A Walking Encyclopedia of Weirdness

It's still hard to believe it's over; that the yellow-eyed demonic bastard they'd spent their whole lives hunting is finally dead.

Sam figures it'll sink in eventually. Given everything else -- right now he's still pretty numb.

He's also desperately tired, but that doesn't matter. There's something he needs to do, and he can't afford to delay.

He waits until they've settled in for the night, and then waits still longer. Once Dean's been asleep for half an hour, Sam picks up his messenger bag -- already stuffed with books and his computer -- and heads straight for the bar.

He orders black coffee and snags a table with a good view of both doors and the stairs, then pulls out the first of the old texts and starts to search through it.

There's work to do.

(After this.)

"Lilith was the final seal. I killed her, and I set Lucifer free."
"Yeah. You chose a demon over your own brother—and look what happened."
"I would give anything—anything—to take it all back."
"I know you would, Sammy. And I know how sorry you are. But I just don't know if I can trust you."
"Maybe it's best we just go our separate ways."
"I think you're right."

"You know who I am."
"...Lucifer."
"Thanks to you, I walk the earth. Now, I want to give you a gift."
"Go back to hell. I don't want anything from you."
"That's not how this works. You're the one, Sam. You're my vessel."
"No. No. That'll never happen."
"I'm sorry, but it will. I will find you. And when I do, you will let me in. I'm sure of it."

---

Sam stands frozen, staring at the empty place where Lucifer's apparition had vanished for what feels like eternity. When the paralysis finally breaks, he moves fast, diving for his phone.

He paces the floor as it rings, unable to stand still - then yanks the phone away from his ear as Dean's voice snarls,

"Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep!"

"Dean, it's me," Sam says, quietly. "Not Cas."

"Sam?" Half a beat. "You got any friggin' clue what time it is?"

"Um, it's--" He looks around for a clock.

"Quarter past four," Dean supplies. He sighs. "So why are you calling?"

Sam's hand tightens on the phone.

"I'm-- it's important."

Succinctly, Sam explains what happened, all of it. When he's finished, there's a short silence.

"So you're his vessel? Lucifer's wearin' you to the prom?"

"That's what he said," Sam tells him. He's not aware of the bleakness in his eyes, the faint hope in his voice.

"Just when you said you were out, too. Guess you're gonna get sucked right back in, huh, Sammy?"

Disbelief paints his words. "That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

"I guess I'm a little numb to earth-shattering revelations at this point," Dean informs him.

Sam scrubs his free hand over his face. "So what are we gonna do about it?"

"What, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?"

He feels the impact of Dean's words as though he's just taken a hard right to the jaw.

"Dean, it doesn't have to be like--"

"Look, Sam, it doesn't matter what we do. We're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know what, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing, if we just go our own ways. Stay separate. You hearin' me? Stay away."

"No, Dean-- don't, listen to me, don't do this, we can--"

"Bye, Sam."

The silence when the call disconnects is somehow worse than anything he's ever heard. Then again, it's nothing more than he deserves.

---

Three days later, his phone rings. Dean gets right to the point, giving him a location and a time to meet.

His brother's already waiting at the bridge when Sam arrives.

"Here." Dean pulls out Ruby's knife as Sam approaches, and Sam can feel his own jaw drop and his eyes widen as his brother holds it out to him, handle first.

"If you're serious and you want back in...you should hang on to this. I'm sure you're rusty."

Sam takes it. It's easier to look at the blade than to meet Dean's eyes.

"Look, man, I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm...whatever I need to be, I guess," Dean says. "Point is, I was wrong."

He does look up, at that, searching Dean's face. "What made you change your mind?"

"Long story." Dean sighs. "Maybe we are each other's weakness, I don't know. Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other. They're sure gonna try. But the thing is -- we're all we've got. We keep each other human."

Sam swallows hard. "Thank you. Really, Dean. Thanks. I -- I won't let you down."

His brother nods. "I know you won't."

He wakes up before Dean the next morning.

Sam lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what was said... and what wasn't said. It's the latter that prompts him to get moving.







Twenty minutes later, he shoves the motel room door open with his elbow, not making any effort to be quiet about it.

"Time to get up!"

After Uriel vanishes, Sam angrily shoves the rest of his stuff into his duffel bag, trying to ignore the way the angel's vicious words still ring in his ears.

"You so brazenly use the power he gave you."

"You’ve been warned twice now. One word, and I will turn you to dust."

"As for your brother - ask Dean what he remembers from hell."

"Oh, fuck this," Sam mutters, dumps his duffel on the end of the bed, and slams through the bathroom door and into Milliways.



