The sun had long since set over the small town of Millbrook when Sam Winchester finally returned to his motel room.
A week's worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes carried the hollow look of someone who hadn't properly slept in days.
He tossed his jacket onto the bed, revealing a simple receipt clutched between his fingers.
The motel room walls had disappeared beneath layers of research.
Maps marked with red pins tracked movement patterns across three states. Newspaper clippings detailing "gas leaks" and "chemical spills" connected with red string to photographs of seemingly ordinary locations.
And at the center of it all: a grainy image of a dark-haired woman with a confident smile – Pamela Barnes.
Sam placed the receipt carefully on the table, alongside fourteen other mundane items: a coffee cup with lipstick residue, a pen from another motel, a gas station receipt, a strand of hair, a napkin with fingerprints, and other seemingly worthless objects.
Each item labeled with a date and location. Each representing another step in his pursuit.
He sat heavily on the bed, pulling out one of his many disposable phones. Three missed calls from Dean. Five from his father. He ignored them and played the latest voicemail.
"Sam, it's Dean. Again. Look, I get you need space, but it's been a three days man. At least let us know you're alive. Dad's getting worried, and you know how he gets. Just... call, okay? I don't want to have to hunt you down again."
Sam's expression didn't change as he deleted the message. He dialed a number, cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice carried a lightness that didn't reach his eyes.
"Hey, Dean. Sorry I missed your calls. Been tracking this vengeful spirit in Nebraska. Signal's spotty out here. Yeah, I'm fine. Should wrap this up in a couple days. Tell Dad not to worry."
He hung up before Dean could ask questions. The false cheer drained from his face immediately, replaced by cold determination as he turned back to his collection.
Fifteen items. Finally complete.
Sam opened his journal, flipping to a page covered in neat, precise handwriting:
Day 14: Final item acquired. Receipt from Denny's, Millbrook. Pamela's signature and fingerprints present.
Collection now sufficient for ritual requirements. Coven location confirmed at abandoned Henderson property. No direct contact made. Preparations complete.
He closed the journal and leaned back, allowing himself a moment of exhaustion. His mind drifted back to, two weeks earlier...
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Flashback:
The Roadhouse had been unusually crowded that night. Hunters passing through, sharing stories over cheap beer. Sam had been nursing his drink in the corner, half-listening to the conversations around him when a name caught his attention.
"...that massacre from a month back," said a grizzled hunter named Cooper, voice lowered. "Still can't make sense of it."
"You still hung up on that?" asked Mack, another veteran hunter. "Thought we agreed to let it go."
"How do you let go of something like that?" Cooper pulled out a worn manila envelope, spreading photos across the table. "Look at this. Something took out an entire nest of monsters. Not just killed them – obliterated them."
Sam edged closer, careful to appear casual.
The photos showed a cleaned-up scene, but even Sam could see the evidence of catastrophic violence. Scorched earth patterns. Strange residue that typical cleanup couldn't remove. Chalk outlines where bodies had been.
"By the time anyone documented it, someone had already cleaned most of it up," Cooper continued. "But Pamela Barnes saw it all."
Sam's head snapped up at the name - having been searching for anyting about her. "Pamela Barnes? The psychic?"
Cooper nodded. "She wasn't there physically. Saw it through her abilities. Said it was like a beacon of power she couldn't ignore."
"Did she see who did it?" Sam asked carefully.
"That's the thing," Mack interjected. "She couldn't make out who. Just that it was a young male. Powerful. Unnaturally so."
"Been the talk of the community for weeks now," added a female hunter named Diana. "Some are calling it the Anti-Christ."
Sam's blood ran cold. "Bit dramatic, isn't it?"
"Maybe," Cooper shrugged. "But whatever it is, it's drawing monsters to it like moths to a flame. That army of creatures wasn't attacking – they were gathering."
"Gathering for what?" Sam asked.
"That's what we'd all like to know," Diana said. "Some kind of cursed kid, from what Pamela could tell. Got on the wrong side of some evil gods or something."
An older hunter named Reggie joined the conversation. "Damn shame what happened to the boy. Getting cursed by evil gods just for escaping their sacrifice ritual."
"They tried to sacrifice him because he was born powerful," Diana added, genuine sadness in her voice.
Cooper nodded grimly. "Still, cursed is cursed. He's a beacon now. Every monster in atleast a hundred-mile radius will be drawn to him."
"It's not the kid's fault," said Diana, "but we can't risk more monster armies forming around him."
