September 4, 1992

Friday

He was in soooooo much trouble. Dad was going to kill him-never mind Dad, Dean was going to kill him. Dad would just keep looking at him funny, and Dean, well, Dean would never trust him on his own EVER AGAIN. Sam jumped as high as he could, trying to catch the now animated coffeepot that was swinging itself up over the shower rod using its electrical cord as a tail.

"FREEDOM!" yelled the coffeepot, balancing precariously on the windowsill of the motel bathroom. It, the coffeepot, blinked, just like Mrs. Potts, and honestly, Sam had not meant to watch Beauty and the Beast, it was just on, because cable was free here so it was not his fault-and the coffeepot turned on its stubby little rubber feet and tried to pry open the window with its spout, all the while hollering "STARBUXS HERE I COME!"

He was too short to reach the window. Sam knew this, but Sam also knew he was going to get chewed out in an epic way, in the most epic of all the ways, if he didn't get this under control. He lunged into the shower, banging his elbow hard against the tile, and just grabbed the coffeepot by its electrical cord, yanked, and on pure reflex, caught it when it came tumbling off the windowsill into his arms. Big brown anime eyes blinked up at him, and honestly, how was he supposed to know the spell in that old book of Dad's was actually going to work?

"Well, hell." said the Coffeepot.

"You're alive."

"Well, don't sound so surprised." The coffeepot stared right back at him with big, liquid brown eyes. Just like in the cartoons, if the cartoons got up out of the TV and walked onto the table. "What did ya think was gonna happen when you called on the dark powers? I mean, you're not exactly what I pictured for a warlock either, Tiny Padawan. Rumor on the rumor mill is that there's normally a lot more mustache twirling, with bonus enslavement and monologuing, what with the plans for world domination and all, but you, why you're barely out of your short shorts. What're you up to?"

Sam looked down at himself, where he was distinctly not wearing shorts. The Coffeepot followed his glance and rolled its eyes. "Oooookay, I'm seein' I gotta keep this simple here." it muttered to itself. "Maybe use the small words." The Pot straightened up, and pointed a spout at him. "So, hey, uh, you. Little Warlock? Samuel? Sam-ling? Little Sammy?"

"It's just Sam." Sam said through gritted teeth, because he was almost ten already, and he really wanted Dean to stop calling him Sammy like he was still a baby. He wasn't. "How'd you know my name anyway?" He added suspiciously.

"Um, cuz maaaagic? I'm a magical object, Sam-ster. I know stuff. One of the benefits of being enchanted-but not like that stupid broom in Fantasia with its stupid dance moves-also you're not an oversized mouse, so yay for that." The coffeepot waddled across the table so it could lean over the edge to peer down at him on the floor. He had zip tied the Coffeepot's electrical cord tightly to the table leg and locked the bathroom door behind him- he wasn't stupid, come on-and then double checked the locks on the front door and window. Last thing he needed was for this, this CoffeePot-to escape out into the world, and then try to explain that to Dad.

"So you gotta a plan here? I mean, what are we doing? Are we taking over the town? The state? The country? The universe? Course, the universe is a big place, and it's probably kinda a headache to rule once you get it, but it's good to have ambitions. Dreams. Ooooo, oooo, I know, we can take over a Starbuxs." The Coffeepot leaned over further. "I mean, between you and me, that's a great plan. The best plan. The bestest plan. Cuz I'd make espresso, Sam. Nectar of the Gods. And I'm gonna learn me how. I'm gonna make us the best espresso that ever was made, Samuel. Yeah. That's a good plan. Let's take over a Starbuxs."

"You..." Sam gaped, because Starbuxs was a new thing-he'd heard people talking about it, but he had no idea why anyone would want to go there. Dean certainly didn't. Not when you could get Sanka at any old place for a quarter, and it was just fine. Dad let Dean have Sanka now, and even if Dean wanted to add cream and sugar to it, he never did, because Dad drank his coffee black, so of course Dean drank his coffee black. Personally, Sam snuck milk and sugar into his when Dean let him have some, because it really was sour tasting and the sugar helped, but maybe he'd grow out of it someday.

"You want to take over a Starbuxs, just so you can make Sanka?" Sam asked dubiously.

