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The motel room is dark and quiet, save for the soft sound of breathing.
Sam had claimed exhaustion and gone to bed early. Dean had kept an eye on him until Sam had been still for half an hour before lying down on the other bed himself.
Now, an hour later, Dean's asleep on his side of the room.
Sam's only pretending to be.
He follows her into the living room and away from Dean, still pleading with her to reconsider. The gun in his hand drags at his arm with a cold weight.
"Madison, no -- we can find a way, all right? There's this place, Dean and I both know it-- I can take you there, we can --"
"So I can be locked up like a monster in a zoo for the rest of my life?" She's crying openly; he can still feel the touch of her fingers as she reaches for his wrist. "I don't want to live like this, Sam. I won't."
His fingers tighten convulsively around the gun as she lifts his hand, bringing the weapon up between them, raising it until the barrel is pointed at her heart.
"Madison--"
She reaches up and puts her free hand over his mouth, stopping the frantic flow of words.
"Please, Sam. Help me. Don't make me have to do this alone."
He searches her face for long seconds before he nods.
"Close your eyes, Madison," Sam whispers. "I'm here. It's okay."
The sound of the gunshot echoes through the apartment.
In the darkness, Sam opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.
Five minutes later, he slips silently out the door.
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They'd gotten a slow start this morning -- or rather, Sam had -- so after the usual bitching and moaning, Dean had gone out to get them both coffee and something to eat.
He won't have much time before his brother comes back. Hopefully he won't need it.
Sam hunts around in his duffel bag and comes up with a white votive candle in a small glass holder, a silver rosary with jet beads, and a lighter. He lights the candle and sets it down on the cheap wooden table by the TV, then arranges the rosary in front of it.
It's been a long while since he's felt the need for rituals and trappings to accompany his own personal acts of prayer, but he hasn't forgotten how to use them.
When Pastor Jim Murphy turns away from the altar, he finds that he's not alone in the church.
"Sam? Is everything okay? Where's Dean?"
The six-year-old boy nods, then shrugs and points over his shoulder toward the church's vestibule.
"Looking at pictures of cars. He said it was okay if I came in here as long as I didn't bother you."
"You're not bothering me, son." Pastor Jim smiles at him. "It's all right."
"Okay." A beat. "What were you doing?"
"Praying." Awkwardly, Sam lowers himself to the ground, kneeling before the makeshift altar. He clears his throat. "Why?"
"It's how I talk to God." Pastor Jim comes over and takes a seat in the pew beside Sam. "I like to keep in touch."
"Does he talk back?"
"Sometimes. Maybe not the same way that you'd talk to Dean, or your dad would talk to you, but when He answers, you can always tell."
Sam thinks that over for a few seconds, frowning in concentration.
"Can I pray too?"
"Anyone can," Jim promises him. "He'll hear you. He's always listening. All you need to do is believe." "Our Father, who art in heaven..." But just like before, the words stick in his throat. Sam closes his eyes in despair. When the black, smoky cloud oozes through the air vent behind him and into the motel room, he doesn't notice. Not in time to do anything about it, anyway.
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Talk about everything going wrong.
How could I be so fucking stupid?
Sam's slumped on a stool in the lab, staring glumly at the floor and ignoring the argument going on around him. The wound in his chest stings a little bit, but no worse than any other scratch or cut he's ever had. He can't feel the virus yet, but he knows it's in there.
Poisoning him.
It's not like I didn't know that anyone in the whole damn town could be infected -- but Pam was so scared, she hadn't shown any signs, I thought she was safe, so I let her get behind me...
Let my guard down for one fucking minute, and now I'm gonna die here.
A familiar metallic jingle gets his attention, and Sam looks up in shock as Dean tosses Mark the keys to the Impala.
"Get the hell outta here. Take my car. You two go with him."
"Dean, no--"
"You're not gonna get rid of me that easy, Sammy."
The others are already moving for the door. Dr. Lee hangs back for a second as Duane and Mark file out ahead of her.
"I'm sorry. Thanks for everything, Marshals."
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The road's dark - pretty close to pitch-black, come to that.
