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Bobby and Sam pull into the drive that leads to the burned-out shell that was once Bobby’s home. The place where Sam and Dean could once turn to when they needed to regroup and lick their wounds. The place that once was the only occasional island of stability Sam knew other than the Impala. Now all that’s left is the remains from a funeral pyre of their memories, and a few sad, dilapidated out buildings and stacks of old junkers.
Sam knows that Bobby’s reason for asking him to come with him is just a pretext to give Dean a break. Despite his best attempts to put Dean at ease, to hide the horror show that’s going on in his head, the worry lines are becoming permanently etched in Dean’s forehead and he’s barely let Sam out of his sight since his reunion with Amy. Sam had thought they were okay, Dean agreeing to trust his judgment in the matter, even letting Sam drive the Impala out to Spokane. But Dean’s professed acceptance that Sam was managing his hallucinations was belied by the constant tension just below the surface. Dean’s anxiety didn’t escape Bobby, who finally sent him off by himself to collect some of the copies of books he’d stashed in various safehouses, while Bobby took Sam to Sioux Falls because he ‘needed a strong back’ to help him here. They don’t talk about the real purpose of their expeditions. They don’t have to. Sam knows.
So here they are, Bobby and Sam, back at Singer Salvage to, ironically, salvage whatever they can from what’s left. And to give Dean a vacation from the burden of his ‘beautiful mind’ little brother. He trudges along behind Bobby, helping him lift, haul, and dig. The physical work keeps his mind from drifting to dark places; the constant pain in his gimp hand from gripping a shovel keeps Lucifer at bay—until the head of the shovel breaks off when he strikes a buried wooden box to crack it open.
Sam can’t quite suppress a wince when Lucifer appears behind Bobby and shoves an awl through the back of his skull and out his right eye. Bobby doesn’t notice, of course; he just stares at Sam like Sam’s lost his— well. Sam digs into his palm to dispel the illusion, and Bobby gives him that look, the one loaded with pity and a hint of caution.
“S’okay Sam, just grab another one from the tool shed.”
The soft tone makes him cringe, like Bobby thinks he’s a land mine ready to go off at the slightest hint of pressure. He just nods and heads off to find a replacement.
As he makes his way through the husks of cars littering the property, Sam can’t help reminiscing about the place, way back before he knew what ran through his veins. He sees the spot where he liked to play in the dirt with toy trucks as a child, building roads for little Lego people. Over there, the place where Bobby had buried “treasure” for him to find so he could pretend to be an archeologist. The old wood-paneled station wagon Bobby had cleared out for him, where he went to read when he needed some quiet. The back yard of where the house once stood, where Bobby had helped him build a snowman to keep his mind off of worrying about Dean and Dad, who had been overdue coming back from a hunt.
Sam pushes the door to the tool shed open and flicks on the light, surprised that the electricity hasn’t been turned off yet.
“Now this brings back memories, doesn’t it Sam?” Lucifer murmurs as they enter. Sam ignores him and starts looking for a shovel, or maybe a crowbar to break open the pine box. When he sees the chair in the corner, the images start hitting Sam full force, in excruciating detail.
Cornering Bobby in a closet, hammering through the door with an axe to get to him.
“I mean, it's not like I want to kill you. You've been nothing but good to me.” An insincere expression of regret.
Escaping the basement and setting a trap for Bobby like he was hunting a rabbit. Clubbing Bobby on the head, dragging him into the shed.
Bobby begging for his life, desperately trying to reach some part of him that might care. “I've been like a father to you, boy. Somewhere inside, you've got to know that!”
Aiming the knife at Bobby’s throat, raising it for the killing strike.
“Now those were some good times.”
Sam stops, frozen, guilt welling up inside him, filling his heart, his lungs, his throat. Drowning him. He’d known what he had almost done to Bobby from Cas’ objective summary, but the memory of what actually happened, from his own point of view, leaves him stunned, breath caught in his throat. The act itself wasn’t even the worst part; it’s what he felt at the time.
No. It’s what he didn’t feel.
No remorse, no pity for the man who took them in and gave them a home when their father left them for days, weeks, at a time. No mercy for the man who pulled their asses out of the frying pan countless times, who was always there for them no matter what. Sam sinks to the floor, shaking, fighting down nausea.
“You mean Dean.”
Lucifer is leaning against some rusted metal shelving, examining the non-existent dirt under his non-existent fingernails. “He was always there for Dean. Playing catch with Dean. Helping Dean fix his Baby. Listening to Dean bitch about you. Helping Dean shove your mangled, gooey little soul back in.”
He’ll kill me to get that other guy back.
“Shut up.”
“But you were right not to want it back, weren’t you? Castiel, Crowley, Balthazar, they all warned you what would happen, and Dean and Bobby didn’t care. Why should they? They weren’t the ones who were gonna be locked in their own melons watching 250 channels of Hell, were they? Remember what it was that Bobby said next?”
