A/N: Sorry for the slight delay, my friends. This chapter is extra long, so I hope you'll forgive me. As always, thank you so much to Nemu-Chan, rosesapphire16, Wolflihood, ImpalaLove, Tenderloins, and themightypanda for reviewing! You guys are awesome, and I'm so glad you care what happens to Claire! It's always such a relief when your OC is well-received. I hope you all enjoy this chapter (warning: MAJOR S7 spoilers ahead).
Song: Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones
CHAPTER 10
Paint It Black
It takes almost exactly twenty-four hours to drive to Sioux Falls, and Dean has been in a heightened state of panic for the entirety of it. He can taste it in the back of his mouth, bitter and chalky. This must be how Sam felt in Purgatory, he thinks, how it feels to be eternally under siege.
He parks the car, now banged-up, sideways in Jody Mills' driveway. Moonlight streams over the house, illuminating it from the back and casting a symmetrical shadow on the front lawn. There's an orange streetlamp next to her mailbox that's whirring and flickering like a dying firefly.
Dean sees a warm glow emanating from one of the living room windows, but it does nothing to comfort him.
People die with the lights on all the time.
As he flings himself out of the car, the stillness of the neighborhood contrasts starkly with his racing heart. He sprints to the door and feels lightheaded, a repercussion of not having eaten or slept in more than a day. In fact, he's probably experiencing some sort of cardiovascular episode that is more severe than just that.
He pushes through the dizziness.
He knocks once, then kicks the door in.
There's a squeal of shock in the next room.
"Claire!" he bellows.
The person in question rushes into the mudroom, pajama-clad and altogether unscathed.
"Dean?!"
He sees that she is not injured, but his mind has not yet registered that they are out of danger. He's overturns the house, wrenching open every door, turning the lights on in every closet, flexing his fingers on the hilt of his drawn machete.
"What the fuck are you doing?" she demands hysterically, following him up and down the stairs.
"Where's Jody?" he demands right back.
"At Bobby's!"
"Why?"
"Because she's been sorting through his stuff after work!"
"No no no no no," he chants. "The Leviathans know where Bobby lives – lived – remember? They can easily follow her back here!"
He continues scouring the home for signs of hostiles and then moves on to the yard, uprooting shrubbery, chopping off branches, and glowering at old Mr. Randall's house across the street. She follows him outside, but not before wrapping a robe around her nightgown and her arms around herself.
"Get back inside," she hisses, "You're acting like a lunatic!"
Dean complies, but retains the deranged glint in his eye.
"There are no Leviathans here," she assures him.
The door, partially broken, falls softly closed behind them but doesn't click into place.
Dean then looks at Claire, as if for the first time. Her hair is tied in a sloppy bun and her expression is half-dumbfounded and half-irate.
"You wanna explain what the hell is wrong with you?"
He blinks away his frenzied trance, yellow-flecked eyes becoming clear. Without a word, he takes two long strides towards her and kisses her straight on the mouth.
She pushes against his chest, but his hands stay cradling her face. "What are you doing?!"
"I'm so sorry, Claire, I'm so sorry," he professes.
"No," she snaps, "You don't get to do that."
"Please… I thought… I thought –"
She knows what he thought.
"But why?"
He presses his lips to hers again; this time she doesn't shove him away, but she doesn't reciprocate either. Between kisses, he says, "I'll – explain – later."
Now, she shoves him away.
"Explain now," she commands, but her gaze is foggy – lustful. He finds this encouraging.
"Bobby's a ghost –" he kisses her again, hypnotically " – Cas is still batshit insane –" and again, this time rolling her lower lip between his teeth " – there's another prophet."
"Wha-?" she mumbles against his mouth, his mouth that tastes the same as she remembers, like spearmint masking whiskey and blood.
"Doesn't matter," he says, similarly muffled.
He loves her hair, but he's glad she's pulled it up – it gives him unimpeded access to her throat, and jaw line, and…
Her determination is melting, especially as Dean rakes his hands over her obliques. She shudders, and he musters the gall to rove further north. Soft. Exposed. She's not even wearing a bra, and it's making him crazy. He knows this is probably too much too soon, that she's still angry with him, that he hasn't made up for what he's done, that he doesn't deserve this – but he's just so glad…
This is a terrible, terrible decision, she thinks offhandedly, but it's happening so fast and it's been so long…
By the time he hoists her up and carries her upstairs, her determination has evaporated. He has a way of making her feel small in every sense of the word – this is the only sense she enjoys. There's just something about him picking her up… so strong, so concrete…
Is it stupid? Probably. Does it feed his latent misogyny? Possibly. But she'll be damned if feeling Dean's muscles curl around her entire body isn't one of the sexiest things she's ever experienced.
