Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bunker was too quiet now. Even with the hum of the lights and the occasional creak in the pipes, the stillness pressed in like the weight of a collapsed ceiling.

Sam sat in his room, at the table, the low desk lamp casting a golden glow on the pages before him. He didn’t even realize his hand was shaking until the ink bled into a curve of a word he wasn’t paying attention to.

It didn’t matter. None of it really mattered anymore.

The words in his head came in a steady stream: heavy, splintered things trying to crawl out. He pressed the pen harder to the paper, trying to capture the thoughts before they slipped away again.

Then–

A knock.

“Sammy?”

His breath caught, posture straightening. Sam yanked the journal shut and slid it under the pile of papers, like a teenager caught with a secret.

Dean opened the door a second later, eyes scanning the room. “You okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Just… writing something.”

Dean glanced at the desk, then back at Sam. He didn’t press. He never did, not after everything that's happened.

“Was thinking I’d come check on you,” Dean said, stepping inside. “You’ve been holed up here since Gabriel and… y’know.”

“Yeah.” Sam folded his hands in his lap.

Jack.

That was the word neither of them wanted to say. Dean sat on the edge of the bed and spoke up, voice soft. “He looked up to you. You know that, right?”

Sam didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He stared at the floor, wishing to disappear, wanting it to swallow him whole.

“I keep thinking,” Dean went on, “about the way he smiled whenever you talked to him about lore. You made the weird crap sound cool. You were the one to believe in him even when I didn't. You gave him… I dunno. Something to hold on to. Taught him to be good.”

“Dean,” Sam said softly, voice barely holding. “Please don’t. I can’t…”

Dean sighed, rubbed a hand over his face. “Right. Sorry. I just–”

“I’ll be fine,” Sam interrupted, and his voice was sharper than he meant it to be. “Eventually. I’ll be fine.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, like he wanted to say something else. Like he could see past the tight lines around Sam’s mouth, the exhaustion behind his eyes. But instead, he gave a quiet nod and stood.

“Okay. Just… let me know if you need anything. I’m here, okay?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The door closed behind Dean with a soft click. Once the footsteps faded down the hall, Sam exhaled like he’d been underwater. He reached under the papers and pulled out the journal.

The page was still damp in the corner, from his hand or from his eyes, he wasn’t sure. He turned to the next page. Clean. Blank. Waiting.

And then, slowly, he kept writing more.

Journal Entry 1

April 11, 2012

Amelia says I should try this. The therapy thing was her idea, too. She said talking helped. That I had too much packed inside me, like a trunk that hadn’t been opened in years. I told her it was fine, that I could handle it.

She didn’t believe me.

My doctor says journaling might help. So. Here I am. Writing in a notebook like I’m back in high school.

I don’t even know what I’m supposed to say.

The last few months have felt like someone scraped the marrow out of my bones. I gave up hunting, the only real job I've ever had. That’s supposed to mean I’m healing, right?

But the truth is, I stopped because I had nothing left to fight for.

Dean’s gone. Castiel’s gone. Bobby’s gone.

Dick Roman’s dead, too – but so what? It didn’t bring anyone back.

I saw Dean disappear into nothingness. I heard Cas’ last words echo in that office room. I listened to Bobby’s voice fade away like dust in the wind in that hospital. And I just… kept going.

I am now living in a house that doesn't belong to me. Sleeping in a bed that isn't really mine. But Amelia’s good. She’s kind. She loves Dog, and Dog loves her.

But I can’t feel it. Not the way I used to feel things.

It’s like I’m playing a part. Like this version of me is something I made up. Some pale imitation of a person who used to be Sam Winchester.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think Dean’s in the next room. I reach out and expect to hear his voice, some sarcastic comment, some comfort masked as teasing.

But it’s never there. And I miss him.

God, I miss him.

I don’t know how to exist without Dean. Without any of them. Amelia says I have to find my own way. That I have to build something for myself.

But what if I was never meant to be anything on my own?

What if I’m just the leftover piece? The one that only makes sense in someone else’s shadow?

I’m tired... I'm okay. I’m still here. Guess that counts for something.

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath as he stabbed at the toaster with a butter knife, trying to unjam the bread he’d shoved in. Castiel hovered by the coffee pot, fingers curled tightly around a chipped mug.

No one said a word about Jack. Or about Gabriel leaving them hanging. All of them hoped the archangel could still find a way to bring the boy back. So they waited.

And not a single one of them dared touch the name, thinking it might crumble between their teeth.

Sam watched them for a moment from the doorway. Dean's flannel shirt was wrinkled. Cas looked like he hadn’t slept. And maybe they hadn’t. Maybe none of them had. He stepped into the room, bare feet padding softly on the floor.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough.

Dean gave a half-hearted grunt of acknowledgment as he finally retrieved the mangled toast and tossed it into the trash. “Stupid toaster’s possessed,” he grumbled.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Cas replied dryly, sipping his coffee. “It’s just broken.”

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but Sam raised an eyebrow and that was enough to shut him up. Then, Sam busied himself with the kettle, pouring hot coffee into his mug. The silence wrapped around them again, too soft, too heavy. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t tense. It was grief-shaped, and none of them knew how to sit inside it at the time.

“I’m glad you’re both here,” Sam said suddenly, voice barely louder than the quiet whistle of the kettle.

Dean blinked. “Uh. Yeah, I mean... We live here, Sammy.”

Cas turned toward him, frowning slightly. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah.” Sam stirred his tea slowly. “I just mean… I’m glad you’re both still here. Alive. Together.”

Dean and Cas shared a look. Sam shrugged, eyes fixed on his mug. “We’ve lost a lot of people. I just wanted to say it, I guess. I’m grateful.”

Dean’s face softened. Cas stepped a little closer, as if unsure whether Sam needed comfort or space.

“You mean that?” Dean asked, voice going soft. After all the fights they've been through in recent years, this had been... surprising. Somehow, Dean thought Sam might still be mad at him.

Sam looked up and smiled, tired and genuine. “Yeah. I do.”

Cas nodded slowly, as if accepting a mission, or a blessing. “We’re glad you’re here too, Sam.”

Dean reached out and gave Sam’s shoulder a brief, brotherly squeeze. It didn’t say everything, but it said enough.

Journal Entry 2

April 26, 2012

It happened at the store today.

I was standing in line, staring blankly at the freezer section – when I saw him. Just out of the corner of my eye. Tall, broad-shouldered, that same leather jacket. The same posture. The way he adjusted his stance, the same way Dean always did when he was bored or pretending he wasn’t hurting.

For half a second – less, maybe I thought it was him.

My heart jumped. Stopped. I turned around so fast I nearly dropped the basket.

But it wasn’t Dean. Of course it wasn’t. The guy had brown eyes, not hazel. He looked younger. And his voice when he spoke to the cashier... God, it wasn’t even close.

But it didn’t matter. Because for those few milliseconds, the world made sense again.

And then it shattered. Again.

It keeps happening quite often. I’ll be walking Dog, and I’ll hear a car engine that sounds like the Impala. Or smell cheap motel soap. Or hear someone say “bitch” in just the right cadence, and I swear I hear “jerk” in the back of my mind.

I’m not okay. I keep pretending I am, because that’s easier than explaining how broken I really feel.

How even now, all this time later, I still wake up thinking I’ll see Dean in the kitchen making eggs and complaining about the lack of pie.

How I sometimes talk out loud when no one’s around, just to feel like I’m still in conversation with someone who isn’t here.

I know how it sounds. I also know the only real thing I saved lately is a damn dog. And even then, just barely.

But I held on to him. I wrapped him in a towel and I whispered, “It’s gonna be okay, buddy,” even though I didn’t believe it myself. I sat on the floor with blood all over my hands, and I told a shaking dog he was going to live.

I couldn’t say that to Dean. Or Cas. Or Bobby.

I couldn’t save them.

Just a dog. And I was the one to hurt him in the first place.

I don’t cry anymore. Amelia thinks I’m getting better. She calls it progress. Says I’m more “present.” But I know the truth. I’ve just buried it deeper. I tell myself I have to move on. That I don’t get to live in the past.

But how do you move forward when everything that made you who you were is dead?

How do you breathe in a world that doesn’t have your brother in it?

How do you feel joy without feeling guilt for it?

I don’t have answers.

Just a freezer aisle, a stranger’s voice, and another reminder that ghosts don’t always rattle chains. Sometimes they wear leather jackets and live in the back of your mind.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry 6
November 7, 2012

I forgot about this journal.

Not on purpose – maybe on purpose. I stopped writing sometime in May. Life picked up. I got busy not being a hunter, pretending I was someone else. Someone whole.

Amelia made that easy.

She was kind. Funny in a charming way. Her eyes always searched my face like she was trying to read a story in it. I think she liked what she saw. Even when I didn’t.

She didn’t flinch when I told her bits of the truth. About loss. About Dean, about the road. She listened. She made coffee the way I liked it. She let me breathe.

And then Don came back. Alive. Just like that.

And I understood – really, I did. You don’t leave someone you loved, who you believed was dead, to go chasing a maybe. Amelia chose her husband. She was allowed to. And I… I was discarded.

Again.

It shouldn’t have hurt like it did. It did anyway. But I'm fine.

Then Dean came back out of Purgatory. I was glad to see him alive. Because we were together again! Winchester brothers against the world. Like it always was. Like it always should’ve been.

Except... it wasn’t.

Dean was angry at me. And I deserved it. For leaving him. For letting Kevin suffer, leaving him behind. For thinking I could have something normal while the world still needed us.

I tried to explain. To apologize. And on the surface, he seemed fine, better. But then yesterday happened.

There was a coin, a Specter. It possessed Dean. And every goddamn thing he said cut deeper than anything I’ve heard from a demon. Because it wasn’t lies. It was the truth. His truth. Stuff he’s held in for months. Maybe years.

“You left me to rot in Purgatory. You left Lucifer out of the Cage. Chose Ruby over me. Lost your soul and kept it a secret.”

“You’re weak, Sam. You're selfish. You ran. You never looked.” “You left me to die, and for what? For a girl?...”

Then he said I let everyone down. That I was just looking for excuses to stop fighting. That I was the one who never really cared enough.

It was the Specter speaking, I know. But it was also Dean. And that’s what kills me. Because maybe he’s right.

Maybe I am the weak one. The one who always runs. The one who always screws up and walks away before the blood even dries. And I... I didn’t even know how to look him in the eye today.

I cleaned out a box this morning and found this journal buried under some papers. And I guess that means it’s time I start being honest again.

Even if it’s only on these pages.

Journal Entry 7
December 5, 2012

I killed a hellhound today.

It was… everything I remembered from the old life, and worse. Black hellhound blood in my teeth, sulfur in my nose, the gurgling death-screech that only a Winchester would call familiar. And the bastard didn’t die easy.

Kevin said this was only the first trial. Said the Word of God laid it all out. Three tasks, three trials to slam the gates of Hell shut forever. And I volunteered. No. I fought for the way in. I jumped under that dog before Dean could intervene.

Dean didn’t like it at all. Said HE should’ve done it. Said I had too much to prove. And yeah, maybe I do.

I couldn't let Dean take this on. Why? Because he’s reckless. He takes guilt and loads it like a bullet into a gun, aiming it at his own head. And I’ve watched him do that since we were kids. I won’t let him this time.

This one’s mine. I need it to be.

Because I was the one who broke the seals.

I started the apocalypse.

I let Lucifer out.

I drank demon blood, trusted a demon, jumped into the Cage, clawed my way out, and still couldn’t keep anyone safe.

I was the reason Hell opened, and now?

I’ll be the one to close it.

There was a moment today, right after the trial was done and I was patching up a gash on my side, where Dean looked at me with caution. He handed me a beer without saying anything. We sat on the hood of the Impala and watched the sun going down.

I remember thinking: maybe we’ll get out of this. Maybe we’ll both survive this thing. And when it’s over, maybe… Maybe there’s a version of life that waits. Not a house with a white picket fence, per se. Not a miracle. But something like what I had with Amelia.

Something mundane, but comforting. Something mine. That thought kept me warm all night.

I know the road ahead is long. I know the trials will get worse. But I’ve never wanted redemption more. And for the first time in a long time...

I have hope.

The bunker was still.

Sam stood in the war room, the dim lighting above casting shadows across the map table. He wasn't sure how long he’d been sitting at that table. The mug in his hand had long gone cold. He wasn’t even drinking the coffee anymore – just needed something to hold. Something to pretend he still had control over.

Footsteps echoed softly behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“I thought you’d gone to bed with Dean,” Sam said, quietly.

“And I thought you had gone to sleep, too, but you're here.” Castiel’s voice was low, quiet. He joined Sam at the table, looking down at the map like it could give them some direction.

There was a beat of silence. Then Cas spoke again. “You lost more than a friend yesterday.”

