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Something is wrong.
Sam can’t tell what’s wrong exactly, but— but something’s not right.
Sam’s hand shakes as he looks around the motel room. It’s the same generic motel room that Sam has seen his whole life, but— where are they? Sam sometimes doesn’t know the exact location when they’re traveling, no point in it, but Sam doesn’t remember…this. Getting here. Unpacking, staying a night, whatever, let alone starting to pack up again, like he and Dean are doing right now.
“You feeling okay, Sammy?” Dean asks, pausing folding his clothes and putting them in his duffel. “You’re looking a little pale.”
Did Dean always look like that? Sam can’t—he blinks. He looks at Dean. Dean’s normal, right? Is it the motel? The room? The book in Sam’s hands? Wait, book?
“Sammy?” Dean sounds concerned. Sam should say something, say something that warns Dean that something is so very wrong.
“Sam. Calm down—“
“Dean, I—“
Sam looks around the library. The lights are low, soft and comforting. The kind of lighting Sam had seen in old libraries, lit enough to let you read without problem, but keep the building in an almost…intimate hold.
Libraries aren’t like motels, Sam thinks for some reason. Each one is completely different from the next, despite all sharing the same organizational system.
There’s a weight in his hands, and Sam looks down. He’s holding a book, a thick one, bound in old cracked leather. Sam loves these kinds of books, used to spend so much of his childhood with them, the happiest part of the hunter's life.
Sam finds a comfy looking armchair in a corner, and sits down, excitedly opening up the book.
He… doesn’t know the language. That’s not so odd, Sam only can read five languages besides English, but Sam doesn’t just not understand it, he doesn’t know it. He can’t tell what language it is, can’t even tell what language classification it is. His eyes skim the markings, his heart pounding. This isn’t a language, this isn’t a language, this isn’t—
“Sam, you have to stop fighting me!”
Sam’s head snaps up. He’s at a diner, the familiar smell of burnt coffee and cooked food.
Dean smiles across him, easy and calm. “I’m serious, man, you gotta stop fighting me on this! John McClane could take Indiana Jones any day of the week.”
They’ve…they’ve had this fight before. More than the way Dean and him have had every fight they’ve ever had on repeat, they’ve had this fight before, exactly like this, in this exact spot.
Haven’t they?
Sam’s hand spasms, and he drops his fork, hitting the floor and making a loud clanging noise like a
bell rings, and Sam, in a fit of actual normal rebellion, decides to skip gym and go to the library instead.
He hates the gym teacher, hates the way he always stares at Sam, even hates how he tries to support Sam when he has trouble at some of the activities, like tennis or—
Sam pauses on his way through his middle school of the week. That teacher, Lucifer told him he was—
Lucifer
“Sam, stop!”
Sam gasps as he feels everything, pain and light and fire and hurt and his soul raw against overwhelming pressure of Hell, because that’s where he is, he’s in the Cage, with— with—
“Sam, I need you t—Sam, you have to calm down, I can’t hide you if you don’t calm down, please!”
Sam’s surrounded by ice, the thin layer a balm against the heat and pain around him, and he thinks he sobs, thinks he’s squeezing his eyes shut, but he can’t really tell through the pain.
“Sleep, Sam, it’s like sleep, okay? Let it happen. Sleep.”
Sam opens his eyes. The clock says 4:47 am, blinking with its bright green light from the bedside table, as most motel clocks do. It’s a little early; Sam usually doesn't wake until 5, 5:30. He could stay in bed for a little while longer. That’ll be nice. A few minutes of sleep, then he can go for a jog, get back before Dean wakes, make them coffee, and they can start the day. Well, unless they have a hunt, but—
Do they have a hunt?
Sam blinks. The clock says 4:47 am.
Did they get in earlier? What job are they on? Are they just stopping by on the way to somewhere else? Why didn’t they stay in the car?
The clock says 4:47 am.
Hasn’t it been a minute? Why isn’t it moving? Is the clock broken?
The clock says 4:47 am.
The clock says 4:47 am.
The clock says 4:47 am.
The clock says 4:47 am.
Sam feels like he’s been in bed for hours. Has it been hours? It can’t be.
The clock says 4:47 am.
Sam digs his hand into the scratchy blankets of his bed, his breath erratic.
The clock says 4:47 am.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice shaky like he’s a little kid again, but it doesn’t make sense, it's just a broken clock, why is—
Hell, Hell, pain worse than he can imagine, 1000 needles and rocks and lights and pressure and pain, and—
“It’s getting worse,” The voice moans, sounding distraught. “This place wasn’t meant for souls, Sam, oh, Sam, I’m so sorry, I—I’m trying, but you have to help me, okay? Help me. I think I have a solution…”
The cold comes back, and Sam tries to hold on to it, but he can’t feel his hands. Sam thinks he tries to say yes to the voice, to let them help, to let them make it stop, make it stop, please, please, oh, God, please, but he can’t tell, he can’t feel his hands, his lips, can’t feel his body, can only feel
the grass underneath his back, dew seeping through his t-shirt and getting his back damp. You can’t see the stars, not this close to the city, but the clouds look nice, too.
“Some people think they can tell fortunes in clouds, you know.”
Sam turns his head to look at Jess, laying in the grass next to him. She keeps her head facing the sky, but Sam sees her look at him from the corner of her eye, a small smile on the corner of her lips.
“What would that look like?” Sam asks, not knowing if it’s actually true or not. He’s never heard of it, at least. “‘That cloud looks like a rabbit, you’re gonna have kids’?”
Jess laughs, turning fully on her side to look at him, smile soft and beautiful, eyes dancing with mirth. “Babylonian priests used to do it, and it's in the Bible too.” Jess puts a hand on Sam’s cheek, thumb stroking him lightly. “The shape of clouds, how it moves in the wind, the way light passes through…they all thought that was some god telling them something.” Jess’ smile turns wry, and her hand drops.
Sam catches it before she takes it back fully, intertwining their fingers. “How do you know that?”
“Didn’t know I was getting interviewed,” Jess quips, squeezing his hand, and making Sam chuckle softly. Jess’ smile dims a little, settling into something more wistful. “Had a few months to spare, a bit ago. Caught my eye.”
A few months? Did she mean summer break? She has to, they’re in the middle of the semester, and neither of them has had a lot of free time. But if she did mean the summer, why did she say it like—
“You’re spiraling, baby,” Jess says, Jess mourns, moving closer to Sam, bringing their joined hands to her chest. “I’m right here, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Please.”
“Jess,” Sam tries, mind now starting to catch up to himself. Where are they? Why are they stargazing with no stars? How did they get here? Why is Jess looking at him like that?
“Sam,” Jess says, gentle yet firm. ”Look at me, please, just look at me. You just need to stay with me, and everything will be okay.”
“How do you know?”
Is he dead? Why did he think that?
Jess’ eyes look so blue, even in the dark. The street lights reflect off her, creating almost a halo against her blonde hair, and she looks like an angel.
“Because I love you,” Jess tells him, holding him to her, secure. “I’ll keep you safe. You just have to trust me. Please, just trust me.”
Maybe he hit his head. Does he have a concussion, and Jess is just keeping him awake until an ambulance comes?
“Did I get hurt?” Sam asks.
Jess looks heartbroken, a wobble to her bottom lip, which she tries to stop by biting it. Sam regrets asking. “Yeah, you did. You fell. But it’s okay now, hm? It’ll be okay, just you stay with me.”
Sam looks at the sky. He thinks he sees a star.
“Okay.”