" Dean said, voice low and dangerous. "After everything? After Death, after—" He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "You really think I’m just gonna let that slide?"

"I’ll be back," Sam said, softer now. "I swear. We still have to stop Lucifer. I know that. But right now, I need this."

Dean exhaled sharply, eyes scanning Sam’s face like he was searching for a lie. But all he could see was deep pain in his brother’s eyes.

Bobby finally spoke up placing a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Just come back to us, kid okay? Help us send this son of a bitch back to Hell once and for all. Then we’ll help you get your head screwed on straight.”

Sam nodded, letting Bobby hang on to the sliver of hope that everything would be okay. But the reality was, if Sam’s plan worked, he wasn’t going to bounce back from this. No demon deal was going to pull him out of there and save his soul from ceaseless suffering

“One day,” Dean said finally. “And if you’re not back, I will come find you."

Sam didn’t say anything else. He just slipped out the door before Dean could change his mind.

~~~

The circle of chairs in community center was the same as it always was, simultaneously inviting and daunting. The hum of low conversation filled the room, warm and familiar, buzzing against Sam’s skin like static.

He walked in, head bowed, and a few people nodded at him. Isaiah was already there, warm smile as he made small talk. He caught Sam’s eye and nodded in greeting, patting the chair next to him.

Sam sank into a chair, his hands loose in his lap, feeling the way the tension in his chest tightened and twisted.

The discussion moved around the room, small confessions of struggle and survival. Failure. Trying again.

Normal battles. Human battles.

Then it was his turn. When Isaiah turned toward him expectantly, Sam hesitated—but he forced himself to speak.

"I feel like I'm finally getting control back," Sam said.

The group nodded, murmuring encouragement. Someone clapped him gently on the back.

Sam smiled—tight, forced, almost a grimace—and looked down at his hands.

"For a long time, I felt like I was just... reacting," he said. His voice was steady, but inside, the lie curdled. "Like no matter what I did, something bigger than me was always pulling the strings. But now?" He exhaled. "Now I feel like I finally have a choice."

The room buzzed again with soft sounds of approval. Hope. Pride.

They thought he was talking about recovery. About healing.

But Sam knew better.

Across the room, perched in the darkest corner like a vulture, Lucifer sat clapping slowly. No one else could see him. Of course they couldn’t, this version of him wasn’t real. It was merely a hallucination. But that didn’t mean Sam couldn’t feel him—couldn’t feel that mocking smirk like a hook in his chest.

"Beautifully said," Lucifer murmured, voice sliding into Sam’s mind like a poisoned needle. "They think you’re choosing life. Choosing their support. But you and I? We know better, don't we?"

Sam swallowed hard, ignoring the ice crawling up his spine, fighting back his anxiety as the meeting continued.

Later, after the chairs scraped back and the room started to clear out, Isaiah caught him by the arm. "Been a while since we’ve seen you, brother," Isaiah said, studying him closely. "You doing okay?"

Sam hesitated. He liked Isaiah. Respected him. He didn’t want to lie to him, but what choice did he have?

“Yeah,” Sam lied. “I finally feel like I have some clarity.”

Isaiah studied him for a long moment, and Sam knew he saw right through him. "You sound like you're saying goodbye."

For a heartbeat, Sam couldn’t breathe. The knot in his throat burned like fire. But he forced a crooked smile. "Nah. Just... appreciating things more lately."

Isaiah’s gaze lingered a second longer than comfortable. But finally, he let go of Sam’s arm. "Well, whatever you’ve got going on... just remember, you’re not alone in this. Good or bad, you’ve always got a friend in me."

Sam swallowed against the lump in his throat. He gave a small nod, then turned and walked away before Isaiah could see the tears in his eyes.

As he stepped out into the night, the cold air stung his skin, momentarily grounding him. 

But then Lucifer’s voice was there, soft and cruel. “That was sweet, Sammy. Shame you won’t be seeing him again.”

Sam didn’t react, he just kept walking. The weight of what he was about to do, what he’d chosen to do, settled deeper with every step.

He was in control for both the first time in his life and the last, and strangely, despite what lied ahead, he felt oddly free.

Chapter Text

The following afternoon, Sam sat at the kitchen table, hands curled around a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The tension in the room was thick enough to choke on, heavy with unspoken doubts and the brittle edge of fear.

Dean leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a scowl carved deep into his face, while Bobby flipped through his notes again and again, double-checking every detail like he could somehow will the plan to be airtight. Castiel stood near the window, back to them, staring out at the bleak gray morning like he could already see what was coming.

No one spoke. They just sat in anxious silence.

Eventually, Dean cleared his throat. "Alright," he said, voice low and tired. "One last time. The plan."

Sam nodded automatically, forcing himself to sit up straighter, to look engaged. He already knew their plan and he had no intention of following it. But they didn’t know that.

Bobby adjusted his cap, cleared his throat, and spoke like a man delivering a sentence. "We lure Lucifer and Michael into the same place. Tell 'em you boys are ready to say yes. They ain’t gonna turn that down. Once we got 'em there, we open the Cage right under their feet. They drop in. Game over."

Dean let out a long breath, nodding along like he could make himself believe it. "Quick. Clean. No fighting, no apocalyptic showdowns. Just..." He exhaled harshly. "Done."

Sam nodded along with them, the motion mechanical. It was a good plan in theory, but theory wasn’t reality.

Lucifer wasn’t going to stroll into a trap blind. Michael wasn’t going to play fair. There were too many variables, too many ways it could fall apart. Sam knew they were screwed. Knew it in his soul.

And he knew something else, too: if he let this play out the way they wanted, they were all going to die. Dean. Bobby. Castiel. The world would still burn.

The only way to end it was his way.

Bobby shut the book with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating through the silent kitchen. "Cas, you sure this'll work?" Bobby asked, his voice rough, worn thin.

Castiel turned from the window, his expression unreadable. His gaze lingered on Sam a little too long before he answered.

"No," Castiel said simply. "But it has the highest probability of success given our limited options."

"Great," Dean muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Real comforting, Cas. But hey, nothing about this has been easy."

Sam studied Dean closely across the table.

The tension in his brother’s shoulders, the haunted look in his eyes—he was barely holding it together. Holding Sam together, the way he always had.

Sam felt a sharp ache cut through him, but he buried it deep.

Dean caught him looking and met his gaze. For a heartbeat, there was something raw there, something close to desperation.

"You good with this, Sammy?" Dean asked, voice rough.

Sam forced a small, tired smile, the best lie he had left. "Yeah," Sam said. "It’s our best shot."

Bobby pushed back from the table with a grunt, the old chair creaking.  "Then we leave at dawn."

