Descent

~*~ ~*~ DESCENT ~*~ ~*~

~*~ FIVE: Into The Black ~*~


August 10, 2008 – Bowie, Texas


Sam's eyes snap open, his chest heaving.

It takes him a few moments to realize he's awake and to get his bearings. His motel room's still dark, the quality of light visible through the gaps in the curtains more grey than black. He sits up, glancing at the beat up digital clock on the nightstand that confirms it's 5:47 and still before dawn.

He hops from the bed, performing a series of quick stretches and calisthenics to clear away the cobwebs and get his blood pumping. He cracks open his laptop next, sitting down to enter everything he can remember from last night's dream. He types as fast as he can, racing to record the details before his conscious mind wipes them away.

For the last week, he's ditched the demon hunting to focus on his recurring dream about Hell.

If that's what it even is.

At first, he'd thought it nothing more than a generic nightmare, a product of guilt and spicy food too late at night.

He'd dived back into his research on dreamwalking and lucid dreaming then, and even though none of the traditional markers of either seem to apply to his experience, he's convinced that his regular subconscious journeys downstairs are significant.

He prepares himself every night before sleep now, focusing his mind on exactly what he wants to see and where he wants to go. He places mugwart under his pillow, as the herb is believed to help one more easily achieve an effective lucid dream state. He'd really like to get his hands on some iboga root or bark, but since the plant is native to west central Africa, mugwart'll have to do.

Analyzing his dream journal reveals definite patterns. His initial path over the hellish landscape doesn't vary. Several distinct and unique outcroppings always appear at the same points along the path, with the sharp rise to the edge of The Pit and its overall appearance remaining constant.

Sam's noted some definite differences in his experiences over the last three nights, especially since he's made conscious efforts to alter things. The terrain and general sensations are always the same, as is the oppressive heat and sulfurous stench. It's Hell, after all. Other characteristics aren't static and vary subtly with each visit, like the quantities and locations of the billowing clouds of smoke and flame as well as the number and volume of the tortured screams that he hears.

Including Dean's.

He now easily avoids detection near the end of his dream, closing his eyes and envisioning the Impala to jar himself awake.

His most recent experiment proved really interesting. Instead of waking himself once he'd reached The Pit, he'd backtracked, retracing his steps in the opposite direction. He'd managed to cover a great deal of new territory before he'd reached some sort of barrier, a roiling wall of smoke, ash and flame that threatened to sear him to a crisp even though it appeared to be some distance away. Going for broke, he'd turned around, purposely taking off in a slightly different direction, but still easily finding his way back to The Pit.

It's almost as if he's covering the same path but at different times. Less of a dream, and more of—what? A vision? Some sort of astral projection on his part?

A serious leap, but there really isn't another explanation that seems to fit.

But the best part is that no matter how he wanders, no matter how far he strays from his starting point, he can always find The Pit.

It's not the hellhole that he's locking onto, or the grotesquely dark hellspawn, either.

It's something else, something brilliant and blinding.

Something that Sam knows better than anything, something that he can find no matter how far away or what plane of existence it lies in.

A homing signal, like tapping into some kind of ethereal GPS.

It's Dean, and Sam's never been more sure of anything in his life.

He finishes his data entry and heads for the bathroom, stripping off his boxers on the way.

He opens the faucets, and it's not long before the water is blessedly hot. Sam's stayed in some really ratty places over the last few years, and the one thing that he's found to be completely fucking essential is a decent supply of hot water. He steps under the spray, and the last bits of sleepiness fade away.

He plans out his day as he lathers up his hair, intending to skip breakfast and hit the road right away. He doesn't like to stay in any one place for much more than a day or two, as Lilith and her lackeys seem able to find him no matter how diligent he is at maintaining his mental barriers.

He's definitely going to miss this shower, though, if nothing else about the Chisholm Trail Inn.

