Disclaimer: It owns me.

Summary: It takes a long time for Sam to say 'yes.' Spoilers for 5.04.

A/N: Whilst I really enjoyed "The End," I was left wanting two things. Firstly, a hug between the brothers (which I'm convinced they did do after the screen went black) and secondly, an explanation of why Sam said 'yes.' So here's mine. Enjoy!

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The Deepest Conviction

In Garber, Oklahoma, Sam realised he had lost his brother forever. With the echo of the dial tone loud in his ears, he pulled into the next motel and got himself a room with a single bed.

That night, an angel appeared in his dreams.

"You can't resist me forever, Sam," Lucifer stated, calm and matter-of-fact.

Sam looked up, met the devil's eyes. "I can try."

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In Bedford, Indiana, Sam killed himself. Once, then twice and a third time. Then again and again and again and again.

He tried putting a bullet though his brain, tried plunging a knife into his heart, then he cut his own throat. He hung himself from the light fitting in the living room of an abandoned house, overdosed on drugs, walked in front of a bus and set himself on fire. He slit his wrists one night in a motel bathroom, watched himself bleed out onto the tiles before the cuts started to heal themselves, and swallowed a bottle of rat poison the following morning. He used what he had learnt in Broward County, remembered the hundreds of ways he had seen his brother die and tried them out on himself. And, like his brother, he walked away from every single one of them.

One night, an angel appeared in his dreams.

"It's no good, Sam," Lucifer murmured. "I'll just keep bringing you back, no matter how many times you die."

Sam stared back at him, despair in his eyes, yet his resolve as strong as ever. "I don't care," he hissed.

When he woke the next morning, he hotwired a car and drove off the nearest cliff he could find. But when he forced open the twisted, blackened piece of metal that used to be the front door and climbed out, leaving the burning wreckage of the car befouling the ground behind him, he knew that it was useless. It had all been useless. So he started hunting again.

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In Madison, South Dakota, Sam discovered that he had gone from hunter to hunted.

It seemed like Ray and Reggie had put the word out about what he had done, because hunters from all over the country started chasing him, no matter that he was one of their own.

Sam spent weeks on the run, trying to escape his pursuers. He walked by day and drove by night, switching cars every time he came to a new town. He caught quick snatches of sleep whenever and wherever he could, curled up in a cheap hotel or an abandoned house, or huddled beneath a bush, his knife always gripped tight in his hand and his gun within easy reach.

One day, though, he made a mistake. He walked into a diner full of people at around noon, hoping to buy the first solid meal he'd had in days, thinking that with all the people about, hunters wouldn't dare come after him, or if they did, they'd do no more than try and talk him down, try to get him outside where he sure as hell would refuse to go.

He was wrong.

Three hunters walked in and pulled a gun on him, sending families and teenagers and workers scattering, screaming, diving for the ground. They told him to come along with them unless he wanted to be responsible for the deaths of every single person in that diner. Sam didn't believe them. He told them that they were bluffing, that they wouldn't kill an innocent. With barely a pause, one of them, the oldest, who was wearing a trucker cap just like Bobby's, shot a man in the head, point blank. After that, Sam went with them without protest, the cries of a newly made widow ringing hollowly in his ears.

He was certain the hunters were going to kill him, maybe take him outside and execute him, militia-style, for all the good it would do. Lucifer would just bring him back. But instead, the hunters forced him into a jeep parked out the back of the diner, handcuffed him and gagged him and bound his legs and feet before knocking him out with a harsh blow to his head.

When Sam regained consciousness, he found himself chained to a hook that stretched from the ceiling of a dark room. It took a while, but eventually his eyes grew used enough to the smothering blackness that he could make out the vague outline of a devil's trap around him, etched in silver and sunk into the concrete floor itself.

When his three captors walked into the room a few hours later and forced a vial of blood down his throat, Sam realised that Ray hadn't just told other hunters what he had done. He had told them what he could do. Struggling against the had still clamped over his mouth and nose, Sam watched as a woman was brought in, her black eyes the only sign of the demon riding shotgun inside her body. Two of the men pinned her to the ground in front of Sam and the oldest of them explained that they'd put a bullet in her brain unless Sam exorcised the demon out of her.

Remembering what had happened in the diner, Sam shook off the hand covering his mouth, closed his eyes and concentrated. A hard ache began to build in the back of his head and he could feel blood trickling from his nose and onto his upper lip, but when he opened his eyes again, dark smoke was hovering above the woman's unconscious body. It drifted forwards and sunk into the ground, lighting the concrete on fire before burning black.

