Thank you so much Jenjoremy for beta'ing this for me. Thank you Gredelina1 for all your help and thank you all for reading and reviewing xxx
Chapter Twenty
Lucifer had once explained to Sam that Heaven was actually billions upon billions of personal heavens all crammed together with some areas of angel presence only. Each soul created his or her own paradise. Sam saw now that Hell was similar. There were no paradises, of course, but it wasn't an endless stream of racks and demons torturing souls the way he'd thought either. Dean hadn't explained the geography of the place while he was bleating about what he'd done there, and Sam hadn't asked.
He saw now that there were small enclaves for each doomed soul to be worked on by a demon and a holding area for them to wait until it was their turn again. That was something else Dean hadn't told him. He made it seem like it was all pain all day but, unless a soul was special, there was also a lot of sitting around in a cell, dwelling on what had happened and was coming next.
The noise was pretty much what Sam had assumed it would be: screams, howls, begging and squelchy slaps as skin was flayed. It was enough to turn one's stomach, but Sam… well, he found a certain kind of enjoyment in it. He thought maybe he'd like to take a turn with the razor, or maybe the First Blade. That would have some fantastic results, he was sure. He had an eternity to explore his options, and he wanted to experience everything.
"Dean spent forty years down here," Sam said conversationally.
"Yep," Crowley said. "Feel bad for him?"
"No. It's kinda pathetic when you compare how messed up he was when he came out with what actually happened. I know he had the guilt for coming off the rack, but seriously, that was a no-brainer. Why he didn't come off sooner is what's got me."
"Pathetic is the word," Crowley agreed seriously. "No one has ever had an easier Hell experience than him, and yet you'd think he toured 'Nam the way he carried on about it. He was offered off the rack pretty much the moment he got on it, and yet the prat waited three decades before giving in. Some of us weren't given a choice. I lasted centuries on the rack and I came off just fine. Well, a demon, but you know what I mean. I was good."
"Perfectly adjusted," Sam said, leaning against the stone wall of the long passage they were walking. "Where are you taking me, Crowley? We've been walking forever and I'm bored."
"Little further. It's worth it. I promise."
Sam sincerely doubted that, but he thought he would indulge the older demon and get whatever it was over with. It passed the time at least. He needed to find something to entertain him. He had discovered that, without needing to sleep and eat, there were too many hours in the day to fill. He got bored easily. He needed a hobby. He knew some demons amused themselves with torturing humans, but that seemed a little tacky to him. There was no challenge there, like poking a zoo animal with a stick. He needed something to stretch himself.
Crowley opened another heavy door and Sam's hair blew in a strong wind that whipped around him. He was in a seemingly endless space with no walls that he could see even with his new keener eyesight. They were on a rocky outcropping of what looked like a cliff.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice carrying over the wind to Crowley's enhanced hearing.
"Look up," Crowley instructed.
Sam obeyed and saw a small metal cage suspended by chains attached to the nothingness around it. "That's the Cage," he stated.
"Yep, what do you think?"
"I think it's bigger on the inside."
It seemed strange to him that the place that had been his home for two centuries, the open ocean, the stretching sand, the shifting continents, were able to fit into that tiny box. Lucifer, for all his faults, was actually pretty impressive when it came to illusions.
He looked up at it for a moment, trying to find some connection in himself to the place, but there was none. It was a past life, quite literally.
He walked back through the door, resisting the urge to slam it in Crowley's face.
"Well that was a great trip down memory lane," he said. "What's next? We going to Singer's place to look through old photo albums?"
Crowley closed the door behind him. "You want to do that? Because we can. They're easy enough to knock out after all. They won't have to know you were there."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll resist the urge, thanks."
Crowley's brow creased into a frown. "You know, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around this change. I mean, I remember all my human life, and I hold some feelings that I had before. Like my mother; I still detest the whore."
"Your mom was a whore?" Sam asked. "That actually makes a lot of sense."
"Luckily, she buggered off pretty damn quick, and I was able to rely on my own wits to take care of myself."
"Your own wits?" Sam scoffed. "How the hell did you survive long enough to make a deal?"
Crowley ignored the question. "I had a son, too. Petulant little wart that pissed me off at every turn."
"What did you deal for?" Sam asked curiously.
"I had a need for some… additional physical attributes."
Sam snorted. "You sold your soul for a bigger dick, didn't you?"
