Spoilers: Up to 4.10
Summary: Sam waits while Dean makes a decision.
Disclaimer: You know the drill.
A/N: So I wrote a Sam story. What the hell???

WAITING ROOM

Sam expected it to hurt when he opened his eyes. He'd just been stabbed in the back after all.

Hadn't he?

He blinked, expecting to see Dean's anxious face hovering above him.

But all he saw was ceiling. Dull grey plaster. A crack stretching from the guttering strip light to a dingy corner way off to the right of his field of vision.

It should hurt.

Something should hurt.

He'd felt the knife go in. Sensed Jake behind him. Seen Dean running towards him, his name and an anguished "No!" on his lips.

He remembered the mud, cold and viscous beneath him as he slid to his knees; Bobby running off after Jake.

And Dean.

Kneeling down in front of him, strong arms around him. His head on his brother's shoulder.

"It's not even that bad. It's not even that bad."

His eyes sliding closed.

"Sammy?"

His brother's voice.

"Sam?"

"Samuel?"

He sat bolt upright, the voice calling his name unknown and somehow unknowable.

He blinked.

"Samuel. It's alright. You're safe here."

The voice was oddly calming, echoing around in his head. He could hear it, feel it, knew there was... someone... crouching over him. But no matter how hard he looked into the space from where the voice had come, he couldn't for the life of him make out a face; just a shimmer in his vision, like water on glass; something there but not really there.

"It's Sam," he corrected automatically, again blinking in the hope that his vision might clear and he'd be able to see his companion.

But his vision was clear.

He could see right to the other side of the waiting room and beyond, to the buses lined up outside, the luggage piled on the sidewalk....

Waiting room?

"Where—where am I? What happened? Where's Dean?" The questions tumbled from his mouth and he felt a comforting pressure on his shoulder, like Dean's hand had been there all along. But it wasn't Dean. And glancing down, all he saw was himself; himself and a faint ripple of light, barely there, barely visible, there then gone in the blinking of an eye.

He blinked harder, remembering the cold heat of the blade in his back, a shudder starting in the pit of his stomach and working its way up into his mouth where it forced its way out as a jumble of hastily-spoken words. "Am I—did I—am I dead? Is this—is this Heaven?"

There was a pause.

"I believe it is Buffalo," the voice informed him helpfully, and Sam took another look at his surroundings.

"Buffalo?" he echoed, finally realising he was sitting on the floor in the middle of a crowded bus station. "Why—? What am I doing in Buffalo?"

"This is where you left him," his companion explained. "Before. It is difficult for the souls who pass through this place to truly process their experience in its truest form. So they shape their surroundings into something familiar, a place significant to them from the time when they lived."

Sam considered that, eyes raking the bustling bus station, the throng of people oblivious to his presence dancing around him in a choreographed bustle of coming and going.

And a tingle of memory nudged at the back of his eye sockets.

"Stanford," he said softly, realisation dawning like a heavy weight pushing against his chest, the place where his heart was supposed to be beating. "This is where I left for Stanford."

His gaze slid to the battered Coke machine in the centre of the room, the one he'd heard Dean slam his fist against as he walked away from him that last time.

He hadn't turned back. Couldn't turn back. His future was out there not back the way he'd come.

He swallowed. "I didn't want to leave," he said slowly, clearing his throat before amending that statement. "I didn't want to leave him." He stopped, his eyes once more searching out the face of the person with whom he was speaking. "Where is he?" he asked tentatively. "Is he hurt? I didn't—I don't..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't remember..."

"Your brother is safe."

Sam took a breath, tried to relax, but something in the tone of the other's voice, the merest hint of something other than reassurance, set his teeth on edge. "What am I doing here?" he asked at length, unsure whether he really wanted the disembodied voice to answer.

"We're waiting," his companion told him matter-of-factly.

"Waiting for what?"

"Your brother. He has a decision to make."

Sam frowned. "What kind of decision?"

He swore he heard his companion sigh.

"One that will have far-reaching consequences," he said slowly. "For all of us. It could turn the tide of this war."