"BAWK!" The Coffeepot squawked and scuttled backwards. "BACK! Don't say that word! No. There are words not meant to be spoken, Sam." The Coffeepot shuddered all over. "Espresso. Sam, IS NEVER TO BE USED IN THE SAME SENTENCE as SANKA. Espressos, Sam, are teeny tiny bursts of pure magic." Pot gestured, or did the equivalent of making the shape of a tiny cup with his available appendages. " They even have big ol' magical coffeepot masters at Starbux, just for brewing espressos."

"Ooookay." Sam still had no idea what an espresso was, but it had to be something, if people made machines just for making it. But wait. "You're a coffeepot. How do you know about all this stuff, anyway?"

"Again, enchanted object. PlusI'm a fifteen year old coffeepot in a motel next to Interstate 5, Sam. That's long in the tooth for a coffeepot of my fine vintage, I'll have you know. I'm like, wise and stuff." Pot rolled his eyes. "Besides, people talk. I hear things. I've seen things. Things you wouldn't believe."

Now that, see, that wasn't true. Sam had seen plenty stuff no one would believe. Dad and Dean tried to not tell him stuff, but he listened, and he knew stuff.

"Oh yeah? I've seen werewolves." He blurted.

Pot blinked and then just kind of sized him up for a long, long second. Just long enough that Sam remembered he wasn't supposed to be talking about this stuff with anyone who wasn't Dad or Dean or Bobby or Pastor Jim or Caleb.

"Little short to be a hunter, aren't you?" Pot said. "What else you got?"

"I saw a ghost once." It'd been just the once, before Dean grabbed him and got him out of the way.

"Yeah? Well, a shapeshifter made herbal tea in me once." Pot quivered. "Nasty things, shapeshifters."

"So? We're going after a witch this time."

Pot waddled forward, and stared at him with a weird kinda intensity. "Yeah? That's pretty high gear of ya. So, tell me, Sam. You come across any demons yet? "

Sam sat back. "Nah. Demons are a myth."

"Demons are a myth." Pot roared with laughter and clapped its spout against its handle with a little puff of dust. "You know about werewolves and ghosts and shapeshifters and witches, but somehow you think demons are a myth? Oooooookay, then. You might want to do a little more reading in those books of yours. "

"They're not my books." Sam retorted automatically. They weren't his books. They were Dad's books. He was only reading Dad's books because Dean was so excited Dad was gonna let him go on this latest hunt with him that Dean forgot to take him to library like he usually did so he could borrow his own books to read. Normal books, like the Hardy Boys mysteries and that book on the chocolate factory that he had only gotten halfway through when they'd had to leave the last place. Not that he really blamed Dean for forgetting, because he knew how long Dean had wanted to go on a hunt with Dad, for real, and he had told Dean and Dad he could totally, totally, totally handle being on his own for a whole weekend and a few days, and he was doing fine.

Pot rocked forward, then back, spout and handle folded in front like hands, and yes, Sam may have gotten a little bored, and yeah, he may have accidentally animated the coffeepot, and okay maybe now the coffeepot was talking to him, but this was fine. He was totally gonna figure out how to fix this. He got up off the floor.

"You know what? I bet there's a reversal spell."

Pot scuttled backwards quickly, both spout and handle up. "Okay, okay, I take back what I said about the demons. You don't have to read those books if you don't want to! I know, TV! Let's watch a little TV, hmm? All human kids love TV. I mean, we totally get the Disney channel here."

Sam huffed. "The Disney channel is for babies. And I'm almost ten. And I know what you're doing. Stop trying to distract me."

"Sam. Samuel, Saaaaam, can you blame me? Fifteen years of nothing but instant, instant, instant, really crappy instant, hot water-boooring-and then sometimes, herbal tea." Pot shuddered again, his chrome rippling with a wave of horror. "I wasn't meant for herbal tea, Sam. I was meant for greater things. For real coffee. True coffee. Espresso." Pot crept closer to the edge of the table, and leaned towards him again. "This my one chance, Sam. One. Let's take over a Starbuxs, pleeeeasseee?"