Sam tensed. His hand gripped the mug tighter. “...I didn't. Didn't lose him. Gabriel and Rowena and– others. They will fix it. I don't know how, but they will. They should.”

“Maybe they will, and I certainly hope so, too. But what I'm saying is... You just lost a child. Who, technically, was Lucifer's, sure. But he was never his. He was yours. Your son.”

Sam’s breath caught. He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

“You were the one who believed in Jack,” Cas continued. “When the rest of us were afraid, when I was dead and gone… you stayed. You taught him. You protected him.”

“I failed him,” Sam said flatly. “I didn’t do a thing when it mattered.”

Cas shook his head, stepping closer. “Sam... He knows how much he meant to you. How you tried to do your best. You couldn't know Lucifer would steal his grace, none of us expected it. We tried fixing it. We all did.”

Sam’s throat felt tight. “So what? That doesn’t make it easier. Or fair. He barely even lived! And he might not—” Sam stopped and shook his head, as if saying it aloud would mean he accepted it. Sam refused to believe he had lost him. Still, he asked, his voice almost a whisper: “...Cas, what if this is it? For him?”

“Then,” Cas replied softly. “we keep his memory in our hearts. We try to move on.”

Sam exhaled, heavy, looking away toward the far corner of the bunker. “It's easier for you. You still have Dean,” he said quietly. “You have someone who loves you. And I thought I did too, for a while. But now Jack is dead, and I'm going crazy over maybe losing him forever, I'm losing hope, while Gabriel–” Sam exhaled, trying to find the right words. “Well... Doesn't matter anymore, does it?”

Cas glanced at him, eyes soft. “Perhaps, you and Gabriel need to talk and resolve your... situation. I don't know what happened between you two, but I know you can fix this. Right now, he is looking for a way to bring Jack back. Rowena too. They'll be back soon. In the mean time, let's just hope it works. And then you will figure it all out, no matter what happens next. You still have us.”

Sam didn’t respond. Just nodded. And the silence between them filled in all the blanks.

Cas seemed to understand. He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, gentle and warm. “I know it hurts. And I know it’s not fair. But you’re not alone, Sam. Even if it feels like it.”

Then he walked away, steps echoing into the hall, going to Dean's room, leaving Sam behind. The hunter stayed in the same place until the footsteps faded. Then, slowly, he made his way to Jack's room.

He didn’t turn the lights on. Just the lamp on the nightstand.

Sam sat in the chair, staring at the far wall, then at the bed with Jack in it. Rowena put a spell to keep the body intact, while she and Gabriel were looking for a way to fix this somehow. Jack looked like he was asleep. Except he wasn't, and that hurt.

Sam averted his gaze, instead looking at the corner where Jack used to sit cross-legged on the floor, flipping through lore books. That weird little smile he had when he thought he understood something before realizing he didn’t. When watching Star Wars and learning to see the difference betwen right and wrong. And the way he always looked to Sam for reassurance. Guidance. Love.

Because Sam Winchester, once Lucifer's vessel, was indeed Jack's real father.

Sam moved in the chair, putting his hands in his lap. Shoulders caved in. The ache in his chest was constant – gnawing, hollow, clawing. After a moment, he started to speak. The room remained quiet, but his voice cut through the stillness.

“…Jack. I don’t know where you are. If you can hear me. If nephilim souls even… stick around, so to say. Honestly, I hope you're in Heaven. And we can get you out.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry. I wanted to say it a thousand times before, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want you to see how much I hated myself. How much I didn’t believe I was enough to raise you right.”

His hands curled into fists.

“You deserved better. Than me. Than us. Than all this damn war. I never wanted this for you. I wanted to keep you out. I knew what Lucifer was. I know what he could do. I should've done more. But I let you talk to him then and there, and I don't... I can't–”

Sam’s eyes burned, and he blinked, fast.

“I miss you, kid. I miss you more than I even know how to explain. You made me believe again. In something more. You made me want to try and continue living. When Lucifer took your grace and put us face to face, saying one of us had to die, I...”

“If Lucifer had ever kept his promises, if I knew you'd be safe for sure – I would have given my life away without a second thought.”

He sucked in a shaking breath. “And now you’re gone. And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to get out of my bed tomorrow. I don’t know how to fight anymore.”

Silence. Sam swallowed, voice lower now, and quiet, almost a whisper.

“I failed as a father. It should’ve been me.”

He looked up toward the ceiling, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“It should’ve been me.”

Journal Entry 8
December 28, 2012


I can’t sleep. Not after tonight.

The second trial… it nearly broke me. Not my body – though God, I still feel the way Hell clings to my skin like smoke and filth – but my heart. I saw Bobby again. In Hell. They had him in a cage like a rabid dog, like he was nothing.

He shouldn’t have been there. But Crowley is a fucking prick. And Dean was right. About Benny.

It’s hard to say it. It’s even harder to write it down. But he was right. Benny came through. He sacrificed his life on Earth to return to Purgatory, helped me rescue Bobby. He didn’t betray me. He didn’t rip out anyone’s throat. He didn't become the monster I assumed he'd be.

And I... I was this close to killing him once.

Because the truth is, some twisted part of me wanted to. To make Dean understand how it felt when he killed Amy. To show him what it meant to lose someone like I did. It was selfish and vengeful and so damn dark that it scared me to my core. But I held back. I hope Dean never finds out what I almost did.

But that’s not what broke me tonight.

Instead, seeing Bobby did the trick.

He hugged me. Called me “boy.” He never blamed me for being too late. He just smiled like always and said, “It’s about time.”

God, I missed him.

He was my dad. Not by blood. Not by name. But by choice. And he was damn good at it.

He taught me how to rebuild a car, and how to make tasty coffee that wouldn’t kill me. I'm still making it just like he showed me back when I was 14. He taught me to research, to think, to question, to dig through lore, while Dean spent more time fixing cars. And even when I messed up… he never stopped caring. He never gave up on me.

I want to be that for someone. Someday, when it's over.

I want to be a father.

I want to hold my son’s hand when he’s scared. To teach him what’s right and wrong. To never have to shove a gun into his hand when he's scared of monsters hiding in the dark. I want to give him everything I never had: security, kindness, safety. Not just a motel room and a trunk full of weapons.

I want to raise a kid who doesn't feel like he's a tool, or a job, or a freak. A kid who knows he’s loved. Fully. Unconditionally. And I want to protect him – with everything I have. I want to be the man Bobby was for me. I want to be better at this than my real dad ever was.

Maybe then… maybe all this pain I’ve lived through, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve lost – maybe it would mean something. Maybe all of it would finally be worth it.

Once the Gates are closed and the world is safe.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry 9
January 17, 2013

I feel worse since I started the trials.

Something is definitely not right. And, to be honest, I'm scared of what is happening to me right now – very much so. I'm afraid to say it out loud, but putting this on paper makes it just a tad bit easier.

The worst part about this, though – I cannot tell a thing to Dean.

I know how stressed Dean gets when he knows something's wrong with me. I still vividly remember that certified "worried Dean" look from when I was a kid and hurt my knee riding his bike. Or when I went on my first hunt and got pretty bad stitches. Or when I was shoved in the lockers and called a fag during junior year of high school, and he saw bruises all over my hands. Or when he thought I had Croatoan virus and was doomed. Or when I almost died because of Lucifer singing "Stairway to Heaven" in my head.

Suffice to say, I cannot stand that look. It brings me physical pain and I'd rather die than bother him not tell him anything.

Okay, too far.

Dean started settling down, right before I took on that first trial. I noticed how happy he got, running around in that stupid robe. And I'm happy for us – we got the Men of Letters bunker all to ourselves, and everything's finally perfect. No more motels, cheap soap, stained sheets, moldy walls and other things included in the 'experience'.

I was about to start settling down too. I got my books ready, thought I'd buy some posters I never got to hang on the wall as a teen. But then my cough started. And I knew it couldn't be good.

It's not flu, and definetly not a regular illness – I am quite sure of that. Every time I look at the tissues in my hands, I see blood. And with each passing day, there's a little more.

I'm not telling Dean, because he might freak out.

Okay, he will definetly freak out and lose his shit. He'll get mad I've been keeping it from him. And if I were in his shoes, I would freak out as well, so I know better than to say anything.

I just hope it's temporary, and I can go back into shape soon. Because, if not, I'm afraid my brother will notice.

And the last thing I want is to be a burden to him.

Again.

Journal Entry 10
January 23, 2013

I think I feel better?

I don't know. I'm really not sure. But I can't get myself exposed yet. So far, my sickness went unnoticed, so I'd say it is going good. I'm hiding tissues in my room, keeping a bin by the bed. The cough doesn't seem to go away, though.

It's Dean's birthday tomorrow. He turns 34 this year. And I am so happy for him, I don't have enough words. I know none of us were supposed to live this long. I mean, we have already died of couple of times – not a lot of people could say the same. Guess our lives are just weird like that.

Huh.

But I mean something totally different. I genuinely cannot believe this. In my mind, Dean is still 10, and I'm his 6-year-old brother who fights him for a remote while dad is out hunting. Dean can't stop watching Scooby-Doo. And I want to watch Discovery Channel. Good times.

Yeah, sometimes it got brutal. But in the end, Dean would always hand me the remote. Even if he won. Even if he couldn't care less about dinosaurs, ancient Egypt or different sea creatures.

He was always there for me. My older brother, the guy I look up to, even now, at 29. He had been through so much this past year, and I never looked for him. And I thought he died. I thought I would never get to celebrate his 34th birthday.

But, thank God, I do.

I love Dean. He's the best brother anyone could wish for. I'm lucky to have someone like him. So, I'm not going to screw this one up. We're going to celebrate, and I'll make sure it all goes perfect.

I have to put in the effort and make him happy for once.

Journal Entry 11
January 25, 2013

I fucked it all up.

Whatever happened yesterday – I was all my fault and I don't know what to do now.

I bought Dean a birthday cake, put on those candles that have numbers on them. Bought him a couple of presents I know he'd enjoy. Cooked dinner along with that, to make it feel extra special. Told Charlie beforehand, and she came over to celebrate, too – we made sure she stayed the night at our place. It was going good.

When Charlie had gone to sleep and we were reminiscing about our lives, it happened.

The big bad secret was revealed.

I tried to contain my urge to cough all day – at first, by excusing myself to go to the bathroom, or kitchen, or to 'get a book'. But then, I caught a few suspicious glances. So I stopped that, and, well...

Maybe, if I had gone to sleep.

If I hadn't stayed late.

Maybe then Dean would have still had good memories of this day.

Instead, he saw me spit blood right into my hand. And he looked at me with that damn stare which makes every fiber of my being shiver and silently whimper in agony.

He asked how long it had been going on for.

I told him the truth – five weeks. And then he got furious, pacing the room back and forth. "How could you hide this from me, Sam? What were you thinking? I can't believe you did that again," he said.

And I ducked my head, unable to look him in the eye. Because now THIS is all he will remember about his birthday.

Not the cake, not the presents, not the dinner, not that Scooby-Doo mug Charlie bought him along with some nice clothes.

He now remembers that his brother got sick on his birthday and lied to him about it for weeks.

And I hate myself for that.

Because I ruined something good. The one time Dean felt happy and cheerful, I added yet another pile of problems to weigh on his shoulders. And I know, once I get up and enter the kitchen this morning, I'm going to get a whole lot more of those concerned looks. God, I hate seeing him in pain.

And to think, that just two days prior everything was fine.

Why am I always ruining it?..

Journal Entry 12
February 8, 2013

Haven't written a thing in a while. Doesn't matter anyway.

I've been getting worse lately. Dean pretends he has it all under control. He makes me soup, brings tea, makes sure I stay under the blanket, hoping I'll get better soon.

I don't know. I honestly don't think I will.

Maybe the way from here is only downhill.

Maybe this is what it takes to close the Gates.

Maybe I should die to get it over with.

It would make sense, though the tablet doesn't explicitly say that. But since it's not written, Dean is not even considering it. And, truthfully, I don't want to think about it either. Because–

My dreams and hopes for a better life, a family, a future... What if it's all pointless and I'm destined to die?

I hope, Dean can get that sort of life once it's over. And then I would make peace with that.

Journal Entry 13
February 28, 2023

We found him. Metatron, the Scribe of God. He agreed to help. And I'm going crazy and it was hurting so bad the other day I passed out. Even now, everything hurts. Like my blood is boiling.

Yet, I don't feel the pain anymore. Well– I do, but it's almost like I enjoy it. Because these trials make me feel good about myself.

It feels as if they purify me.

They clean my blood of all the filth I couldn't scrub off of me if I tried to.

I start remembering childhood, too.

Flashes. Bits. Pieces.

Remember feeling dirty, different. Not fitting in. Trying to be normal in the world that kept rejecting me. Remember being called a freak since I was 8. Remember Dean making fun of me for having an imaginary friend, while he and dad were leaving me alone in the motel. Remember thinking 'What if they die on a hunt and never come back? What if I'm left all alone?'