One look at the crowd in the bar is enough to convince him that solitude's the better option. Sam shrugs his jacket closer around him, shoves his hands in his pockets, and heads out the other door in the direction of the lake. There's a path that looks to wind its way into the trees along the shore; he takes that, kicking aimlessly at ground to stir up the fallen leaves in front of him as he walks, brooding over Uriel's words.

"He’s got a point, you know."

Sam's head jerks up at the familiar voice. For a second or two he can't manage a sound; all he can do is stare at Jake Talley, who’s leaning against an oak tree at the edge of the trail ahead of him, idly examining the blade of the knife that he's holding in his hand.

Jake raises his eyebrows. "Cat got your tongue, Winchester?"

Sam's jaw sets, and he meets Jake's eyes with a level stare. "Maybe I just don't have anything to say to you."

"Fair enough, I guess," Jake notes. "After all, I did kill you. 'Course, you turned right around and killed me back, so..."

"You were helping Azazel," Sam snaps at him. "You were gonna shoot Ellen, and oh yeah, you opened the gate, remember?"

Jake sneers at him.

"Look who's talking. How long you been running around with a demon girlfriend, huh? Drinking demon blood? Man, that's just nasty."

"Shut up."

"Why? Can't stand to hear the truth? You been lyin' to yourself, Sam. Guess that's just one more thing we got in common--"

"I said, shut up."

Jake shakes his head, sadly.

"Comes down to it, I think I got the better deal."

Sam's expression tightens further at that.

"Listen. I know how it looks, okay? But I can do this. I've got to do this. I'm making something good out of what that bastard did to us. Someone's got to."

"Whatever, man. You keep telling yourself that." He shoves the knife into the sheath he's got strapped to his thigh and straightens, pushing away from the tree. "Hope it works out for you."

Sam struggles with himself as Jake starts away, walking further down the trail toward the woods. After a short, bitter internal fight, he sighs and calls after him,

"Wait. I don't know how long ago you got here, but there's -- you should probably know that --"

Jake flashes a quick grin over his shoulder at him.

"No problem there, Sam. I was never here in the first place."

"What the--"

Between one step and the next, Jake vanishes. Sam dashes forward, scanning the ground for any sign of his passing; the leaves are undisturbed, without even a single footprint.

There's no trace of Jake Talley.

Or, for that matter, of anyone else at all.

He wakes up before the alarm clock. It doesn't matter.

It's just another day.

Sam puts one hand behind his head, under the pillow, and lies still, staring at the ceiling.

[After this.]

Sam doesn't realize everything that happens in the moment when the Trickster's fingers meet. He can't feel it when space and time both stretch like a rubber band between Milliways and the world he knows for one impossible instant, sending odd ripples both forward and backward along his time stream before something snaps and everything falls into place as the seconds begin to tick forward evenly again in both locations.

All he hears is a familiar sound.




-click-

"--gotta get back in time--"



His eyes fly open and he sits straight up in bed as Dean looks at him in surprise.

"You gonna sleep all day?"

Sam stares at him for only a second before bolting across the room to envelop his brother in a hug.

Startled, Dean nevertheless hugs him back. "Dude, how many Tuesdays did you have?"

Sam swallows.

"Enough."




He doesn't even come close to relaxing until they leave Broward, Florida, and the sign recedes in the mirror behind them.

-click-

"--heat of the moment, telling me what my heart meant--"

As the clock radio blares in his ear, Sam jerks awake and sits bolt upright. Dean looks over from where he sits on the other bed, tying his shoe.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam transfers his bemused stare from the radio to his brother.

"Dude. Asia?"

Dean just grins and turns up the volume.

"--cause it's the heat of the moment, the HEAT OF THE MOMENT, THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT SHOWED IN YOUR EYES--"

* * * * * * *

It's obviously going to be one of those days, the kind where every little thing gets on his nerves. By the time Sam's dealt with the disgustingly messy toothpaste tube, pointedly ignored Dean's extended gargling session, and waited impatiently at the door of the motel room while Dean searched for his gun, he's about ready to strangle his brother, and they haven't even had breakfast yet.

As they enter the diner, Sam ducks to the side out of the way of the oldster who's meandering toward the door and follows Dean to a booth, trying not to pay attention to the scrawny-looking guy at the counter or the waitress who's telling him he has to order something if he wants to stay. Once they get settled and order breakfast -- the Tuesday special for Dean, pancakes for himself -- Sam pulls out the newspaper clipping about the missing Professor Hasselback and the brochure about the site that the guy'd been investigating when he disappeared.

"The Broward County Mystery Spot," Dean reads. "Where the laws of physics have no meaning." A beat. "You know these places are a joke, right?"

"A lot of them, sure, but you've got to admit the lore's pretty friggin' weird," Sam insists. "The Bermuda Triangle, the Oregon Vortex -- they say that in some of these places the magnetic fields are so strong that they can bend space and time. And since this Hasselback guy did vanish, maybe there's something to this one."