I don't want to blow your legs out, boy, but I will.
“That’s right. Just like a father to you? Really? Oh, wait. Your real father wanted to put a bullet in you, too, so I guess he got that part right.”
“Shut up!”
“Hey, what do you think it would have been like, if big brother hadn’t happened by when he did? I bet it would go something like this…”
Sam pulls Bobby’s head back to expose his throat, holds the point of the knife over the target. He raises the knife, plunges it down, and the razor-sharp blade glides effortlessly through the hollow at the base of Bobby’s throat, penetrates the trachea, slides easily through the esophagus, and severs the spinal cord at the top of thoracic curve. A nice, clean cut.
Professional.
Blood gurgles up just like one of those fountains at a fancy restaurant where people would throw in a coin, make a wish.
“Stop!” Sam wants to reach for his palm, longs to feel that sharp sting of pain to ground him, bring him back to reality, but he can’t move, can’t make his arms work, can’t feel his body. But there is something he can do to banish the vision.
He can remember something else.
“What, you’d rather think about our time together instead? I think we can accommodate that.”
Flames licking higher as his skin blackens and bubbles, his eyes melting from their sockets—
Hooks on the end of a flail embedding themselves in his flesh, ripping small chunks away piece by piece by piece—
Shoots sprouting up from the ground, piercing his back, his arms, his legs, his skull, growing up through his body and out the other side, blooming red roses, thorns shredding flesh from the inside—
“Tell you what, Sammy. I’ll be generous today. You pick.”
******
“Sam! Could use a little help over here!” Bobby calls out vaguely in the direction of the shed. He waits for a response, but gets only crickets.
“Sam!” He calls louder. Again, no response. “Dammit.”
Bobby heads out of the bay, last used by Dean to restore the paint job on the Impala. He looks around for Sam, wondering how he can possibly lose track of a man that big. He tracks back towards the ashes of his house, through the maze of old wrecks, and he sees the door to the tool shed hanging open. Thinking the worst, he readies his shotgun and pushes his way in, half expecting to see a Leviathan chomping down on Sam.
He finds Sam sitting on the floor against a wall, thankfully in one piece, and Bobby lowers the gun as his gut unclenches.
“Sam, thank God. What the hell are you—” Bobby cuts himself off.
Sam may be in one piece, but he ain’t okay. Not by a long shot.
His eyes are open, staring at something only he can see, wide with fear. Like that time Bobby found him in the basement, before they knew about the hallucinations, brandishing a wrench like he was fending off a hellhound. Bobby knew something was off then, but he was too damn busy worrying about a potentially exploding angel to put two-and-two together. Sam’s got that same look of terror on his face now, and God only knows what he’s seeing to spook him like that.
Bobby kneels down next to him, lightly smacks Sam’s cheek a few times to try to bring him around.
“Sam! C’mon back, kid!”
He thought Sam had been making pretty remarkable progress, cutting way back on the number of times he’d stare distantly off into space, or look sharply towards a corner while pressing into the palm of his hand. Whatever the hell set Sam off this badly just from walking into a shed was a mystery. It’s just a damned tool shed that Sam’s been in dozens of times.
Sam doesn’t respond, doesn’t even blink. A tear escapes his eye and rolls down the side of his face. Not knowing what else to do, Bobby takes hold of Sam’s left hand, eyeing the angry red lines of the healing cuts in his palm.
“Sorry, kid.”
Bobby presses down hard, and Sam spasms and sucks in a gasping breath. He blinks a few times and finally focuses on Bobby’s face.
“Bobby?” Sam looks like he’s seeing a ghost.
“Yeah, Sam. It’s me. Welcome back.”
Sam’s eyebrows press together slightly, eyes shining. The kid always plays his cards close to the vest, never lets on what was really going on deep down, but Bobby knows this expression. It’s the same one he wore when the demon wearing Bobby told him to lose his number.
“Oh God, Bobby. What I almost did to you—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Bobby finally connects the dots. The last time Sam was in here was when the T-1000 version of him had tried to kill Bobby for the spell to keep his soul locked out of his body.
You stupid, stupid jackass, Bobby castigates himself silently.
The memory was bad enough for Bobby, being the would-be victim, and it had taken weeks before he could be around Sam without getting that prickly feeling on the back of his neck. After that idjit angel spilled the beans to Sam, the kid avoided eye contact with Bobby, walked around like a dog with its tail between its legs, constantly found excuses to make himself scarce. And that was when Sam couldn’t even remember it.
Bobby and Dean were so focused on Sam’s flashbacks from Hell, they’d never given a thought to the year and a half of Robo-Sam’s Best Of getting slammed back into his noggin. What the hell was he thinking, sending Sam back into a place that probably shook that gem of a memory loose?
Bobby extends his hand to help Sam up. “That’s water under the bridge,” Bobby says, his voice tighter than he means it to be. “Let’s get you outta here.”