Oh, those thoughts were scary.

And there was Bobby in case something happened. Yeah, sure. The same Bobby who would enjoy taking Dean fishing or bowling and then hand me a book to read instead.

Why was I always left alone?

Did they know something?

I sure know dad did. I now remember all the stares, the glances, the worried looks. He had known for a looong time. Was afraid of what I might become. He knew I was a monster and didn't have it in him to kill me, leaving all the dirty work to Dean.

I know better now, and think John was right. I've caused too much pain to those around me.

Sometimes I... kinda wish he killed me, or let me die on some hunt. Because wouldn't it be better?

My life for the lives of thousands innocent souls? And yeah, I'm alive, but they are now all dead.

But I'm making it right this time. I have a chance to redeem myself now... So that's what I will do.

Journal Entry 14
March 5th, 2013

We have a plan. And I'm ready for this to be over. But I'm not sure Dean is.

Our third trial – we need to cure a demon.

We did the most stupid thing a few days ago – stitched Abbadon up to complete the trial, choosing to make her human. And... she escaped.

Which is all the more reason to seal all Hell shut.

Then, we got threatened by Crowley.

He found those damned books written by Chuck. And he started killing the people we saved. 

And I hate it I hate myself so fucking much for

And me and Dean were too late.

Crowley got to Sarah, and we couldn't find a hex bag in time. He talked to us the whole time, and the bag was in the fucking phone I held.

I should've known. What the hell was I thinking?

God, I almost fell for her back when we first met. She was the first girl I laid my eyes on since Jess. Dean, jokingly, told me to marry her. And I would happily consider that, if our lives were normal.

But I know how bad guys treat those I love. How every girl I ever liked is now dead. And not just them – Brady is dead because of me too. And their sin?

Knowing me.

Being close to me.

Thinking I would be the one to help them, save them, hold them tight and make their lives better.

Fatal mistake.

And, well, Dean fell for that too. He sold his soul for me and went to Hell for that. But have I ever made his life better?

If so, how come he was ready to choose Benny – a vampire, a monster – over me?... Why did he never trust me like he trusted him?

Well, now I know why. I was always a walking curse. Never enough, never doing what's asked of me, never treated like my own choices matter. I used to get mad, violent even. Used to have argumens with dad, then Dean.

But now I know they both were right.

I'm doing a confessional tomorrow, and this is a good preparation.

I confess to being a failure, and letting people down. Letting Dean down. His life would be better now, if i were gone. I know this for a fact – he already had it with Lisa.

I confess to having had too much pride, being so sure and mighty drinking demon blood, thinking I was doing something good. In reality, I was just hungry for power. Wanted to show Dean I could be stronger than him, but was I, really?

I was stupid, gullible, naїve – and that was it.

I confess to being responsible for the deaths of all the people Lucifer killed. I was the one to let him out. Dean and Cas would argue I was manipulated into it, but fuck that – it is still on me.

I confess to being a horrible brother. And this is the most painful part.

I let Dean down – multiple times. And it's hard to own up to that, and the mere thought of it being true makes me want to throw up.

I disgust myself.

I was horrible to him, still am.

I can never do anything right for Dean, and when I think I do, I make it 10x worse. And those aren't small silly mistakes. I drank demon blood behind his back. He called me a moster the minute he learned about my addiction. And I lost his trust that day. It's been four fucking years and I haven't gotten it back. His trust, his love, his forgiveness.

And I want to, God, I do.

I heard what that coin made him say a few months back. And I know it was all true. So does it really matter if I die tomorrow or not? Is my life even worth something?

I doubt that.

I'll make sure to hide this journal where Dean never finds it – he doesn't have to know, I guess. It's better if he doesn't.

But, Dean... 

If there's even a slight chance you're there and reading, and I died after the last trial... I'm sorry. But I have to prove that my life means something, that I can save those innocent people. I owe them at least that – I let the humanity down before.

I let you down more times than I can count, and I would keep letting you down if I survived this.

You're better off without me.

Believe me.

I promise, I'm doing good up there. I'm going to wait for you and your kids to get here. But, please, rather later than sooner. Understood?

And don't worry, I made peace with me dying. I'm in a better place. So, no rescue missions, no deals, no magic. I want it to stay the way it's supposed to. I guess, after all this time, I simply... want to find peace. And meet my sweet Jessica again.

I'll see you on the other side, Dee.

- S. W.

Chapter Text

It was the morning of the fifth day.

The fifth day of Sam Winchester waking up with no definitive answers in sight. Of frantically looking through lore books, barely sleeping, asking questions and never finding real answers.

He was alone in the kitchen. Thinking. Trying to make sense of what had been going on.

Rowena was looking for a spell to try and solve this, promising she would be back soon. Gabriel was off somewhere too – Castiel had reassured Sam of it the other night. Not that it helped, or made the pain any less excruciating. There was nothing that could make Sam feel better. Or any of them, for that matter.

All they had was waiting. All that had been left of Jack was his lifeless body, kept intact only because of the preservation spell. All they had was hope – and Sam felt like he was the only one still holding on to it.

These last few days hadn't been easy.

Sam winced anytime Dean mentioned words "Jack" and "was" in the same sentence.

Clenched his fists when Castiel said they were all mourning the loss, trying to break the silence and validate the brothers' feelings. Cas probably read an online article about what to say at times like this. And Sam could not blame the angel – he wouldn't know it was no use.

Because, really, none of it could bring comfort to Sam. It only made the matters worse.

If they were saying it, if Dean was nodding along, using past tense again and again – it meant they both came to accept it. And Sam could not let himself give up on Jack yet.

With all these thoughts slowly crushing him, Sam exhaled and opened the fridge.

There they were, still. Sam's heart dropped, sinking all the way to his knees, trembling.

Sam and Jack had gone on a supply run together a week ago. Sam had been looking at the dairy section, picking out sour cream and milk, while Jack, eyes full of childlike innocence, tug on Sam's shirt to get his attention.

"What?" Sam had asked, smiling at Jack and his childlike demeanor. Surely, to strangers he might've looked twenty, but he still had been just one and a half years old.

"Sam, they have new milkshakes! See? Four different flavours - vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and pistachio!" Jack exclaimed, pointing to the fridge next to them.

"Want me to get you one?" Sam asked, his voice soft.

"I don't know..." Jack furrowed his brows in consideration. "I mean, I've got a week left, I think, so I... I would like to buy and try all four. If that's okay?" Jack's voice was lower, like he hadn't wanted to remind Sam of it, and the inquiry itself was too much. But Sam had brushed that line off, and put on a smile instead.

"Jack, if you were to ask me to buy you the Moon, I would just go and do that. Anything for you, kid. Whatever you want. Uncle Gabriel... he's not around now, but... uh–"

"You're still upset with him?" Jack interrupted, maybe a little too straightforward. But Sam was used to his son being like that.

"Yeah, that's still... complicated," he forced another smile. "Anyway, if you want the Moon, the lobster for dinner, or whatever else, uncle Gabriel can conjure up something for you. Thoughts?"

Jack beamed with happiness. "Okay! But I only want the milkshakes. For one – I have no idea what would I need the moon for. Two – everything I need is already here. So, you say I can get all four flavours? And a few for you and Dean? Please?"

"Sure thing," Sam replied. "Get me the pistachio one, and strawberry for Dean." Jack had done what was asked, and after all six bottles were in the cart, he came up and hugged Sam. The man was a bit startled, but gladly reciprocated the hug.

"I love you, dad," Jack's voice was muffled, but Sam heard it – and his heart made a flip. "Thanks for doing this for me. It means so much right now."

"Sure thing, son. Anytime."

When they had come back home, Jack made sure to label the milkshakes that belonged to him. He had borrowed Sam's sticky notes, and put them on the bottles with his name on it, warning Dean not to touch them. Dean had promised not to.

Jack didn't have a week left, like he hoped.

Sam took a look in the fridge, two of Jack's milkshakes still left on the shelf – vanilla and chocolate. Jack never got the chance to drink them, Sam thought.

And Jack never wi–

Sam slammed the fridge shut and shook his head. No. Just no. He wasn't going to do that. Maybe Dean was okay with this. Maybe Cas was, too. But not Sam.

Deciding he wasn't hungry, Sam poured himself some black coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, next to the spot where Jack used to sit. Where Jack will be sitting once they bring him back.

Sam buried his face in his hands, waiting for news. Maybe this is the day, he thought. Maybe today he gets to hear Jack's voice again.

Journal Entry 15
March 17, 2013

I’m still here.

God, that should be a good thing, right? That I’m alive. That Dean didn’t lose me. That I didn’t die in a blaze of fire burning my insides, while I was closing the Gates of Hell for good.

And yet I can’t stop shaking.

It hurts in places I didn’t know existed. I don't mean my body – though, yeah, the trials tore through me and I almost died in the hospital. But this pain is somewhere deeper. In my chest. In the pit of my stomach. In my damn soul, maybe.

Because I failed.

I was supposed to finish it. I was supposed to shut the gates. I wanted to. But Dean stopped me.

He begged me not to go through with it. Said it would kill me. Told me to trust him, to stay. And I did. I listened. I let him pull me back from the edge, like always. And now I’m stuck here, not dead, not whole, not redeemed. Just... I don't know what I am.

A fucking coward.

I had a chance to do something good. I could’ve balanced the scales – close the gates, save lives, maybe even forgive myself just a little. That was the whole point, wasn't it? To matter. To make up for every person who died because of me, for every mistake I carved into this world.

But instead, I’m alive. And Hell is still open.

So what did I even do?

Dean keeps looking at me like I should be relieved. Like he saved me. And I know he did – I was dying. I was dying, and he wouldn’t let me go. I get that. But he didn’t save me for anything.

I wasn’t rescued to help save the world.

I wasn’t rescued to have peace.

I wasn’t even rescued because I asked him to.

I was rescued because he couldn’t bear to lose me.

And I love him for that. God, I do. I know he meant it as mercy. He did it out of love. But I still wake up every morning with this weight on my chest.

I keep thinking about the people who won’t make it out alive now. Families torn apart. Innocents possessed. Children orphaned.

And I could’ve stopped it.

Dean says it’s not my burden alone. That we’ll find another way. But he doesn’t get it. There was no other way. That was it. My shot at making things right.

Now all I am is a sick man in a bunker, with burning lungs and broken soul, writing in a journal I swore I’d never let Dean find.

Pathetic.

Some part of me is glad he stopped me – the scared, selfish part that still wants to live. But every other part of me?

It’s screaming.

Because I let the world down. I let myself down. And I let Dean down too – because now he’s stuck with a broken brother who didn’t even get to die a hero. Just a failure who couldn’t finish what he started.

I don’t know how to carry this. I don’t know how to be here and not hate myself. But I guess I’ll keep breathing.

For Dean.

Even if it hurts.

Journal Entry 17
March 28, 2013

The case is over. The kid’s safe. The father is dead.
I don’t even know how to begin to process that.

It started like anything else – a string of deaths, some creature tearing through throats in a small town near the edge of nowhere. But this time, there was a survivor.

A boy. Evan. Seven years old.

He was the one who called 911. Said his daddy was sick. Said mommy was screaming. Said he hid in the cupboard with his Spider-Man blanket while the monster attacked his family.

Turns out, the monster was his father.

A werewolf, turned just a few days back. He must’ve tried to fight it, at least at first. But bloodlust wins. It always does. And when he changed under the full moon, he tore his wife to pieces and would’ve done the same to the boy if the kid hadn’t hidden.

When we arrived, the boy wouldn’t speak. The cops said he’d gone mute. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t move.

Dean tried talking to him – usually Dean’s the one kids gravitate toward. The goofy charm, the half-smile, the "you and me, kid" vibe. It works. But not this time.

This time, the boy just clung to me.

He reached for my sleeve and wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t blink, just stared up at me with those big, wet, shell-shocked eyes.

It gutted me.

I sat down with him on the floor, just talking quietly, letting him rest his head against my side. Eventually, he whispered. Told me he heard everything. That he knew his daddy changed. That he knew he’d never come back.

And I promised him that he was safe now.

We found the father the following night. Put him down. Quick, clean. I told Dean I’d do it. I don’t know why – maybe I needed to. For the boy. For me.

He’s with relatives now. Aunt or cousin, someone who didn’t hesitate to take him in. I should've felt relieved.

But it still tore me up to let him go.

Maybe it’s the fallout of the trials. The way death brushed against me and didn’t stick. Maybe it’s just the emptiness I’ve been trying to ignore. But being near that kid… I kept thinking, I could do this, like I wanted before.

I could be a father.

I know – sounds crazy. But I’ve thought about it before, during the trials. I put that thought back and it's recurfaced again. I wanted to have that with Jess, after Stanford. Thought about what it would be like to give someone a safe life. A life better than mine.