"I see you've read my memoirs," Crowley said dryly.
Sam laughed hard. He had only been half-serious. "You must have been seriously stunted to do that."
"We can't all be Tommy Lee."
"I wouldn't know," Sam said.
"I'm aware," Crowley said grudgingly.
"Have you been spying on me in the shower, Crowley?" Sam asked.
"No, but I can see you that dress to the left."
"Well, this just got real uncomfortable real fast," Sam said, turning and walking away.
Crowley hurried after him. "Don't be like that, Sam. You know I'm only kidding. Half-kidding anyway."
"Never going to happen, Crowley."
"Because of Lucifer?" he sneered.
"No!" Sam said angrily. "Because of my weak stomach."
Crowley looked annoyed as he fell into step at Sam's side. What did he seriously expect though? Sam might be a little more openminded since his sojourn as Satan's other half, but he still wasn't going there with Crowley. He'd sooner hook up with Castiel. And wasn't that just the ultimate stomach churning thought?
"So, now that you've seen Hell, the Cage, and my Court, what do you think of my Kingdom?"
"It's not what I expected," Sam said. "I thought it would be less annoying, more eternal damnation."
"Hades is pretty special."
"I'm sure. I think I'll skip it though. I'm bored."
Crowley sighed. "Well you better find something to do to occupy yourself. I can't spend all my time entertaining you. I have Hell to run."
"Because this is so entertaining. Don't worry. I'll find something to do."
Crowley slowed his steps, "You know who else needs something to occupy himself? Your brother. He's making a pest of himself taking out my crossroads demons right now. I've got plenty, of course, but arranging the replacements is a pain in the ass."
Sam ran a hand through his hair roughly. "Dean again! Seriously? At what point are you going to realize I don't give a crap about him and the rest of them? I don't care what they're doing. They could be pogo-sticking their way off a cliff for all I care."
"Good mental image. I like it," Crowley said. "Mind if I utilize it for Hell?"
"Do what you like. But my point stands. If Dean is irritating you, deal with him. Don't keep bitching to me about him."
"Does it hurt to think of them?" Crowley asked.
"No, it irritates me. Unless you want me to take them out, keep your complaints to yourself. I'm not you, Crowley. I don't have mommy issues to work out. I never had a disappointing son to moan about. I'm just me."
Though was he? It did irritate him that Crowley brought Dean up at every given opportunity, but that wasn't residual feelings, it was boredom. He cared less about Dean and the others than he did about stunt demon number three in the pit. At least he had something in common with a demon, even if it was just eye color. But why did it bother him so much when Crowley mentioned him, like a thorn digging into his side? It was the one weakness he had now, that annoyance, and he thought he would explore it a little.
"I don't want you to 'take them out,'" Crowley said. "You might not appreciate it right now, but you will come to see the entertainment value they possess for us."
They reached the door back into the cells and Sam yawned pointedly. "I'll leave you to your paperwork. I'm going to explore a little."
"Hell?"
"No. I've seen enough of that. I figure I'll put my new mode of transportation to use and see a little of the world."
"Good for you. Have fun. I'll see you later."
Sam waved hand in farewell and disappeared.
Sam had intended to explore a little more of the world, but he found himself in that armpit of America, Sioux Falls, instead. Bobby's house was in darkness, and Sam stood outside among the junked cars. One looked like it had been gone over with a crowbar. The smashed glass twinkled and the metal work was dented and scratched. There were even spatters of blood on the paintwork. It didn't take a genius to work out that it had been Dean working out his frustration on the car.
Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was such an unstable human. He needed to work out a way to unwind that didn't involve criminal damage.
He opened the back door and stepped around the devil's trap under the mat. Really, as 'the most protected place in the country', Bobby would have done better setting up shop in a bouncy castle. It was almost funny how much comfort Sam had taken from being there before; he had felt safe.
To Bobby's credit, the panic room was pretty clever. Sam would steer well clear of that place today. He wasn't here for a visit anyway. He was exploring something in himself.
He closed the door behind him and looked into the library. Dean was asleep on the couch, lying on his back, a blanket laid over him and an almost-empty whiskey bottle beside him. That was another Winchester trait. When in doubt, drink; when upset, drink; when bored, drink; basically, when awake, drink. It was a miracle Dean's liver had withstood the abuse as long as it had. He suspected Castiel might have something to do with that. He wondered how long Dean's body would keep going now that Castiel's wings had been plucked.