Still, as Sam cuts a sideways look at Dean, it's clear that the blackness outside is nothing compared to his brother's mood.
Not that his own is much better.
Dad, how could you--
"She was lying. Had to be."
He tries to sound as though he believes it.
"Demons lie all the time, right?"
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Hi everyone!
As Season 4 has now started airing here in America, it's been a while since the last group email, there are more SPN-verse characters around these days, and we don't have an SPN-at-Milliways community, Lynne and I wanted to put up a note so we could all have a place to touch base.
( Part One: Who's Who. )
( Part Two: Wheres and Whens )
( Part Three: Canon Sweet Canon )
That's all we've got at the moment. Got comments, questions, things to discuss -- drop them here or grab someone directly. :) See you all in the bar!
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There's not much in Slater, Missouri. Mostly what the town's got going for it is a bunch of cheap motels due to its location at the intersection of three state highways, twenty miles from the interstate. It's the sort of thing that makes Slater a decent place to pull off the road for a night.
Sam's taking advantage of that fact right now. He's sprawled out on one of the beds in their room, sound asleep.
It's been a long day.
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Dean had filled him in on running into Sallie in the bar. From what he'd said, it sounds like she's gonna get through it, and Sam's glad.
They've lost too many people already. He doesn't want to think about what it would have been like to lose Sallie.
Now that he knows things are okay, though, there's something else he needs to do.
"This is stupid." "You said that already, Dean." "Because it still is." "Listen, you don't have to come--" "And I'm supposed to do what instead, hang around the roadhouse or the bar waiting for you to show up? No thanks."
Dean might have driven them there, but he'd flatly refused to have anything else to do with this. No one's around when Sam kneels down and uses a pocketknife to dig a hole in the ground in front of the granite slab. The gravestone's a simple one. So's the inscription. MARY
WINCHESTER
1954 - 1983
In Loving MemorySunlight glints from metal as Sam pulls a set of dogtags from his shirt pocket. He turns them over in his hand, rubbing his thumb over John's name. "I think, um--" He clears his throat. "--I think Dad would have wanted you to have these." He sets them in the hole and pushes the clumps of dirt and grass back in place, then looks up at the gravestone. "I love you, Mom."
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Angela Mason's dead -- again -- and buried. Again. Hopefully this time she'll stay there.
The pain in his hand is a constant throbbing ache, but Sam ignores it. He's busy sneaking sideways looks at Dean, trying to get a sense of things. So far, it's hard to say, but the scowl on Dean's face as he glares at the road in front of them doesn't bode well.
It's utterly silent in the Impala right now. There isn't even any music.
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[After this.]
He watches in silence as Andrew makes his unsteady way up the stairs. Once the other guy is out of sight, Sam turns away and goes straight to the bar.
The tequila he orders is delivered with an addition of two packages. Sam frowns over the note that came with them for a few seconds before pushing everything to one side and reaching for his drink.
He picks it up-- and then slowly sets it down again, untasted. Sam leans his elbows on the wood and buries his head in his hands.
I trusted him!
He'd said as much to Dean months ago, when they first started looking for a way back to Milliways. Looking for information; looking for help.
If it were only his own situation, it wouldn't even matter that much. He'll deal. What makes it worse is that he'd confided in Andrew about other things, too.
How could I have been so fucking blind?!
There'd been plenty of signs, now that he thinks about it.
"Oh, I get that... you don't even know. Pretending..."
"You have no idea how well I know all about that.
He'd never pushed. No, he'd always ignored it, letting it all pass. Giving Andrew -- giving his friend -- the time he seemed to need.
His friend.
I thought he was my friend. I thought we were on the same side. Was I wrong about all of it, this whole time?
It's not like he can ask anyone. He's sure not gonna talk to any of Andrew's friends about it until he figures this thing out, not even Mac.
And there's no way he can talk to Dean about this, either, not yet. Not until things are better. Until that happens, there's no way he's gonna add anything at all to what his brother's dealing with.
Once he got through tearing a strip off me for being stupid, Dad would have known what to do. Me, I just keep screwing up-- I can't figure out how to get through to Dean, I can't get anything right--
But there's no one else, is there?