~~~

That night, the house was too quiet.

Dean had gone to bed early, but Sam could hear him through the thin walls—tossing, turning, muttering under his breath.

Bobby was holed up in his study, probably going over the plan one more time, looking for a flaw they all knew was there.

Sam didn’t even try to sleep. He sat out on the porch instead, wrapped in one of Bobby’s tattered quilts, a blanket of stars stretching overhead.

He sat there for a long time, trying to make sense of the knot tightening in his chest.

All his life, he’d fought for control. Fought against destiny. Against prophecy. Against the endless feeling of being a puppet on someone else's strings. And now, at the end of it all, he finally had it. He just hated that this was what it looked like.

Footsteps creaked behind him, slow and careful. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

"You don’t believe in the plan," Castiel said quietly.

Sam huffed out a humorless breath. "No. But I’ll go through with it."

Castiel tilted his head slightly, studying him.

"You’re lying," he said, not accusing, not angry, just stating a fact.

Sam didn’t bother denying it. "Maybe," he said.

Another long pause. Then, “You should tell, Dean.”

“He’ll stop me.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know,” Sam sighed. “I just want this to be over.”

“Then I won’t stop you,” Castiel said solemnly.

Sam looked away. He didn’t thank him.

He had one last night. One last moment of peace before everything ended.

Tomorrow, they would drive out to the middle of nowhere and set the trap.

Dean and Bobby would think they were walking into a final stand, all together.

But Sam would spring his own trap first.

And he would fall and end this alone.

Chapter Text

The abandoned lot in Detroit was eerily still.

The city’s noise had vanished, replaced by silent anticipation. Overhead, clouds churned like a brewing storm, thick with energy that made the air hum in their lungs. It didn’t feel like they were moments away from victory.

It felt like a trap. And not the one they had set.

Sam stood with Dean, Bobby, and Castiel at the center of a ring of ancient Enochian symbols. The four rings of the Horsemen shimmered faintly where they’d been embedded in the earth, the sigils around them glowing softly, pulsing like a heartbeat. The Cage was primed. Ready. The trap was set. Now, all they needed was to get Lucifer to fall for it.

Dean rolled his shoulders, tension radiating off him in waves. “Alright,” he said, voice rough. “Showtime. Cas, you ready?”

Castiel stepped forward from the shadows, his expression carved from stone. “I will summon Michael,” he said. “But understand—once he arrives, everything moves quickly.”