He soaps himself up and rinses off, lingering under the steamy spray. He turns around, positioning himself so that the full force of the water hits the base of his neck. He rolls his shoulders, shifting slightly to allow the spray to work on his upper back.

Sam chuckles to himself, imagining how Dean would most likely be pounding on the bathroom door by now, bitching about using up all the hot water. And if he ignored the pounding, how his brother would probably bust in, rip the shower curtain back and turn off the water himself.

Or those rare times when Dean would just climb in with him, claiming it made sense to shower together to make sure both of them had a chance to enjoy the supply of hot water.

Sam closes his eyes, the memories of Dean's hands on his soap-slicked body seared into his brain. His dick's rock hard in an instant, so he squeezes out a dollop of shampoo into his palm and slathers it all over his stiff length.

He spreads his long legs as much as he can in the tub, stroking himself slowly at first, his fingers lingering and toying with the super-sensitive head of his dick.

“Oh, Dean,” he groans, gripping himself harder, pistoning his cock while squeezing his balls with his free hand.

His breath comes in short gasps as the heat builds, and he pulls on his aching erection mercilessly, faster and harder.

“Dean, oh, god,” he rasps out, yanking on his dick one last time. The heat blossoms and consumes him, reducing him to a grunting husk as his release coats his hand.

Sam slumps against the tile, heart pounding, his spent cock still cradled by his spunk soaked fingers.

He barely has a few seconds of post-whack bliss before he hears a soft clunking and the warm water turns instantly cool.

Then cold.

Fucking ice cold.

“Shit!” Sam yelps, scrabbling to escape the frigid jet of water, tangling himself in the shower curtain and nearly falling on his ass in the process.

He whips the faucets closed and grabs a towel.

“So much for the afterglow.”


August 15, 2008 – Kingfisher, Oklahoma


“That it, buddy?” the clerk asks, not even looking up.

“Yeah, just the water and forty bucks on pump number five,” Sam replies, dropping some bills on the counter.

The clerk jabs at his register, scoops up the cash, and drops some coins onto the counter. “Thanks. Have a great day.” He's back to his cell phone conversation before he slams the cash drawer.

“Yeah, same to you,” Sam shoots back, grabbing his stuff and heading outside to where the Impala waits at the pumps.

Another driving day on tap, and he'd like to at least make the Colorado line before nightfall. The skies are solid gray and rain's definitely on the way, which won't help his timetable any.

Sam rounds the rear of the Impala and fumbles for the keys, juggling his money clip and bottle of water.

“Damn it.”

He drops his clip, and then the water, which takes it upon itself to roll under the Impala. He falls to his hands and knees, barely able to nudge the bottle toward him with the tips of his fingers. Back on his feet, he tosses the clip and bottle onto the front seat, finally succeeding in fishing the keys from the deepest pocket of his fatigue shorts.

He's about to open his door when someone slams into him.

“Oh, sorry stretch. My bad.”

“Uh, no problem,” Sam replies, actually having to look up the slightest bit to meet the guy's gaze. He's definitely used to being the biggest guy in the room, so running into someone even bigger is surprising. Not to mention really disconcerting. “All my fault.”

The guy shakes his head. “Seriously, sorry.” He offers his meaty hand to Sam.

Sam stares at it longer than he should, shaking it anyway. The guy's huge, probably into construction or something physical, his barrel chest stretching the fabric of his strappy t-shirt.

The guy pumps Sam's hand, nearly cutting off the circulation. He finally lets go, tipping the brim of his cowboy hat to Sam. “See ya.”

Sam watches as he climbs into the cab of an old Ford pick-up, raised up and riding on the biggest tires he's ever seen. He looks at his hand to find a small scrap of folded paper as the guy drives off in a cloud of dust and exhaust fumes. Sliding into the driver's seat, he unfolds the paper:

El Charro. One hour.

-B

A quick web search on his cell finds a Mexican restaurant with that name just south of town.