"No way." Because he was in enough trouble already, and he wasn't going to add to it, and he was totally not paying any attention to the woebegone way the Coffeepot was staring at him. Big eyes, pleading look, somehow managing to droop when Sam would've sworn it was impossible for a metal coffeepot to droop. Sam edged around where Pot was almost tilted off the table, making for the heavy leather bound book that had gotten him into this mess to begin with. "I'm putting you back, and that's that. Besides, why are you so afraid of tea, anyway?"

"Why am I so afraid of tea?" Pot demanded, aghast. Pot puffed himself up to his full (not tall) height, chrome gleaming proudly in the lamplight. "Have you seen me? Do I look like a fussy-minded ceramic teapot to you? Do I?"

Sam turned and stared. "Well."

"Hey. The eyes are not my fault, witch-boy. You came up with the eyes."

"I'm not a witch!"

"Suuuuuure, Sam." Pot waddled across the table, its little round chrome nose wrinkled up skeptically and its lid rattled as it walked. "If believing that makes you happy."

"I'm not a witch!" Dad's newest book was heavy in his hands. It was supposed to be off limits, he knew, but he had been soooo bored and there was nothing else to read.

"Yeaaaah. Cuz all the kids at your school just rattle off Latin the way you do, don't they?"

Sam flinched.

"C'mon, Sam. Give us a chance. It'll just be a coupla days. We don't have to rule the universe if you don't wanna. It can be just you n' me, hanging, watching TV, just being buds. Doing regular, normal bud stuff. I play a mean game of Battleship. Whaddaya say?"

"No!" Sam let the book in his hands fall open to the spell he had been reading right before this whole-Pot thing-started, and on the page across from it, in the same creepy, spidery text, it said redire ad mortem. He didn't really read Latin, not really-and so what if mighta picked up a few things when he was bored.

"C'mon, Saaammm. Just gimme until Monday. Tuesday at the latest. You know they're not coming back until they've tracked down the witch that book belongs to. And not to knock your Dad, or Dean, who I'm sure are awesome hunters and all, but it might even be Wednesday. Whacha gonna do by yourself 'til then, watch Disney again?"

Sam sat down and stared hard at the page he was looking at. ad somnum aeternum blurred in front of his eyes. He was pretty sure this was the spell that would put stuff back to the way it was, and make Pot just a coffeepot again. Then everything would be back to be normal and the room go back to being deafeningly quiet, just like it was supposed to be.

"Dad said they'd be back Sunday. He promised."

"Yeah, well. History and the extra forty under the Bible says Thursday at the earliest, Sam. C'mon. If they're really coming back Sunday, let's blow that backup money on pizza. Hot pizza beats canned chili anyday. Whaddaya say?"

"You don't even eat pizza." And then he had to think about it, because... "Wait, you don't actually eat pizza, do you?"

Pot rolled his eyes. "No, genius. Solids give me indigestion. Have to be washed out an' all, and no one wants to see that. 'sides, anchovy smell is the very devil to get out."

Sam traced a finger down the crinkly brown page in front of him, over the illustration of skulls and bones and a tombstone. He really should put the pot back where it belonged.

"Just give me 'til tomorrow, Sam." Pot murmured. "If you want, you can always put me back tomorrow."

Sam turned slowly. "You stay tied to the table."

"Scout's honor."

"Or I'm making tea."

"Stuck to the table it is."

"And I'm putting you back tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, Sam. You can turn me back tomorrow."

Tuesday

Pizza, it turned out, was good for breakfast too. And then there was the Star Trek marathon. And it turned out Pot could recite the entire multiplication table, who knew, and so the least he could do was do Dean's homework for him.

"Spot." Sam was going to be firm on this, because Spot was a normal name.

"What is this, the Dick and Jane Hour?" Pot frowned ferociously down at him, electrical cord waving in the air. "Do I go around calling you Squirt? Shrimp? No, no, I do not. You know why, little Padawan? Because I'm a polite coffeepot. And I should get a proper name befitting a ruler of Starbuxs - which ain't Spot."

"Spot's a perfectly good name! It's a normal name!"

"Spot's a normal dog's name! Do I look like a dog to you?" Pot's cord/tail waved around indignantly, just like a dog's, and Sam stared at it pointedly until Spot curled his cord around his base with a great big huff. "C'mon Sam, why can't I have a cool name? Like Spock? Or Bones? I could totally be a Bones." Spot lowered his voice. "I'm coffeepot, not a dog."

