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He told me, "I've seen it rise
But it always falls
I've seen them come, I seen 'em go"
He said: "All things pass into the night"
And I said: "Oh, no, sir, I must say you're wrong
I must disagree, oh, no, sir, I must say you're wrong
Won't you listen to me?”
The final straw isn't what John does.
It's what he doesn't do, when Sam needs it the most. The absence burns.
One last waiting hand that comes up wanting - but maybe the fact she had a bag packed already meant she didn't really want it. Maybe she had wanted for this to happen, with cold shoulders and pointed looks always prepared. John certainly didn't do anything to mend their relationship; and maybe Sam feared the normalcy of an irreparably ruined relationship turned on its head. Sam didn't know what she wanted. Maybe all she really was a little girl, deep down, who wanted her daddy to love her right.
She had begged him to say I'm sorry. Take back everything he'd done to her, and be ashamed of what he hadn't done for her. It was a fool's errand to expect platitudes from him. Sam just hadn't expected him and Dean to leave for a hunt. In the dead of night. Alone, with a curt note, it made Sam burn and wither. It made her want to hide in a hole and never come out. It made her angry.
Well. If they can leave so quickly, why can't I?
The golden coast called her name, just like the admissions letter stuffed in a pair of her childhood socks. Pink and girly, My Little Pony themed; a new beginning wrapped up in her old life. A new Sam, reborn in seaspray and morning dew and sunlit coasts. Maybe time away from John and Dean would make them realize what they had pushed away. It's a childish sort of hope that's followed her throughout her life - a love for her family, even when her pulling away was ostensibly the reason for their distance.
Maybe that's why her dad tried to find other ways to fill that distance.
…
U.S Route 50 was the loneliest, longest stretch of road in the lower 48. Sam found herself alone as she stared down it in the middle of the night outside of Cincinnati. Through days of hitchhiking and walking miles away from Virginia, legs burning and heart heavy, a streak of bad luck had hit.
No more money.
Low on food.
And some part of her regretted that she hadn't said goodbye to Dean. Another part of her knew he wouldn't have taken it as well as she wanted. None of their prior conversations along those lines had gone well. Neither wanted to hear that she felt like an outsider, like Sam was meant to be somebody else. She was a wild hare they needed to snare. That last, lingering, lonely bit of femininity that clung to the Winchester name.
Well. She'd survived on her own for days. Hungry and far too hot, yeah, but she had survived.
To that end, Sam stuck out her thumb. It doesn't take long, surprisingly - a trucker stops a few feet away. In the darkness, Sam hauls herself up and pops her head into the cab.
“Where ya heading, sweetheart?”
His voice makes Sam's skin crawl. But she's strong. Dad taught her to fight like a jack rabbit. Use her perceived weakness to kick back. To claw until her attacker was dead, or until him and Dean were there to help. She didn't exactly have the second option. Death wasn't one, not for her.
Sam curled her fingers around the handle that she had hauled herself up to.
“Vincennes. Indiana.”
“Alright. Hop in.”
Immediately, Sam felt on edge. She didn't buckle herself in and kept herself pressed against the door. Dean used to mockingly compare her idiosyncrasies to that of a bunny. Clicking her teeth disapprovingly, her long legs that always carried her faster than either Dean or her father, her ways of flattening her body to look smaller. He'd always stroke her hair until she slapped him away - like a bunny, Dean always laughed.
Outside, the world passed them by.
“What's your name, little lady?”
“Delilah.”
Trucker Guy made a pleased grunt at that. But he doesn't tell Sam his. That's alright, he doesn't really know Sam either. Better that way. Anonymity was the one power John taught her that wasn't explicitly violent. It was a costume they put on and took off only for family.
The pressure inside of the cabin, ambient in its insidiousness, makes Sam decide to ditch this ride the next time they stop. The hand on her thigh, though, is going to make that decision move up the timeline.
“Don't touch me.” Sam hissed. Her hand raised in warning. “I'm not -”
Sam expected a punch, but not so soon. It put her on the back foot long enough that the truck stopped alongside the road. Dawn is young on the horizon. Trucker Guy lunges towards her, his eyes wild and yet still so human. For a second, she can see John: in the way he lays on her, his expression, his hands on her.