He turned away from the sleeping man and walked to the fridge. There was something new there. Under a magnet was one of the photos that had been in Sam's motel room before. It was picture of him and Lucifer, frozen on glossy paper. He frowned at it. Sam and Lucifer looked as if they had been unaware of the photo being taken. They were holding hands and staring into each other's eyes like a cheesy wedding day shot. All that was missing was a rented tuxedo and a veil.
He picked it up and stared at it. He looked so happy there, in love, almost disgustingly so. How could anyone bear to be around them when they were like that without puking? He tried to remember the feeling he'd had in that moment, but he couldn't find it. It was as if it had been wiped away. He knew on an intellectual level that he had loved Lucifer, but he couldn't call to mind the feeling. It was like trying to remember your first steps or word. It had happened, but there was no recall.
He dropped the photograph on the counter and turned away, feeling almost as though he was being tainted by his efforts to remember.
He looked walked into the library, carefully steering clear of the devil's trap painted into the ceiling. As funny as it would be to see their faces if they saw him with black eyes, it would be annoying to watch them try to exorcise him.
He wondered about that. As he wasn't actually possessing anyone, would an exorcism even work? He wasn't a meatsuit with a demon inside; he actually was a demon. He hoped it wouldn't because that would be a real pain in the ass. If Dean knew what he had become and managed to exorcise him, he'd have his body on the pyre like a rotisserie chicken within minutes. He could always find a new meatsuit, but he liked his body now. It had history and he could see over the heads in crowds. He could end up in a fun-size one like Crowley was. How he managed day-to-day life with that kind of limited growth, Sam didn't understand.
He stared down at Dean for a moment, just watching him sleep, then walked over to the desk and picked up a book to see what Bobby's current bedtime reading was. Unsurprisingly, it was the Daemon Dierum. That tallied with what Crowley had said about them interrogating demons. He tossed it back on the desk facedown.
"Sammy?"
He turned quickly, thinking he'd screwed up and been seen, but Dean was still sleeping. His hands were tangled in the blanket over him and his expression was twisted with sadness.
"Sammy, please," he sighed.
"Well that's not at all creepy," Sam said quietly.
Dean rolled onto his side and his eyes moved beneath their lids. Sam wondered what he was dreaming. He moved closer, unaware of what he was doing, and then froze as Dean's eyes opened. In the split second that Dean seemed to fixate on him, Sam disappeared.
He hoped that Dean would believe it was still the dream. It really was easier—not to mention more entertaining—if Dean carried on believing him dead.
Dean was suffering. He could find no peace even in his dreams, though he longed for them. At least then he would see Sam again. They weren't good dreams; he spent them searching for Sam in a maze of alleyways, only to wake at the moment he caught sight of him. That second of seeing him, though, was worth the pain that came after.
Last night had been different though. He thought he had seen Sam upon waking, too. In his dreams, Sam was dressed in jeans and an old shirt, the clothes he had been wearing the day they had gone to trap Metatron. When he'd woken, Sam had been dressed in a dark grey suit, the kind of thing regular people dressed their loved ones in before burying them. He had never seen Sam in anything like it apart from his fed suit in life. He guessed it was his mind's way of trying to ease the pain for him, showing him that Sam was gone but at peace.
He threw off the blanket that someone had draped over him when he'd fallen asleep and swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the couch. His foot nudged the whiskey bottle he had been working his way through the night before. For a moment, he considered starting with it again, getting the hit he needed, but he decided against it. He would at least pretend to be human a while longer, make it easier on Bobby and Castiel and save himself their bitching.
Carrying the bottle to the cupboard where Bobby stored his liquor among other necessities, he stowed it away and then walked to the counter to start the coffee.
"Morning, Sammy," he said, his eyes moving the photograph of him and Lucifer tacked on the fridge as they did every morning. It wasn't there though. "No!" he gasped, bending and searching the floor for it. He couldn't have lost it. Sam would want it when they got him back. He needed it. It was nowhere to be seen though.
He straightened and gripped the edge of the counter as he bowed his head. Tears pricked his eyes. He was supposed to take care of it for Sam. He cursed himself for his carelessness. Then he spotted it; the rectangle of glossy paper was on the counter. He grabbed it and turned it over, seeing Lucifer's and Sam's happy faces. What was it doing there though? It belonged on the fridge under the magnet. Dean never moved it, and Castiel and Bobby wouldn't have taken it down either. Someone else had been there.