Sam snickered. "I thought you just wanted to brew espresso. Not be a doctor."

"Oh, but I do." Spot hopped down from the tabletop, catching the edge with cord so he landed with just a little tumble next to where Sam was sitting on the floor and rolled up against him. "But in the meantime, I would totally rock as a Bones. Exploring worlds, fixing people. What about you, Sam? Whacha you gonna to be? Astronaut? Rock Star? Olympic decathlete?"

It was a question he could never answer in class. "I dunno." He said slowly. "I s'ppose I'm gonna be a hunter. Like Dad."

"Yeah?" Spot poked him in the side with his spout. "You've got the moxi for it, that's for sure."

"I mean, Dean's going to be a hunter. Dean says it's the family business, so I guess I'm gonna be a hunter too."

Spot leaned back a little, thoughtfully. "And you do everything Dean does, don't you, Sam. Tell me, do you even like hunting?"

Sam blinked. "I ... dunno. I mean, I guess? Dad say's I'm too good not to do it. And Dean says Dad's a hero. He saves people. That's good, right?"

Spot nodded, still slow, still thoughtful. "Sure it is. Saving people, swooning damsels-it's all very Kirk. But are you a Kirk, Sam? Or are you more a Spock? Or, hey, how about a Scotty? You can totally be a Scotty, if you want."

The other kids had Moms and Dads that were firemen and doctors and physicists and coaches and engineers. Sam squinted. Maybe he could be a fireman. He didn't know about the other things, because he couldn't imagine Dad staying in one place long enough to do that. He couldn't even imagine Dad staying in one place long enough for him to finish a book, let alone finish out a whole year of school. What kind of job would even last that long?

"I mean, if you could." Spot nudged him again. "What do you want to be?"

"I ... " He stopped, because he couldn't imagine Dad being okay with any kind of normal job.

"Ooooookay then." Spot let out a long whistling exhale. "Kiddo, I've met suitcases with more ideas than you, and let me tell you that is not good. No good at all. Have you ever met a suitcase? No, course not. You hunters are more the duffel and backpack kind, though why, I'll never know. So this one suitcase, right? Red, I call him, got his travel stamps all from all over, biggest goal in life was to get to the Goodwill. But why, I asks, because no one wants to go to the Goodwill. Certainly not me. Not the table," Spot gestured grandly backwards toward the table, "not the lamp, not even the dresser, though the dresser has the best shot of the lot of us. But Red, Red wanted to go to the Goodwill. Because he was tired of traveling, he says. But you're a suitcase, I says-innit traveling kinda your thing? Red sighs, and you ever seen a suitcase sigh? Don't, it's not pretty. All kinds of stuff comes spilling out. 'If I get to the Goodwill, at least I'll still be in one piece. And then I just want to be storage', Red says, 'and live in a quiet place. Maybe get a little dusty. Nah, I wouldn't mind being storage at all'. So, you know." And Spot pokes him with his plug. "You don't gotta be what you're born to be, Sam. You can want different. You can want to be storage."

"Like you want to make espresso?"

"Yep. Exactly like espresso. And someday, someone's gonna get me some finely ground beans. I'm gonna make magic, and then I'll be the bestest coffeepot that ever was. I'm never gonna hafta worry about being dented or binned again. Espresso, Sam, that's the ticket." Spot said dreamily, then leaned in until he was tucked fully against Sam's side again. Spot wasn't plugged in, but somehow he was warm anyway. "Yep. Someday it's gonna happen. I can feel it."

Thursday

"Today is the best day ever, Sam. Didya see them? Didya get a good look? Have you ever seen anything so beauuuuuutiful, Sam? Starbuxxxxxs. " Spot sang as he sprang out of Sam's backpack like the over-excited, over-caffeinated coffeepot-in-a-bag he was, and sat on his shoulder, cord curving down around his arm. Spot beamed at him beatifically. "Espresso. So that's what it tastes like."

Sam squinted against the sun and gnawed the chocolate off the extremely hard cookie they had given him. "I dunno. Still tastes like medicine to me."