So, maybe… That’s the only upside of me surviving.

Journal Entry 18
April 6, 2013

There’s something wrong with me.

I don’t know how else to say it. I woke up this morning and found my flannel folded neatly on the chair across the room — except I remember tossing it onto the bedpost last night.

I stood there for five minutes trying to replay the night, as if memory was a tape I could rewind and rewatch. But there’s just... blank space. Like I blinked and the last hour was swallowed whole.

It’s not the first time. Yesterday I asked Dean a question and he just stared at me like I’d grown another head. Said we’d already talked about it. Swore I was sitting right there, nodding along. But I don’t remember the conversation at all.

I checked my watch during research and twenty minutes had vanished. No noise, no movement, no sign I’d even left the chair. Just gone. Like someone pressed pause on the world — except I didn’t get the memo.

Dean says it could still be "recovery." From everything. The Cage. The trials. The constant stress. Take your pick. My head is a haunted house with too many ghosts to count and I keep tripping over the furniture in the dark.

But it’s not fair.

If I’m losing pieces of my memory, then why not the ones that matter?

Why not the ones that hurt?

Why not the ones that are already poisoning me?

Why not the nights Dad came home reeking of bourbon and disappointment? Why not that month when Dean ran off to stay with Sonny and I was left in that motel room alone with him — no buffer, no shield, just the two of us and the empty space where a family should’ve been?

He told me I was the reason Mom died. While sober. He said it straight out. No heat-of-the-moment excuse, no drunken haze to blame.

Just: "It's all your fault, Sam. You killed her."

He never said it again. Never needed to. Because I never forgot.

I remember whispering it to myself under my breath, like a prayer. "You killed her. You killed her." Repeating it while lying on that ratty motel mattress, trying not to cry too loud, because that made it worse.

Because crying was weakness.

Because dad would hear.

That's when I first started praying to angels, to God, hoping to redeem myself, asking Heaven to keep Dean and dad safe. Because if they died on a hunt somewhere, and I didn't pray – it would also be my fault.

Dean never knew what dad had said, what he thought. Or maybe he did. Maybe he always did and just didn’t know how to fix it.

But now, as more time disappears, I wish I could cut those memories loose. Let them drift into whatever dark place this new forgetfulness is dragging everything else.

If I have to lose myself piece by piece, then God, please let me lose that part first.

But I remember. I remember all of it. And that’s why I know — everything bad that’s happened, everything I’ve touched, everyone I’ve loved who’s died — it all comes back to me.

It always does. Why does it never leave?...

Journal Entry 20
April 25, 2013

Something’s definetly wrong.

Now I'm sure.

The memory gaps are getting worse. I woke up this morning and didn’t remember going to bed. Dean brushed it off, again. "You were tired," he said. "You crashed hard." But I keep wondering whether I'm just going crazy.

And Cas is gone.

Cas, now human, left the bunker. Just vanished, without a goodbye. No note, no explanation.

Except… that’s not true. I heard Dean. I know I did. I went to get water two nights ago and stopped near the map room. Heard voices.

Dean was telling Cas to leave. Said it wasn’t safe for him to stay. Said something about not needing him to get in the way. I couldn’t make out every word, but the tone – the weight – was unmistakable.

He sent him away.

And when I asked about it yesterday morning, Dean just said Cas "needed space." That he "wanted to go."

Why lie?
Why hide it?

It’s not like Cas was hurting anyone. He looked so lost here, but at least we were together. Now he’s out there alone, without grace, without protection. And Dean pushed him away.

And I’m supposed to believe it’s fine, when Dean reassures me? That I’m fine?

I’m starting to think I’m not.

Some days I feel like my thoughts aren’t my own. Like I’m forgetting more than I realize. And maybe Dean knows something. I think there’s something he’s not telling me.

But he’s Dean. He always has a reason. He always says it’s to protect me.

And maybe it is. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe my brain’s still broken from the trials.

He asked me today, "Don’t you trust me?"

And I wanted to say yes. God, I wanted to. But instead, I just stood there. Nodded in silence.

Because yeah, he’s lied before. And, just now, he lied about Cas. So, what else is he lying about? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

But something’s off.

And I don’t know what to do about it.

Sam was still in the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door. Four knocks – must be Rowena.

Sam went to the map room, heading for the door, but Dean was already there, running up the stars.

"Morning, Sam," he said. Sam mumbled something about morning as well. Dean didn't listen, rushing to the door.

"Hello, boys," Rowena began after coming down the stairs. "There is no good way to put this, but–"

"Tell it how it is," Dean interrupted. Sam nodded. Waiting was painful enough, and he didn't have all day to beat around the bush. So he added: "Just say what you got, Rowena. Please."

Sam's eyes were pleading, though he knew Rowena's demeanor and tone of voice could mean only one thing.

"I don't know how to bring him back," the witch said. "I wish I did, Samuel. But he's a nephilim. And his soul is not in Heaven. It's somewhere else, and without a soul–"

"Okay," Sam replied. "I get it. But it's not over yet, right? Gabriel is working on this too. You think he can still find something?"

"I wish I knew, darling," Rowena sat down, visibly upset. "You know, I've also grown to quite appreciate the lad. I'm truly sorry, boys." She sat down at the chair near the map table, and Sam pulled up another for himself. It couldn't be easy for her either, especially after what happened to Crowley.

"It's okay, Rowena," Sam reassured her, stroking the witch's shoulder. "We know you did your best."

***

Evening slowly settled over the bunker. The four of them were gathered in the kitchen – Dean, Castiel, Rowena, and Sam – slumped across the familiar wooden chairs, the day’s exhaustion folded into their shoulders.

It had been one hell of a month. Apocalypse, Lucifer, Michael – you name it.

Jack’s body remained in his room, suspended in the kind of terrible hope none of them dared speak aloud. So instead, they talked about everything else.

"Well," Rowena said, cradling a cup of tea like it might warm more than her hands, "I suppose I’m one of the good guys now. Bloody weird, isn’t it?"

"You’re more than that," Castiel replied, tilting his head gently. "You’ve stood by us. Risked everything."

Dean raised his beer. "To Rowena. The baddest bitch on our side."

She smirked. "Took you long enough to realize it."

Sam smiled faintly, but his eyes were down. He still could not accept the news Rowena had brought. What if there was hope, what if?...

There was a sudden movement, which made everyone startle. With a flutter of wings and a gust of cold air, Gabriel dropped into the bunker kitchen.

They all turned. His face was pale. His eyes unreadable. He didn’t speak right away, and when he did, his voice was trembling.

"There’s… no way to bring him back. I checked the pagans, I went to Heaven, called in a few favours... I searched everywhere." His eyes flicked to Sam’s. "I’m sorry. We’ve gotta say goodbye."

The room dropped into stillness.

Dean was the first to move. He looked away from Sam, toward Castiel. "Alright," he muttered, voice hollow. "We do what we have to. We’ll need wood. Salt. Oil. We need to say goodbye, properly."

Castiel nodded, already halfway to the door. "I’ll start assembling the pyre."

"No," Sam breathed, standing fast. "No. We are not burning him. We are not giving up."

"Sam—" Dean started.

"You’re all just—just moving on? Like that?" His voice cracked as he looked between them. "What happened to fighting for him?"

Rowena opened her mouth, but Sam was already turning. "Don't answer that. I’m going to Jack’s."

Castiel wanted to follow, but Dean caught his arm. "No. Let him go. He needs to deal with this. Alone."

Sam pushed through the hallway, anger boiling in his blood, when fingers wrapped around his wrist. Gabriel.

"Sam– wait," Gabriel said, voice softer now, not like the messenger of doom in the kitchen. "Please. You have to understand. I tried. I did everything I could. You know I did."

Sam yanked his arm free like it burned. "Don’t touch me."

Gabriel’s wings twitched, invisible feathers rustling faintly in the stale bunker air. "I didn’t want it to end like this."

"Oh, you mean like last time?" Sam’s voice was acid. "Three weeks ago? When you left? After using me, leaving me, like none of it meant a goddamn thing?"

Gabriel flinched.

"You think just showing up with bad news and crying on my shoulder gets you my trust back?" Sam’s rage surged.

"You’ve done nothing useful for us since escaping Asmodeus. Not one thing. I thought you could do this, at least – and you fucking failed. You don’t get to act like this hurts you. And even if it does, I don't care."

Gabriel took a breath, tried again. "Sam, I–"

"Fuck you, Gabriel!" Sam snapped – and punched the archangel with all his might.

Gabriel didn’t dodge. For all his celestial power, he let the blow land. His lip split, and he didn’t even raise a hand in defense.

"Just get out," Sam hissed. "Leave. For good."

For a long moment, Gabriel didn’t move. Then he nodded – just once, his gaze down – and vanished.

Sam stood there, heaving, eyes wet and throat burning. He turned, heart still racing, and walked the rest of the way to Jack’s room.

He locked the door behind him.

The air inside was still. 

Jack’s face was peaceful, but too cold, too pale. Sam sank beside him and took one of boy's hands, gripping it tight.

"I’m sorry, Jack," he whispered, voice shaking. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry…"

He pressed his forehead to the back of Jack’s hand and sobbed.

Sam could not, for the life of him, accept it, but he knew it was time.

Time to say goodbye.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry 21
May 19, 2013

I don’t know how to write this. I don’t even know why I’m trying. Maybe if I get it out of my head, it’ll stop echoing. Maybe if I put it on paper, it’ll make more sense. But I doubt it.

Two days ago, everything I thought I knew about the last few months shattered.

Turns out I’ve been possessed. Again.

By an angel.

For over two months, something – someone – was inside me, walking around in my skin, using my voice, my hands, my life… and I didn’t know.

I didn’t choose it. I didn’t consent.
Dean made that choice for me.

He said he was trying to save me. That I was dying, and he couldn’t let me go. So he let an angel in. Then lied to me every day. Looked me in the eye and lied.

And the worst part? He picked the wrong damn angel.

Gadreel. That’s who it was.

Crowley had to possess me (yeah, Crowley, of all people) just to show me the truth. To show me what Gadreel did. What I did.

Kevin.
Oh, God.

Kevin is dead.

Because of me. Because of my body. Because of my hands.

I saw it. I remembered it. Gadreel using me to kill him... my friend, part of my family. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Just watched it happen like I was trapped behind glass. I’ll never forget Kevin’s face when he saw me. He didn’t run. He trusted me.

And I killed him. Me.

Dean was the one who opened the door. He invited that thing in. And then he lied. Covered it up.

Oh, God, Dean. What have you done?

He told me everything two nights ago. When shit hit the fan and Gadreel ran away. And then Dean left. Just turned to his car and walked out. No goodbye. No apology that meant anything. Just empty words and the car door closing.

Cas came by yesterday. Said he’d stay if I wanted him to. Said I shouldn’t be alone. I told him to leave. Couldn’t even look at him.
I don’t want to look at anyone.

I’m so tired.

I’m tired of being used. Of being lied to. Of my life being this endless, bloodstained loop of other people’s choices. I’ve fought so hard for agency, for control, and it never mattered. In the end, I’m just a tool. A pawn. A vessel.

I hate Dean for what he did. For thinking he had the right. For playing God with my life.

But more than that?

I hate being alive.

Because this – this doesn’t feel like life. This feels like punishment. Like I’m still dying, just slower.

And maybe I should’ve died back then. Maybe that would’ve been better. Cleaner.

At least I wouldn’t have Kevin’s blood on my hands.

Journal Entry 22
May 26, 2013

It’s been a week.
Seven days of dragging my aching body through motions I can’t even feel anymore. Seven nights of nightmares that all end the same – with Kevin’s face staring at me, hollow-eyed and betrayed. His voice – accusatory, echoing in the corners of my mind like it’s stuck there, like it’s mine. I wake up choking on guilt and bile. I can’t sleep. I feel sick. It’s excruciating. And I’m alone.

The worst part is – it isn’t the monsters, or the blood, or even Kevin’s death that tears me apart the most. It’s Dean.

I hate him.

I hate him so much right now I feel like it might kill me. The way he looked at me. Like I was a weapon he forged and used too long and now resents for dulling. Not a brother. Not a person. Just a task. A burden. An obligation.

He betrayed my trust. Again.
Treated me like something less than human. Like I was never me, just a mission he couldn’t screw up without it damaging his sense of righteousness. I thought… I really thought we’d moved past this. That somehow, through everything, he saw me now. But he never has. He never wanted to.

Dean only ever saw what he needed me to be. And if I didn’t fit that picture – if I asked too many questions, made too many choices he didn’t like – I was a problem.

Selfish. Crazy. Wrong.

You know what I still keep? The amulet.

That stupid amulet I gave him for Christmas all those years ago. The one he wore for years like it was precious, until he decided it wasn't. Until we ended up in Heaven, and he saw that he wasn’t in mine.

He was angry – livid. Called me selfish for not including him. And, true, my Heaven wasn’t about him.