"First room on the right," she orders blindly into his hot, inviting mouth. And soon her tongue and teeth are drawing circles on his neck (because she knows he likes that) and again the taste is the same, faintly like salt, and the smell is the same, too – leather (even though he's not wearing any) and gunpowder.
He kicks the door closed behind them, before pressing her – still elevated – against it. It's all a blur when he jams his knee between her legs and she's just wearing a nightgown, she thinks, and she whimpers, mad at herself for letting this happen, mad at him for showing up, mad at God for creating them in the first place.
She doesn't want to give in, she doesn't…
Oh, but she does. And, to her immense chagrin, he can feel it on his denim-covered thigh. Already her lips are grappling with his on their own accord, and soon enough her hands join the mutiny. Dammit, Claire, she internally reprimands herself. But her admonitions quickly change course and, as he somehow manages to shift his hands around, morph into a labored, "Jesus Christ, Dean…"
He chuckles into her coconut-scented shoulder; her words stroke his ego, her nails claw his shoulders. His movements are limited because he is using most of his body to support hers, but god-knows he can make the best of a tight situation.
She has far more flexibility. Her fingers sneak beneath his shirt and skim over his taut belly, and then lower…
There's a whoosh of movement and she opens her eyes and she's on the bed and her clothes are pointless, pointless, because her nightgown has already ridden up all the way. It's not fair, she thinks, wondering where her robe went. She's pleased to see that at least somewhere along the way he's lost his jacket and flannel, and hastens to liberate him from his t-shirt. In something akin to amusement, he looms above her for a split-second, before fusing his lips to hers in desperation. He tastes her lips, her skin, her skin…
And then stops abruptly.
"Claire, wait," he pants. His pupils, fully dilated, dart back and forth frenetically as he reads her face.
She glares at him in mystified bewilderment. Her pulse is pounding in her veins, as though her blood is trying to force her skin up to reach him.
"I love you," he blurts out, unbidden.
Eyes still cloudy and scowl still firmly in place, she considers him for several stretching moments. Is he drunk? she thinks, Did he drive here drunk? Did he eat another dodgy sandwich? But he seems as sober as he ever does, even if he's drugged on pheromones.
Eventually she replies, as though it's obvious:
"I know."
He laughs something guttural and unhinged, fingers twitching against (and tickling) her pale hipbones.
"You know I love you too," she amends. "But what difference does it make?"
"All the difference," he declares cryptically, grazing his teeth over her collarbone. And again, muted, "All the difference."
. . .
Dean and Claire sleep for far too long, mostly because they were up far too late. Claire wakes first, and when she does her stomach lurches momentarily at the realization that Jody most definitely heard them, at least three articles of clothing are scattered somewhere in the house, and the front door is broken. (And Dean's car is blocking the entire driveway).
At the moment, though, she doesn't care. At the moment, her body is twisted around Dean's, utterly unclothed. Their idiotically matching tattoos peek above the covers, and they're settled into the position they slept in almost every night for a year – her arm flung across his torso, their legs braided.
She wonders if she has forgiven him and genuinely doesn't know. What she does know is that she can never be without him, and this insight is perhaps more relevant.
She also wonders what's wrong with her, why she is so hopelessly ensnared by him.
Some might say, You're in love, dear, but she's not buying it. She feels like a junkie and Dean is her heroin. Is love supposed to make you feel self-destructive and certifiable? She hopes not.
In any case, it doesn't matter. He's snoozing next to her, long lashes splayed across his freckled-dusted cheekbones, full lips slightly parted. He may be a total douchebag, but at least he's pretty.
As though he can feel her inspecting him, his eyelids flutter halfway open, revealing those green eyes that are always changing hue. Right now, they're the color of autumn leaves, and his nondescript eyebrows arch to frame them.
"Mmm creepy," he mumbles groggily.
She digs the heel of her palm painfully between his ribs, but grins. Her teeth, thanks to three full years of orthodontia, are perfect. She settles her head back onto his chest and tightens her grip around him.