Sam fires up the Impala and drives in the opposite direction the Ford had taken, wondering how he'll kill the next fifty-five minutes.

~*~ * ~*~

The El Charro in Kingfisher looks about as Mexican as a poodle. More like a hastily made-over steakhouse painted to resemble stucco or adobe or something.

Sam watches the place from the parking lot of a Pizza Hut a few blocks away. He's fortified his barriers and scanned the surrounding area over an over, finding nothing.

As far as he can tell, the coast is clear.

A minute before the hour is up, the lifted Ford appears and pulls into El Charro's parking lot.

Sam watches as the big guy gets out, looks around and finally swaggers inside.

He waits another ten minutes, still watching and scanning. When nothing happens, he decides that he might be hungry for Mexican after all.

~*~ * ~*~

“Jerry, you old dog! Long time no see!”

“Ooooof,” Sam gasps as the big guy lifts him off the floor in a crushing bear hug. “Bishop, right?” he whispers, trying to suck some air.

“Yeah. For sure!” Bishop releases Sam and squeezes himself into the booth. “Have a seat. We've got a lot of catchin' up to do.” He grabs his bottle of Corona and guzzles with gusto.

Sam laughs nervously, making a quick scan of the restaurant as he slides across the red vinyl. The place is relatively empty for a Friday afternoon, and Bishop has chosen a booth near a far corner of the eatery, away from the kitchen and restrooms, but close to an emergency exit.

“So, uh, Ralph. What a coincidence. Both of us in Kingfisher at the same time.” Sam slams the table enthusiastically as their waitress drops off two more Coronas.

“Thanks, darlin'!” Bishop booms, his cheerful expression falling flat as soon as the waitress turns away. He mouths Ralph? and rolls his eyes.

Sam shrugs and grabs a bottle, tapping it to Bishop's.

They both drink, and Bishop nods to the bowl of chips and salsa. “Try these. They're homemade. And the chunky salsa is out of this world.”

Sam stares as Bishop digs into the chips. “I'd have never guessed it was you,” he says, leaning on the table, his voice low.

“What? This?” Bishop flexes one of his host's considerable pecs. “I like to change things up.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not. Is he...is he—”

“Muerto?” Bishop nods. “Drug overdose. Can you believe it? Young guy like this pissing his life away. I was passing through Kansas when he dropped and made myself at home. Might just keep this one for awhile. Nice change of pace, and it certainly gets a lot of attention.”

“I bet.”

“Only one thing ain't quite up to snuff though.” Bishop looks around and then points a finger straight down to the crotch of his skin-tight jeans. “A cruel twist of fate. I mean really cruel. I'm talkin' nubbins, here. Serious over compensation issues.”

“Bishop—”

“And it's true what they say. The bigger the truck, the smaller—”

“So, this is great, but I don't have all day, Ralph.”

“Right, right. You're straight-to-the-point guy.” Bishop empties his beer and starts on another. “Relax. As long as we don't hang out through happy hour, we're fine.”

“I'm guessing something's up, or you wouldn't have chanced contacting me out in the open like this.”

“A whole mess of something. Lilith's stepped up her game, big time. You know that yellow you wiped down in Alabama?”

“Yeah. The paralegal from Portland.”

“Her name was Kakara. Very old school. One of Lilith's lieutenants.” He leans in close to Sam. “And until you, she was virtually untouchable.”

“So I pissed off Lilith because I nuked one of her gang. Big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Word has it that Lilith went into a frenzy when she heard. The outbreak of tornadoes on July 23rd? That was her. One of my sources swears that she also destroyed a few hundred of her own followers to set an example, to show how serious she considers the whole mess to be.”

“If she's so upset, then she's bound to make a mistake. Leave herself exposed somehow. Sounds good to me.”

“I wouldn't count on that. When she gets pissed, she gets creative. Everyone downstairs is more paranoid than ever. She's even turned up the heat on Alastair. So whatever you're gonna do, do it fast.”