It was dumb, giving a coffeepot coffee, but it wasn't exactly just a coffeepot. It was Spot. And Spot loved it. Sam had snuck a sip for himself and immediately regretted it. He couldn't help the face he had made, and even though the coffee lady had laughed at him, at least he'd gotten a free cookie out of the deal. He'd poured the rest of the tiny cup into Spot, and well.

Spot leaned against his neck, almost like he basking in the sun, the reflection getting in Sam's eyes.

"I'm telling ya, Sam, if I were a big brewing machine like that, I'd never worry about a thing again." Spot sighed. "I'd get cleaned everyday, and no one'd even think about binning me. Even if I did get a nick, I'd get fixed. Can you imagine that? And I'd just go on making esprrrrrrresso all day."

Sam threw a side-eye over his shoulder at Spot. He wasn't Dean, but that did not sound like an exciting day at all. He turned the corner into the motel's parking lot. "If you say so."

"I do." Spot patted him on the shoulder with his handle. "Fifteen years, and today is the best day ever. Perfect espresso, Sam. It's a skill, and I'm gonna learn it. Just you see. I'm magic, espresso's magic, it's a match made in Heaven...Hey. Was that car there when we left? "

Spot pointed towards the parking space in front of their motel room and oh ... crap.

"Crap. Crap! C'mon, get back in, get in." Sam hurriedly tossed the half-eaten cookie in his hand into the bushes and ducked around a corner before tugging his backpack halfway off and more than shoved a squirming Spot back into it. He glanced back at the Impala sitting in its parking space and yanked his jacket off, stuffing it in on top of Spot before yanking the zipper securely closed. "Stay still. And don't talk! "

The door to their motel room swung open.

"SAM THERE YOU ARE!"

Sam only breathed again when he saw it was Dean and not Dad standing in the doorway, both of Dean's eyebrows hiked up like what-the-hell, Sam, in a way that was clearly Dean buying him time.

"I was just..." Sam scrambled, because he was outside when he wasn't supposed to be, and there had to be some kinda excuse for it. He looked at Dean's mud caked boots and blurted the first thing that came to mind. "I was...doing some laundry!"

Dean stared, before Dean's eyes darted pointedly in the other direction, towards the back of the motel where the laundry room was. Right, he was coming off the street, which was totally the wrong direction.

"Right. LAUNDRY." Dean said loudly.

Sam hightailed it across the parking lot, and turned around just as Dad's tired face showed up over Dean's shoulder. "Thought I told you to stay in the room, Sammy."

"But Dad." Sam hefted his pack carefully, hoping the shape of his jacket made stuff look like actual laundry. "You also said you'd be back Sunday. I ran out of clothes."

"An order's an order, Sam. You should've washed your stuff in the sink."

"I spilled some chili on my jeans. It smelled really bad. I couldn't get it out." Sam tried. He could see Dean rolling his eyes when Dad couldn't see him, telling him his lies sucked balls.

Dad looked at him, hard and wary, the way Dad sometimes did. Sam pulled on the strap of his backpack and thought fervently and only about laundry, the way Dean had taught him to. He hoped he hadn't left his jeans out, though the way Dean was looking at him, he probably had. But maybe Dad hadn't noticed.

"Right. Well, get back in here. Now."

Dad disappeared back into the room. Sam gave Dean a look that was thank you and Dean gave him a look that was later, which meant Dean was going to find out what he'd been up to sooner or later. Sam crossed the room and eased his backpack off before dropping it carefully on the bed.

He turned to see Dean looking suspiciously at his full backpack. Which clearly Dean knew was not full of laundry.

"Did you find the witch?" Sam blurted, trying to change the subject. "Did you get her?"

Dad dragged a tired hand over his face. "No, Sammy. We didn't find the witch. But the word is she'll coming looking for her grimoire." Dad nodded towards the heavy leather book that Sam had carefully closed before he left. "So we're back so we can take that someplace before..."

"Too late." said a velvet voice from the door. Dad whipped around, gun already out in his hand. Dean took a step forward, blocking Sam's view of the action. Sam ducked down behind the bed and hid like he was supposed to, before he twitched and remembered Spot was still on the bed.

"Well well. If it isn't John Winchester. What luck." the witch purred. " I've been looking for you."

"Yeah?" Dad spit out. "Why's that?"