From his vantage point, he can only see the pointed tip of her nose and the spread of light-catching eyelashes. Hers is an almost elflike sort of beauty – not like his beloved Busty Asian Beauties, not like the blonde vixens of Casa Erotica, not like sultry brunette bartenders he used to trip over himself to hit on.
He lays a kiss on the crown of her head.
"You wanna elaborate on what you were saying last night?" she prods, but only because what he said sounded important. "Bobby's ghost? Another prophet?"
Dean winces, his fucked-up life flooding back to him.
"There's this kid – a high school kid – Cas says he's a prophet."
She can feel his body rumble beneath her ear as he speaks, the pitch of his voice low and soothing. The sound sends reverberations all the way to her toes.
"But I thought there could only be one prophet at a time?"
Dean's hand finds itself on her bare shoulder, tracing patterns on the unmarred skin absently. "I know," he says grimly. "That's why I rushed here."
"There's something I should mention, I guess," she starts. "I-I stopped getting visions. And then I got really sick."
He looks down at her intently, causing her to meet his gaze. "Sick?" he questions.
"Yeah… I thought it was the flu, but…"
"But?"
"Well, it was kind of… kind of like withdrawal."
"Like, drug withdrawal?"
"Yeah."
"You think it had something to do with the visions?"
"I don't know. But those two things happened almost at the same time. It was almost like…"
"… Like your body was cleansing itself."
"Yeah. Like it was cleansing itself of the visions. But Cas said it was forever, didn't he? He said I would be a prophet forever."
"Cas has been wrong before," he grinds out.
"Maybe."
"Maybe this new prophet overruled you – maybe it's because of the tablet."
"The tablet?"
He explains the tablet, how only Kevin Tran can read it, how he showed up the same time they found it.
"So… I'm not a prophet anymore? Just like that?"
"It could just be temporary. I don't know. I have no friggen idea. But just like you were activated, I guess it makes sense that you could be deactivated"
Claire sighs, almost relieved. He can feel the air leave her lungs.
"And Bobby?"
Now it's his turn to sigh. "Bobby's a ghost."
"But his body – "
"He's attached to his old flask. Turns out I've been carting him around for weeks without even knowing it."
She stares up at him in vague dismay, eyes wide. "He's not…"
"I left the flask with Sam," he snickers. "Don't worry."
There are several moments of silence, during which time they stay stuck to one another, unwilling to move.
Eventually Claire says, "You should go tell Jody you're here. She'll want to know."
This time, Dean full-out laughs. "I think she already does know, Einstein. She probably noticed the car, and you weren't exactly quiet. Oh God Dean, oh, oh, please, Dean, yes," he imitates crudely. "Pretty sure you said my name about a bazillion times."
Claire gawks in horror and slaps him hard on his sternum, the sound of skin cracking against skin resounding loudly through the room.
"Ow!"
"Screw you!" she bites, squirming out of bed and throwing some clothes on.
"You already took care of that," he continues to goad.
"You're an asshole. Real mature, Dean. What is this, the ninth grade?"
Still grinning evilly, he gets out of bed and pulls on his boxers in one fluid motion. "Aw, c'mon. I'm just kiddin.'"
"Yeah, well, you'd better be careful. You're not out of the doghouse yet," she says, even though they both know it's a lie.
. . .
All of them – Dean, Claire, Sam, Castiel, and Kevin – meet in a man named Rufus' partially-decaying cabin at the quasi-halfway point, in Whitefish, Montana. It's a log cabin, the type of old-school back-woods thing Claire had only ever read about.
"We know what to do," says Sam upon greeting his brother and Claire. "Kevin translated the tablet – it's about the Leviathans."
"Yeah?" Dean demands urgently. "What does it say?"
"It says how to kill them," Kevin answers, looking downtrodden. There are protruding bags under the boy's eyes, darkening his skin like smears of ash. The remainder of his complexion is pallid, and the sheen of dried sweat is causing his stringy hair to adhere to his forehead – he appears almost feverish, but it is unclear whether his state has been caused by anxiety or his abilities as a prophet.
"Are you Kevin?" Claire asks, and he nods.
"How uncanny," Castiel remarks cheerily. "Two prophets under one roof."
"Yeah," Dean replies cagily. "You said that was impossible."
"Evidently I was mistaken, since Claire appears to be very much alive." His features suddenly grow solemn. "You are alive, aren't you Claire?"
Her brow creases in puzzlement, but she says, "Yes, Cas, I'm alive."
He breaks into that disturbing grin again. "Good. You know, with Bobby…"
"I'm right here, ya winged bastard," snaps Bobby, materializing out of thin air.