"War?"

There was a pause. "Do not burden yourself, Sam," the voice said. "It is no concern of yours. Not yet."

"If it concerns my brother, it concerns me," Sam insisted stubbornly, sitting up a little straighter.

Another sigh.

"The choice Dean is about to make could greatly affect the balance. Good and evil. Heaven and Hell. This is not a decision he should make lightly. It is not a decision he should make alone. And yet he does. He must."

"What is he deciding?"

"Whether you live or die, Sam."

Sam's breath caught in his throat.

"He is deciding your future. And his own. That's why you have to wait here. Until he has decided what is to be done."

"About me?" Sam asked. "Am I dead? Where's the choice in that? If I'm dead I'm dead, right? Is that why I'm here?" A hint of panic threaded its way through his voice, and again he squinted, desperate to see the face of the person who seemed to hold the answers he sought.

When his companion made no reply, he pushed on stubbornly.

"Is this Hell?"

"I told you. It's Buffalo."

Sam's tone hardened. "Am I in Hell?" he demanded.

"Why would you think you are in Hell, Sam?" The question was genuinely inquisitive. "What terrible sin have you committed that would occasion such punishment?"

Sam lowered his eyes, even though he couldn't see the person whose scrutiny he sensed so keenly. "The demon," he said reluctantly. "He said—"

"Azazel's blood runs through your veins." It was a statement, pure and simple; there was no judgement in the tone. No condemnation. No revulsion.

"Azazel?" The word sounded wrong on Sam's tongue. Like razor blades.

"The name of the demon who tainted your blood."

Sam rolled the name around in his head and it hurt, spikes of pain and memory lodging in places he thought he had hidden away forever.

"Is that why I was brought here? Because I'm tainted?"

"My father is just and fair, Sam," the voice told him. "Why would you think He would condemn you to eternal damnation for something in which you had no part? In this, you are blameless. Innocent."

Sam opened and closed his mouth before managing to echo, "Your father?"

"He sees your innocence, Sam. He sees the light that shines within the darkness. That's why you were brought here."

Sam swallowed again. "So... If this isn't Hell... Am I in Heaven?"

A small chuckle filled the space between them. "Call it a waiting room."

"And we're waiting for Dean?"

"Yes."

"And this decision he has to make... I mean... I just got here. He's going to need time, right? To think about it? If it's a matter of life and death. My life and death...?"

"Time passes differently here," his companion told him. "What might seem like five minutes here may seem like two days to your brother."

"I've been—gone—for two days? He's—he's been alone for two days?"

"Time is meaningless, Sam. It all depends on perception. Here. There. And the Other Place. Two days on Earth may seem an eternity there."

Sam's eyes widened in alarm. "Hell?" he burst out. "But—my dad. My dad's been in Hell for—for months!"

"Yes. The decision he made was... troublesome. But events are in motion. He will find redemption soon enough."

Sam straightened. "He died to save Dean."

His companion laughed hollowly. "Not only Dean, Sam."

Sam blinked. "What do you mean...?"

"Sam. Your father gave his life to save you too. You must know that."

"I—I wasn't the one dying—"

"No. But you needed saving every bit as much as your brother."

Sam shook his head. "I don't understand."

"John Winchester was a wise man, Sam. He understood. Perhaps before we did."

"Understood what?"

"The truth of it. That he couldn't save you. But that your brother could."

"Save me?"

"Your father saw the truth," the voice said. "The future. The past. What you are. What you could be. What you could become."

Sam swallowed.

"You could be our greatest ally, our champion," his companion said wistfully. "Or you could become our most dreaded foe."

"Because of the demon blood? Because of this—this destiny that was decided for me when I was a baby?"

"You control your own fate, Sam."

"How? How am I in control of my own fate if it has to be up to Dean to save me? So he's supposed to stop me going Darkside? Then how is it my choice?"

