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At three o’clock in the morning, Sam finally gives up on sleep.
Rubbing a hand over his scratchy eyes, he eases himself out of his bed. He’s been reading a bit of Dickens lately, but he thinks that if he tries to get through a few more chapters, he’s just going to make his headache worse. The copy of A Tale of Two Cities stays untouched on his bedside table.
His socks have a hole in them, which he discovers by the shock of cold in his heel when he puts it down on the bunker’s freezing floor. Sam changes out his socks for a new pair and sets a reminder on his phone to go out and buy some new ones sometime when Lucifer’s son isn’t running terrified across the Earth with uncontrollable powers.
Sam heads into the kitchen and sets about making a pot of tea, careful not to slam the cupboards and wake Dean. At least one of them has been sleeping better lately.
It’s just—
He can’t get the thought out of his head. Mom, trapped in a parallel world with a Lucifer with absolutely nothing to lose. He can’t sleep properly knowing that at this very moment, he could be ripping her to pieces.
Slowly. He was good at that.
Sam pours his mug and sits down at the uncomfortable bench, closing his eyes as he tightens his grip on his cup. When he opens them again, Dean blinks down at him, his dead guy robe tied loosely around his waist.
“The cupboards,” Dean explains. “They echo.”
Sam forces a smile. “I tried to keep them quiet. Sorry.”
Dean gives him that look, the one he practically wore 24/7 when he’d been hallucinating all those years ago. Trapped somewhere between sympathy and a total lack of understanding—he knows the pain is there, but he doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how to take it away.
“We’ll find him. You’ll work your reverse image Google search magic with our half of the spell and we’ll work something out. Or, hey, maybe he’ll change his mind and come back on his own.”
Sam sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”
Silence. He sips his tea to fill it, even though it hasn’t had a chance to steep properly yet.
“Okay. Something’s eating you.”
He’s just gotten this version of his brother back, the version that takes pride in their work, that drinks a little more excessively than the average person but at least doesn’t leave empty beer bottles strewn about his room. He doesn’t want to burst his bubble, but—
“I can’t stop thinking about Mom.”
He expects Dean to snap like he did back before they got Cas back and insist that she’s gone, there’s nothing they can do about it. Instead, he gets up and pours himself a mug of hot water. When he drops a teabag in without even complaining about how Sam finished the last of the instant coffee this morning, Sam knows he’s trying to be sympathetic.
“I know you’ve been feeling like we won because we got Cas back, but I can’t, not yet,” he continues, shaking his head.
“It is a win!”
Sam sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know it is. But—”
Dean looks at him, prompting.
“I care about Cas. And I know he cares about me, too. But I’ve never been close to him like you are, you know that.”
Dean shakes his head. “Of course you’re close—”
“You know that,” Sam repeats.
His hands tighten on the mug without his permission. He’s almost afraid he’s going to shatter the ceramic under his grip.
“He calls you. He always calls you. And yeah, he picks up when I call, but that’s everyone, isn’t it? Kevin, Charlie, Claire. Even Mom.”
Dean takes a sip of his tea, grimaces, and puts the drink down. “She was scared of you, Sam.”
Sam stares. “Um. What?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean shakes his head. “And that demon called you the smart one. Sam, with me, she had somewhere to start. And yeah, four years isn’t a lot, but she had somewhere to stand. You were a baby.”
“I know that!”
Dean holds up a hand. “Not done. She knew her deal with Azazel had ruined your life. She thought that you might blame her, even if it was only subconscious. So she wanted to give you space, and when she started giving you space, she couldn’t stop.”
Sam glances down at his hands. “You think that?”
He nods. “She told me.”
Dean gets up and dumps his tea in the sink. He rinses his cup, dries it off, and places it back in the cabinet. He’s always after Sam for leaving mugs all over the bunker when he gets too caught up in his research.
“You really think she’s okay out there?” Dean asks.
Sam lets out a hollow laugh. “Okay might be stretching it.”
Dean rephrases. “Do you think she’s alive?”
He nods, tight. Lucifer wouldn’t kill her, not right away, anyway. He’d toy with her, first, and he has a lot of patience. Sam knows exactly how long it takes to bleed out if it’s done carefully.
“She’s Mom,” Sam says. “She’s tough. She handle it.”
Dean wipes his wet hands on his robe. “We’ll find her, Sam.”
He has to believe it.
“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Mary asks as Michael’s goons secure her in the cage…thingy.
She doesn’t know what to call it, actually, but that’s probably for the best. Can’t fear what you can’t name, right? Or is it the other way around?
“And you,” Michael returns, “are far more trouble than you’re worth, Mary Winchester.”
He gives the cage a nudge. Mary jerks a hand forward to stop herself from falling back on the spike imbedded in the thing. Okay. This guy is not screwing around.
“For the last time, I’m not with him, okay? Lucifer and I? Not pals. He tortured my son for…well, I don’t know how long exactly, but—”
Michael shoves the cage again. Mary lurches forward.
“I think I like you better when you’re not talking. Unless there’s something you want to tell me.”
And with that, he spins on his heel and marches out the door. Mary wonders briefly if he practices his dramatic exits in a mirror.
“Get me out of here!” she yells, slamming her hand on the front of the contraption.
The boys are coming for her. Surely they wouldn’t leave her here.
She has to believe it.