"Now it's a goddamn party," Dean mutters under his breath.
"I heard that, boy. Watch your mouth."
"Is it just me, or is he even grumpier than usual?" Claire hisses to Sam.
"It's not just you," he mutters enigmatically in response.
"Good to see you too, Bobby," she drawls when he doesn't acknowledge her.
"Yeah, yeah, my heart's bleedin'. 'nough with the pleasantries."
"Are you all right?"
"Hell naw I ain't all right. Do I look all right to you? I'm a ghost, for Christ's sakes." He looks mostly the same, apart from the fact that his lips have paled significantly.
"Sorry…"
"Anyway, I presume these idjits briefed ya?"
"We were just getting to that…" says Sam.
"The hell're ya waitin' for? I ain't gettin' any younger!"
"You're not getting any older, either," Castiel points out sagely.
Through the pandemonium, Kevin erupts, "In order to kill a Leviathan you need a bone of a righteous mortal washed in the three bloods of the fallen."
Everyone goes quiet, and Claire and Dean – to whom this is news – stare at him blankly.
After a pause, Dean bursts out, "What the hell does that mean?"
"I reckon it means you need to soak the bone of a righteous mortal in the blood of something from Heaven, from Hell, and from the other place – Purgatory."
"An angel, a demon, and a what?" Dean works through.
"An alpha, I think," Sam assists. "We looked into it – there's a lot of lore about all monsters coming from a single source."
"What, like a big-daddy Purgatory monster?"
"More like a big-daddy werewolf or vampire or shapeshifter or – you get the picture."
"So what, we gotta find one of these things and get its blood?"
"Essentially. The fallen angel – well, we've got Cas, and… Well, the demon's gotta be the head demon – 'the Ruler of Fallen Humanity.' The best I figure it, that means Crowley. And while we all know he's a complete and utter asshat, I'm willing to bet he wants Dick dead as much as we do. The alpha will be the tricky part."
"Well," Dean starts, his mouth twisting into a smirk, "let's not waste any more time. You know what I always say – if it bleeds, we can kill it."
. . .
"We are getting way too cozy with Crowley nowadays," says Dean as they summon him in the center of Rufus' otherwise-heavily-warded cabin.
It's been a couple of days since they initially formed their game plan. So far, they have been able to procure the bone of a righteous mortal (thanks to Sister Mary Constant, d. 1983), the blood of a fallen angel (Castiel), and the blood of an alpha (this was no walk in the park – but Edgar the Vampire apparently hates Dick just as much as everyone else). All that's left is the blood of a demon.
"Frankly, I'm wounded," comes Crowley's lilting voice. He is bearded, as though he's been too preoccupied with something to shave. "And here I was, thinking how lovely it is that we're becoming so intimate with one another. You Winchesters really know how to kick 'em where it hurts, don't you?"
"You can say that again," Dean growls.
Crowley raises an eyebrow, a smile playing mischievously at his lips. "I presume you'll be wanting a vial of my blood," he says. "Pity, I'm in no mood to negotiate under the barbaric coercion of a Devil's Trap."
Dean nods Sam the go-ahead to break the trap.
"Much better," Crowley says, grinning.
Sam begins, "How did you know –"
"King of Hell, remember?" he interrupts, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Anyway, I was going to simply offer it to you, but now that I see Wings here, I'm perplexed. You're supposed to be dead, you sniveling, overreaching, bloody idiotic –"
"Alright, that's enough," says Dean warily.
"My point is, why aren't you?"
"I, uh, don't know," replies Castiel. "To be honest, I haven't even been up to Heaven – I keep thinking, 'there are no insects up there,' but here we have trillions…"
Cas blathers on, and as he does Crowley gapes at Dean incredulously. It's bizarre and a bit unnerving to see these two share a look of understanding.
Castiel finishes, "… They're making honey, and silk – miracles, really."
"What are you talking about?" Crowley finally responds, looking no more enlightened.
"Um… preferring insects to angels, I guess," he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. He steps towards Crowley, digging a Ziploc bag filled with what appears to be honey out of his coat. "Here," he says, offering it to him, "a token, if you'd like. I collected it myself."
Again, Crowley looks to Dean for assistance and explanation; he can offer none.
"I see… He's completely off his rocker," the Brit ventures. "Karma's a bitch, innit?"
"Look," Dean starts, "this isn't about Cas right now. Do you want to end Dick or not?"