"Two coffees," the waitress ('Doris,' Sam reads from her nametag) interrupts, leaning over to set the cups down on the table between them, not noticing that her tray's beginning to tilt. "And some hot sauce for the -- "

That's as far as she gets before the bottle overbalances and crashes to the floor, spattering hot sauce all over Sam's shoes.

Yeah. It's one of those days.

* * * * * * *

By the time they actually break in to the Mystery Spot that night after hours, Sam's more than ready to get the hell out of Broward, Florida, case or no case. It doesn't help that the place looks exactly like Dean had said it would -- filled with crappy paint, cheap tricks, and furniture nailed to the ceiling.

The worst part of the whole damn day turns out to be when the owner turns out to live in the upstairs apartment and comes down to investigate.

"Are you robbing me? Hands up!"

It's obvious that the guy doesn't know how to handle the shotgun he's pointing back and forth between them, and sure enough, it goes off. Sam ducks instinctively, then glances over to make sure Dean's okay--

--but Dean's on the floor, and there's blood everywhere.

"Call 911!" Sam yells, and dives to the ground beside his brother, frantically trying to stop the bleeding with his bare hands. "No. No. Dean, no, come on, look at me, you're not gonna die, you can't die, not like this--"


-click-

"--heat of the moment, telling me what my heart meant--"


Sam jerks awake and sits bolt upright. Dean looks over from where he sits on the other bed, tying his shoe.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

"... Dean." Sam stares at him. He can almost still see the blood, can still feel the slack weight of his brother's dead body in his arms.

As nightmares go, that's got to be one of the worst he's ever had, and that's saying something.

* * * * * * *

He's still trying to shake it off when they get to the diner, and the weird surreal feeling of déjà vu isn't helping any. Sam dodges the old guy ('Mr. Pickett,' the cashier calls him) on his way to the door and follows Dean to the booth.

"Hey, Tuesday," Dean observes, reading the specials listed on the wall. "Pig 'n a poke."

"...It's Tuesday?"

* * * * * * *

"-- listen to me! Yesterday was Tuesday, and today's Tuesday too. I don't know what happened! We were at the Mystery Spot, and then... "

"Then what?"

"Then I woke up," Sam evades. "Look, we have to check that place out."

Dean heaves a sigh. "All right, fine. We'll go tonight, after closing, get a long look--"

"No!" Sam interrupts. "No. Not tonight. Let's go now. Right this minute. Business hours, nice and crowded."

"Okay, whatever. We'll go now." Dean rolls his eyes and steps into the crosswalk. He doesn't even see the car coming as Mr. Pickett slams into him.

"DEAN!"


-click-

"--heat of the moment, telling me what my heart meant--"

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Sam buries his face in his pillow and pulls the covers over his head.

"No."

She's lying. She's got to be.

At least it'll be easy enough to check. Sam makes a list of names, drawing on both his own memory and the things John Winchester had recorded in his journal.

He waits until Dean's gone out before he starts making calls.

"Hi, this is Phil Jones. I needed to check some facts with your secretary... It was a fire that occurred on November 24, 2006. Lawrence, Kansas, that's right..."

One at a time, he starts crossing names off the list.

"I'm trying to get in touch with Steve Hardecker... oh. Could you, uh, tell me when he died?"

"This is police chief Phil Jones. Can you check the records for a Robert Campbell? July 19th, 2001?"

"Dead on arrival. Right. What I'm after is the cause of death. ... a heart condition? Wasn't he a cardiac surgeon? Shouldn't he have known about that?"

Slowly, steadily, the numbers of the dead increase.

"I'm looking for information on Mrs. Wallace's death. Two deaths. I see. Who was the other?"

"Ed Campbell. Uh-huh... were there any survivors? No, that's all I needed. Thanks for your time."

He disconnects the last call and drops the phone on the desk, then sits down on the bed and stares blankly into space for some time.


Eventually Sam digs a crumpled napkin out of his jeans-pocket and unfolds it. He looks down at the number written there for almost a full five minutes before reaching for his phone.

Pretty much anything, anywhere, can be haunted, and there's lots of ways to tell when a spirit is around.

It's one of the first pieces of lore any hunter learns.

Flickering lights, cold spots, the smell or crackle of electricity in the air, objects moving by themselves, phantom or insubstantial figures appearing and disappearing, strange noises and mysterious voices and things going bump in the night -- all are just some of the many methods that a ghost might use to make itself known, when there's a presence to be felt.

Sam Winchester's body, that empty vessel, lies in quiet repose on the torn and dingy mattress where they've laid him.















The room is silent.

And empty.