“I'm working on it.”

“Work harder. And another thing: you need to keep a really low profile from now on. By low I mean like non-existent. Off the grid, for however long it takes for you to do your thing.”

Sam nods, swirling his beer bottle around. “It's that serious?”

“Yup. Lilith's got everyone and their grandmother looking for you. She's figured out how sharp your tracking skills have become, so she's called on every telepathic demon she owns and sent 'em topside. She's even resorted to conning some human fringe elements to help her.” Bishop stares Sam down for a long moment. “You're a big target, Sam, in every sense of the word. Sittin' so close to you, I can feel your energy, how you've grown. How powerful you've become. I've never sensed anything like you. Which is great on the one hand, but on the other—”

“I might as well have a bullseye painted on my chest.”

“Yup. Work on occluding yourself. Keep your guard up all the time, man.”

“Shit.”

“And there's one last thing.”

“Of course there is,” Sam blows out a breath and slumps in his seat.

“This plan to free Lucifer is pretty big. There's always been talk about doing it, but it's always been just that. A bunch of hot air. Lilith's serious though, and she's got the power to actually pull it off.”

“I'm not following you.”

“There's no way this thing could ever be kept quiet forever. No matter how hard she tried to keep things locked down, there have been leaks. Lots of 'em. The cat's out of the bag, and the plan to free Lucifer has attracted some seriously unwanted attention.” Bishop rolls his eyes upward and keeps them there.

“You mean—”

“It was only a matter of time before the white hats stuck their noses in.”

“Heaven? Angels? No way. What makes you think that?”

“Anecdotal information only, so far. But I've sensed things. Something new poking around. And there have been signs, too. Omens and portents that haven't been seen for over two thousand years.”

Sam's head reels at the implications of Bishop's news. It makes sense that God might take an interest in seeing to it that Lucifer remains downstairs. But any angelic involvement shouldn't have negative effects on his quest to get Dean back. “At this point, I don't see how that's a problem. It could even be a big plus.”

Bishop shrugs and drains his beer. “Maybe, but consider this. How do you think an agent of Heaven's gonna feel about you? White hats tend to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“One more thing to keep an eye out for, I guess.”

“That's all I'm sayin'. Right now, looks as if they're doing nothing but observing. If they decide to get themselves involved, then things'll go from severely complicated to total clusterfuck in no time flat.” Bishop burps loudly and hoists himself from the booth. “It was great seein' ya, Jerry. It'll be a long time before I'll be back around here, though.”

“Got it.” Sam stands and extends his hand.

Bishop ignores the gesture and hugs him tightly, burying his face in the crook of Sam's neck. “Watch your ass,” he whispers into Sam's ear.

“Yeah, sure, 'course I will,” Sam replies patting Bishop's broad shoulders with both hands.

“We've still got time to kill,” Bishop continues. “Be a shame to let this body go to waste. What say we check into that motel just up the street for a little skin time?” One of his hands drifts down to squeeze Sam's ass.

“Whoa,” Sam squeals in a most unmanly fashion, struggling to extricate himself from Bishop, who releases him a second later. “That's not funny.”

“Who's joking? No strings, promise.”

Sam can tell by the heat burning his cheeks that he's blushing and probably as red as the vinyl seating. What's worse is that for a split nanosecond, he'd actually considered Bishop's offer.

Everything really was spinning out of control.

He looks over his shoulder to find a couple of senior citizens scowling at them from across the dining room. “Hey, that's, um, sweet, but I can't. Ya know, I think we should both like, um, hit the road.”

“Can't blame a guy for trying. I'll keep this warm for ya as long as I can, though.” He tips his hat and brushes past Sam.

Sam watches him leave, the tiniest bit of disappointment welling up within him at the prospect of being on his own again. With any luck, though, he won't have to go it alone much longer.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Sam whirls around to find their waitress standing there. “Oh, man, sorry about all that.”