With a sigh, Sam gathers up his stuff and heads for the door.
Dad, wherever you are... I miss you.
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[After this.]
When he comes back, he doesn't head straight out to see how Dean's doing.
There's always the chance his brother might notice that Sam's quieter than he was before he left, and Sam doesn't feel like explaining the reason.
Not yet.
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Hao--
Talked to Jess tonight. She said you were trying to help her and that you were looking for me.
I'm around the bar, or you can leave a return note and I'll meet you.
Let's talk soon.
--Sam Winchester.
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Dean's working on the Impala with singleminded focus; in the meantime, Sam's working on whatever he can find.
(It's a hell of a lot better than thinking about all the things that are wrong which he can't do anything about.)
Right now, he's still trying to crack their dad's cell phone.
When he does, however, he finds something unexpected.
"John, it's Ellen. Again."
Sam stares at the phone for a long while before he goes outside to find Dean.
"...It's what I came out here to tell you, okay?" Sam holds the cell phone out. "It's Dad's. Took me a while, but I cracked his voicemail code." Dean gives him a look, but takes the phone and listens to the message. As he does, his expression changes, and Sam nods. "That message is four months old." "Dad saved that chick's message for four months?" Sam nods again. "Yeah." "Okay, so who's Ellen? Any mention of her in Dad's journal?" "No, but--" He holds up a scrap of paper. "I ran a trace on her phone number and I got an address." Dean snaps the phone shut and hands it back to Sam. "Ask Bobby if we can use one of his cars."
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He's frowning as he comes back from the cafeteria, coffee in hand. It's not that he wants to fight with Dad, it's just-- it's weird, is all.
I don't care what he says, something's wrong. Dad's never been that tired.
It's pretty quiet on the ward. As Sam walks back up the hall, he glances back and forth, staying aware of his surroundings as he's been trained from childhood to do, even when there's nothing to see but an empty hospital room.
Except that it's not empty.
Inside, John Winchester is lying sprawled motionless on the floor.
"...Dad?"
The cup of coffee slips forgotten from his hand and goes crashing to the floor as Sam runs to his father's side.
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He's standing by the edge of Dean's bed, staring down at the floor. Sam's not going anywhere-- even if there were a chance of finding help at Milliways, he's not going to leave Dean alone and undefended. He's not sure what it'll look like when the reaper comes for him, but he's got no intention of just letting it happen.
There's got to be something he can do. That someone can do. He can't just give up. He won't.
Even as he thinks it, Dean gasps in a sharp breath, choking on the tube in his throat as he jerks awake.
Sam's head snaps up.
"Dean?"
Without waiting for an answer, he yells toward the hallway,
"Help! I need help!"
The response from the medical staff is gratifyingly quick.
The doctor's the last one to leave the room, surprise and confusion still written on his face at being unable to explain what had happened. Sam doesn't care.
His brother's alive. That's all that matters.
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He'd gone down the hall to see what he could find out, and what he'd found had been a team of doctors and nurses trying to resuscitate Dean.
No--
And there wasn't a damn thing Sam could do but stand at the door watching his brother die right in front of him.
But then something had happened
...get back...
and Dean's heart had started beating again.
This time.
It'd been too close. Way too close.
He'd gone back to Milliways on a fast pass just to check, but there'd been no sign of Dean. It hadn't been a real surprise.
Sam's pretty sure he knows where Dean is right now.
It's quiet in the hospital room when he gets back from the gift shop. Sam's clutching a brown paper bag, and stands there for a second looking down at his brother.
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He doesn't know how long he can stand it. Nor does he know how long he's been sitting by the hospital bed, looking at his brother lying so silent and still, surrounded by tubes and beeping machines, waiting for--
"Dean?" It's out before he realizes he's going to say anything. Sam leans forward, holding his breath as he strains to hear any sound.
There's no answer, and he swallows hard, fighting back a tightness in his throat.
"Come on, man. Don't do this. You -- you gotta wake up, Dean."
"You don't want Dad to get out of bed first, do you? I mean, you'll never hear the end of it--"
"Dean, please."
"Can you even hear me?"