"Not stop you, Sam. Save you. There's a difference. Only you can choose which path you take. Dean cannot stop you. But he can save you. By his very presence. You father realised this; he realised that Dean's absence could be the very thing that drives you to become that which Azazel desires, the very thing that drives you to give in to the temptation of your blood. Loss, anguish, desolation. Grief. These emotions colour our judgement. Cause us to choose unwisely." His companion sighed heavily. "The decision your brother faces now is based on similar emotions. Unfortunately, your father did not foresee this when he chose to sacrifice himself to save his sons."

"Foresee what?" Sam demanded. "What is it Dean's about to do?"

There was a pause. "Sacrifice his eternal soul," the voice said. "For you."

If Sam's heart had been beating it would have stopped right there.

"But he does not realise the ramifications of his actions. He does not see how his loss could affect your decisions, Sam. He sees only a world in which he cannot live without you by his side. He does not look beyond that, to how you will go on when he himself is ripped from your side."

Sam didn't know whether he'd been breathing before, but he certainly wasn't now. "He's going to trade his soul for my life?" he said slowly, realisation dawning like another knife in his broken body. "He's going to Hell to bring me back?"

"That is the choice he must face."

"He can't," Sam insisted stubbornly, attempting to rise to his feet but pushed back down by a wave of dizziness. "He can't make that choice for me!"

He clutched at his head, pain spiking between his eyes, a cold chill gripping his body. He cried out, and the other's voice seemed weary.

"His decision is made."

Sam's head snapped up, squinting, looking, needing to see the person telling him his brother was about to die for him. "Wait! No! How do you know—?" His question was cut off by shivers wracking his body, and he wrapped his arms about himself, trying to overcome the shuddering of his flesh. "C-cold," he stammered. "So cold—"

"He has chosen as we knew he would," the voice was resigned, saddened.

"How do you know...?"

"You feel the effects. He has bargained away his soul to the darkness. There is no hope for him now."

"No—wait! This isn't what I choose! I don't want my brother to go to Hell for me—"

"He chooses his own fate, Sam, just as you do. But you must listen to me now." There was a new urgency in the voice, a desperation. "Remember this, Sam! You must remember! Most souls who pass through this place remember nothing. Those who go on into the light, those who fall back to the earth. They remember nothing of what happened to them here."

Sam felt a pressure on his trembling shoulders as the coldness gripped him tighter.

"I felt cold...wrong..."

He remembered Dean's description of how he had felt when the Reaper had saved him back in Nebraska.

Was that what he was feeling now? Was he being saved?

Phantom hands clutched him, providing strength, comfort. "Remember, Sam Winchester," the voice instructed him. "Dean must pay for his transgression. He must suffer. He must pay his penance before he can be redeemed.

"But you? You have committed no sin. Your slate is clean and can remain so, if only you remember this: Do not give in to the temptation of your blood. When the world seems darkest and shadows are your only companion, know this: Dean Winchester will be saved. To you, it may seem months; to him, years. To us? It is but the blinking of an eye. My father is merciful. He sees what must be done. He sees that Dean's redemption is necessary for your redemption, Sam. For the redemption of the world. He knows that for you to be saved, Dean must be saved first. And He knows that the world can only be saved when you are saved. Do you understand? Do you understand me, Sam?"

Sam shivered, the cold stealing away his voice and his thoughts.

"Sam, you must remember. Remember this, remember what I have told you here today. Hold on to the light, for the darkness cannot touch you as long as you have faith. Your brother will be saved. Believe me when I say I will ensure that it is so. But you must be patient. You must believe. You must remember. Remember, Sam!"

"W-who are you?" Sam managed to stutter. "W-why should I believe you?"

"Because I am an angel of the Lord," the voice proclaimed. "I am Castiel. And I will save your brother, Sam Winchester. Remember that!"

Sam woke to an empty room. A bare, blood-soaked mattress and a terrible pain in his back.

He stood, wincing, breathing heavily, disoriented and alone.

Alone.

He moved over to the mirror, lifting his shirt and examining the scar that punctuated his spine like an exclamation point.

He frowned.

And when Dean entered the room, his pale face lighting up at the sight of his brother, only one thought echoed in Sam's head:

What happened to me? Why can't I remember?

The End

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