Characters: Sam x Reader, Dean, some random witches with no lines
Word Count: 1334
Summary: Based on this imagine by @/spn-imagines-nation on Tumblr: Sam coming back to you after a very bad case that almost cost him his life
You're a psychic who has a vision about Sam getting killed on a hunt.
Warnings: Angst if you squint, but it's mostly fluff
A/N: I kind of like this one.
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Sam jolts awake to an earsplitting drum solo over the Impala's speakers. His brother smirks at his tousled state before turning the volume down again.
"'Mornin', Sammy," he remarks.
Sam only groans in response, peering out the window. Through the sleep blurring his vision, he sees a row of modest houses and a strip of green grass lining the concrete walkway.
"Are we here?" he mumbles.
Dean nods. "Colorado Springs."
"Where two people have gone missing in the past week," Sam recalls. "I know you're itching for a case, Dean, but this is thin, even for us."
"We've driven more on less," Dean shrugs. "Besides, isn't this where that (Y/N) chick lives?"
"What? Who?" Sam stutters, feeling heat rise to his cheeks at the thought of you.
Dean flashes him a knowing grin. "Oh, come on – you remember. The psychic who helped us track that demon a few months back? You two really hit it off."
Sam does, in fact, remember you. That, he can't hide from Dean. What Dean doesn't know, though, is that Sam has been driving out to see you every free moment he had since he met you.
"Right, right," he says. "I guess we can stop by."
"Good, 'cause I already called her," Dean smirks.
"You –" Sam sighs. After all those months, after each carefully orchestrated lie, each back road drive to meet her, and Dean just... called.
"Problem?" Dean asks, pulling the car into the parking lot of a rundown inn.
Sam shakes his head. "No, no problem."
************
Someone strikes a match, illuminating only a small circle of the darkness surrounding it. A hand guides the flame to the wick of a candle, one of many arranged in a circle on the brown grass.
Distant chanting grows louder, more distinct, until the voices of the five people surrounding the candles fill the air.
Inside the circle, ropes bind Sam's limp body to a tree, blood still dripping down his chin onto the ground, though he no longer has a pulse.