There's no answer to any of it, and Sam drops his head into his hands, trying to think. It's then that another thought hits him, and Sam sits straight up, eyes going wide.
What if he's not even here? What if-- what if he's--
Two seconds later, he's sprinting for the door.
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In the immediate aftermath of the wreck, the hush is complete. The soft drip of fluid leaking from the Impala's ruined engine is punctuated by the occasional creak of overstrained metal or a 'tink' as a shard of glass falls from a shattered window, but otherwise, everything is quiet.
Sam is pinned between the steering wheel and the driver's seat, with John unconscious and slumped sideways in the seat next to him. Dean lies motionless in the back, sprawled limply where he was flung by the force of the impact.
The only one of them who's moving is the truck driver. The demonic black of his gaze is as flat and empty as a shark's as he steps down from the truck and starts toward the wreckage of the Impala, bootheels thudding solidly against the pavement.
I see a bad moon rising
At the sound, Sam opens his eyes.
I see trouble on the way
It's only a few seconds before it reaches them. Only a few seconds, but it's enough.
"Get back, or I'll kill you, I swear to God."
As the demon tears the door from the car, it finds Sam braced against the seat and waiting for it, with the Colt already raised and pointed. The thing behind the truck driver's face looks down at him with a sneer.
"You won't," it snarls. "You're saving that bullet for someone else."
"Killing this demon comes first. Before me, before everything."
Click. The look in his eyes is as cold and hard as the demon's as Sam cocks the gun and levels it at the driver's heart.
"No, sir. Not before everything."
"You wanna bet?"
You think I've got anything else left to lose?
His finger begins to tighten on the trigger.
With a howl, the demon vomits itself upward from the truck driver's throat into a cloud of seething black smoke and dissipates into nothingness.
Sam barely notices as the man falls to his knees. With a shaking hand, he uncocks the hammer and lowers the Colt, hiding it under the tail of his shirt, then drops his head back against the seat.
"Dad?"
There's no answer. He swallows and tries again, this time louder.
"Dad?" A beat. "Dean?"
Silence.
"DEAN!"
"You--" It's the truck driver, babbling at him, and Sam lifts his head again to look up at the other man. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm gonna go get help--"
"My brother," he croaks, interrupting. "My dad. I can't see-- are they okay?"
The other man's not listening. "Phone doesn't work, no signal -- I have to go, I'm gonna go, find help --"
He's already running up the road by the time Sam manages to turn around.
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He doesn't care what the doctor says. Dean's sleeping right now, that's all.
And before he wakes up, there's something that Sam wants to have taken care of first.
He finds a quiet corner of the waiting area and makes sure no one's around before he dials the number.
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Dean's off somewhere -- downstairs, Sam figures.
He himself isn't feeling social tonight, and besides it's a little easier to keep looking into possible solutions for Jess's situation when Dean isn't around.
Not that he hasn't told him, or anything like that. It's just... awkward.
Yeah.
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Vampires. Vampires are real. Man, Andrew is never gonna let us hear the end of this, not to mention that Abby girl and her friend, what's his name, Hannibal.
Dean's gone out on an errand, but that doesn't change the fact that the motel room is small and a little cramped, especially at the moment. As he paces back and forth, Sam keeps darting sideways looks at the table where John Winchester is sitting and working.
Of course, you knew all about them, didn't you, Dad? And even if you thought they were extinct, you still didn't bother telling either me or Dean that they'd existed at all. Just like you didn't mention Daniel Elkins, or the Colt.
The Colt. A gun out of legend, said to have been made in 1835 by Samuel Colt himself while Halley's Comet burned through the sky overhead. A special gun, with thirteen special bullets, made for a mysterious hunter on horseback and used only a handful of times before the man had disappeared and the gun was lost along with him-- until it had turned up in Elkins's possession, and now that of the vampires that had murdered him.
A gun that supposedly can kill anything.
Even a demon.
Would you have even called us if Dean and I hadn't run into you outside of Elkins's place? Would you have told us if you and I hadn't gotten in that fight earlier? Jesus, Dad -- this could finally be it, after all these years! Were you just gonna keep it a secret? What were you thinking?
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