They keep gathering up weapons Bobby had stashed in various outbuildings, which he had done along with installing the trap door outside his closet in the aftermath of the zombie assault. No one gets the best of him twice on his own damn property. They work in tense silence for a while, Sam hunched over and keeping his gaze carefully away from Bobby’s face. It’s obvious that his soulless memories are still eating away at the kid, but it’s hard for either of them to know what to say. All Bobby knows is that if they don’t clear the air soon, Sam’s headed for another backslide. And there’s no telling if Bobby’s going to be able to bring him out of it next time.
Sure enough, it’s not long before Sam drops a bunch of silver blades on the ground without warning, looks at Bobby’s chest, flinches, and starts digging into his palm again.
That tears it.
“Sam, time for a break.”
Bobby takes off his hat to wipe his brow, stalling to gear himself up for an awkward talk. He grabs a couple of beers out of the cooler, hands one to Sam and nods towards a ’68 Malibu.
“Have a seat.”
Sam plants himself on the expansive hood of the car, cracks open the can and looks up at Bobby. And, damn, Bobby’s looking at a six-foot-four man who once decapitated a vamp with razor wire, but all he can see is that lonely nine-year-old kid. Bobby cracks open his own beer and hops up next to Sam. They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, nursing their El Sols. Finally, Bobby takes in a deep breath and lets out a sigh.
“Look, I ain’t gonna lay some bullshit on you like I know what you’ve been goin’ through, ‘cause I don’t. What I do know is that you’re already carrying enough that you don’t need to be draggin’ around a trunk load of extra guilt on top of it. You gotta let that go, you hear me?”
Sam nods, takes a swig from his can. “I do, but… I remember it like it just happened. I can’t just… I don’t know how you can ever forgive something like that. I don’t know how we get past this.”
“I’ll tell you how: ‘cause I let it go. I forgave you a long time ago." Bobby pauses, takes a draw on his beer. It's about time he admits the truth to himself as well as Sam. “And, truth be told, ‘cause it wasn’t entirely your fault.”
Sam gives him an incredulous look. “Bobby, it wasn’t like I was possessed, it was me—"
“Yeah, it was you. But it wasn’t all of you, it wasn’t the part that matters. And you didn’t do it for kicks, or because you were evil. You did it because you were staring down the gullet of something that could destroy you, and Dean and I wouldn’t listen. We were so caught up in getting the old Sam back, we didn’t want to think about the consequences. We told you everything’d be fine, and it wasn’t.
Listen to me, Sam. You’re not the only one that needs forgiving. We did this to you. And I’m sorry.”
Sam takes a minute to process this, shifting uncomfortably at first, but finally relaxes a bit and nods. “Okay... but you don't owe me an apology.” Sam meets his eyes for the first time since his wall came down. “You didn’t do this to me, Bobby.” Sam looks off to the side again. “He did.”
Lucifer, Sam doesn’t have to say.
Can't argue with that.
“Now I’d like to end this couple’s therapy session as much as you, but there’s something else I gotta say.” Bobby puts down his beer, slides off the car and he turns to face Sam directly. This has been years in coming, and if Sam ever needed to hear this, it’s now.
“We’ve been treatin’ you like a kid, underestimating you your whole life. But what you’re capable of, Sam—hell, you beat the Devil. I never thought you had a snowball’s chance, but you did it. I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t believe in you at first, and I ain’t ever makin’ that mistake again.” Bobby holds out his hand. Sam puts down his own beer and takes the offered hand to pull himself off of the hood.
There’s one more thing that’s long overdue that Bobby aims to fix. After Sam had gotten his soul back, he’d squeezed the stuffing out of Bobby in pure joy when he realized that Bobby was actually alive. But what Bobby had given Sam in return was perfunctory, tense, forced, like the hug someone gives a distant relative at a wedding because it’s expected. Not exactly the welcome that Sam deserved after saving the world and being tortured in Hell for God knows how long as his reward. Bobby uses Sam’s momentum to pull the kid into a hug, a real one, and Sam grunts in surprise.
“I’m proud of you, kid.” It occurs to Bobby that he doesn’t call Sam ‘son’ like he does with Dean. With Sam it’s always ‘kid’ or ‘boy’. Never ‘son’.
“I’m so damned proud of you… son.”
Sam tightens his grip on Bobby in return, holds onto him like Bobby’s the only thing keeping him from being pulled under by a riptide.
“And you listen to me, Sam. You’re strong, you’ll make it through this. But bein’ strong don’t mean you gotta do it alone. Okay?”
“Okay.” They break apart, and Sam looks him in the eye. Even smiles a bit. “Thanks Bobby.”
They spend the long drive back to Rufus’ cabin in Montana reminiscing about snowmen and buried treasure and their favorite (non-lore) books, and Bobby tells Sam the most embarrassing stories he can remember about Dean from when he was a kid.
They're most of the way back when Sam realizes that it's been hours since Lucifer has put in an appearance. He wonders if pain isn't the only way to banish him.