"Sometimes the job is ugly," Reggie muttered, "Even when it's just a boy."
Sam felt his jaw tighten. They were talking about Lucien. His brother. The one they were planning to hunt down and kill.
He left the bar without another word, cold determination settling further into his bones.
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The ringing of one of his phones pulled Sam back to the present.
Unknown number.
Sam smirked, 'Finally, she's acting.'
He ignored her. Let her be desperate for a bit.
He turned his focus on the items. Each one a piece of Pamela Barnes, each one carefully collected over weeks of relentless hunting.
The phone rang again. Same unknown number.
"Who is this?"
"Like you don't know," The voice was female, confident despite an undercurrent of tension. "I think it's time we talked."
"Pamela."
"In the psychic flesh," she replied. "Well, not literally. That would be stupid, considering what you've been up to."
"How did you get this number?" he asked geniunely curious.
A short laugh. "Please. I'm a psychic. And you've been leaving quite the psychic trail, collecting all those little pieces of me, trying to set up my destruction with them. Subtle as a freight train to anyone with any form of mental abilities. A wound in literal fucking time."
Sam remained silent.
"Here's what's going to happen," Pamela continued. "You're going to stop whatever it is you're planning, and we're going to meet. I know a place-"
"No," Sam interrupted, his voice flat.
"Excuse me?"
"You're not the one with leverage here, Pamela. You'll meet me where I say."
He could hear her skeptical smile through the phone. "Leverage? Come on, Sam. You're a hunter. You've been gathering those items to force me to talk to you. Well, here I am, talking. Mission accomplished."
Sam's laugh held no humor. "Is that what you think this is?"
"Am I wrong?"
"You know what I found while tracking you down?" Sam's voice remained eerily calm. "A coven of witches who've been hunting you for years. Something about a ritual you interrupted. They were quite upset."
A pause. "You're bluffing."
"The Henderson property, about five miles outside of Millbrook. I've been there. Seen what's left of their ritual site. They're still active, still looking for you."
The silence stretched longer this time.
"You wouldn't," Pamela finally said. "You're a Winchester - one of John's boys. You don't work with witches."
"You're right. I don't work with them." Sam's voice hardened. "But I have fifteen items connected to you. Enough for a powerful curse. And I know exactly where to leave them."
"You wouldn't," she repeated, less certain now.
"You're the reason hunters know about my brother," Sam said, the first real emotion creeping into his voice. "You're the reason they're calling him the Anti-Christ. The reason they're hunting him."
"Sam, I didn't-"
"You're the primary source of information about him. So tell me why I should care what happens to you."
"Because you're not a killer," Pamela challenged. "Not of innocent people."
"You think you're innocent?" Sam's voice dropped lower. "You've made my brother a target. And honestly? Cutting off their source of information about him might be the best way to protect him."
"And what about information for you? Don't you want to know what I saw?"
Sam's reply was chilling in its indifference. "I'll get by."
The silence that followed carried the weight of Pamela's realization – this wasn't the Sam Winchester she'd heard about. This was someone else entirely.
"Westfield Motel," Sam finally said. "Room 17. Tomorrow at noon. Come alone, no tricks, or those items find their way to some very motivated witches."
He hung up before she could respond, setting the phone down carefully beside his collection. For a moment, he simply stared at the fifteen mundane objects that might determine whether Pamela Barnes lived or died.
Sam had always prided himself on his moral compass. On being the reasonable one. The one who saw shades of gray when Dean and his father saw only black and white.
He looked at his reflection in the motel mirror, hardly recognizing himself. A week of stubble. Hollow eyes. The face of a man who had crossed lines he once thought immovable.
For his little brother, he would cross many more.
'Is this how Dean always felt? Is this what it feels like to be an older brother?' Sam questioned himself, curiously, before shaking his head, deciding such thoughts can be for later.
He returned to his journal, making one final entry:
Pamela contacted. Meeting arranged for tomorrow. Decision pending on witch coven. Will determine based on information provided. Priority remains protection of Lucien at all costs.
He closed the journal and leaned back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow would determine Pamela's fate. And perhaps his own.
Outside the motel room, rain began to fall, washing away the day's heat and casting the world in shades of gray.
Like the world itself was trying to wash Sam back into the person he was before this.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter.
Do tell me how you found it.
I know it's kind of short, but I wanted one focused on Sam.
Did you like him in this chapter?
He was quite based on when-
Actually, I'll let you guys guess on what version in the show he is based on here.
Well, I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)