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“I can’t,” she says.
Sam smiles ruefully into his phone. “Yeah, I couldn’t either. Dean—”
“No, you don’t understand.”
It’s three a.m. and the bunker is dark and quiet. The table lamp casts a tiny island of light on the books Sam's been combingfor grace extraction techniques.
Alicia’s voice is tight with panic. “I mean I literally cannot. I left myself a note. I don’t remember writing it.”
“Oh,” Sam says.
“There are six hash marks at the bottom. I think I've forgotten—I think...” She trails off uncertainly.
“Okay.” Sam’s hands are starting to shake. “Okay, I’ll come.”
Sam leaves a text on Dean’s other, other phone. He borrows the Impala, and drives to Manitoba. Alicia has missing time. If she tries to come to Sam, Max will find her gone, and then she’ll just have more.
They meet at a trailhead in Riding Mountain National Park. Sam’s been driving fourteen hours straight. His eyes feel gritty and his head hurts.
Alicia is waiting for him, with her hands in the pockets of her jeans and the setting sun behind her, lighting up the strands of her wet hair in burgandy and fire orange. She looks young and vibrant and full of life. There's a red plastic jug at her feet, the kind civilians keep in the trunks of their SUVs where Sam and Dean keep their armory instead.
“Are you sure?” Sam asks.
“Yeah,” she says, “I’m sorry.”
Sam shrugs awkwardly.
When he’s done, he'll text Dean again, so Dean won’t worry. Tomorrow, he’ll drive back to the bunker. The nephilim baby is due any day now, and Cas is still missing. When they solve those problems—assuming they do—there will be others waiting in the wings.
On the way here, he cried so hard at one point that he had to pull over. But now, inexplicably, standing shivering in the cold forest air with the match unstruck in his hand, from somewhere deep inside him comes a warm, bright spark of joy. It’s not the simple happiness of their usual saves, but there’s something intimate and tender in it anyway, and Sam is grateful he can give what he didn't receive.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Sam,” Alicia says, “Max will thank you too. Later, when he's had some time.”
Sam's not so sure that’s true. But he leans down and kisses her on the forehead.
He shelters the match from the wind with his body while he drags it's head across the graphite strip on the bottom edge of the matchbook.
It catches, and Alicia smiles.
He drops it at her feet.
Max's twigs made a doll to hold Alicia's heart. Alicia's gallon of gas and Sam's match make a pyre to burn it on.