She put up a good fight.
It didn't stop her from being dead, though.
...
Death felt a lot like burning. Having every inch of yourself catch on fire from the inside out. Being dead wasn't peaceful, nor was it a nothingness. God wasn't there. No angel was there to greet her.
What greeted Sam was a dark cave with the sound of dripping water. A chill seeped into the cracks of her soul. And with the chill came a deep sadness that leapt to her eyes.
Sam had died. And nobody would ever find her body. Sam curled into a ball and dug the heels of her hands into her eyes. Stars burst in her vision, and the pain made her sure that she'd have bloodshot eyes later. If she ever found a mirror again.
She stilled. Confusion swept over her.
Memories of being choked to death, and then stabbed, washed out any current thoughts. Sam patted her chest and belly, touched her throat, and came up empty for it.
“I'm not -”
“You're not dead, Sam.”
A woman's voice murmured in the gloom. A presence settled behind Sam. Warm and instinctively familiar. When a hand brushed hair from her face, Sam flinched. Dad used to do that.
“Why?”
Sam didn't want to die. But nothing was ever given to anyone without something being wanted in return.
“Look at me, Sam.” The hand had pulled away, but Sam could tell she was beckoned. “I won’t hurt you.”
More curious than complacent, Sam rolled over. It was a woman in white.
Who wore her mother's face.
“You -” Sam felt her tongue turn to lead. “No way.”
Sam sat up and when she felt dizzy, the Thing steadied her.
“I'm not your mother. But I thought you'd like to see her.”
There was something, about the way this Thing wore her mother's skin like a dress, that made Sam ache. It dredged up years of ingrained apathy and yearning. Wanting what Sam couldn't have. The way it moved and smiled, just like the blurry pictures. It smiled just like how John said that Mary smiled. It also smiled like how Sam thought she would've.
“You're beautiful.” Sam whispered. “You're everything I wanted.”
“I'm not your mom, Sam.” It reminded Sam once more. Sam didn't care. “Isn't it wonderful, Sam? This shouldn't be possible. And yet you made the impossible possible.”
Sam buried her face into her not-mom's lap.
“You have to wake up, Sam.” Fingers brushed through her hair. “You have to. But this won't be the last time.”
As much as Sam willed it, she couldn't have everything. She didn't know why she thought she could. Sam was damned from the moment she couldn't find comfort in the never-ending hunt. Not when it felt like she was the one being hunted.
...
The first thought Sam has when she ‘wakes up’ is - ouch. Her body is sore. And when she looks down, to survey the damage, there's nothing. Yeah, there's a hole in her shirt and her skin is dirty with mud. Like an angel kissed her flesh, it's without blemish.
Once she's sure this isn't another dream, another thought floats through her mind. Sam bites down on it.
California can wait.
There's somewhere else I need to be.
In Colorado, Sam found an old friend. It had been some shit motel that didn't seem to care how old Sam was, even though they carried booze in the rooms, as long as she paid for the night. Amy had been camped outside of her room, nursing a bottle of warm beer, when Sam ran to her.
“I can't believe -” Sam pressed her hands to Amy's shoulders. She wanted to hug the girl, but shied away from it. Too much all at once. “How have you been?”
Amy looked older. In ways Sam expected, with their years apart, but in other ways too. Those sort of ways that Sam saw in her own face when she looked in a mirror.
“I've been alright.” Weary and worn. “You look… different.”
Sam wanted to joke about dying. She's died a hundred ways before her literal death. A death of trust. A death of the metaphorical innocence of childhood. A more literal death.
She chose the next best thing.
“Finally ran off from my dad and brother.” Sam smiled, half-there. “I should've -”
“Not worth second guessing yourself, Sam.” Amy motioned to the chair opposite of her. “Just sit.”
Silence yawned between them. But it felt warm and comfortable. Nothing like the silence between her and Dean, or John. There was no expectation of anything to be said.