The witch laughed. "There's someone that wants to see you. So much so that they've put a very attractive bounty on your head."

He couldn't see Dad clearly from behind Dean's legs, but Sam could tell Dad tensed up.

"Who?" Dad barked at the witch.

"Oh I do love it when everything works out, because he's alsothe one you've been looking for." The witch purred.

Sam crawled carefully forward on his belly. All he could see around Dean's boots was a dark figure in the doorway, no pointy hat, no broomstick, and honestly, she was not at all what Sam expected. She didn't even look old. She looked more like his first first grade teacher Ms. Gunderson than anything else.

Though, Ms. Gunderson never had purple lightening crackling off her fingertips, so there was that.

The witch flicked her hand, and the purple lightening arced across the room, hitting Dad's gun, knocking it out of his hands. The lightening wrapped itself around Dad's wrists and pulled them upwards.

"DEAN!" Dad yelled.

Before Dean could even move, the witch flicked a finger at him. Dean's gun flew out of his hand and Dean went flying backwards into the wall with a smack, and landed hard on his butt, but Dean rolled to one side, and grabbed a knife out of his pack.

"Oh no, boy. None of that now." The witch murmured, and the murmur turned into a stream of words, one or two of which Sam recognized.

"Oh no." He said.

The witch gestured all around her without pausing in her chanting. "...animare et ad vitam, servire me solum... "

The lamp that was next to Dad shuddered, and stretched. With a horrible groan it unplugged itself from the wall outlet, and the long electrical cord flashed out. It overlapped the purple lightening, looping around Dad's feet and wrists, and tightening until Dad grimaced in pain. Across the room all the books started rising into the air, a whole pile of them like a book thundercloud, moving to hover over Dean's head. The sheets hissed and started untucking themselves, with the pillows taking to the air, floating after the books.

"Dean, get Sam and get out of here!" Dad was yelling.

Books started to rain down on Dean. Dean gave a pained "Ooof" as he tried to get to his feet.

"Dean! Watch out!" Sam yelled, because one of the sheets snaked out and wrapped itself around Dean's neck, and then a pillow sailed right onto Dean's face. Sam bolted out of his hiding spot, and grabbed onto the pillow suffocating Dean with both hands. He yanked as hard as he could, but the pillow just clamped down harder onto Dean's head.

"Dad, help!" He tried pulling harder, but Dean's movements were starting to slow down. A book thonked Sam on the head and it hurt but he didn't dare stop. His backpack rolled off the bed, and landed right by his feet. Sam tugged at the pillow harder.

"Spot." He panted. "Spot, I need help."

The zipper on his backpack unzipped itself. A sleeve of his jacket popped out, pushed awkwardly out of the way by Spot's spout. Spot rolled out, half tangled in his jacket, landing on to his back. Spot's eyes got real big as he took in all the flying books and hissing sheets.

"Crapola on a stick, Sam-ster. You get into the worst jams. " Spot dodged a book falling from somewhere over their heads. "You and me, we were magic, but, bud, it looks like you gotta be a suitcase now."

Before Sam could even ask what that meant, Spot gave a great big push with his handle and went tumbling across the across the room like a lumpy bowling ball, rolling right over the witch's foot. With a bang Spot's lid popped off, splashing steaming hot espresso all over the witch's feet.

The witch hissed in pain and yanked her foot up. She glared, before she gave one big kick that knocked Spot into the table.

"Dean!" Sam yanked on the pillow covering Dean's face harder, but he wasn't strong enough. "Dad!"

Sam looked around. Dad was still tied up by the lamp and he looked frantic. Dad's frightened eyes looked at him, then darted to the witch.

Who was looking right at him.

"My Boy King. I've found you." The witch singsonged, raising her hand, purple light crackling towards him before Sam could even dodge or lunge for Dean's gun.

A gleam of silver sailed across the room, hitting the witch on the head. Latching on to the top of the door, Spot swung back around, hitting the witch on the head again. The witch hissed, then Spot let go of the door, and wound his electrical cord around the witch's neck, once, twice. The witch raised her hands, sending purple lightening sparking off Spot's silver chrome, making black spots where they struck. Spot jerked, but his cord held, and as he went sailing around the witch's shoulder once again.

Now, Sam. Now!