The three men looked at him, their eyes wide and almost fearful. Then the oldest among them grinned and looked around at his companions. "Looks like we might have something here, boys," he said happily.

After that, there was no end. Sam became no more than a weapon, a tool in the battle that he had started. He was passed around from hunter to hunter, used as a trade item for new ammo, or as a wager in a game of cards. No one seemed to care who had him, just as long as he was being used against the swelling numbers of demons who were appearing all over the country.

For the first few months, Sam wondered if anyone would come to his aid. But one night, as he rested against the tyre of a half-rusted pickup truck, his hands chained to the metal side above him, he heard murmurs from around the campfire that was burning a dozen or so feet away that his brother was busy forming a sort of army against the forces of hell. A few months after that, he heard that Bobby had been killed, gunned down in his chair. And he knew that no help would come.

Again and again Sam was forced to use his powers, no matter that he began to pass out from the pains that ricocheted through his head, no matter that the hoards of demons often tore at him as he stood before them with his hand outstretched, the metal collar and leash around his neck preventing him from fleeing either the demons or the hunters behind him. It turned out that he didn't need the demon blood to do it. It also didn't take long for the hunters to realise he couldn't die, and so they used him and his powers until he was no more than a broken shell of the man he had once been, torn apart inside and out. But still, Lucifer wouldn't let him die, just healed the worst of the wounds and left the others to fester.

Finally, one night, when he was lost somewhere in the space between awareness and unconsciousness, an angel's voice began to croon in his bloodied ear. "Just give in to me, Sam," it whispered. "Just say yes and all of this will be over. You can get revenge on the people who have used you, who have hurt you, and you can rest. At long last, you'll be able to rest."

The urge to give in, to allow himself to fade into a welcome oblivion, pulled at him. But Sam bit into his lip hard enough to draw blood, shook his head violently so that the silver chains that bound him rattled and clanked. "No," he whispered, not daring to speak any louder in case his current owners heard him and decided to silence him. "Never."

Lucifer's voice faded away, lost in the choking, smothering darkness that surrounded him.

A few weeks later, Sam killed the two hunters who were his current captors when they came to bring him his daily ration of food. He snapped both their necks between his bare feet, picked the locks that imprisoned him and made his escape.

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In Friendship, Arkansas, Sam called his brother, his blood-streaked fingers shaking as he dialled the familiar number in a lone phone booth, habitually glancing out of the door to check that no one was pursuing him.

The rush of relief he felt when he heard Dean's voice for the first time in three years nearly brought him to his knees. The next second, he realised that it was only Dean's voicemail.

"Dean," he pleaded, as soon as the recorded message had finished playing. "I need your help. Hunters are after me, and Lucifer, he keeps-"

But the call cut off and for the second time in three years, Sam was left listening to the dial tone as it rang loudly in his ears. Fighting back tears, Sam replaced the receiver with trembling hands. A sudden movement in the bushes near him made him start, but it was only a bird, flying free as it soared into the air. After throwing one more scared glance at the low shrubs around him, Sam left the booth at a run.

That night, the devil came to him in his dreams.

"You're all alone, Sam," Lucifer whispered. "Even Dean's deserted you, he doesn't care anymore, not after what you did to him. But if you let me in, you'll never be alone again."

Sam felt tears trickling down his face as he buried his head into the stolen jacket he was using as a pillow. "No," he said desperately, and the devil went away.

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In Georgetown, Kentucky, Lucifer appeared to Sam every time he closed his eyes. "You will say yes to me," he stated knowingly.

"I won't," Sam repeated again and again, but he was pretty sure that he was lying.

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In Brooklyn, Ohio, Sam discovered that Dean was looking for the Colt. He had been searching for years, apparently, and a lead had finally panned out. Dean was intending to go after it, no matter what it took.

Sam felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. If anything could kill the devil, it was the Colt. And his brother.

But then he realised something: the gigantic flaw in Dean's plan, the genius of Lucifer's.

Sam was Lucifer's true vessel, and Dean would not be able to kill him. Not immediately. Whilst Dean might hate him, he would still hesitate to kill his little brother. And it was during that moment's hesitation that Lucifer would strike, it was that hesitation that Lucifer would use to kill the only man who could kill him.

And all of Sam's hope fell away.

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In Detroit, Michigan, Sam ran into Chuck.

There had been a battle, a clash between angels and demons and hunters and civilians, a fight bigger than any he had ever seen. Though he had watched it from the outskirts at first, scared of being glimpsed by hunters, he had finally gathered his courage and thrown himself into the middle of the conflict, desperate to do some good, to make a difference for once, to redeem himself.