“You should come with me.” Amy says. “I'm going to Santa Barbara. The, you know, the Pier.”
Sam's silence causes Amy to continue.
"It's warm. The beaches are full of poodle people and food and opportunities."
One part of Sam, the part of her that still clung on from before she died, wanted to say yes. She didn't know why she couldn't go to California anymore. A part of herself she couldn't interrogate without feeling like she stared into the pit of her soul.
“Can I sleep on my answer?” Sam asks, meek as a scolded schoolgirl. “I'm not sure where I want to go.”
Amy smiled at that. A half-full thing that sagged at the edges. Beautiful and far more than Sam deserved. Maybe she knew Sam's answer already - or maybe she didn't. Either way, Amy nodded.
“I'm glad that we don't have to rush this, like last time.” Amy says. Right, a dead mom. “Did your dad get worse, or what?”
The silence that inches between them makes Amy grimace in understanding. Until, finally, Sam speaks.
“At least you don't have to worry about your mom anymore.”
Sam left it at that.
….
She felt bad about leaving Amy behind. In the middle of the night.
It wasn't the fact that they slept next to each other, warm skin against skin, like her and John used to. Because Amy wasn't John and Sam could leave whenever she wanted. It was the fact that she left Amy without any goodbye.
No, Sam left for a different reason. Left because she'd seen ‘her’ in the cracks of her unconscious mind.
If she didn't get where she felt compelled, something worse would happen. Worse than the last time she'd seen Amy.
Sam still felt bad though.
Why was Sam here?
The bar was lively. Hunters, some that Sam was certain that she recognized, milled about. Partied. Like a moth to a flame, she'd come here. Maybe some part of her hoped that she would see Dean.
Maybe it was familiar. And she needed somewhere warm, in Idaho, to ride out the night. It was never going to be that simple, though.
“John's been looking for you.” A man approached her, a hunting dog - and her, a cornered hare. “Why'd you run?”
Because monsters are also in our families.
Sam tilted her head, eyes sharp. There's an attempt to look dangerous. But Sam quickly realized she was outnumbered. Hunters eyed her all around.
“Why else would a little girl run from her dad?” Sam stepped backwards. “Ask yourself that.”
When a Hunter came through the door, Sam took her chance. Like a loaded spring. Like a fired gun. Off to the races - she flew out of the opened door, down the porch steps and into the deep, far too early air. A forest encircled the bar and welcomed her. In the distance behind her, Sam could hear whooping calls.
Bring her back alive!
In and out of copses of trees. Over and around creeks. Sam's legs burned with exertion. Her lungs protested. Sam had never felt as free as she did then and there, animalistic in her frenzy to be free. The feeling was familiar, once a slow-burn sort of performance, gnawing at the bars of her caged life like a rabid rabbit.
She almost soared like a stag in stride.
A man bowled her over and they fell sideways into a dry creek bed.
“Why the fuck -” Middle-aged and not used to the wild of youth, the man struggled to catch his breath. “John's a good man.”
An animalistic frenzy gnawed at the back of her eyes. Freedom, frantic and panicked. Her skull buzzed.
Blood dripped down the man's nose and fell onto her forehead. A baptism by blood.
“What the fuck?” The man's eyes had turned bloodshot. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Sam burned through her frenzy, teeth clenched. Wild. Frantic. Free. The afterimage of her mother burned into the back of her eyes.
The Hunter must've not liked what he saw in her eyes. Golden and animalistic and frenzied. Antithesis to the ethos of a Hunter. Sam hardly felt the muzzle of the gun at the bottom of her chin.
At least she died free. Gnawing at the dredges of her cage.
…
“We really must stop meeting like this.”
That same voice. It makes Sam come to her senses immediately. Around them, the cave has fallen away - in its place, a forest meadow. Birdsong and animal calls fill the lull of silence between them. Sam finds that she's barefooted, lush grass and wildflowers softening her step.
She used to have dreams like this. It felt more real than the cave, than conscious reality.
“What are you?” Sam asks, curious and annoyed. “Why do you keep bringing me here?”