It was Thanksgiving with another family.
It was the day I ran away.
It was Bones. A dog I loved like he was my only friend in the world.
My Heaven was peace. Freedom. Normalcy. My Heaven was not being hurt anymore.

It wasn’t about Dean not being there. It was about John being gone.

Dean didn’t understand. Or he didn’t want to. He took it personally – of course he did. Everything’s always about him. And when he didn’t see himself in my perfect world, he threw the amulet away. Just tossed it into the trash like it never mattered.

Like I never mattered.

I picked it up from a garbage can. Slipped it into my pocket with shaking hands and this terrible hope that maybe, he’d notice. That he’d ask for it back. That he’d apologize. Say something. Anything.

He never did... And now this.

This betrayal. This new wound carved into the same old scars. I trusted him – God help me, I always trust him. Even when I have every reason not to. Even when it costs me everything. I trusted him with all my might, and now I’m falling, spiraling into something I can’t control, and I don’t think I’ll crawl out of this one.

Am I losing it?

Am I really just a broken shell of a man, hollowed out by disappointment and grief, forced to keep existing in a world that keeps spitting me out, tossing me around like a goddamn ragdoll?

Was I ever anything more to Dean than a means of survival? A buffer against his loneliness? Just a shape in the passenger seat to make him feel less alone?

Has he ever cared about what I wanted?
Has he ever even asked?
Has he?
…

I can’t
I can’t
It hurts too much
I just want it to stop
Please
Please let this be over
Please
please
please

Journal Entry 23
June 28, 2013

It’s been a long month. A lot had happened. Dean and I – we’re barely speaking.
But tonight, we actually had a conversation. The conversation. The one Dean’s been avoiding. The one I knew he’d hate. The one he had to hear from me.

Turns out while he was gone (two weeks of silence he didn’t bother to fill) Dean went on a trip with Crowley. And he took on the Mark of Cain. Yes, that Cain. The Bible one. I almost laughed when I first heard it, like the absurdity would cover the horror of it.

So, now Dean’s playing soldier for a biblical murderer, with a demon king for backup. And I’m supposed to act like this is fine? Like this is just Dean being Dean?

No. He’s a goddamn hypocrite. He’s thrown every accusation in the book at me over the years: demon blood, Ruby, letting Lucifer out, you name it – but now he’s holding hands with the fucking King of Hell?

He doesn’t even see the double standard. Won’t admit it to himself, let alone to me.

And when he came back, I told him. That we can’t be brothers. Not like this. Not after everything. And yeah, he got pissed. Hurt. Yeah, like he had a right to be hurt. Like he was the one betrayed.

He still doesn’t get it. The thing with Gadreel... That wasn't about saving me. That was about him. Dean needed me alive because he couldn’t stand being alone.

And that angel? He wasn't some random entity. He was the same creature that corrupted Eden. Dean let him in. Used my body like a pawn, like I was an object to be handled, not a person to be asked.

I confronted him in the kitchen this evening. Just couldn’t hold it back anymore. Looked him in the eye and asked, “What is the upside of me being alive?”

He looked at me like I’d lost it. Told me I belonged here. That we’re fighting the good fight together. That letting me die would’ve been wrong.

No. It would have actually been right.

I told him the truth: he didn’t save me for me. He saved me so he wouldn’t have to be alone. And then he threw that classic line at me – "If the situation was reversed, and it was me dying, you would’ve done the same."

And I said it. I looked right at him and said, "No, Dean. I wouldn’t."

It broke something in him. I could see it. Like I’d just torn open his ribs and crushed what was left of his heart. And maybe I did. But I’m so fucking tired of swallowing my pain so he can breathe easy.

I know I could’ve said it better. Softer. Kinder. I know he probably heard, "I don’t love you, I would be okay if you died." But that’s not what I meant. It’s just…

I’m too broken to find the right words. Too shattered to sort truth from hurt.

Because what I’m going through? What’s festering inside me? It’s worse than death. Worse than the Cage. Worse than anything Lucifer ever did.

I live every day with the weight of failing. I failed to shut the Gates of Hell. I failed Kevin. I killed him, whether I meant to or not. And I failed myself.

And I’m furious at Dean, but I can’t even fully lean into that anger, because I blame me more. I always do.

I would never let him feel this. Never let anyone feel this. This hollowness. This betrayal. This shame.

I feel violated. Used. Discarded. Like some cursed weapon Dean keeps polishing out of habit, forgetting how many people it’s already hurt, including me and him.

I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve lost even the energy to lie about being okay.

So, no. I don’t give a fuck what Dean thinks. I don’t.

I just wish he understood what he did to me. What he took from me. But he won’t. And I’m left holding it all.

Carrying it alone.

Journal Entry 24
October 8th, 2013

It’s all gone to hell. A few months back, we got the First Blade – back in August. I thought it was a weapon, just another cursed object we’d use and toss. I was so goddamn stupid. Dean can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop craving it. We made Crowley hide it, but it doesn’t matter. It’s in his blood now.

The Mark did something to him. He’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t hold on.

At first, he was... better. Almost himself. But then came the dark days. He got short-tempered. Cold. Mean. Like there was something gnawing at him from the inside.

Abbadon’s dead now. We took care of that. She was rounding up souls, poisoning them for her army. We stopped it. But Metatron is still out there, grinning like the smug little shit he is, dragging Gadreel with him into God-knows-where.

And Crowley? That bastard helped us kill her. Though only because it served him. Maybe he’s the best shot Hell’s got, but I still want to put a bullet in his smug, red-eyed face.

Dean though... Dean is the problem now. The Mark is bleeding him dry and filling the cracks with the urge to get someone else's blood. I don’t know how to stop it.

He doesn’t look at me the same. Doesn’t see me the same. Sometimes he talks like he’s already gone. Like something else is living behind his eyes, just borrowing his voice.

And me? I’m just running in circles. Watching my brother destroy himself, piece by piece, and I’m powerless to stop it. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t care. This is the only thing that matters.

I don’t care what he’s done, what he said when he was hurting – I don’t care how many goddamn times we’ve fought. He’s my brother. He raised me. He protected me. He saved me.

And now it’s my turn. Even if it kills me. Even if he tells me to stay away. Even if he hates me for it.

This is my purpose now. Nothing else. No more fucking hesitation. No more guilt, no more fear. Just this one truth that won’t stop screaming in my head:

"I have to help him. I have to save Dean. Before it’s too fucking late."

Journal Entry 25
January 27, 2014

Dean is dead.

Metatron was the one to do it. Just like that. A blade through his heart.

He fell. Collapsed in my arms. I held him. I held him and I cried like a child. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Just… held him there on the floor and couldn't let go.

Then I put him in the car. Four hours of driving in silence. Four hours of sitting next to his corpse. Four hours pretending that maybe he'd wake up. Maybe this was some kind of twisted prank. Maybe he'd groan and complain I was driving too slow.

He didn’t.

And the Impala was quiet, like she knew. I swear she knew. No engine hum, no life. Just… a dull roar in my ears, my heartbeat slamming into my head.

I got to the bunker. Carried him in. Set him down on his bed. Like he was just sleeping. I couldn't accept it. Couldn't live with this.

I tried summoning Crowley. Wanted to make a deal, do whatever he asked. Screamed so loud I thought the walls would bleed. Then my desperation turned into anger. I was ready to kill him. Ready to tear Hell open if I had to. Because this was his fault. The Mark. The Blade. The lies.

But he didn’t come. No red-eyed bastard with a smug smile. Just candle light and silence.

Then I went back to check on Dean. Just… needed to see him. Needed to look again, make sure this wasn’t some hallucination. That I wasn’t losing my mind.

And he was gone.

Gone.

There was a note. "Don't look for me. Dean"

Like hell I won’t.

Crowley took him. Crowley fucking took him. I know it, but I don't know how. Maybe he shoved some demon inside, stitched Dean back up and made him a puppet.

And I swear to God, if it's true – I’ll kill him.

I’ll kill him and rip Hell apart if I have to. Burn every last demon out of existence. I don’t care. Dean does not deserve to rot as someone’s meatsuit. I don’t care if there’s no soul left in that body. It’s still Dean.

He deserves a grave. He deserves peace. He deserves to come home.

I don’t know how I’m still standing. I don’t know who I am without him.

It hurts so much I can’t breathe.
It hurts.
It BURNS.

I’m alone again. Alone in this empty goddamn bunker with his jacket still on the chair and his coffee cup still half full.

All I ever do is fail. All I ever do is lose him.
And I don’t know if I’m going to sleep until I get him back. I don’t even know if I can.

I think I’m already going insane.

Or maybe this is what it means to be sane – knowing it’s all my fault and being trapped inside my own mind.

I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.
I CAN'T.

Dean, come back to me.
I need you here. I need you.

Please...

Chapter Text

Journal Entry 26
April 11, 2014

I don’t know how long it’s been. Weeks. Months. I’ve stopped keeping track – days bleed together into this endless, suffocating fog.

Every second is just another reminder that Dean’s gone. That I wasn’t fast enough. Strong enough. Smart enough.

But tonight… I found him.

At least, I think I did. No. I know it was him. There he was, grainy and blurred on some shitty corner-store security feed. His walk, his shoulders, some goddamn baseball cap– it was Dean. But when he turned his head, when the camera caught his eyes...

Black. Empty. Full of anger.

I thought I’d break right there in my FBI suit. Just collapse on the floor, claw at my face, scream until my lungs rip open. Because it’s not just that he’s dead. He’s worse than dead. His body’s out there, walking, breathing, laughing maybe. And something else is wearing him. Using him like a prop.

My brother’s body. The one I should have buried.

And I can’t let that stand. I won’t. I don’t care if it’s Crowley behind this, or some other parasite that dug its claws into him. I don’t care if I have to burn the world down. I’ll slit every demon’s throat, bleed Crowley dry, burn Hell itself if that’s what it takes. I’ll get him back.

I need him back.

Every night I close my eyes, and I see him – lying there, cold on his bed. Dead because I wasn’t enough. Every morning I wake up choking, thinking for half a second he’s in the next room, only to remember he’s out there, walking in darkness.

My brother. My Dean.

I can’t do this anymore. Not without him.

But I have to.

God, I’m losing my mind. I can feel it – like the walls are pressing in, like my chest is caving in with every breath. I don’t care what it takes, what I have to give, who I have to kill. Dean’s not gone. I refuse to accept this. And until I put him in the ground or drag him back kicking and screaming, I won’t stop.

I can’t stop.

Because he’s all I have left.


Journal Entry 27
April 31, 2014

It wasn’t possession.
It was him. My brother was a demon.

Just writing this makes me want to throw up.

The Mark did all of this. Not some demon squatting in his body. Not something I could just exorcise out and burn away with Latin. It was him.

I told Cas. He just looked at me with those eyes and said he was sorry. Sorry.

Like that fixes anything. Like that gives me back my brother the way he was before.

So I did the only thing I could think of. Purified blood. Over and over. My hands shaking while I pushed it into his veins. His body thrashing. His eyes – black one moment, human the next. For a second I thought... I thought I was killing him.

Maybe I was.

But then, he tried to kill me. That axe in his grip, that smirk, that look in his eyes like I was nothing but meat. He would’ve done it. He would’ve ended me.

If Cas hadn’t shown up.

Dean’s back now. Human again. Sitting in his room. Door shut. Doesn’t want to see me. Doesn’t want to face me. Because he knows. He knows he hurt me. He knows he would kill me, had Cas not come and rescue me.

And I can’t stop crying. And I know crying is weakness, but God, I can't.

I can’t.

Because what if it happens again? What if the Mark drags him back under? What if next time Cas isn’t there? What if Dean doesn’t stop?

What if I will have no choice but to put him down, like he's some sort of monster?

I know he's not. I know.

Truly, he should’ve just killed me. Right then. Maybe that would’ve been easier. At least I wouldn’t feel like this. At least being alive right now wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much.

Because it does.
It hurts like a bitch.

And I don’t know if I can survive losing my brother again.


Journal Entry 42
May 6, 2015

Charlie is dead.

We found her in that bathroom. White tile, red water. She was lying in the tub, skin pale as paper, eyes closed like she was only sleeping. But her lips were blue. And the blood...

God, there was so much blood. Her own blood, her life, soaking into the water, staining everything. All because she helped me. Because she believed me. Because she protected the damn Book.

The Book of the Damned. A cursed thing. A salvation I should never have reached for. Dean told me not to. He begged me not to. And I didn’t listen.

She did it only to save Dean. To save a man who doesn’t even want to be saved.

She cracked codes and bled for words that were never meant to be read. She fought like hell. And then the Stynes gutted her like she was nothing. Left her for us to find.

We burned her today. Lit the pyre, like we do for hunters. I watched the flames take her. Watched the smoke rise into the sky, ashes disappearing into the wind. I stood there, stomach hollow, throat burning from screaming in the void the day before.

