When Death comes to Sam for the first time, Sam's in no position to feel much of anything. He’s not afraid or anxious or even, to be quite honest, mildly concerned for his own wellbeing. Instead he stares at the figure and thinks, numbly: so this is how it gets people to follow it into the dark or the light or whatever.
The male form is exquisitely crafted and obviously designed to attract and entrance; to capture. Someone somewhere gave it green eyes that glow supernaturally bright, and features so perfect the first adjective that comes to Sam is computer-generated. The hint of stubble on that firm jaw paired with plush lips and a strong nose makes it a study in contradictions; the kind of beauty that begs the question of who put it together because, for all its miracles, nature couldn't conceive such an impossible person on its own.
"Samuel Winchester?" it asks, in a pantomime of politeness.
They both know it knows who he is, and the exact second when his heart gave out.
Sam stares at Death for a long moment, registers the perfectly cut black suit it’s wearing over broad shoulders and becomes distantly aware that his own clothes are half-torn and still smoking. There's red dripping down his fingertips as well but he doesn't feel any pain. He feels like a copy of his body that’s only identical on the outside; a shell with no blood-vessels or nerves or viscera.
"You need to come with me, Sam.”
His first thought is ‘yes’. Yes, so that he can see Jessica again. Yes so that he can selfishly beg for forgiveness, plead at her feet, grovel and apologize for what he now knows to be the worst thing he’s ever done in his life.
But a moment's consideration is enough to realize that of course Sam won’t get anywhere near Jess. If this really is the afterlife their souls will be as far from each other as possible: hers high and pure, his locked down among the tainted and the criminal.
“Sam? C’mon, man.”
Sam turns and runs.
Fuelled by aching bitter disappointment that death isn't the end after all, Sam runs determined to get back to the world. If he won't find the sweet relief of nothingness here, if he can't have some sort of tabula rasa, he wants answers, and once he's found them he wants to tear the culprit apart with his bare hands. If his absolution will be in the form of revenge, so be it.
He needs to get back to the world of the living.
Death is waiting for him when he rounds a corridor and, incorporeal the both of them, Sam still skids frantically to avoid a collision. His ungainly flailing gets him a raised eyebrow.
"Slow down, kid. Haven't you heard you can’t outrun—“ Sam is off again before Death can finish its sentence.
This time Gorgeous and Green-Eyed gives merry chase, seeming to enjoy the pretense of a persecution.
"You don't seriously think you can escape me, right?"
Sam shuts his eyes and moves blindly forwards, aware that he must be going through walls and people and beds and tables.
"Where exactly do you think you're gonna go that I can't find you?"
Eventually Sam opens his eyes to find that the apparition has gotten ahead of him and is now running backwards, facing him.
There's something like a grin on its face.
"This is fun," Death says in the body of a digitally retouched supermodel.
Sam's life is weird, and were this any other circumstance he might have laughed.
He's about to reply when Dr Lana McCullogh orders the pads charged to 200 and Sam's heart starts beating again.