She looks totally perplexed for a moment but recovers quickly. “Your friend said that you'd take care of this.” She hands SAa the bill, throws him a sidelong glance and scurries back toward the kitchen.

“Great,” Sam mumbles, looking out the window just as Bishop's Ford peels out of the parking lot.


August 26, 2008 – Centennial, Wyoming


Sam adjusts the angle of his solar panel, restoring its optimal position after the heavy thunderstorm the previous night. Satisfied, he goes back inside the cabin to ensure that the battery is once again charging properly.

He's taken Bishops advice to heart, and he can't imagine being any further off the grid than he is now. The isolated hunting cabin is perfect for his needs, located a few hundred yards from an old logging road and overlooking a moderately sized lake.

Sam's been back down to Centennial only once since he'd arrived at the cabin nearly two weeks ago.

He'd left the Impala in secure storage back in Cheyenne, figuring it wouldn't hurt to give her a rest and switch to something different for awhile. The older Toyota 4x4 that he'd picked up served double duty in that it wasn't as conspicuous as the Impala, and it was better suited to going bush. That, and it also didn't make any sense to bring Dean back just to have his brother immediately kill him for dragging his beloved car up and down some logging roads.

Sam checks on the jar containing his most recent batch of mugwart solution, giving it a thorough shaking. He'd learned how to make the tincture using nothing but water, ethanol and mugwart leaves. Once he'd started ingesting small doses of the tincture every night, his abilities to control and participate in his visions had increased exponentially.

With nothing but time on his hands, Sam's thrown himself into his research.

He'd doscovered the concept of an etheric, or subtle body while scanning some articles on Theosophy. Hess surprised to find that many disciplines believe in the existence of this exact double of the physical body, Hinduism and Buddhism among them. The concept dates back still further, as the Sanskrit linga sarira translates as “etheric double”.

This exact counterpart of the physical body is thought to separate itself upon death, allowing the body to disintegrate. Early Alchemists created the Aether Theories, which described a medium that occupied every single point in space, even the interiors of physical bodies. This medium allows for the transmission of all sorts of energies, light being the easiest to demonstrate. Some Alchemists theorized that disengaged etheric doubles, once freed of their physical body, could travel the Aether, conceivably anywhere.

Later on, “aether” became “ether”, and as organized theological and religious associations formed and evolved, the term “ehteric body” fell from favor, eventually coming to be referred to as “the soul”.

Sam's also found rituals from every age and civilization that allow the most powerful shamen, high priests and medicine men to allegedly separate their spirit or soul from their corporeal body and walk anywhere they pleased, whether it be on earth or some spiritual plane.

The best discovery, though, is that everything he reads concerning etheric projection describes how the "subtle" body is able to affect changes, to touch and grasp and move solid objects at will, a tremendous advantage to simple astral projection, where the spirit can observe but is helpless to interact with anything corporeal.

If he hopes to physically lift Dean's soul from Hell, etheric projection is just the ticket he's been looking for. It clears away the last huge hurdle facing him, as even Bishop hadn't been able to adequately explain how the higher demons could appear and disappear at will, taking their meatsuit with them. Bishop could just do it, similar to how a person could operate a computer without having to know its exact inner workings.

That ability would be a handy one to have, and Sam might master it someday. But for now, it'll wait.

The concept of using his subtle body consumes him, and he's barely been able to contain himself as he devours essay after essay, article after article, ancient text after ancient text.

His previous experiments with his visions of Hell were clearly crude attempts at etheric projection, infantile stumblings in the dark. Literally.

Armed with his battery of new knowledge, he's studied every ritual he could find.

The first night he'd tried to project himself, he'd only managed to get as far as the foot of his sleeping bag. The next night, he'd moved around the cabin, using his etheric body to slide a chair and pick up a pencil. Both attempts had been seriously draining, and he'd barely been able to move after waking himself.

There's nothing to do but study and practice, and fortunately his ability to project grows stronger and more stable as time wears on.