Something about this meeting strikes Sam as different. ‘Mary’ comes to her from between trees, still dressed in that white gown. Ethereal. Like she was coming to meet her bride-to-be before their wedding.
“I'm saving you.” ‘Mary’ soothes. “Sam, I don't want you to suffer. But I can't interact with your world. Not yet.”
In ‘Mary's’ face, Sam sees herself reflected back. For better, and for worse. There's a sort of performance to it. Tired and hopeful. Wanting more and being given nothing. The mirror just shows a better you.
It turns Sam soft, like all of the times she saw fawns waiting for their mothers to come back. Hoping they'd come back. Knowing they wouldn't come back.
“How can I trust you?” Sam demures, unsure, as ‘Mary’ comes to stand in front of her. “You can't even show me your real face.”
‘Mary’ smiles at that, a full thing full of patient knowing.
“Of course.” Her fingers come to rest on Sam's cheeks, soft and warm and indulgent. “But you've already seen it.”
Sam blinks, and it's like she's looking in a mirror. The red eyes in her reflection blink back. Deep and eternal. A thought struck Sam - these are familiar. Her doppelganger smiles and blows a kiss to Sam. Warm breath that smells like hers.
It made Sam's head hurt.
“See? I'm you, and you're me. Beginning of time and…” She seemed to clock Sam's confusion. “I don't want to lie to you, Sam. So, lemme lay my cards on the table for you.”
Sam gripped her twin's hands, still reeling. “Please do.”
“I'm Satan. Lucifer. God's least, most favorite daughter.” She waved a hand. “But I'm no enemy of humanity. Not yours, at least.”
When Sam flinched, Lucifer held her close. Nose-to-nose. Arms wrapped around Sam's waist. It was like Lucifer wanted to crawl into Sam's skin and call it home. She was a present being unwrapped, and then rewrapped.
The marrow-deep sensation of how right this felt set Sam's teeth on edge.
“I won't let him do that to you again, Sam.” Lucifer sounded almost desperate, voice crackling at the edges of her borrowed youth. “Do you get that? You ran away because he -”
“Don't say it.” Sam choked on her own emotion. Too much. “Please. You don't know him -”
“I know what it's like to be brought to heel by your family.” Lucifer brought their faces closer. Cheek-to-cheek. “In more ways than you know. And all of the ways you do know.”
The worst part?
Sam believed her.
…
“You fucking killed Winchster's kid!”
The chill of a truck bed roused Sam. Dull pain tore through her skull like water eroding stone. If she'd had anything in her system she knew she would've vomited.
“His kid is a freak!” Her murderer's voice, shrill with prey fear, bit back. “Her eyes went yellow. It smelled like sulfur. And -”
“Don't go saying bullshit like that, man. She was a kid.” The other voice was even more shrill. Mice in a burrow filled with flood water. Filling fast. “Winchester is going to skin us alive.”
He probably would. Whatever she was, Sam was his burden to bear.
Silence.
A silent agreement. Footsteps. More silence.
Sam could feel Lucifer's hands urging her to stand. Ignore the blood. Ignore the leaked brain matter. Get up out of the truck bed. Lucifer's hands on her heart. Like you'd shield a baby bunny from torrential rain.
It was dawn. Sam walked away from it. She walked towards the coastline, salty and heady.
She was a stag caught in stride.
He told me, "I've seen it all before, I've been there
I've seen my hopes and dreams lying on the ground
I've seen the sky just begin to fall"
He said: "All things pass into the night"
And I said: "Oh, no, sir, I must say you're wrong
I must disagree, oh, no, sir, I must say you're wrong
Won't you listen to me?”
The crashing waves against the island's rocky shore provide a sort of quiet, lulling noise. Inside the church, bats roost and a family of feral cats watch Sam. Her journey here had gone by in the blink of an eye, though she'd known she'd been hunted the entire way from Idaho.
“So,” Sam called out, to the rotting wooden pulpit. “What now?”