And Dean... He stood next to me, silent, jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth would shatter.

And then he said it.

“It should’ve been you up there, and not her.”

He didn’t even look at me when he said it. Just stared at the fire like he wished I was the one burning. And I can’t stop hearing it. Over and over. It’s carved into my skull, branded into my chest. That one sentence, repeating until it drowns everything else out.

It should’ve been you.
It should’ve been you.
It should’ve been you.

And the worst part? He’s right.

It should have been me.

I dragged her into this. I dragged all of us into this. I thought I was saving him, but all I’ve done is kill the people who stood in the way.

We are going around in circles, trying to save each other – but people die. Last year it was Kevin. Now it's Charlie who paid the price. And who’s next? Cas? Dean himself? Every move I make seems to poison the air around me.

I am the infection. The rot.

I can’t stop shaking. My chest feels like it’s caving in, ribs splintering under the weight of guilt. I can still see her face when I close my eyes – serene, empty, like the world had already left her behind.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw the walls down, tear my own skin off. I wanted to take her place, to throw myself onto that pyre and let the flames eat me instead.

Because I deserve it. Not her.

Dean still has the Mark. It’s corrupting him, pulling him apart piece by piece. I see it in the way he looks at me, at himself, at the world. Dark, sharp, wrong.

But it’s not just the Mark. It’s me too. I push. I lie. I gamble lives I can’t afford to lose. And the universe keeps handing me the bill.

Charlie’s gone. Because of me.

Dean’s words won’t stop repeating. I can’t stop them. They echo in every corner of my mind, louder, louder, until I can’t breathe. Until I feel like I’m clawing at my own throat. Until I want to smash the mirror, so I never have to see this face again – the face that killed her.

It should’ve been me. God, I wish it was me.

Maybe then Dean would’ve had one less reason to hate me. Maybe then the fire inside me wouldn’t burn so bad.

The pyre was nearly finished when the sky began to shift toward dusk, streaks of gold turning into violet. Sam’s fingers were calloused from splinters, his knuckles scraped from forcing stubborn pieces of timber into place. He hadn’t stopped moving, not once.

If he stopped, if he even paused, he feared he would collapse.

Castiel had worked alongside him silently, lifting, balancing, steadying the logs when Sam’s grip faltered. His trench coat felt heavier today, somehow. It was not neat and shiny, as usual, instead streaked with dirt. The angel never complained.

Castiel was the first to break the silence. "Sam," he said gently. "You should rest. You’re hurting yourself."

Sam shook his head, his hair falling into his face, sweat sticking it to his temples.

"I can’t," he said hoarsely. His voice was cracked from holding everything in. "I can’t stop. If I stop, Cas, I’ll think. And if I think—" His voice faltered and he couldn't finish the sentence.

Cas’s hand came down on his arm, gentle and not forceful. "I know. But Jack wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want you breaking yourself apart."

Sam groaned, harsh and bitter, pulling his arm away. "Don’t tell me what Jack would’ve wanted. He wanted to live. He wanted—" His voice caught, again. Sam pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling the sound threatening to break free.

Castiel’s expression flickered. Pain, guilt, something helpless. He looked down at the dirt, voice low. "I’m sorry, Sam."

That word again. Sorry. Sam wanted to tear his guts apart every time someone said it.

Sorry didn’t mean anything.

Sorry didn’t bring Jack back.

Dean’s boots crunched against the earth behind them. He’d been hovering, helping occasionally, but mostly he kept himself at a distance, drinking in silence. He stopped a few feet away, his voice low and steady.
"Sammy."

Sam didn’t look up. "Don’t. Not now."

Dean exhaled, long and uneven. "I just– look, this wasn’t you. This wasn’t Cas. Wasn’t me. This was Lucifer. All of it. You know that."

Sam’s head jerked up, his eyes red-rimmed and wet. "You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t hear his voice every time I close my eyes?" His hands curled into fists. "Lucifer pulled the trigger, yeah. He took Jack's grace to power himself up. But we– we let Jack believe he could fix it. We let him fight. He was a kid, Dean. Our kid."

Dean flinched, shoulders stiffening. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he looked at Cas, like the angel might steady him, and Cas moved closer, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean leaned into it – not enough to draw attention, but enough that Sam saw, and for once didn’t care.

Sam’s eyes burned, his throat tightening until it hurt to breathe. He bent over, dragging a final piece of wood into place, his hands shaking violently now.

"It should’ve been me," he whispered. "Not him. Never him."

The sound of footsteps came from the treeline. Mary appeared, her face pale and exhausted. She’d come as soon as Dean called, and when she saw Sam, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. Mary ran up and wrapped her arms around her youngest son, pulling his head against her shoulder.

Sam stiffened, and then he broke. The sobs ripped out of him, shaking his chest, muffled against her shirt. Mary held on tight, her own tears falling silently into his hair.

"Oh, honey," she whispered. "I’m so sorry."

Sam’s fingers curled into the fabric of her jacket. "I can’t do this. Mom, I can’t... I can’t put him in the fire. I can’t watch."

Mary’s own voice wavered. "You can. Because he deserves to be remembered. And you–" she brushed his hair back from his face, her hand trembling. "You loved him. More than anything. He knew that. Hold onto it, Sam. Please."

Sam couldn't say anything more. He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, choking on his grief. Dean turned away, jaw clenched, his face unreadable. Cas’s hand remained steady on his back, their silence saying everything words couldn’t.

And in the shadows, unseen, Gabriel watched.

He’d come the moment he felt the pyre being built. He hadn’t planned to: he wasn’t sure Sam would even want him here. The last time they’d spoken, Sam had told him flat-out:

"You’ve done nothing useful for us since escaping Asmodeus. Not one thing. I thought you could do this, at least – and you fucking failed."

Words that had sliced deeper than blades. Words Gabriel had pretended didn’t matter. But they did. God, they did.

Now, invisible, he stood near enough to feel the heat from Sam’s anguish, to see the way his shoulders curved inward like a man collapsing under a weight no one else could see.

Gabriel’s throat tightened. Sam was thinking about him, Gabriel could feel it. Not with angelic power, but with the ache that pulled in his chest whenever Sam’s eyes flickered away like they couldn’t bear to look. Gabriel was ready to believe Sam wanted him here. And yet, Sam had pushed him away.

Again.

Cas moved to Sam’s side, speaking softly. "You don’t have to face this alone. I know it feels that way, but you’re not."

Sam shook his head violently, wiping at his face with shaking hands. "I am. Don’t you get it? I am alone. Everyone I let close ends up here. Right here." He gestured wildly toward the pyre, where Jack’s body was already prepared. His voice cracked. "It is better if I keep my distance. Better if I’m the one who suffers, not them."

"Sam, please–"

"No, Cas!" Sam snapped, his voice ragged, but still at a whisper level. "I can’t– I can’t drag anyone else down with me. Not you. Not Dean. Not–" His throat closed around the last name. He swallowed it down, his chest heaving. "I’m better off by myself. Right now I want nothing more than to be left alone. For good."

For good. Exactly like he phrased it to Gabriel that night.

The words landed heavy. They echoed, reaching Gabriel where he stood unseen. His wings ached with it. His heart – if he could call it that – broke into smithereens.

He could’ve stayed. Could’ve stepped out, wrapped Sam in his arms, told him he was a damn idiot and he wasn’t leaving. But he didn’t.

Because Sam had already told him what he needed. And Gabriel knew better than to assume Sam could say one thing and mean the opposite.

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. Grief swelled in his chest, sharp and unrelenting. His fingers twitched at his side before he snapped them. The sound was muted, barely a click. And then he was gone, vanished into nowhere.

And maybe somewhere in his soul, Sam felt it. Felt Gabriel leaving his side, leaving him truly on his own. Sam’s head dropped into his hands, shaking, and he whispered the one truth he couldn’t smother.

"It's killing me. I can't be alone, I don't want to..."

But no one heard him.

The pyre was lit. The flames caught quickly, curling upward into the bruised sky. The heat washed over their faces, orange glow painting grief in stark lines.

Dean bowed his head, jaw set, shoulders pressed into Cas’s. Mary leaned against Sam, her hand clutched in his sleeve. Sam stared until his eyes burned, until the fire blurred, until the flames devoured the shape of the boy he had called son.

And still, through the roar of the fire, through the weight of loss, he couldn’t stop thinking of Gabriel.
Of the space beside him that should’ve been filled.
Of the touch he’d pushed away, and the love he could not bear to claim.

The flames rose higher, and Sam stood still, broken, watching everything he loved get burned to the ground.

Chapter Text

Dean sat on the edge of his and Castiel's shared bed, boots still on, shoulders tight.

The silence of the bunker was heavier than usual, pressing in on him from all sides. Cas closed the bedroom door softly and leaned against it, watching Dean’s profile in the dim light.

The hunter ran a hand over his face, then across his mouth, like he could scrub away the ache lodged in his chest. Cas stayed silent, his blue eyes turned towards his lover.

"Sam didn’t listen," Dean muttered finally, voice rough. "I told him. I told him it was Lucifer’s fault. Not his. But he just– he just keeps… carrying it. Like somehow he could’ve stopped it, like it’s on him." He shook his head, throat tight. "And now I’m sitting here watching it eat him alive."

Cas stepped forward, slow, measured, until he stood beside Dean. "Sam knows it was Lucifer," he said gently. "He does. But guilt isn’t rational. It’s not something you can reason with. It gnaws at you anyway. That’s what it’s doing to your brother. And that’s what it’s doing to you."

Dean looked up sharply, eyes rimmed red. "Don’t– don’t put this on me, Cas. I ain’t the one falling apart."

His words were too sharp, too fast. A defense.

Cas’s gaze softened. "It’s tearing you apart, too. You’re trying to carry Sam’s grief along with your own. But you can’t save him from feeling it. Just as you can’t save yourself from yours."

Dean’s jaw tightened as the angel spoke. He wanted to argue, but instead he looked away, lips pressed thin. His chest heaved with the kind of breath you only take when you’re holding back everything else.

Cas hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Dean… Gabriel was there tonight."

Dean’s head snapped up. "What?"

Cas nodded once. "I felt him. He was hidden, but he watched."

Dean’s eyes narrowed, his fists curling against his knees. "Son of a bitch." His voice was harsh, vibrating with something between anger and helplessness. "Sam told him to stay away, and he shows up anyway? That’s– that’s just twisting the knife. Hurting him more. Like the bastard hasn’t hurt him enough as it is."

Cas put a hand on Dean’s arm in an attempt to calm him down. "Gabriel is grieving too. But yes. I suppose he’s hurting Sam by not giving him space."

Dean swore under his breath, letting out a low growl. His shoulders slumped, heavy with rage he didn’t know how to aim. 'I can’t watch Sammy break like this. I can’t–" His voice cracked.

Winchester ducked his head into his hands. "Cas, I can’t lose him, too."

Castiel's hand slid from Dean’s arm to his shoulder, then up to cradle the back of his head. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Dean’s forehead– firm, deliberate, chaste.

Dean froze, then let out a shaky exhale. His hands dropped, and he leaned into Cas’s chest, finally letting himself sag against him.

"You won’t lose him,” Cas murmured, fingers threading gently into Dean’s hair. “We’ll make sure to keep an eye on him. We will help him. He needs our presence – and we will be there."

Dean’s arms came up slowly, wrapping around Cas like he was afraid to need it this badly. “You always know what to say,” he whispered, voice ragged.

Cas’s lips brushed the crown of Dean’s head. "Because I know you. You're the most caring and loving brother anyone could ask for. You know I love you, with everything I have. You will get through to Sam. Tomorrow."

Dean buried his face against Cas’s chest, breathing him in. For the first time all night, his shoulders eased, the storm inside him finding a place to rest.

"Tomorrow," Dean whispered, his eyes slowly closing. His angel's grace was soothing, the warmth spreading around his chest.

"I love you too," Dean added, his voice barely there. Cas smiled, as the traces of grace danced on the tips of his fingers.

Dean had said a thousand times over the year they'd spent together, and the angel was just as happy to hear it each time. Dean could repeat that a thousand times more, and Cas would never get tired of hearing it.

As the world around them was crumbling down, they sat together in silence. They just lost their son, before that – their friends and their family. And the two of them still ended up here: in the room where the world would let them bask in peace and quiet, albeit for just a moment.

And it was the most precious gift of all.

Journal Entry 56
November 2, 2015

Two days ago, Dean and I worked a case that I still can’t wrap my head around. Amara is still MIA, and even without us chasing her, this week had been far too long. We helped a creature that broke into our bunker, spreading my favourite sweets all over.

And that was none other than... my childhood imaginary friend. Except Sully, as it turns out, wasn’t imaginary at all. He was real – a creature called Zanna.

Dean laughed at first. "Do you smell toast? And what's up with marshmallows and nachos?" Dean refused to believe me when I told him it wasn't me.