Bobby checked the safety on his shotgun, though they all knew it was as useful as throwing pebbles at a freight train. “And Lucifer?”

Sam’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He hadn’t been able to sleep. Not after everything. Not with what he was about to do.

“He’ll come to me,” he said. His voice was steady. Too steady.

Dean glanced at him, brow furrowed. “You sure about this?”

Sam didn’t answer. They had recited the plan a dozen times: lure Lucifer and Michael by pretending to say yes, and once they were both locked in a ring of holy fire, trigger the Cage beneath their feet. Quick. Clean.

Except that wasn’t what was going to happen. And only Sam knew the true plan.

Castiel raised his hands and began to chant in Enochian, the words ancient and sharp. The air shifted. The temperature dropped. Wind howled through the lot. The ground beneath their feet pulsed, the rings glowing brighter.

Lightning split the sky.

And then Michael appeared.

He stood several yards away, tall and composed in the body of Adam Milligan. The sight of him in their brother’s skin twisted Sam’s stomach.

Dean’s voice cracked. “You son of a bitch.”

Michael didn’t flinch. “Adam said yes. You weren’t available.”

“You’re wearing our brother like a suit.”

Michael’s eyes met Dean’s. “He was willing. He understood the necessity. You wasted my time summoning me. I already have my vessel.”

Before Dean could respond, the ground trembled. A gust of wind slammed into them, forcing Bobby to stumble back. Lucifer materialized a few feet away, wearing Nick, a serene smile on his face.

"Sam," Lucifer said, almost warmly. "You called?"

Dean squared his shoulders, stepping forward. "Here’s the deal. You both want us, right? Well, you got us."

Michael’s gaze flicked to Dean. "You’re saying yes?"

Lucifer tilted his head. "Interesting. I wasn’t expecting you to cave so quickly."

Sam clenched his fists, his heart hammering. He could feel Lucifer watching him, waiting, knowing. This was it. The moment to act.

“Sammy, now!”

He turned to Dean. For a second, they just looked at each other—Dean waiting for Sam to open the gate, and Sam coming to terms with sealing his fate.

Sam took a deep breath and then, “Yes.”

For a second, there was nothing. No sound, no movement, just the weight of the word hanging in the air. Then Lucifer smiled.

And the world shattered.

Pain exploded through Sam’s body as Lucifer surged inside. His vision blurred, white-hot energy coursing through his veins. He could hear Dean screaming his name, hear Bobby shouting something, but it was all distant. He was drowning, consumed, his body no longer his own.

Lucifer stretched, flexing his fingers, then exhaled contentedly. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, rolling his shoulders. "How great it is to finally be inside of you."

Dean lunged forward, but Lucifer barely lifted a finger. Dean flew back, slammed hard against the Impala. Bobby raised his gun, but Castiel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing that weapon can do now.”

Lucifer turned his attention to Michael. “So,” he said, his voice silk. “Shall we?”

Michael frowned. “You manipulated them. That was the yes of a broken man, not a willing one.”

“Please. They’ve been pawns since the beginning. I just let them believe they had a choice.”

Dean groaned, dragging himself upright. “Sammy,” he rasped, trying to catch his breath. “Fight him. You can do it.”

Inside, Sam fought for control, but Lucifer held him like a vice.

Dean staggered and grabbed his arm. “C’mon, Sammy. Come back to me, man.”

Lucifer’s smile faded. “Enough!” 

He grabbed Dean by the collar with one hand while the other sent Bobby and Castiel flying, knocking them both unconscious.

Lucifer sighed. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Always so persistent." Then he grinned. "I think you need a reminder of what happens when you get in my way."

He struck.

A brutal punch to Dean’s gut doubled him over. Another hit to the jaw sent him sprawling. Blood painted the ground. Lucifer loomed over him, dispassionate.

“You can’t save him,” he said softly.

Dean looked up, eyes swollen and red, meeting Sam’s gaze—the real Sam, buried deep inside.

And that broke something.

Sam pushed. Hard. He dug his nails into the fabric of his own mind, wrenching forward with everything he had left. For just a second, Lucifer’s grip loosened.

It was enough.

Lucifer staggered, just for a moment, blinking in mild irritation. His head tilted slightly, as if sensing something was wrong. His grip on Dean slackened.

And Sam, buried somewhere deep inside, knew—this was his chance.

He began chanting in Enochian, “Bvtmon tabges babylon,” and then, the gate opened beside them—a black hole ready to trap their greatest enemy.