It was Spot yelling at him-in his head? But Sam still didn't know what he was supposed to do. With his spout, Spot pointed at the witch's grimoire.

Sam looked at the book. In front of him Dean was batting weakly at the pillow muffling his breathing even as the hissing sheet wound tighter around his neck. Another bolt of purple hit Spot right on the nose, and Spot rippled all over. Spot stared right at him.

Sam-ster. Think. You gotta put everything back. C'mon kiddo, you know how. I know you can do it.

The reversal spell. Sam closed his eyes. He could almost see the words if he just concentrated.

"Redire ad morteum" he began, trying to remember, visualizing the page in his mind, "ad tenebras, ad profundum"

The witch shrieked, her spellwork recoiling on her as all the objects that had come to life in the room stopped and spun in place, caught between two opposing powers.

"ad nililumí" Sam opened his eyes and stared at Spot, balanced on the witch's shoulder, grabbing onto her hair with his handle. "esse nilhil, AD SOMNUM AETERNUM."

The air shuddered. Everything that had been floating suddenly clattered to the ground. Before Sam could even blink, Dean grabbed him and rolled them out of the way of the hailstorm of books that rained down on the floor. Sam pushed at Dean's weight on him, but Dean held tight, protecting him with his body. There was a great big clang as Dad ripped free of the lamp that was keeping him prisoner.

Sam squirmed and shoved at Dean. He could just see the witch in doorway, a bleeding cut on her angry face as she glared back at him. With a final hiss, she straightened and held her hand out, palm up and outstretched in a commanding gesture.

The heavy leather book with all the spells rose off the floor.

"No." Sam gasped. "NO." He pulled out of Dean's grasp with a mighty twist and tried to lunge for the book. He got about a foot when his chin hit the floor again, Dean tackling him back down onto the ground because Dean didn't understand, he didn't remember all the spells, he couldn't, and he still had to...

"Venire!" said the witch, and the book shot across the room into the witch's hand. She clutched it to her, the not-smile she sent Sam's way was cruel, like she knew why he wanted the book, before she turned and ran out the door.

"Dean!" Dad yelled, sweeping his gun off the floor in one smooth motion. "I've got to go after her!"

"Yeah, Dad! Go! Go! I got it!" Dean said from somewhere over Sam's head. "Go! I got this!"

Dad's footsteps thundered out the door. Sam could hear the Impala start up, but he didn't care. He tried to wriggle out of Dean's tackle. He shoved at Dean as hard as he could, desperate. "Dean, let me up. Lemme up lemme up lemme up you gotta lemme up."

He had to see.

Dean loosened his grip and like a shot, Sam scrambled across the room. The floor was covered with stuff. He pushed aside blankets and cushions until in the corner under the table he saw a gleam of silver.

He reached out, and pushed aside the pizza box that Spot was half buried under.

"No. No no no no no no."

Sam dropped to his knees and reached out with both hands. With careful fingers he touched the great big dent in Spot's side.

"Spot?"

Spot's metal skin was cold. Sam rubbed at the dent like he could erase it with his fingertips.

"Sammy?" Dean asked from behind him.

He scooped Spot up, not caring that Dean saw. He ran his fingers over Spot's handle and spout. "Spot? C'mon, Spot. Please. Spot!"

Spot didn't wriggle in protest like he usually did. He didn't make a sound, and he wasn't warm to the touch like he usually was. He was cold like a coffeepot that had been unplugged for a long time. Spot's cord was frayed where the witch had ripped it off.

Sam looked up at Dean, holding Spot up with both hands like Dean could fix it.

"He's dented."

"Yeah, Sam, I can see that." Dean said carefully.

"No, you don't understand! HE'S DENTED!" Sam sucked in a great big gasp of air, and before he could control it turned into a sniff that turned into a wracking sob, and he couldn't help it at all when he burst into tears.

"Hey! Hey! Hey!"

He could feel Dean's hands on his shoulder, Dean tugging him in close, Dean's arms coming around him, pulling him into a hug, the coffeepot stuck between them like a great big lump of cold metal. Sam sucked in a breath, then another, because he couldn't explain without explaining, and he knew it was just a coffeepot, but the sobs kept coming and he couldn't seem to stop.

