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She might’ve driven by the bunker, except Sam’s standing outside waiting for her, a long block of blue and green. “Hey, Sam. You look –“ awful, she thinks, bags under his eyes and several days’ stubble poking through waxy skin “ – it’s great to see you, Sam.”
“Good to see you too, Jody.” He pushes a heavy door into its rock and holds it open silently as she walks through.
They’d undersold the sanctum sanctorum, by a long shot. Maps of the world and secrets of the universe wrap around antique furniture, in good enough shape for day-to-day use. A warm, comfortable step up from that gas-guzzling musclemobile.
"How about something to drink?"
"No, thanks, I'm good." Her mind catches up with her mouth. "And...that wasn't a request. Sure, Sam, whatever you need to do." She holds her hands out in front of herself, palms up, then palms down.
He hands her a silver knife and watches her flinch as she cuts herself. "I'm sorry, Jody."
"Don't be. Just hand over the holy water." He does. "Cheers." She gags a little on the salt. "What couldn't you tell me over the phone?"
"Last one, I promise," he says, then stoops down and slaps the seat of the chair next to him.
His palm comes up sticky and red.
He waves with the other hand. "No, it's fine."
It's probably not, but she nods anyway. "Did I pass?"
“Yeah, you passed.” He smiles a little, which she notices perhaps more sharply than she should, and waves her over to a cluster of upholstered reading chairs. “Thanks for coming.”
“Anytime, Sam, you know that. Think Annie wanted me out of her hair for the weekend anyway.”
“How’s she doing?”
“More good days than bad days. Especially lately.”
“You must be glad.”
And she is smiling, all pride and joy. “Well, that’s less me and more Irene.”
“Irene, huh?”
“She thinks I don’t know. I figure a little bit of normal drama’s not the worst thing in the world for her.” Sam flashes another smile down at his hands, one that would’ve convinced her a year or so ago. “Not that I wouldn’t have come down just to catch up, but things sounded a little more urgent than that.”
“I’m afraid they are.”
“What’s going on, Sam? Where’s Dean?”
Sam grits his teeth. “Dean’s gone.”
“Gone like –“ Sam closes his eyes, she doesn’t want to push, but it’s not the time for tact “ – Sam, is Dean dead?”
“No. Yeah. It’s complicated.”
“I’m getting that,” she says as gently as she can. “Honey, you gotta let me help.”
Sam gasps, gasps like she’s letting go of his throat instead of leaning forward to touch his knee, and splays a hand over his eyes. “Dean’s a demon.”
Her jaw drops. She composes herself before he can see, but he’s can’t see her; he’s busy barreling through his own walls. “Dean’s a fucking demon, he died and he came back and then he ran, I let Crowley escape, Cas is in the frigging wind, I don’t even know if he’s….”
The last thing he needs is for her to waste time with the dumb questions (who’s Cas, for one), but those seem to be less than evitable, given the circumstances. “Can we start a little closer to the beginning?”
Sam tells her a disjointed story, one that sounds like someone mashed up the Old Testament and the Sunday morning comics section, about angry angels and heroic prophets and holy wars and Cain and Abel and Cain, Cain, Cain….
“Dean is with Cain? That Cain?”
“Maybe, but it’s more like – like he is Cain, in some ways.”
That Cain is distinctive in only one way. “Sam. What’d he do to you?”
There’s another story, one about a brand and a blade and a knight who’s a queen, details that start to coalesce around the cold front of rage that she’d so vehemently deflected away from Ann.
“So he juiced up on energy from Cain the superdemon, and when he got an injury that would’ve killed a human, he turned into a demon?”
Sam opens his mouth and closes it, brought to silence by her many omissions, no doubt. “More or less, yeah.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.”
She takes stock of the things he hasn’t said. “On account of shit being topsy-turvy, I’m going to let go of the question I asked. For now.” He looks away from her. “When did this happen?”
“Which thing?”
She doesn’t know how to say it any better than he did. “When was Dean injured?”
“Yesterday? Uh, Monday.”
“Monday wasn’t yesterday, Sam. It’s Friday.” The scattered books and upended boxes on the table look less homey and more frenzied.
“Oh.”
“It’s alright,” she says, though it’s anything but. “What can I do to help?”
“Hm?” He starts to sag under the weight of the last four days.
“You called me and said you wanted help. You said you’d tell me when I got here.”
“There was something. I – don’t remember what, though. Jesus, I called you here for nothing, I’m sorry.”
“How about, when you do something you need to apologize for, I’ll let you know.”
He nods.
“Tell you what. You’re going to take a shower, and you’re going to get some sleep while I do a little warding and a little cleaning. And then we’ll figure something out.”
“Are you sure you can stay?”
She puts a hand on her hip and unfolds old, cheery confidence she hasn’t worn in years. “I don’t want to see you for another four hours. At least. No, leave the laptop. March.”
“Jody, I –
“Sam, I promise.” She’s not sure what she’s promising, exactly, but Sam’s shoulders relax a little, and she’ll keep her promise. She always does.