He looked around for anything else out of place. There was nothing he could see, but he knew in his heart someone else had been in the house. His breath came quickly and his heart raced. Was it Crowley coming to screw with them? It was the kind of thing he would do, but the explanation didn't feel right. There was something else.
Someone clapped a hand on his shoulder and he cried out in shock as he spun to see Bobby. Castiel was lurking in the doorway.
"What's wrong?" Bobby asked.
"Someone's been here," Dean said, holding out the photograph. "This was moved in the night, I know it!"
Castiel came further into the room. "Is that the only thing?"
"Isn't it enough?" Dean asked. "We never touch it, but it was on the counter. I didn't move it."
Bobby sighed. "Dean, you were roaring drunk last night. You could have been looking at it and forgotten. When Castiel and I went up, you were unconscious on the couch."
"Then I couldn't have done it," he said practically. "I was asleep."
"You could have gotten up again," Castiel pointed out. "Do you remember anything else from last night? Going to the bathroom maybe?"
"I remember…" He bit his lip. "Nothing."
"What happened?" Castiel asked.
"Nothing!"
"Dean…" Bobby prompted.
"I saw Sam. I was dreaming of him, like I always do, but when I woke up, he was there watching me. He was dressed in this grey suit and he was just looking down at me."
"He wasn't here, Dean," Bobby said sadly.
"I know that!" Dean snapped. "But I saw him. And this moved. It has to mean something."
"It means you need rest," Castiel said. "You have been spending your days interrogating demons and your nights drinking. It's too much for your body to handle."
They didn't understand. How could he rest when Sam was out there, lost? And he couldn't sleep without drinking himself into oblivion. His situation was impossible, yes, but he wasn't losing his mind. Someone had been there.
"I need a drink." He wasn't aware he had spoken the thought aloud until Bobby answered. "Let's get you something to eat first. Sit down and we'll fix something up."
Having no energy to argue, Dean sat at the table and put his head in his hands. He listened to Castiel and Bobby moving around the kitchen, talking quietly, and only looked up when Castiel set a coffee down in front of him. He sipped at it, trying to think of other candidates for their visitor. It could have been that Ambrose demon. He would probably enjoy being able to see the aftermath of his cruel theft.
Bobby put a plate in front of him and a platter of toaster waffles in the middle of the table. When he made no move to serve himself, the older hunter picked up two waffles with a fork and slapped them onto Dean's place. "Eat!" he commanded. "If we're going after another demon today, you'll need to be fueled."
Dean cut a piece and brought it to his mouth. It tasted of nothing, but knowing he did need fuel, he chewed and swallowed until the plate was clean. He picked up his coffee and stared out of the window, lost in thought. He was considering their options for a demon. They had pretty much exhausted the crossroads close to Sioux Falls. They needed to go further afield, or maybe start following the demonic omens spread across the country.
His eyes became unfocused as he looked at the junked cars. Suddenly, he straightened and sucked in a breath. He saw someone, an impossible, incredible someone outside. He lurched to his feet and ran at the door, ignoring Castiel and Bobby's worried questions. He yanked open the door and ran out onto the porch. "Sammy!"
Sam was standing by the car Dean had vented his grief on. He was wearing the suit Dean had seen in the night, and he was frowning slightly. Dean rushed down the steps towards him, his hands reaching for his brother. It was too late though. When Dean was a few paces away, close enough to see into his eyes, Sam disappeared.
"No!" His legs buckled and he fell to his knees.
He heard footsteps crossing the porch and then Bobby spoke behind him. "What happened?"
"I saw him," Dean said. "I saw Sam." He looked up into Bobby's doubtful face and cursed. "He was there. Right there!" He pointed at the spot he had been.
"I don't see anything," Bobby said.
"He's gone now, but he was there."
Bobby held out a hand and Dean allowed himself to be eased to his feet.
"You need to rest," Bobby said. "We'll stay here today so you can sleep. We've still got some of the drugs we gave Sam when he was withdrawing. They'll help you."
"I'm not crazy," he said defiantly. "I saw him."
Bobby didn't answer.
Dean was sure though. He had seen Sam, and Sam was dead. That could mean only one thing. Sam's body had been stolen, but his spirit was free of it. Sam was a ghost. He just needed to prove it.