Now, after ten days, he's ready to attempt his most radical experiment yet.

He checks his watch, anxious for sundown.

Unable to wait any longer, he measures out four ounces of the mugwart tincture, more than twice the amount he's used to. He lies down on his sleeping bag and closes his eyes, reciting the litany of verses he now knows by heart.

He focuses on himself first, imagining that he can see every part of his body, every organ and muscle, every bone and ligament, every cell. He senses the link between his two bodies, feels the energy that binds his etheric form to his physical one.

He toys with the bonds, alternately loosening and tightening them, watching as his bodies barely separate before uniting again.

He's ready.

Sam now visualizes where he wants to be.

He knows the place like the back of his hand.

There's a sharp yank, a pulling at his gut that quickly accelerates to a dizzying sensation of great speed. It's far more intense than before, but bearable. He stops suddenly, feeling like a snapped rubber band.

He sees his destination from above, as a bird might.

He spirals down, like a leaf on a slight breeze, round and down, round and down, finally landing with a soft bump. He focuses on the door, moving up the rickety front steps that for once, don't creak under his weight. He reaches up and finds the key hidden on the top of the doorframe, slipping it into the deadbolt and unlocking it. He replaces the key and easily pushes the door open, carefully closing and locking it behind him.

Moving through the house, he reaches out to touch, to feel, to move things, and it requires more concentration, more effort than he's used to, but he can do it.

He walks into the large room, the overflowing bookcases and cluttered desk familiar, comforting.

A breath of wind through the open windows rustles the curtains, and it feels like a ghost exhaling on his skin.

He clears a spot on the desk, finding a clean scrap of paper and a pen. He writes quickly and simply.

Bobby,
Everything's fine. I'm fine.
It's all going to be okay.
Sorry for cutting you out.
Hope to see you soon.

Sam

He looks around once more, shocked at how great the desire is to stay.

But he's not really here, and it's time to go.

Funkytown

The rubber band snaps again, whipping him backward. He cartwheels through the void, a deafening roar numbing his ears. It grows louder and louder as he tumbles backward until...

...sudden stillness and quiet.

A chorus of crickets intrudes upon his senses, and while he no longer feels like he's falling, his head is definitely still whirling. He cracks open an eye, and he can just make out the interior of the cabin, shafts of moonlight spilling in through the single window. He opens the other eye, and it seems to help with the dizziness. He tries to lift his arm to check his watch, but it feels like lead, heavy and dead.

Sam closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wills himself into a deep, dreamless sleep.


August 28, 2008


Sam doesn't try etheric projection again. He's sure of the process, and he's saving his strength for his final effort.

He's laid around, weak and queasy, for the better part of the day after his projection to Bobby's.

Fortunately, he doesn't have long to wait for proof that he's succeeded. By the time he feels strong enough to sit up and open his laptop, he finds an email from Bobby waiting for him. He'd left one of his ghost email addresses active, and Bobby still had it, as Sam hoped he would.

Sam finally feels ready, with the means and will to accomplish his task.

He just needs more time to rest, collect himself, build up his strength.

Time passes strangely for him now, the waning summer days alternately fleeting and timeless.

He drifts in and out of consciousness, keeping himself from dreaming, saving every shred of energy that he can.

There are times that he senses something new, something different on the extreme reaches of his perceptions. His mind wanders, random bits of stored knowledge occasionally floating to the surface.

Like how Greek mythology embraced the idea of many beings inhabiting the universe, humans and animals existing alongside of elemental spirits such as gnomes, sylphs and fairies. The Greeks believed that the elemental's souls had never inhabited a human body, and that a human soul, upon death of the body, could choose to reincarnate as an elemental, or higher form.

Early biblical transcripts went into great detail about the “heavenly host” and “angels of the lord”, pure beings whose souls had never been human, and therefore, were closest to God.

Was that what he was feeling?