"Hey." Dean pushed him back a little, looking into his face, then thoughtfully down at the coffeepot. "You know, I was looking for that when we got back. It wasn't in the room."

Sam gulped. Then sniffled. He wrapped his hands protectively around the dented pot in his arms.

Dean studied him for a minute. Then Dean glanced over by the bed, at his now open and empty backpack before he looked back.

"Coulda sworn you were talking to someone too, when that pillow was on my face."

Sam gulped, but then he sobbed louder. He clutched the coffeepot to himself.

Dean sighed.

"You gonna tell me what happened?"

Sam opened his mouth, and he tried to make the word coffeepot come out, and he couldn't. His throat hurt, his eyes hurt, and his face hurt. He smelled like espresso.

"Right. This have something to do with the mumbo jumbo I heard you chantin' after the Attack of the Sheets?"

Sam winced. "It was something in that book."

Dean studied him again, the way Dean did when Dean was workin' stuff out. Dean shook his head. "Figures. I forgot to take you to the library."

Sam sniffed. "You were busy."

"Yeah, and I forgot." Dean rubbed the back of his neck, before he reached out and touched the coffeepot in Sam's arms with a careful finger. "Look. How about we...put your coffeepot back in your backpack before Dad comes back. He's gonna expect this to be cleaned up." Dean looked around the wreck of the room. "And you're giving me a hand." Dean stepped back and flicked at the pizza box. "Hey Sam."

"What?"

"You know. We could probably wedge your pot under the driver's seat if you want. Dad won't notice. Not for a while. Least not 'til we get to Bobby's."

Sam looked up.

Dean busied himself picking up the couch cushions. "And you know, maybe we can get Bobby to take a look at it. Maybe buff out that dent. Bobby's good at stuff like that."

Sam took a breath. "Yeah? We can do that?"

"Yeah, Sam." Dean righted a chair and stuck it back by the table. "Look, I know it's not gonna be the same, but you know, we can leave it with Bobby. He'll find a place for it."

Sam took another deep breath. "He will?"

"Yeah." Dean said, and Dean sounded sure. "You know Bobby. He's got stuff all over. Fixes it up, too. I'm sure he'll think of something."

"I don't think..." Sam stopped, because he didn't think a talking coffeepot was what Bobby usually had around the house. Though he'd run into a couple things at Bobby's that definitely seemed like they wanted to talk. "I mean..."

Dean looked up. "Hey. Whatever it was, Bobby'll keep an eye on it, yeah?"

"He won't throw it out?"

"We'll tell him it's special. Ask him to hang on to it for us. You know he will."

Sam did. It was one of the cool things about going to Bobby's. "Hey, Dean."

"Yeah?"

"Didja ever think about maybe...not being a hunter?"

Dean stopped what he was doing. "Not hunting? What are you even talkin' about, Sam?"

Sam opened his mouth, and closed it. "Nah, nothing. I mean. I guess we're doin' good, right?"

"Yeah we're doin' good, Sam. Did ya get a look at that witch? I mean." Dean made a clawing motion of evil with one hand, and Sam didn't know if that meant the witch had been eating babies or what, but he remembered the cruelty in the witch's expression on her way out the door. He nodded.

"It's just sometimes...why'd the witch call me her Boy King, Dean?"

Dean glanced at him, and Sam didn't know how to explain the feeling in his gut. That maybe things would better if he wanted to be storage and not a suitcase. It was just the way Dad looked at him sometimes.

"Hey." Dean came back over and put a hand on his shoulder. "You know what, Dad's not going be back tonight. Whadya say we blow this mess and go to the library and get you some books now, hmm? And we can stop off at the DQ on the way back, get an ice cream. The cashier there is really hot." Dean waggled his eyebrows. "How 'bout it?"

Sam bit his lip. "K. Yeah. That sounds good. Lemme just..." He wrapped Spot protectively in his jacket and tucked him securely into his backpack, shielding Spot from Dean's scrutiny. He couldn't tell Dean about it just yet. But maybe someday he would. "Hey Dean?"

"What?"

"I...thanks. I mean...I... just thanks."

He half expected Dean to tell him to knock it off with the Disney princess stuff. But all Dean did was reach over and give his shoulder another squeeze.

"You got it, Sammy. Anytime. You got it."