But then he saw Sully too – yellow shirt, rainbow suspenders, same as I remembered. And it all came rushing back: those long nights when Dad was gone, Dean off with him, and I was just a kid left behind in some empty motel room. Sully was always there, though. He kept me company. Made me feel safe. He made sure to let me know I wasn’t alone.

And then, one day, I got pissed – and told him to leave.

I can still remember his face when I said those words, as I pushed him away. He tried to help me, wanted me to believe I wasn’t broken for wanting something more than the life my dad chose for me. But I was angry, lonely, embarrassed by Dean's mocking tone each time I mentioned Sully.

I thought if I was ever going to prove myself, I had to grow up, harden, do it all on my own. So I told him to go.

And he did.

I didn’t understand then what that did to him. But I saw it a few days ago, in his eyes, when we met again. Sully was hurt – deeply. Like I’d torn something from him. And if I knew then who he was, I wouldn't say those words. I didn’t just push away a friend that night – I pushed away the one person who actually believed in me. Who saw me for who I really was.

We helped him solve the case, we saved a couple of children and Sully's other friends. And after, I apologized. I told him I was sorry for the things I said as a kid. That I didn’t mean it, that I truly believed I made him up.

That I was scared of being called crazy, and so damn tired of being left behind. He forgave me. Of course he did. That’s who Sully is.

But still… If only I hadn’t been that harsh. If only I’d let him stay.

I wonder what would’ve been different. Because in some way, Sully was right – he gave me the strength to run when I needed to. To leave for Stanford. To try and build a life outside of Dad’s orders, outside of hunting. To believe there was something else for me out there.

And yet I can’t shake the guilt. I hurt him. The one friend who never should’ve had to feel pain in the first place.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop feeling like that kid in the motel room, waiting for someone who left me to come back, and then punishing the ones who stayed.

But at least Sully forgave me. So that's a good thing, I hope.

Journal Entry 57
December 19, 2015

I should’ve known.

God wouldn't speak to me. I mean, Castiel tried to find him for years, and failed. So why would he be back now?

But I wanted to believe. The dreams felt real, so vivid I woke up shaking, heart pounding. His voice – it felt like it was Him. Like maybe after everything, after Kevin, after the Mark, after the mess with Dean, I finally found it. That maybe there was some purpose left for me besides screwing everything up.

So I followed. I listened. And the path led me straight back to him.

To Lucifer.

The Darkness broke free and somehow it cracked the warding of the Cage, just enough for him to slip in. To find me. To play his little games. That was the plan all along, wasn’t it? Lure me with hope, with God’s voice, just to twist the knife when I realized it was all a trick. Nothing but a lie wrapped in the guise of faith.

Standing in front of him again, it was like the air left my body. The memories of the Cage came rushing back. The endless burning. The screams. His laugh in my ear. Every second I spent locked in that hole. I smelled it. I felt it. And I couldn’t breathe.

He smiled like it was all some inside joke, because I was his "bunk buddy," his cellmate in Hell’s worst corner, and I should be grateful we had that special bond.

Nothing about it was special. Nothing about it was exciting. It was torture – dehumanizing. He stripped me down to nothing, left me scarred and broken, and when I finally clawed my way out, I swore I’d never let him close to me again.

And yet, there I was – standing in front of him. Listening to him. Believing for one second that God had sent me here. That there was some reason, some lesson, some redemption for the angel who once was The Light and needed to prove himself.

But it wasn’t God. It was the Devil. Simple as it is.

He reminded me of every second in the Cage. Every time I begged to die. He dragged it out, made me relive it until my knees buckled. And when I thought maybe he’d kill me now, put me out of my misery, he just… laughed. Said I’d come willingly. Said I always would. Because I’m weak.

And what if he's right?

I walked straight into his hands, like I hadn’t learned a damn thing. And now all I can hear when I try to close my eyes is his voice, soft, almost gentle:

"We had such good times, Sammy. Don’t you miss them?"

Thankfully, Dean and Cas came to my rescue. Lucifer is back where he should be – rotting in the dephts of Hell. "You're back home – he can't hurt you now," Dean said, when we came back to the bunker. I nodded and went straight to my room.

My chest still feels heavy with all the pain I endured.

How long til it's gone for good? Will this ever get easier?...

Journal Entry 62
January 28, 2016

I don’t really know how to start this without sounding like… well, like me. Which means awkward. Too long-winded. Maybe even weird.

But screw it, this is my journal, no one’s gonna read it. (Hopefully)

Me and Dean met someone today. Her name’s Eileen. She’s– God, where do I even start?

She’s a hunter. Which already blows my mind, because you don’t meet a lot of hunters like her.

She’s small, quiet, doesn’t fill the room the way a lot of hunters do, and yet… she does. Somehow, she does. She’s strong and sharp, and she moves with this confidence that sneaks up on you.

I didn’t expect it, and I sure as hell didn’t expect her to almost take me down when we first crossed paths. I mean, she nearly had me pinned before I could blink. And I wasn’t even mad about it– honestly, I was impressed. Still am.

She’s… deaf. But I don’t even want to lead with that, because that’s not what defines her.

What defines her is this kind of steel in her spine, like she’s seen just as much bad as the rest of us and decided it wasn’t going to break her. Watching her hunt was like… I don’t know – it was like watching gentle poetry and unbreakable strength wrapped up together. How is she even real?

And when we took down the banshee… she smiled.

I can’t even describe it. It was like the room got lighter. Like the whole weight of the hunt just dropped off, and for a second she was just happy. And I swear my heart… did this weird flip thing.

Or maybe it was more like… I don’t know. Like my chest forgot how to work for a second.

After the hunt was over, she gave me her number.

Her. Number.

I must’ve looked like an idiot, just standing there holding it, trying not to stare at her too long. And now I’m here, hours later, staring at the paper like it’s a live grenade. I keep picking it up, setting it down, picking it up again. What the hell am I supposed to say?

"Hey, Eileen, it’s Sam, the guy you almost stabbed in the chest. Wanna grab a coffee sometime?"

No. God. That’s terrible.

I want to learn ASL, though. Not just the basics, not just "thanks" and "sorry." I want to actually learn it.

Because… because she deserves that. Because I want to be able to talk to her in her language. And because it feels like if I don’t, I’ll regret it forever.

…But then there’s this stupid, nagging part of me whispering that I don’t get to have this. That someone like me, after everything, doesn’t get to want someone like her. Someone so... bright. And good. And gentle.

I don’t know.

All I know is, when she smiled at me, I felt… I felt like maybe the world shouldn't only bring pain. Everything felt nice, just for a second. And I want that second again.

God, I sound pathetic. But her name is now in my phone, the digits right there on my screen:

Eileen.

Journal Entry 63
February 10, 2016

Okay. Okay.

So… I actually texted her. Texted Eileen. And… God, I think I’m dying inside.

I spent, like… twenty, thirty minutes just staring at my phone? Tap. Delete. Tap. Delete. Backspace, add a comma, remove the comma.

Do I say "totally"? Too casual? Too awkward? Maybe I should’ve phrased it differently. Maybe it sounds… weird. No, it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

I paced around the library, muttering to myself, thinking I was going to throw up. Dean would’ve laughed his ass off if he saw me. Or made some joke about me being a lovesick idiot. It's a good thing I don’t care.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I typed:

"Hey, Eileen! It's Sam Winchester. I have a friend, Claire. She's 18, and wants to try hunting. So, I thought, with you being so skilled, maybe you could totally teach her some of those cool tricks you know? To not let her do this alone? Maybe I could be there too – just to make sure the training goes well. But if you can't it's totally OK. Thanks anyway."

I stared at it. And stared. And stared.

My chest felt tight. My stomach was twisting. My hands were shaking. Am I overthinking this? Absolutely. Definitely.

But I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about it.

Finally, I hit send. My thumb hovered for what felt like forever, like the entire world was waiting for her reply. Heart hammering. Head spinning.

My brain screaming, Sam, you’re an idiot. You’re an idiot. You’re going to mess this up.

And then... She replied.

"Hi, Sam. Sure! I’ll help Claire. And you too 😉"

I swear… I dropped the phone. My face went all kinds of red. My chest felt like it was going to explode. I blinked. Stared. Blinked again. That little winky face… it’s just a smiley, right? Innocent? Or is it flirty?

Oh God, why am I thinking about this too much?

I had to text back. But what do you say to that? My brain went blank.

"Good. Thanks! :)"

That’s it. That’s all I could type. My fingers hovered over the screen. My chest felt tight. My hands shook. I typed it. Sent it. And now I feel like an idiot again.

My stomach is full of this fluttery warmth. I can’t stop smiling. My chest hurts, but in a good way. She’s going to teach Claire. And she agreed to do it with me.

And the worst part? I can’t stop thinking about her smile when I first saw it. That little sparkle in her eyes. The way she held herself that day I met her, confident and so tiny, but so… impressive. 

I think… I really like her. But I can barely get my words right, and I trip over everything I try to say. I’m so nervous around her I can barely function.

And yet, I want to see her again. I want to watch her show Claire a few things. I want to be there. I want to… I don’t know. I just want to be near her.

God, I’m such a mess.

Chapter Text

Journal Entry 64
March 2, 2016

Three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since that text – and I swear every single day I kept re-reading it, over and over, like some teenager. Today we finally met up so Eileen could show Claire a few hunting tricks.

I got there early (I needed to be prepared). My palms were sweating before she even arrived. When Eileen walked in and I saw her calm, small frame and a smile on her lips, my heart did this ridiculous skip. She beamed when she saw me. I must have looked like an idiot because all I could manage was say "Hi" as my cheeks burned red.

Watching her work with Claire was… incredible. Eileen was graceful, focused, patient. Claire was amazed with her shooting and fighting skills, and honestly so was I. I kept catching myself just… staring. I’ve never met anyone quite like Eileen. Strong, quick, smart. And she’s got this quiet confidence that fills the space without her even trying.

I stumbled through a few demonstrations when she asked me to help, and every time our eyes met, my brain short-circuited. She’d nod, that little encouraging grin pulling at the corner of her mouth, and I’d forget whatever I was supposed to be explaining.

After a couple hours we wrapped up. She mentioned she’d caught wind of a case a few towns over and had to head out. We said goodbye. I was trying not to sound disappointed, but failed completely.

Later tonight I caved and texted her. I wanted to say something smooth, but of course I overthought every single word. Finally, I just typed:

"Thanks again for today. Claire’s still buzzing about it. You were amazing."

I stared at the screen like an idiot. Three dots popped up almost immediately.

She repied: "Claire's a nice girl. With proper training, she's going to do well. And you weren’t so bad yourself 😊"

Cue full-body blush. My face actually felt hot. I wanted to say something clever back, but my fingers just froze. Eventually I typed:

"Ha. Well… you made it easy."

She replied a few minutes later: "Because we make a good pair of teachers! :) Gotta go. I’ll let you know how the case goes!"

"Good pair." She said pair. I can’t stop re-reading that line.

Now I’m sitting here grinning like an idiot, heart doing somersaults. There’s this lightness in my chest I haven’t felt in… I don’t know how long. Eileen Leahy is something else. I don’t know what happens next, but I know I want to find out.

God help me, I’m already hoping for another text.

Journal Entry 73
April 6, 2017

The distance sucks. Being friends when you want to be something more, all while being at a distance, is a hundred times worse. And I've been feeling that dread for a year now.

I know, it's impossible to have a realtionship with a life such as ours – just as I know I might be cursed. But I can't help it... I should at least try.

I can’t even remember the last time I smiled this much over a phone screen. Eileen and I have been FaceTiming nonstop recently – checking in about the nephilim case, comparing notes on Lucifer’s son, trading theories about what the hell the kid might grow into. But half the time, if I’m honest, we drift. We talk about books we’re reading, favorite coffee spots in random towns, dumb headlines. I catch myself just watching the way her eyes crinkle when she laughs, the quick little tilt of her head when she signs something and I'm trying to memorize every gesture.

Dean notices everything, of course.

Every time he passes by the war room and sees her face on my screen, he gives me that grin – the one that means 'I’m going to make fun of you later.' Sometimes he doesn’t even wait. "Sammy’s got a girlfriend," he’ll sing under his breath as he walks off with a beer. I’ve stopped denying it, mostly because…why bother? He’s not wrong.

Today Mick called with "a plan," all cryptic and very Men of Letters. I asked Eileen if she’d come down and help, and she didn’t even hesitate. Said 'yes' like it was the most natural thing in the world. I told her the bunker is as much hers as ours, that legacies should stick together. Upon hearing that, she smiled so wide I swear the screen got brighter.

Now she’s actually on her way, and suddenly I’m nervous. My stomach’s been tight since I hung up. I haven't seen her in months.