Bishop's angels, maybe? Fantastical elementals? The armies of heaven finally roused from millennia of slumber?

Whatever it is, it's so far away, even further than Dean.

Right now though, Dean's all that matters.


September 3, 2008


Sam shivers in the cool, early morning air, toweling himself off as fast as he can. The water of the lake is definitely clean and clear, but cold enough to make his balls want to crawl right up inside him.

He yanks on his jeans and steps into his boots, sprinting for the cabin, as much for the heat of the fireplace as it is to get his blood pumping. He finishes dressing before the dwindling fire, downing the last of his instant coffee and oatmeal.

There's not much left of any of his supplies, but it's okay as he's ready to leave this place, probably never to return.

It's doesn't take him long to pack up his stuff and stow it in the Toyota.

He cleans up the cabin, ensuring the embers in the hearth are completely out and that everything is as he'd found it. He buries his trash behind the cabin and then sits on the threshold for a long time, watching the sunlight reflect off the surface of the lake.

His week-long hibernation has left him revitalized, physically primed and feeling stronger than ever.

Rationally, logically, he knows he's done all that he can.

It's academic now.

He watches the pastoral scene for awhile longer before fetching a shovel from the bed of the pick-up.

Just one more loose end to take care of.

Sam walks around the back of the cabin, heading straight away from it until he's a few yards inside the tree line. He stands there for some time, staring at the three shallow graves at his feet. He carefully shovels away the top layers of soil, using his hands to expose the remains in each grave.

For some reason, this is the one thing he's avoided dealing with.

Of everything that he's done, of all the rules that he's broken, this had always been the last thing, the last hurdle that he'll have to clear away to complete his transformation.

He knows he's capable, that he can do it.

Everything else pales in comparison to this final puzzle piece, all of his demonic powers, the blood, the projection, all could somehow be rationalized away, no matter how ridiculous it might seem. He's actually done just that, fooling himself that he's just been adding some new skills to his repertoire.

He's kept telling himself that he's still Sam Winchester, son of Mary and John, Dean's little brother, witness to darkness and pain, yet still...Sam.

He's done all of it with the best of intentions. That had to count for something, right?

That had to make all the difference. Didn't it?

But this...this is the point of no return.

For real.

Sam concentrates on the decomposed forms in the three graves.

He holds his hand out over the first.

“As you were.”

He watches as the rabbit looks around in surprise and hops away into the tall grass.

“And you.”

The fox leaps from its grave, ears flat, nose twitching. The next instant, it bolts into the woods.

“You, too.”

The coyote struggles to regain its footing, locking hungry eyes on Sam and snarling.

“Go on.”

The coyote growls and backs away a few feet before turning and heading for the lake.

Sam watches the coyote until he can't see it any longer.

He isn't human anymore.

He doesn't know what he is.

All he knows is that he's done it all for Dean.

Was the love of one man justification enough to jeopardize the very fabric of existence?

How much of himself was he willing to destroy to save the very center of his universe?

If there was an answer, did it even matter now?

~*~ * ~*~

Sam closes and latches the door to the cabin, shrugging into his flannel as he climbs into the cab of the Toyota.

He turns it over, the ticking of the tired four cylinder oddly comforting.

He plugs in his iPod's power cord, taps “play” and turns up the volume on the radio, leaning back and closing his eyes.

When you look you see right through me,
Cut the rope, I crash to my knees.
Fallen and broken, Every single time.

Yeah, here comes the water.
It comes to wash away the sins of you and I.
This time we'll see, Like holy water,
It only burns you faster than you'll ever dry.
This time with me...

Sam listens to the song for a few more moments before sitting up and throwing the shifter into first.

He adjusts the rear view mirror, his totally white eyes reverting back to misty green.

Sam releases the emergency brake, lets out the clutch, and heads toward the logging road and Centennial.


~*~


—Lyrics taken from “Slither” by Velvet Revolver.