He had exorcised demon after demon, barely pausing to watch each one sink into the ground, leaving a black, burnt scorch mark behind it before he moved onto the next. His nose had bled, his head had felt like it was on fire, but finally, he had been doing something right. He knew that he had been seen, that hunters were aware of him. He had caught a glimpse of Ellen, had pulled a demon out its meatsuit just as it was about to launch itself at Jo. But all of the gathered hunters had left him alone as he fought, maybe realising that he was a willing weapon all by himself.

After the battle had ended, however, and the last demon had howled, shrieking, out of its host, it was a different story. A bullet in the back of his leg, another one buried deep inside his shoulder, Sam had fled yet again from his allies, from the people he had once known, and found refuge in the upstairs bedroom of a house only a street away from where the carnage had raged for days on end. It was too close for comfort, but also too close for anyone to think to look for him there. He had collapsed on the bed and fallen immediately into an exhausted sleep.

As always, Lucifer had appeared, this time crouched next to where he lay splayed out on the mattress, exhausted beyond death.

"See?" the angel murmured. "They will never let you rest, they will never stop hunting you, no matter what you do for them." His hand crept up to rest on Sam's shoulder, then began to move through Sam's hair like a parent soothing a distraught child.

Sam fought not to turn into the gentle touch, yet the angel's voice was soothing and soft and quiet, and it lulled Sam into a sense of being cared for, a feeling of safety he had not felt since he had last seen his brother.

"Say yes to me and I will help you," Lucifer crooned. "You can leave it behind, all of it. All of the pain, all of the hurt, all of the suffering. Say yes to me and you can be free."

Sam closed his eyes, took a deep breath and spoke. "For the last…damn…time. No."

The hand left his hair abruptly and Sam was shocked back to wakefulness by a loud banging on the front door of the house. He sat up slowly, wary of who or what would be waiting on his doorstep. The banging did not cease, however, and finally Sam rolled off the mattress, slid his gun out from under his pillow and wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the hilt of his knife before heading downstairs.

Placing the muzzle of his shotgun against the back of the door, Sam opened it an inch or so, his finger hovering close over the trigger.

Chuck was standing there in jeans and a faded t-shirt, his hair wind-blown and messy. Blood dotted one side of his face, and a bruise was just starting to show on his cheek.

Sam opened the door a little wider.

Chuck looked up at him, his face sceptical. "You look terrible," he said.

Unable to summon any emotion, Sam stared at him, hollow-eyed. "How did you find me?"

Chuck shrugged. "It's one of the benefits of being a prophet of the lord," he said, and pushed past Sam, making his way inside.

"I can't stay long," he said swiftly, once he had reached the kitchen at the back of the house. "People will start to wonder where I am. But I have a message for you. From Dean. He made me promise that I would give it to you if I ever saw you."

Sam felt a surge of hope. "Dean's been talking to you about me?"

A strange look came into Chuck's eyes. He didn't reply, just reached into the bottom of his jeans pocket and dug around for a second before withdrawing a small, folded scrap of paper.

Sam reached for it, his heart thundering in his chest.

Yet Chuck hesitated, pulling his hand back abruptly. "I'm not so sure if you want to read this, Sam. I mean, I promised him I would give it to you, but-"

"Give it to me. Please. If Dean…" The name caught in his throat, and Sam swallowed and started again. "Please."

Slowly, Chuck held out his hand and offered the bit of paper to Sam, who snatched it out of the other man's fingers and brought it up in front of his face, his eyes burning. The message was short, sharp and to the point.

His eyes roved once over the words, then again, more slowly. Finally, Sam closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Abruptly, his hand clenched, crushing the note between his fingers. He looked up at Chuck.

"You'd better go."

"Sam-"

"Please. Just get out of here. I don't want to hurt you."

"What? Why would you-" Chuck paused, blue eyes wide in his pale face. "Sam, what are you planning on doing? I haven't seen this far yet-"

"Get out!"

Casting him one last, frightened glance, Chuck scuttled towards the front door, slamming it behind him. A second later, Sam heard a car start, listened to it drive away.

Left alone, Sam looked down at the crumpled note. Carefully, he unfolded it, smoothed out its crinkled edges, and read it one more time, taking in his brother's familiar handwriting.

Sam. If you ever say yes to Lucifer, I'll swear to God that I will not hesitate to kill you myself.

Sam smiled softly, opened his mouth and said a single word.

And the world went white.

The End

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