I keep pacing the library like an idiot, thinking about what I’ll say when she walks in. I’ve hunted gods and demons, faced down Lucifer himself, but the idea of looking Eileen in the eye and telling her I want to take her out – just her and me, no case, no Apocalypse – makes my heart pound like I’m a kid again.

Maybe this time I’ll find the courage. Maybe when she steps into the bunker, sets her bag down like she belongs here (because she does), I’ll finally say it: "I want to take you out on a date."

I'm writing this hoping I don’t chicken out.

Journal Entry 75
May 11, 2017

The page is already wet. I can’t even see the lines anymore. Fuck, fuck everything, fuck all this

Eileen’s gone.

I keep writing it, thinking the letters will make it real, but it’s just ink and it still doesn’t fit inside my head. We saw her today at the morgue. Dean stood beside me, silent for once. I could feel him breathing, could hear the squeak of the gurney wheels when they moved her. That sound will never leave me.

She should have been safe. She tried to be safe. After her accidentally shooting that Kendricks guy… after that bullet that should’ve hit Dagon, after Mick’s damned report, after he disappeared like he’d never existed – she ran. Back to Ireland.

I thought maybe she’d get a break, find fellow hunters she could trust. But she came back. Came back when she realized her room was bugged. She couldn't even tell us about it, so she sent a letter. It arrived today.

Too late now, because she’s gone.

God, I should’ve told her. Every night we spent on FaceTime, every hunt, every long silence when the world went still and it was just us – not even after out first date. I didn't say a thing. I kept it locked inside because I thought there’d be more time. I told myself there was always another hunt, another chance, a better moment.

I never said it.
I hate myself for being a fucking coward.
I loved her.
I love her.

I can barely write the words. My hand shakes like it’s someone else’s, but I loved Eileen. Not just liked, not just wanted to take her out for a drink or a walk in some nowhere town. Loved.

Her laugh, her fierce focus, the way she could lit up a room with a single look. The way she made my life better by just being present, and my smiles were genuine for once.

I loved her and she’ll never know.

I would trade every weapon in the bunker, every victory, every breath I’ve got left just to tell her once. Just once.

I keep seeing her smile in that last video call. I keep hearing the small pause before she signed goodnight, like maybe she was waiting for me to say something more. I didn’t.

And now I know for sure it's on me for being a walking curse. For kissing her after that date. How am I supposed to let people get close after yet another proof that I'm nothing but poison?

I wish I hadn't taken that step. But I also wish I told her I loved her. And, fuck, I know it doesn't make sense. I feel so guilty and torn and I don't know what I should have done instead. My eyes hurt and I can't do it anymore.

Whatever it was... I don’t know how to forgive myself for letting her die.

The glass in Gabriel’s hand caught the dim yellow and purple lights of the bar, reflecting it back in fractured pieces across the counter.

The archangel ordered whiskey, Jack Daniel's – the first drink that came to his mind, really. He was on his fourth glass, maybe fifth. He’d lost count hours ago, not not that it mattered. Alcohol didn’t work on him anyway. But the idea of it did. The routine of it, the human act of trying to drink something away. He wasn’t human, though. Never had been. And right now, that felt like a curse more than ever.

"Three damn words," he muttered to himself. His voice was low, roughened by the weight in his chest. "Just three words."

He swirled the liquid absently, watching it settle in his glass again. Three words.
The ones he never said.

The bar was full of people, music buzzing faintly in the background. People nursed beers, sitting down on their stools, too wrapped up in their own conversations to notice the archangel drowning in his.

Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. It's been four days since Jack’s funeral. Since fire consumed what little light that kid brought to their world. Six days since Sam had looked right through him, eyes rimmed red, voice cold, and said the words that ended it.

“Fuck you, Gabriel! Just get out. Leave. For good.”

And he did.

He told himself he was respecting Sam’s wish. That he was giving him space, giving him peace. But peace was the last thing Gabriel had.

A flash of wings. A sudden shift in the air. Then, a voice – smooth, lazy, annoying – cut through his thoughts.

"Now that’s a sight I never thought I’d see again. The Trickster himself, wallowing in whiskey."

Gabriel didn’t even flinch. "Balthazar."

"Gabriel." Balthazar slipped onto the stool beside him, looking annoyingly at ease. His black coat was immaculate as ever. He waved at the bartender. "A gin and tonic, if you’d be so kind."

Gabriel eyed him, unimpressed. "What, no hello hug? No dramatic speech about how you crawled out of Heaven’s ruins to grace me with your presence?"

Balthazar smirked. "Please. You’re the one having an epic breakdown like you're a star in a drama show."

Gabriel’s jaw twitched. "You came here to gloat or what?"

"No," Balthazar said, tone shifting softer. "I came because Castiel told me about the funeral."

The word funeral made Gabriel’s shoulders stiffen.

"Castiel said you were there," Balthazar continued, swirling his drink when it arrived. "Invisible, of course. Classic move, by the way. Couldn't expect anything else from you, really."

Gabriel’s lips twisted. "Didn’t think it was my place to intrude, so I didn't."

"Right," Balthazar said, watching him. "Because hiding and hurting yourself in silence is much more noble."

"Don’t start."

"I’m not starting anything," Balthazar said, voice low. "I’m just asking — Castiel says there’s more to your little vanishing act than guilt over the kid."

Gabriel didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead, jaw clenched.

Balthazar sighed, leaning closer. "So. I’ll ask what he wouldn’t. What really happened between you and Sam?"

Gabriel laughed, sharp and humorless. "You really want to open that box?"

"No matter what you say, I’ve heard things worse."

"Not this kind of worse."

"Try me."

Gabriel downed the rest of his drink, the burn doing nothing. He set the glass down with a dull thud. "I said something stupid."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. "Stupid how?"

Gabriel’s throat tightened. "The kind of stupid that doesn’t get fixed with flowers and an apology."

"Gabriel," Balthazar said carefully, "what did you do?"

"I told him that sleeping with him was convenient," Gabriel spat, the word venomous even now. "After everything. After we went through Heaven and Hell together – literally – I told him he was convenient."

Balthazar blinked. "You what?"

"Yeah." Gabriel let out a hollow laugh. "The big, bad archangel, master of words, can’t even tell the man he loves that he’s scared. So he pretends to be cool and says that instead."

Silence stretched between them, and Balthazar shifted in his seat. Finally, he spoke, voice gentler. "You can fix this. You do realize he’s madly in love with you, right?"

Gabriel’s head turned sharply, eyes flashing. "That’s the whole damn point, Balthy."

Balthazar frowned. "Meaning?"

"Meaning I hurt him. Again. Like every other celestial being in his life. And there’s no coming back from that."

"Gabriel–"

"Don’t." He stood abruptly, wings trembling just beneath the surface. "You weren’t there. You didn’t see his face. I broke something I can’t fix anymore."

Balthazar opened his mouth to argue, but the bar stool was already empty. Only a faint shimmer of gold dust lingered in the air where Gabriel had stood.

And then – Madrid.

Gabriel's suite was dark, curtains drawn, city lights leaking faintly through the cracks. The archangel reappeared in the silence, stumbling a little as he materialized. He hadn’t even bothered to pick a new place this time.

He crossed the room, shoulders slumping, wings dragging behind him invisibly like dead weight. The air here smelled like dust and something faintly sweet – sugar maybe.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights. Didn’t need to.

His knees hit the floor before he even realized he was falling. The sound echoed faintly off the walls. Hands braced on the cold tile, breath ragged.

He couldn’t fix this.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to.

He wanted to go back – to every time he could’ve told Sam what he felt and didn’t. To the moment before he said that ugly word, and instead say the truth: I love you. You make me want to stay.

But that moment was gone.

And Sam Winchester, stubborn, beautiful, broken-hearted Sam, had told him to leave. And Gabriel, coward that he was, had obeyed.

He pressed a shaking hand to his eyes, but the tears didn’t stop. They burned – grace-hot, burning him like acid.

"Stupid," he whispered. "Stupid, stupid archangel."

He remembered the way Sam’s voice had cracked when he said "Don't touch me." The way his hands had trembled. The way he had looked away, eyes full of betrayal and love and exhaustion all at once.

The city outside kept the fast pacing of life, people below oblivious. Somewhere down the street, humans were living, laughing, fighting, kissing – doing everything Gabriel couldn’t anymore.

He stared up at the ceiling, vision blurred, whispering the words he never got to say out loud.

"I love you, Sam."

The room stayed silent, heavy with the weight of what could never be.
And Gabriel stayed on the floor, wings folded tight, drowning in the one truth that would haunt him for eternity: He’d rather be hated by Sam Winchester than forgotten by him entirely.

But now, he was afraid he might become both.

The bunker felt colder than usual. Maybe because of the unusual silence. Maybe because every corner still echoed with Jack’s laughter, like a memory that refused to fade. Or because Dean and Cas were out again, and the world felt still.

Sam sat alone at the library table, papers spread out in front of him but untouched. His coffee was cold. He hadn’t even noticed when Rowena came down the stairs, her heels clicking softly against the floor.

"Well, if it isn’t my favorite Winchester," she purred, though even her usual flair was gentle and loving. "You look dreadful, Samuel."

Sam managed a faint, humorless chuckle. "You always know how to lift a guy’s spirits, Rowena."

Rowena tilted her head, assessing him with eyes sharper than any witch’s blade. "You didn’t call me just for flattery, did you?"

Sam looked down, rubbing a hand over his face. "No. I… I need something."

That caught her attention. "Something?" she echoed, stepping closer. "From me?"

He nodded. "Yeah. A hex bag. Or… a spell. One that can hide a person from angels."

Her brow arched, a flicker of suspicion breaking through her poised exterior. "That’s a rather dangerous request. Why, Samuel? Planning to rob Heaven any time soon?"

He met her gaze, weary but curious. "I just need to go off-grid for a while. A few days. No angels tracking me, no one finding me. Not Cas. And especially not Gabriel."

Rowena’s expression softened, though she still pretended to play coy. "You suspect I have such a spell because I used to keep dear Lucifer out of my hair, hm?"

"I figured," Sam said quietly. "If anyone could hide from him, it’d be you."

Rowena gave a delicate little shrug. "Well, you’re not wrong." She studied him for a moment, her painted lips pressing into a thin line. "But I must ask, darling – why?"

Sam’s silence spoke louder than anything. His jaw tensed, eyes distant. "I just… need to think. To breathe. Without anyone trying to make it better."

He forced a half-smile. "Dean and Cas, they mean well. But they’re–” He trailed off, shaking his head. "They’re together, they’re trying to move on. And I can’t. I need some time to process this. And I don't want to stay here."

Rowena sighed, crossing her arms. "You’re a stubborn one, you know. Always trying to bear the world on those broad shoulders."

"Maybe." Sam looked away. "But this isn’t about saving the world. It's about–" His voice cracked a little. "It’s about not losing what’s left of me."

For a moment, the witch said nothing. Then, with an uncharacteristically gentle motion, she placed a hand on his arm. "Grief has a way of draining the life out of the living, Samuel. But if this is what you need… I’ll help you."

Sam’s eyes flicked up to hers – soft, grateful, tired. "Thank you."

Rowena moved toward the table, setting down her bag and rummaging through it with purpose. "It’ll take a bit of blood, of course. Yours, not mine. And a few personal ingredients. I’ll make the bag simple – small enough to carry, strong enough to fool even the nosiest angel."

Sam nodded, rolling up his sleeve without hesitation. The witch glanced at him, a hint of pity glimmering beneath her sarcasm.

"You know," she said, stirring the mixture in a small silver bowl, "you don’t have to vanish entirely. Sometimes a good bottle of Hennessy and a night’s sleep do wonders."

Sam’s voice came out quiet, hollow. "Booze doesn’t stop the nightmares."

Rowena didn’t reply. She finished the spell, murmuring an incantation under her breath, and finally handed him a small, blackened pouch that pulsed faintly with energy.

"This will hide your presence from any celestial being – for four days. After that, it fades quickly. Use it wisely."

Sam took it, fingers brushing over the rough fabric. "Four days is more than enough."

She gave him a long, searching look. "If you mean to do something foolish–"

"I won’t," he said quickly. Then, softer: "I just need to clear my head. That’s all."

Rowena smiled sadly. "I'm choosing to believe you on this one. Just get back soon, Samuel."

He gave her the smallest smile in return, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Thanks, Rowena. Really."

When she left, the bunker fell quiet again. Sam sat alone for a while, the hex bag resting in his palm. The faint hum of its magic was the only sound in the room. He closed his fingers around it, exhaled shakily, and looked toward the door.

Dean and Cas were out on a date – it was the first one in weeks. They deserved that moment of peace. And maybe, Sam thought, he deserved that too.

Sam stood, grabbing his jacket and the keys to his car. He left a note in Dean's room, hoping his brother won't get worried. The bag disappeared into his pocket.

Then, with one last look at the empty map room, Sam Winchester walked out – leaving the bunker behind, and whatever light in there still remained.