"I'm glad you aren't a normie, Sam," said Charlene, sounding genuinely grateful. She turned and walked out of the room, returning with Sam's shirt. She tossed it to him, saying, "It's 5am, let's get this date on the road!"
"Is this a date?" Sam smirked, tugging his shirt over his head.
"Sam, " she replied flatly, "we played Galaga, drank rum, ate hot dogs, and listened to the fucking Cure."
"Well, when you put it that way…"
Charlene locked the door and then excitedly ran down the flight of stairs as she pulled on her sweatshirt. Sam slowly followed, gingerly taking each stair to avoid worsening his injury. Charlene met him outside, hands deep in her sweatshirt pockets, bright eyes muted by the early dawn light. Despite her best efforts to subdue her excitement, Sam could see she was bouncing in place, ever so slightly.
"I get to ride in the car again!" she exclaimed suddenly while pumping her fist into the air, no longer able to contain herself.
"Believe me, it gets old after awhile," Sam countered with a smile.
She lowered his fist and pointed directly at Sam. "Don't ruin this for me, Sammy."
Sam put his hands up in deference and winced.
Charlene bounded over to him and narrowed her eyes. "You really fucked yourself up, didn't you? Why did you even try that jump?"
Sam shrugged. "I wanted a hot dog?"
"Oh, come on. You really thought I would've withheld your hot dog?"
Sam sighed inaudibly. "I didn't want to disappoint you. To have you think less of me."
"Next time I ask you to do something stupid, Sammy, don't do it just because I want you to," she said with an air of authority betrayed by a goofy smile. "Do it because YOU want to do the stupid thing, you know, for your own... edification." She slowly, carefully brought her hand down to touch Sam's backside and he jerked away reflexively. She froze in place, hand inches away, and looked up at Sam with concern.
"Eh," he grimaced, "it's fine. I've had worse. Way worse, actually."
Charlene ever so slowly, lightly poked Sam's butt, never breaking eye contact. Sam hissed in pain.
"Uh, I think you should let me take a look at that," she said with genuine concern.
"Nah, it's not that bad, really. It just hurts worse now that I'm not drunk anymore."
Her raised eyebrow said more than words could.
"Okay, okay," he conceded. "I'll let you take a look when we get back to-"
"THE MAGICAL BUNKER!" she exclaimed slowly, waving her hands broadly overhead like the spreading of a rainbow.
Sam chuckled. "I think you are getting your hopes too high. The realities of magic are less exciting than the idea of it."
"Need me to get some frozen carrots for the road?" she offered, thumbing back toward the building.
"Dean would be pissed if I leaked carrot water all over his 'Baby'," Sam cautioned with a smile. "C'mon, let's go! I'll show you the trunk."
"Wait, what's in the trunk?" Charlene asked, wide-eyed.
They walked back over to the bar and there was the Impala, parked right where Sam had left it. He walked around to the back and Charlene followed, wiggling like an excited toddler. Sam leaned down to pop the trunk, and then stopped.
"What? What's up, Sam?" Charlene asked impatiently.
"It's just…" he trailed off. This part, this wasn't magical, he realized. This part was scary. The trunk was filled with weapons, with instruments of torture and death. This is the point in the story where the heroine comes to her senses and realizes she's about the get into the car with a maniac, he thought to himself. But I told her I'd show her everything. He cleared his throat and raised the lid.
Charlene stood there in silence, silence that scared Sam more than any werewolf ever could. The predawn was quiet, and Sam could hear her draw measured breaths in and out, in and out. There in the trunk were carefully organized knives, machetes, shotguns, handguns, material spell components, and lots and lots of salt and kerosene.
Finally, she slowly turned her head toward Sam, eyes narrowed, light gone. His heart fell straight down, through the ground, deep into the earth. She blinked once, twice, then reached over and clasped Sam's hand tightly in her own.
"I know not all stories are happy, Sam," she said softly, face slackening. "I expected this," she said, gesturing to the contents of the trunk. "I didn't expect…" she trailed off, searching for words. Then she squeezed Sam's hand again and maintained it. "I didn't expect to feel this sad. Sad for you."
Sam felt overcome with shame. His jaw clenched and eyes moistened as he struggled to appear strong.
"There is still wonder in this, the 'realities of magic' as you say. This," she gestured to the contents of the trunk again, "humanizes you. You're just a man doing a job with the tools at your disposal. A job that you hate and love, that has taken things from you that you will never get back. Your story might be a tragedy, Sammy, and… and I think that's lovely." She looked away from Sam and back to the trunk, not softening her grip on Sam's hand even slightly.
They stood like that for a while, but Sam didn't know what to say, so he just leaned in and kissed her on the ear, soft and sad. She shivered, and released his hand in favor of sidling up alongside of him to guide it around her waist. She rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. "I wanna show you something." She reached around her belt with her free hand, loosed her kerambit from its sheath and held it out in front of her, in front of Sam.
"I got this when I moved out here. Thought I might have a use for it, being out here alone, not knowin' anyone. I imagined danger and intrigue and weird inbred hillbilly murder families, and it turns out the scariest person I've met out here besides my mom is... you." She re-sheathed the weapon and turned her gaze back to Sam, all glittering blue eyes and a sly, half-smile.
Suddenly, Sam was kissing her, blinking back tears, hands clasping her shoulders tight as if to confirm her corporeality. She was real, this was real, not some fiction or imagining. He knew how tragedies ended. He hoped to God she was wrong.