Chapter Text

The Cage stood open, a gaping wound in the earth, heat and energy rolling off it in suffocating waves. The sigils on the ground flickered, barely holding under the force of two archangels standing at the brink of war. Michael watched Lucifer warily, his grip on Adam’s body tightening. Lucifer, in Sam’s body, quickly regained control, shoving Sam back into the depths of his own mind.

Lucifer turned back to Dean, a slow, satisfied smile creeping onto his face. Dean lay in a crumpled heap, bloodied, barely breathing, but still trying to push himself up. Always trying.

"You just don’t quit, do you?" Lucifer mused. "It’s admirable, really. But pointless."

Dean spat blood onto the ground, his breaths ragged. "Screw you."

Lucifer chuckled. "You know, Dean, I have to say—I'm almost going to miss our little love triangle here.”

He lifted his hand, power crackling at his fingertips, ready to end it. Dean flinched, but he still glared up at Lucifer, defiant to the bitter end.

But Sam—buried deep, anchored by pain, by memory, by love—was not done.

It wasn’t subtle. It was brutal. A sudden, explosive surge of willpower that made Lucifer freeze mid-motion. His fingers trembled. His smirk faltered.

Inside, Sam fought harder than before to break through. Every step toward the surface burned. Every thought felt like it was being shredded. But he pushed anyway. 

“Sam,” Lucifer warned. “Go back to sleep.”

No, he thought, knowing Lucifer would hear. I’m in control.  

Sam staggered forward, dragging his feet across the dirt toward the edge of the Cage. The roar of it filled his ears. Fire and shadows rose to greet him like old enemies. Lucifer slammed into him from within, fighting for control, screaming in rage. The heat was unbearable. His bones felt like glass.

“You think you can cast me out?” Lucifer bellowed inside his head. “You’re mine! You said yes! I own you!”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Not anymore.”

Dean had gotten to his knees. He watched, paralyzed, bloodied hands reaching weakly toward his brother.

“Sam—Sam, don’t,” Dean rasped. His voice cracked, raw with disbelief. “Please, no. Don’t do this.”

Sam turned. 

Their eyes met. Dean's wide and terrified, Sam's steady and soft. In that glance, a thousand memories passed between them: childhood flashlight whispers, motel rooms soaked in whiskey, promises made and broken, forgiveness never spoken but always present.

This was goodbye. And they both knew it.

Sam’s throat tightened. “It’s okay,” he whispered. "I've got him."

Dean lurched forward, “No—!”

And Sam let go.

The world tipped as he fell backward. He felt a hand on his chest pulling him back. 

“This isn’t the way this is supposed to end!” Michael shouted, enraged. 

But Sam, in his last moments of control, grabbed his wrist and pulled hard, and together they fell. Two brothers, human and celestial, dropping down into their eternal prison.

“Sammy!” Dean shouted again, but there was nothing he could do. It was too late.

Then, the Cage slammed shut.

And Sam was gone.

Chapter Text

Dean was on his knees in the dirt, blood dripping from his mouth, his vision swimming. His hands were torn to shreds. Nails split, skin raw. Clawing at the ground where Sam had vanished. His fingers dug deeper, as if he could peel back the earth and pull him up. As if he could undo it.

Still reaching.

Still trying.

Still too fucking late.

“Sam…”

It came out cracked and pathetic. A breath. A whisper. The kind of sound a dying man makes when he begs for God. He tried again, louder this time, like maybe screaming would pull Sam back.

“Sammy!”

The name broke apart in his throat like a snapped bone.

Dean collapsed forward, fists hammering into the dirt. “No, no, no—” It wasn’t even a word anymore. It was just noise. A prayer. A curse. A sob. A scream. An unraveling.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that—on his knees, shaking, bleeding, keening into the dust. His lungs burned. His ribs ached. His mouth tasted like rust. The Cage was silent now. Like it had never opened. Like Sam had never stood on the edge.

Like he had never existed.

Dean clawed at the ground again, fingers sinking into the bloody soil, as if he could dig through reality and find a different one underneath. His body heaved. He couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t tell where the blood ended and the tears began. Didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered.

“Should’ve stopped you,” he whispered, voice caught between his teeth. “Should’ve known…”

Behind him, there was movement. A grunt. A cough. Bobby. Then Castiel’s rustle of wings, faint and wrong somehow. The others were waking up. The world kept turning.

But Dean stayed frozen. Crumbling. Curling in on himself like maybe if he just made himself small enough, quiet enough, the universe would forget he existed too.

“Dean?”

Bobby’s voice cut through the static like a knife..

Dean flinched. “Don’t.” he rasped.

Footsteps. Slow. Cautious. Bobby approaching like Dean was a wounded animal.