Dean was nervous. He had crept up the stairs, cursing each creak of the old house that threatened to wake them, and checked that Bobby and Castiel were snoring before he set things up, but he was still worried they'd come down and see what he was doing. He didn't think he'd be able to connect with Sam if they were there—especially Castiel. Things were so damaged between them before, that Sam might not have any desire let himself be open to him now. He was sure if Sam would come for anyone, it would be him and him alone.
They had spent the day at the house as Bobby had advised. Dean had sat out on the porch much of the morning and afternoon, watching for another sign of Sam, only coming in when the sun started to sink. Though there was no sign of him, it had strengthened his resolve to wait until they were gone before trying to communicate with him.
They seemed satisfied that he was apparently taking care of himself and not talking about Sam anymore, which worked in Dean's favor. He wasn't even that drunk by the time darkness fell. He made a show of yawning though and let his eyes drift closed often enough that Bobby decided they all needed an early night. They didn't push him to sleep in his bed, perhaps thinking to use what had been his and Sam's room was too hard. The truth was he wanted to be downstairs alone if Sam came back.
He felt a thrill of anticipation as he set the planchette down on the talking board and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and spoke to the silent room. "Sammy, are you there?"
The planchette trembled, but he thought that was his own shaking hands making it move.
"Sam, please," he begged. "Please be there."
The planchette trembled again and then shot across the board, dragging Dean's frozen fingers with it. It stopped on 'Yes' and Dean's heart leapt.
"Sam!"
It moved again, darting over the letters. Dean spoke them aloud as he read them. "D-e-a-n."
"I'm here," he whispered, tears now streaming down his cheeks. "I'm here, Sammy." He watched as the planchette moved again. He knew with the first letter what was going to be spelled. What else would Sam ask?
"L-u-c-i-f-e-r."
He sighed. "He's not here, Sam. I'm sorry, more sorry than you can know, for everything that's happened, but he's not come back."
"W-h-y."
Dean frowned. "Don't you remember what happened?"
"No."
Dean sighed. He couldn't break Sam's heart all over again. He would have to lie to protect his brother. The problem with spirits was that they became vengeful. That wouldn't happen to Sam, as Dean would get him back before it could, but he still didn't want to increase the risk Sam would step even a toe down that line.
"He'll be back soon," he lied. "I promise."
"N-e-e-d-h-i-m."
"I know," Dean said in a choked voice. "I'll get him back for you. I swear. Are you okay?"
"No."
Dean's heart leapt. "No? What's happening to you?"
"H-u-r-t-s."
"Who's hurting you?"
"H-u-r-t-s."
"Talk to me, Sam! Tell me what I can do."
The planchette trembled for a moment and then stilled. Dean kept his fingers pressed to it, hoping Sam would come back.
"Sam!"
There was nothing though. The connection he had felt was gone, and the planchette nothing more than a piece of wood. He threw it at the wall with an inarticulate sound of rage.
Tears streamed down his cheeks and he let them fall, bowing over so they splashed onto the talking board.
His brother was hurting and there was nothing he could to ease it for him, nothing but them finding his body and bringing him back. But then there was another complication. He would get Sam back just to break his heart when he found out Lucifer was gone again.
His heart aching for his brother, he wept alone.
He didn't see the amused face through the window, reveling in his suffering.
Bobby was woken by a clatter downstairs and a cry of pain. His heart sinking, he climbed out of bed and grabbed his ratty robe from the back of the door. He was more than aware that Dean might not want to be interrupted while he was feeling what he was, but he couldn't bear to leave him hurting down there alone. He tugged the robe on and padded into the hall.
Castiel was standing outside the door to his room, his expression torn. Now, without the door between then, Bobby could hear Dean crying.
"Come on," he said gruffly. "He needs us."
"Does he?" Castiel asked.
Bobby didn't have an answer to give. Dean might need them, but he probably wouldn't want them. What Dean wanted was his brother back, and that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, or at all if Bobby had his way. He hated that they had lost Sam, that grief cut him like a knife, but Dean couldn't give himself up for Sam's life again. It would ruin them both. Sam wouldn't be able to live with Dean making that sacrifice, and Dean couldn't go back to that place. There was no powered Castiel to rescue him now, no other angels they could call upon for help. Dean would be trapped there forever, and Sam would be destroyed by it, too.
