"What do you want, Meg? And where's Dean? What did you do to him?" Sam asked, keeping his voice steady despite the ropes cutting into his wrists.
Meg pulled a chair across the floor and sat down directly in front of him, folding her hands in her lap like this was a casual conversation.
"Relax," she said lightly. "Dean's not my priority. You are."
"That doesn't answer my question."
She tilted her head. "You always were the curious one. Always digging for answers. Even when you don't like what you find."
"I'm not interested in whatever game you're playing," Sam replied. "If you're here to threaten me, just get to it."
Meg leaned back slightly. "Poor Sam," she said with a trace of mock sympathy. "You don't even know the full story about yourself."
Sam's expression hardened. "I know enough."
"Do you?" she asked quietly. "Then do you know what your dad said to Dean before he died?"
Meg leaned forward slightly. "He asked Dean to kill you, Sam," she said, her tone calm and deliberate. "Your own father told him—if he couldn't save you, he had to kill you."
Sam's jaw tightened.
"That's a lie," he said, though his voice had lost a fraction of its certainty.
"Is it?" Meg replied. "Ask him. Ask Dean what John whispered to him in that hospital room."
Sam's breathing grew heavier, but he forced himself to stay controlled.
"You're trying to get inside my head," he said. "That's all this is."
Meg smiled faintly. "I don't need to get inside your head. I just need to tell you the truth."
She leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs.
"And I'm only telling you because you're going to see it soon," she continued calmly. "I'm going to possess you. I'll make you kill someone. Then I'll make Dean kill you with his own hands."
Sam's eyes darkened, but he didn't look away.
"It'll break him," Meg added. "Watching his little brother turn evil. Thinking you chose the other side."
"Dean would never do that," Sam said firmly.
Meg tilted her head. "Wouldn't he?"
She leaned forward slightly.
"You know he's scared of you," she said. "The visions. The psychic stuff. The demon connection. Every time something happens, he looks at you like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Sam swallowed but kept his voice steady. "You're lying."
Meg smiled slowly. "Ask him what your dad told him before he died. Ask him why he watches you the way he does."
Sam didn't respond.
Meg's voice softened, but the words stayed sharp.
"He's already halfway there, Sam. I'd just be giving him a reason."
***
The next day,
Fortville.
The Impala rolled into the small town after Henry tracked the stolen car's last known location to this area. It had been found abandoned just outside town limits.
Dean stepped out of the car and scanned the quiet street, tension written across his face.
"You sure he's here?" Dean asked, shutting the door behind him.
Henry walked around to the front of the car and looked down the road. "The car stopped here," he said. "No record of it leaving town. If Sam ditched it, he's somewhere nearby."
He was clearly confused by the way Sam was acting. For a brief second, he wondered if a demon had possessed him. That kind of thing wasn't impossible in this timeline.
But he didn't remember any demons targeting Sam at this point.
They split up and searched the town block by block.
Dean questioned store owners and bartenders while Henry checked whatever cameras he could tap into from nearby shops. Hours passed, and the sky shifted from pale orange to deep blue. Every lead ended in nothing.
Not a single trace of Sam.
Dean stood near the edge of the main street, scanning passing faces like he could force his brother to appear through sheer will.
"Where are you, Sammy…" he muttered, tension heavy in his voice.
A scream cut through the evening air.
It came sharp and sudden from an alley two buildings down.
Dean reacted instantly, gun already in his hand as he ran toward the sound.
They turned into the narrow alley.
Dean slowed to a stop.
A woman lay on the ground near a dumpster, her body twisted at an unnatural angle. Blood pooled beneath her, dark and spreading across the cracked concrete.
A few feet away stood a man.
He held a knife loosely in one hand. Blood dripped from the blade, tapping steadily onto the pavement.
"Sam," Dean said, the name leaving him in a strained whisper.
The figure froze.
Then slowly, deliberately, Sam turned around.
His shirt was stained. His hands were red. His face wasn't panicked or confused.
It was blank.
Dean's grip tightened on the gun, but he didn't raise it.
"Sam," Dean said again, louder this time, as if he could force his voice through whatever was clouding his brother's mind.
For a moment, Sam just stood there.
Then something in his face shifted. His eyes flickered with awareness, like someone waking abruptly from a deep sleep.
His gaze dropped slowly to the knife in his hand. He stared at it, then at the blood coating his fingers, then at the woman lying motionless on the concrete.
His breathing changed.
He looked back at Dean, confusion replacing the earlier emptiness.
"Dean…" Sam's voice was tight, uncertain. "Did I do this?"
The knife slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a metallic clatter. He stepped back slightly, staring at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else.
"I don't remember," Sam said, shaking his head faintly. "I don't remember any of this."
Dean stared at him, and his father's last words rose in his mind with painful clarity—if Sam ever becomes evil, and you can't save him… you kill him.
The memory sat heavy in his chest as he looked at the blood on Sam's hands, the body at his feet, and the confusion in his brother's eyes. His grip on the gun tightened just slightly, not lifting it, not lowering it.
For the first time, that order didn't feel like a distant warning.
It felt close.
*****
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