Dean kept his head down. Didn’t want him to see. Didn’t want to see him.

“He’s gone.” The words barely came out.

“I know,” Bobby said.

“You don’t,” Dean snarled. He looked up, and his eyes were wild—hollow, bloodshot, wrecked. “He fell. He fucking fell, and I couldn’t—” His voice snapped in half. “I couldn’t hold on to him.”

Bobby knelt beside him. “Dean, that boy is more stubborn than you sometimes. He made a choice. And—” Bobby faltered, but swallowed his emotions. “And there wasn’t anything we could’ve done to change his mind.”

“I could’ve been there. I could’ve put blame aside and helped him find his way back.”

“Dean—”

Dean swatted Bobby's hand when he reached out. “Don’t touch me.”

But Bobby didn’t back off. Just grabbed Dean’s wrists and held them. Held him still.

Dean fought him for a second, tried to twist away, but then he cracked. Just broke. His weight folded into Bobby’s chest and he let go. Sobs tearing from his throat.

“I didn’t get to tell him…” Dean choked out. “I didn’t get to say I was sorry.”

His voice fractured on the last word, crumbling like everything else inside him. “I was so damn hard on him, Bobby. I made him feel like he was a freak. Like he was broken. And I knew… I knew he was trying, and I just… I never said it. I never told him I was proud of him.”

Bobby said nothing. Just held him tighter, hand cradling the back of Dean’s head like he was a boy again—broken, abandoned, inconsolable.

Dean shuddered. “I yelled at him. After everything. I told him he wasn’t my brother. That he was a monster. I let him walk away. And he still saved us. Saved everyone.”

“He knew, Dean,” Bobby said quietly. “He knew you loved him. Even if you were too damn stubborn to say it, he knew.”

Dean’s hands fisted in the back of Bobby’s jacket. “I sure as hell didn’t show it.”

He couldn’t stop shaking. His body felt heavy and hollow at the same him. He tried to breathe, but it just stung. Everything stung.

“I watched him go,” Dean whispered. “I watched him fall. I heard him say it was okay. Like that was supposed to make it better.”

Bobby exhaled slowly. “He said it because he didn’t want you to carry it.”

“Well, too late,” Dean snapped, voice splintering. “I do. I will. Every second. For the rest of my life.”

“You were scared,” Bobby said quietly. “So was he.”

Dean shook his head violently. “I failed him. Every time. Every goddamn time.”

Behind them, Castiel stepped closer, silent until now. He reached his fingers out to Dean’s forehead to heal him.

“Don’t,” Dean growled, jerking away. “Don’t fix me. I don't deserve it.”

Castiel hesitated. “Sam made a choice. A selfless one. He defied his destiny. Became truly good. He—”

“Don’t you dare give me that righteous bullshit, Cas. He didn’t want to be a hero. He just didn’t want anyone else to get hurt. He didn’t want me to get hurt.” 

Dean pushed himself to his feet, swaying, feral with grief. “He’s in the Cage, Cas. The Cage. With Lucifer. Who gives a damn about ‘good?’ He’s gonna be tortured. Ripped apart. Over and over. For eternity.””

Cas was silent for a moment then, “He loved you. That much I know.”

Dean let out a bitter breath that was almost a laugh. “Love? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Great, he loved me, but he’s not fucking here. Should we pop champagne and celebrate because hey, one life for the greater good isn’t so bad?”

“No,” Castiel said softly. “What’s done is done. But good has come of it. Your brother is free from this life and from the burden of his failures.”

“But what about me, Cas? When do I get to be free from that burden? I failed him at every turn. Every time he came to me, I bit his head off. I left him to fight on his own. And now he gave himself up to be tortured for what? This lousy planet?” Dean shoved Cas, hard. “I don’t give a damn about this planet if Sammy’s not in it. It was my job to keep him safe. Mine. And—fuck—how did this happen? Did you know?”

“I knew your brother had ulterior motives, yes,” Castiel said. “He asked me not to tell you.”

For a moment, Dean thought he might hit Castiel, but then, as quickly as it surged, his anger dissipated, and the tears returned. “I pushed him so far away he couldn’t even trust me to have his back.” The realization somehow made the hole in Dean’s heart tear wider. He bent down and picked up the rings from the ground, staring at the four pieces of metal that had just sealed his brother in Hell with Satan himself. With a shout, he threw them as far as he could before dropping back to the ground. 

“Sammy, I love you,” he whispered.

He pressed his forehead to the dirt. 

“I’m sorry, little brother. I’m so goddamn sorry.”