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There’s a point, quite early on actually, that Sam considers giving in. He’s just woken up, edges of his consciousness still frayed by whatever they used to sedate him with, and there’s a woman with a notepad and a pen in front of him asking for his help. He laughs, and he snarks at her, because this isn’t the way people usually ask for help. But he can still feel the bullet wound, he’s chained to a chair, and there’s a grate beneath his feet for easy cleanup, none of which bodes well. He’s loathe to reward the way he’s been treated so far, and he won’t let them break him this easily. But there’s a small part of him that thinks, why not?
An hour later that voice has become louder, when the cold has bitten into his skin, seized his muscles and seeped into his bones. The last time he was frozen until it burned, there was no way to stop it. This time, he shouldn’t have to go through with it. So he’d be handing the hunting business over to a new regime, so what? He’d always said he wouldn’t want to continue without Dean. If someone’s already there to take their place, why should he be the one to stand in their way? What reason does he have to endure?
The water trickles to a halt, and the woman in front of him stands up. “Let me end this, Sam. Please.” He can almost believe the sympathetic note in her voice. Almost.
Through chattering teeth, he spits out the two words he’s been holding on to all this time. “Screw. You.” Because he won’t go out like this. He won’t reward her for her cruelty. That’s not how the world should work.
“What do you think is happening here? Do you think you’re being brave, that you’re the hero of the story?” She’s standing right in front of him, looking down on him like he’s a cockroach trying to scrabble out of the sink. “You’re no hero Sam. You’re just bad at your job.”
“Oh, and you’re better?”
“So much better.”
She keeps talking, but Sam has stopped listening. Because she has a point. He is a screw-up, and a mess. He’s endangered the world as much as he’s saved it. He freed the Darkness, and he failed to close the gates of hell and he started the apocalypse. The woman is still talking about how much better the hunting business could be, and in Sam’s mind there’s a never-ending litany of all the mistakes he’s made. He’s cold and hungry and tired, just so tired. His anger and his stubborn pride have already cost so many lives. Why should he let it stand in the way of saving others?
Then she says something that catches Sam’s attention. “The moment a monster steps foot in Britain, we know about it. Within twenty minutes he’s been picked up, and within 40 he’s dead.”
And at that moment, Sam thinks of Amy. Sweet Amy, who killed her own mother to keep Sam safe, and never killed anyone until she had to. He remembers Kate, the young woman who is trekking across America, fighting a constant hunger and locking herself down three nights per month because she wants to remain good. He thinks of Benny, who rescued his brother from purgatory, and then came back to save Bobby and himself too. And that thought brings back the memory of another vampire, Lenore, who fought her instincts even while under the influence of the mother of all monsters. How many others like them were out there? Others who were monsters in name only, who would be slaughtered without a second thought, simply for being different.
“You were always a lost cause Sam, but I’m hoping there are hunters we can work with.”
His heart drops when he thinks of the other hunters. How could he think of telling her about Garth? There’s no way there’d be room for a werewolf hunter in her world. And what about Claire? Could she still find an outlet for her anger here? What about hunters like Jessy and Cesar, whose hunting helped them process Jessy’s loss before settling down? How would any of them function in a regime like hers? By the time she’s finished speaking, his resolve is set in steel.
She looks him straight in the eye to make her final statement. “Maybe, with all of us working together, we can do what you never could. Make America safe.” She looks hopeful, like he has no choice but to agree with that logic.
“And maybe you tie them to a chair,” Sam says softly. “Maybe you do worse.” He sees her face close off, and he knows he’s going to pay for what he’s saying. But he also knows that he can take it. He thinks of all the people he’s protecting from suffering the same fate. “So maybe, maybe you can go to hell.”