She means it both for Lucifer, and for her father. From the darkness, he stepped out, Dean at his heels. There's a fluttery feeling that oozes out of her soul. A hare caught on the backfoot. A stag chased into a dense thicket. A daughter caught beneath the belly of her father.
“You caught me, dad.” Sam stepped backwards. Her back pressed against the rotted pulpit. “Are you going to say sorry?”
“You're not -” The words seemed to have caught in John's throat, or tangled up in the barbs of his teeth. “Whatever you are, you aren't Sam.”
Dean, the dog at heel as always, nodded.
It's almost like a twig snapped in her. Sam opened her mouth, ready to scream at her dad, just as she always did. Unleashed fury. Bottled up fear and anger that spilled over like a cup runneth over full of moldy wine.
The bullet finds her heart first.
…
They're back in the meadow, at night.
She should be angry.
Some part of Sam thinks she knows that Lucifer led her here. To die. And yet, she hadn't done that the first two times. So maybe she didn't so much lead Sam into ruination than she knew it was going to happen.
“Do you think less of me, for that?” Lucifer buries her face into Sam's hair. “Not telling you?”
“Would it have mattered?” Sam brings her hands to curl around Lucifer's waist. “I don't…”
“It always matters, even if the ending is the same.” Lucifer hums. It fills Sam's soul fully. “Every universe is the same, you know? You and me. Together. That never changes.”
Lucifer wouldn't lie. That feeling settled in her like a heavy stone. Why would she lie, if the ending was always meant to be this? Why would she lie, if they were so alike? God must have a sick sense of humor to create two deeply, intrinsically tied souls and give them the body of a woman.
“Say yes, Sam.” Lucifer murmurs. “Let me in. It'll be a white wedding. Endless fields of white and red roses just for you.”
“You sound like him.” Sam murmurs, but that feels wrong. “At least you asked.”
“You're a pure heart to me.” Lucifer promises. “You'll be beautiful only for me. Nobody else. A quiet life.”
It would be nice. Sam turns her face towards Lucifer. Back at her was reflected an older elegance, a future echo of her face, aged. But not broken by time.
“Can you wear my mom's face again?”
The smile Lucifer gives her is warmer than a summer's afternoon.
…
“We'll burn her.” John finally says. An hour has passed, and outside, a storm churns. “Give her a proper burial.”
Dean nodded. A slurry of emotions have robbed him of his voice. Sam is still crumpled at the foot of the pulpit. Blood has pooled around her stomach. Dean can't keep his eyes on her - when he looked, he could only see their mother. That felt wrong, though, because dad said that's not Sam, not anymore. Sam died weeks ago, at some point between their hotel room and the Rockies.
The urge to drink gripped him so terribly, his hands shook.
And at least Sam died angry, lips drawn back into a terse sort of look. Performance even in death. Dean knew that look. Whatever she was, at least Sam died as his sister.
He just couldn't shake the curdled sense of guilt that sat heavy in his gut.
When the lightning cracked outside, shook the earth, something fantastic happened. A light oozed out of Sam's bullet wound. Pinprick small, then it grew and grew in intensity, until it filled the room like an ancient and terrible lightning strike. It reminded Dean of the Bible verses he'd caught Sam reading, the power of God so great and awe-inspiring and humbling. Like when God came down to Cain and asked what has happened to your brother and Cain said, through a guilty conscience, am I my brother's keeper?
So great and terrible was it, that Dean saw a great, white stag with antlers that brushed the ceiling. Until Dean blinked and could only see Sam. Dressed in white, a dress that hid her feet, a veil that hid her face. Gone was the blood, though Sam must've been barefoot. And through the dark gloom, yellow eyes peered like a cat seated in the crook of branches.
“Sam?”
Dean doesn't know if he or dad said it, but the disbelief is shared between them. And the voice that returns their echo isn't hers. It might be the same in sound, but the cadence and rhythm is measured. It's the voice of a prince, a woman scorned, a beast that hunted man since the fall of God's favor.
John doesn't reach for his gun. And Dean knows all Hell is about to break loose.
“It's a fine day for a white wedding, isn't it, boys?”
And the world breaks at the next clap of thunder.