"Indeed, I do – or is it did? I'll leave that for you to decide. In any case, here," he reaches into his jacket pocket and extends a vial of blood, "a prezzy."
"Really? Just boxed and ready to go? And just what exactly are you leaving us to decide?" questions Sam, one eyebrow quirked skeptically.
"Dick may be a dick, but he isn't a moron," Crowley replies. "Why do you think he's nabbed your prophet? The other one, I mean. The frail and skittish one. He knows you lot are amassing the ingredients to kill him – he reached out to me and tried to offer me a deal."
"In exchange for what?" Dean interrogates.
"My giving you the wrong blood," he says nonchalantly, staring pensively at the vial. "I know Amy Winehouse here can sniff out the real thing – test it yourself, if you like. This is demon, but is it mine?"
"Why are you telling us this?" Claire demands.
He smirks. "Oh Clary, I nearly forgot you were here – such a treasure, sitting quietly while the men-folk talk… They just don't make 'em like that anymore, do they, Dean?"
At this, Dean glares venomously at him. "Shut up," he orders.
Unfazed, he continues, "I dunno why I'm telling you this, love. Like I said, I'll leave that for you to decide… Oh – and keep an eye on Crazy-Pants. Hilariously, he's vital to what you're trying to accomplish."
Without elaborating, he tosses the vial to Dean and dematerializes.
. . .
The climax of their mission is just as fraught with drama and tension and pressure as any of their others, and Sam wonders, if he lives past this one, how many more will follow.
Dean and Cas have the bone; Dick must have stashed a piece of the real Dick Roman somewhere before eating him, because he's managed to make at least a dozen replicas of himself. Cas, who let the Leviathans into this world in the first place, is the only one who can tell them apart. He's the eyes of the operation, and Dean is the grunt.
Claire and Sam also sneak into the Leviathans' headquarters, but to find Kevin and blow the factory. The company is one Dick Roman has only recently acquired, called SucroCorp, and they're planning to manufacture food additives that drug the general public – Dean's Turducken sandwich was the prototype, engineered to make people complacent for the Leviathans' consumption. In sum, if they succeed, much of the world's population will become stoned farm animals.
Needless to say, the stakes are high.
Spectral Bobby, meanwhile, creates a diversion in the parking lot to draw attention away from the others.
The weather doesn't fit the mood. It's one of the first days of spring, and the sun is trying to reheat the earth back to life; it gleams, brilliant even through the occasional cloud. The sky seems even bluer against the dark outline of the still-bare trees, reflecting none of the chaos below.
Bobby, his flask in the passenger's seat, crashes the Impala into the SucroCorp sign in front of the building, shattering the placid atmosphere and drawing out a horde of low-rank Leviathans.
Kevin is already in the process of trying to escape when Sam and Claire find him, picking the lock to his prison with a bobby pin. He is kneeling in front of the door when Sam kicks it open, and he is immensely fortunate he dove out of the way in time, otherwise his nose would likely be crooked and gushing blood.
Claire wraps her left hand – the one that isn't holding a metallic suitcase – around his slender wrist. "We've gotta go," she orders.
"T-they have my mom," he protests.
"Not for long," Sam says, "Once we kill Dick, the whole hierarchy is gonna crumble. We'll get your mom, don't worry."
Dragging Kevin along behind them, they make their way to the assembly line and set their homemade pipe bomb to detonate in fifteen minutes.
"We gotta find Dean and Cas," Sam then says. "Let's hustle."
He leads the triumvirate, peeking through each office door in search of his brother.
It happens in a matter of seconds, and since he is in front of everyone, he's the only one who sees it. The scene unfolds before him through the square glass, almost as though it is on a television screen. He sees Dean, with Dick in front of him and Castiel holding his head back. Without a moment's hesitation, Dean plunges the bone through Dick's throat. He flounders, black goo oozing from his nose and mouth and the air around him pulsating; then, his body explodes into a geyser of the same black fluid, splattering all over the walls and window, obscuring his view.
Sam shoves the door open to see the final outcome.
At first, when it happens, they think there must have been some mistake. They walked into the wrong room, they chose the wrong door – that's gotta be it. There's nothing there. There's not even anything there. There's no body, no blood – just black.
But Sam saw, Sam saw. His brother, and Castiel, he saw them.
But there's no evidence they were ever there.
