Supernatural: One Year Gone by Rebecca Dessertine Page B

grandson said. Sam wrapped the herbs around the wolf’s neck as Samuel said the prayer three times.
    The wolf lifted its head one last time then laid it back down on the ground.
    “You killed him, Sam. You killed a child,” Samuel said. “What is wrong with you? You don’t kill people!”
    Sam looked down impassively at the wolf then unwrapped the herbs and bones from its neck. The body of the wolf disappeared and in its place was the young black-haired boy.
    Silently, Sam scooped him up. The boy’s breathing was faint. Sam strode rapidly back across the prairie to the Sheriff’s house, put the child in his father’s arms, then got into the car. His grandfather was waiting in the passenger seat. Still without speaking, Sam started the engine and sped onto the highway.
    Eventually Samuel broke the silence.
    “You shot a boy,” he said.
    “I killed a nasty god. The boy will be fine,” Sam replied. He gripped the wheel.
    “The fact that you could have killed him means nothing to you? Who taught you that?”
    “No one did. I did what needed to be done,” Sam said, staring at the road.
    “What happened to you, boy?”
    Sam shrugged. “I was sent to Hell.”

TEN

    The rhythmic thrumming of the tires over the cracks in the Eisenhower-era road lulled Dean into a reverie. This stretch of sun-baked cement was like the thousands of miles Dean had logged with Sam at his side. Dean’s mind swerved again toward that afternoon at Stull Cemetery. He gripped the steering wheel tight and tried to forget. But like an unbalanced axle, he slowly got pulled to the side that his mind favored—Dean thought back to the days before Sam jumped.
    “For the record, I agree with you. About... me. You think I’m too weak to take on Lucifer. Well, so do I. I know exactly how screwed-up I am. You, Bobby, Cass—I’m the least of any of you,” Sam said earnestly. They’d had this conversation multiple times and each time Dean had said, “No.” He wasn’t going to let Sam say “Yes.”
    “Sam—” Dean began, but he didn’t know how to carry on. His brother wasn’t the least of them. He’d just taken one too many turns for the worse over the last two years: he had drunk demon blood, shacked up with Ruby, let Lucifer out of the cage. Dean couldn’t deny that Sam had messed up. But who on Earth could take on Lucifer? Dean just couldn’t bear to see his brother killed.
    Sam continued. “It’s true. I’m also all we got. If there was another way... But I don’t think there is. There’s just me. So I don’t know what else to do. Except just try to do what’s gotta be done.”
    And then Dean had lied to Death’s face; told him he would let Sam jump.
    When Dean spoke to Bobby later, he was surprised to find that Bobby agreed with Sam.
    “Look, I’m not sayin’ Sam ain’t ass-full of character defects. But—”
    “But what?” Dean asked curtly.
    “Back at Niveus? I watched that kid pull out one civilian after another. Must have saved ten people. Never stopped, never slowed down. We’re hard on him, Dean. And we’ve always been.”
    Dean knew that Bobby was right: At his core—his very core where his heart beat—Sam was a good person.
    “So I gotta ask you, Dean. What are you afraid of exactly? Losing—or losing your brother?”
    Lisa had become accustomed to that look in Dean’s eyes. She had deliberately overlooked the history of Salem, the witch trials and all the supernatural activity they promised, when Dean mentioned it as his planned vacation spot for them.
    A vacation in Salem is better than no vacation at all, she reasoned. And a change of scenery is good. He will be okay. This will be okay. She forced herself to ignore the feeling that perhaps Dean wasn’t telling her the whole story.
    “New York State! Just crossed into New York, Ben. Ben, you listening?” Dean said, checking the rearview.
    “Whatever.” Ben glanced up from his handheld PSP. “It looks exactly like the last state.”
    “Ben,”