He walked down the creaking stairs and went into the library. Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands and tears dripping down onto the talking board in front of him. Bobby understood what had happened at once, and he understood Dean's reaction. It was natural to want to have some connection with Sam, he felt the same need, but to indulge was damaging.
Bobby sighed his name and Dean looked up. He looked devastated, but there was a kind of fervor in his eyes that was new.
"He's here, Bobby," he said.
Castiel looked around the room. "Where?"
Dean sniffed and shook his head. "Not here now. But he was. I spoke to him."
Bobby walked into the kitchen and sat down beside him. "What happened, Dean?"
"I did see him earlier," Dean said. "He was here, and tonight I spoke to him with the talking board. He's a ghost."
Castiel sucked in a breath from his place leaning against the counter. "Are you sure?"
"Yes!" he said emphatically. "It all makes sense." When Bobby continued to frown, he said, "Don't you believe me?"
"I don't know," Bobby said honestly. "It just seems… Are you sure you're seeing what's there and not what you want to be? Hell, I want him back, too, but…"
"Why wouldn't he be a ghost?" Dean interrupted. "How many have we taken out over the years? Why wouldn't Sam be one, too? If anyone had unfinished business, it's him."
"But he killed himself," Castiel said. "He decided his business was over when he did that."
"No! He was desperate. He was grieving and he could see no way out. That's why he did that. But us, me, Lucifer, he wouldn't leave us."
"But there is no more Lucifer," Bobby said. "He told us that there was no way to get him back. He knew."
"There's still us though," he said, staring into Bobby's eyes. "He wouldn't leave us. I have seen him. I spoke to him."
"What did he say?" Castiel asked.
"He told me here was there, and he asked about Lucifer, and then he said…." He shook his head. "He said he was hurting. I don't know what's happening to him; he didn't tell me. I think he wore himself out and had to rest."
"It could have been anyone though," Bobby said. "Any spirit that wanted to talk with someone could say they're Sam."
Dean shook his head vigorously. "Not asking about Lucifer. Who knows about him and Sam that's dead? No one. It was him."
It was possible, probable even, but Bobby still wasn't convinced. He needed to see it himself. "Cas, pass me the planchette, "he said.
Castiel walked to the door where it lay and brought it back to Bobby.
Dean nodded vigorously. "He'll be here. He'll come."
"You said he exhausted himself," Castiel pointed out.
"He won't let me down now," Dean said confidently.
Bobby put the planchette on the board and pressed his fingers to it. It wasn't that he didn't trust Dean not to trick him, but he wanted to feel it happening himself; he needed to feel Sam connecting with them to ease his own heartache.
With Castiel watching them carefully, Dean rested his fingers on the planchette, his expression hopeful, and said, "Sammy, are you there?"
There was no movement from the planchette other than that created by Dean's trembling fingers.
"Please, Sam. Bobby is here, too. Sammy, please, come back!"
They sat in silence, breaths coming quietly as if the sound would scare Sam away, but nothing happened. Bobby slowly pulled back his hands and said, "I'm sorry, Dean."
Dean shook his head. "No! I'm right. He just doesn't have the energy to talk now."
"He shouldn't be here though," Castiel said. "His body isn't here to tether him."
Bobby thought that was a point, but Dean had an answer for him.
"He's tethered to something else. All his stuff is here now. It could be anything." His eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet and rushed to the fridge, snatching the photograph from under its magnet and holding it up. "It's this! It has to be. That's why it moved. What else would he tether to but a piece of his life with Lucifer?"
Bobby stood and walked to the liquor cabinet. He opened a drawer and pulled out his EMF detector. He flipped it on and held it up. There was no more than the usual flicker from the powerlines overhead. Dean held the photograph to it and looked hopeful. There was no more reaction though. It could sense nothing else.
Bobby felt disheartened, but Dean didn't look it. "He's just tired is all. It wouldn't be able to find him if he has no energy to detect." He shook his head. "I know what I saw and felt. He's out here. He's just resting right now."
Bobby thought he was just clinging to a wish though. It was like his mission to find Sam's body. He was displacing his grief with these things to stop himself having to face the truth that Sam was gone.
"He'll come back," Dean said confidently. "I know it."
Bobby couldn't bear to break his heart further, so he stayed silent.
So… I did warn you he was going to be a dick. Writing this chapter was polar opposites with each scene. I love to write Sam as a demon—he's so freeing—but the Dean angst is hard on me, I hope the work was worth it.
Until next time…
Clowns or Midgets xxx