"Where'd they go," asks Claire, like it's an innocent question, like they may have just popped down to the convenience store to pick up a soda and a pack of gum.
"I… I don't know."
"Guys…" starts Kevin, "We should go. The – the bomb…"
"Hello, chums," says Crowley suddenly, materializing behind them, out of the blue. "Good work – without a leader, the Levis are just another monster. Hard to stomp, sure, but you love a challenge. Your job is to keep them from organizing."
But Sam only has one thing on his mind. "Where's Dean?" he demands, stricken.
Crowley bares his teeth in a wince and shrugs. "That bone… has a bit of a kick. God Weapons often do – they should put a warning on the box."
"Where are they, Crowley?!" Sam shouts raggedly.
"Can't help you, Sam." He snaps his fingers, and suddenly two demons flank Kevin. "Now, I know our former Miss America here," he points to Claire, "is just about useless now that this fresh young thing has replaced her, so I'm just gonna take the one."
The demons – along with Kevin – disappear.
"You got what you wanted," Crowley goes on, as if it's some consolation. "Dick's dead, you saved the world, so I want one little prophet. Sorry Moose, Red – wish I could help." And there's something in his tone that almost makes them believe him. "You've certainly got a lot on your plate right now… Looks like you are well, and truly, on your own," he finishes, as though even he – even he, the fucking King of Hell – pities them.
B-but
No
That can't be right
Who said what? How did they do that – complete each other's sentences? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all.
Because Dean is gone – vanished – and Castiel too, but Dean.
No body. Nothing to hold onto.
"No," Claire repeats again, "No." There's finality in it, like a child stamping her foot. Like it will make a difference. Like anyone is listening.
Crowley leaves too, and they almost wish he didn't.
Sam's mind rewinds to howling beasts and stinking blood. Not the images straight-on, but the colors (Red. Now black) moving on a white ceiling, where he looked when he couldn't bear to look anymore, and he thinks, Nonono, this can't be happening, this can't be real, fuck, Jesus, not again, please, not again, and something inside him is breaking and it's his resolve.
Not again not again not again.
She turns to him. "Sam, no."
But he can already feel his insides coming undone.
"No, Sam, no, I mean, I mean, people don't just disappear, he can't – he can't be, where did he go?"
"He's gone, Claire, he's not here."
"No, no. No, it's not possible."
"Claire…"
"NO!" she shrieks, wailing like a banshee. The sound is so overwrought and raw that it actually causes him to flinch. He thinks maybe she tore up her vocal chords.
She turns to God, first. She thinks, I was a prophet, once, that's gotta count for something. She's making trades in her mind, she's bargaining, Give me the visions back, if you have to. I'll do anything, please, I'll do anything. I'm sorry I ever complained about them, I'm so sorry. I'll do anything.
When God doesn't answer, she turns elsewhere.
"G-g-get Crowley back here, make him make a deal – that's what you guys do, right? Make deals? We can make a deal…"
"No, Claire, no, we can't," he chokes, tears stabbing his eyes.
"We have to," she sobs, "we have to."
She's hyperventilating. Somewhere in her chest there's a gaping hole, and air is leaking out, blood is leaking out, she can't breathe, her heart can't beat.
"We have to go," Sam says, finding his head. The bomb is gonna blow. It's gonna destroy them if they don't.
For a moment, Claire thinks that maybe Charlie had been right to see this world for what it is, so flawed and overflowing with hardships. For a moment, she thinks maybe she should stay.
But Sam is already dragging her out. Her feet aren't even touching the ground.
When the crisp air hits them, she realizes, in sudden disbelief, that the rest of the world – now colorless, in her eyes – is fine, the rest of the world is living in ignorance, and somewhere out there people are happy. How can this be? she thinks, how can this monumental pain only be shared between them two?
She is calling his name.
"Sam, Sam, where is he, Sam?" and Sam wishes he knew. Wishes he could do something, wishes he could even think to do something besides make another demon-deal. No, his brain warns, not again. Not again. No more, please. It's gotta stop. It's got to. Please.
He braces Claire against his body because he needs someone and she is trembling like a twig caught in a tornado. His arm crosses her chest like a straightjacket, and she grabs it, holds on like it's the safety bar on a rollercoaster, holds on for dear life. There's no body, no body, nobody, so she just latches onto him instead.
A/N: This chapter concludes Part I of the story - there are going to be two parts total. Since we're halfway through, I would especially love to hear your feedback! Please let me know what you think, and thank you so much for reading :)