"Well," The Doctor called out as the Tardis shuddered to a stop.
"We'll be waiting for you."
Sam nodded, "Yeah. Be right back," grabbing his bag and gun, pushing open the doors before him.
He frowned to himself as he made his way out the door, across the cement yard, through the pools of icy, crackling light poured out by the utility lights. He ducked through the gate, the padlock which he'd cut open rattling against the chain link as he passed.
A few quick strides carried him across the gravel to the Impala, which sat, silent, gleaming in the moonlight, grabbing the keys from his pocket as he walked.
"Okay," he said to himself, turning the key in the lock to the trunk. He reached in, grabbing a duffel that held two handguns and the ammo, and put his shotgun back, knowing full well it would be useless against a demon, its size only serving as an encumbrance.
He opened a box that sat in one corner of the trunk, lifting out two pairs of handcuffs. He put these in the bag with the guns, sighing as he slammed the trunk shut.
He felt something inside him, only in the strangest of ways, from handling the guns, the manacles, which he and Dean had used so many times before together. His mind flashed to Dean, so many moments, so many times, throughout their lives. The Impala itself seemed so empty, so dead, without him in it, belting out the same 5 albums worth of rock, whining about wanting pie, heckling Sam, and cracking one-off jokes.
The jokes, the greasy food, the late nights and crushingly early mornings, the thousands upon thousands of miles spent sitting in those leather seats.
He paused, leaning against the side of the car, caught up in his recollections.
"I'm going to get you back," he whispered to himself. "I promise you."
With that, he hefted the bag of weapons, trodding back over the broken asphalt he'd crossed to the Tardis.