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The clouds move over Pontiac skies—
their silent thunder matches mine.
I know this feeling from long ago;
I wondered was it gone, but now I know.
It's raining. Sam’s leaning in the open doorway of the motel, watching the water pour down off the awning into the night beyond the sidewalk. It’s loud, really loud, like the clouds have just ripped open and dumped their payloads all at once. He takes the last few swallows of his beer, drops the bottle to dangle empty against his thigh. His head hurts, but despite the noise this is soothing. As much as it can be.
Ruby says there’s a few of Lilith’s demons working on something up in Lansing. They’re going up there tomorrow, going to lay a trap and work on honing Sam’s abilities. He’s not—excited isn’t the right word. It’s just… they need to pay, Sam thinks. They need to pay for what they’ve done, what they’re going to do. Ruby says that, so far as she knows, these ones are new to their vessels, so maybe the meatsuits will live. Sam rubs the back of his hand over his mouth, drops his arm to cross loosely over his chest. He hopes they’ll live. He’s tired of burning corpses.
Low rumble of thunder, off to the southeast. The rain’s pearling up on the glossy black of the Impala, gleaming white-gold in the low yellow light from the motel. There’s a little rumble he’s noticed, in the engine. He hasn’t wanted to put his head under the hood to figure out what it could be—too soon for that—but it’s bothering him. He should be able to fix it. Maybe if he hadn’t been so selfish. If he hadn’t had his head in a book all that time, if he’d paid a little attention to the stuff that was actually important, to what mattered.
He tosses the empty bottle out into the night, but if it shatters he can't hear it over the rain on asphalt. If, if, if. He folds his arms over his chest.
Last time he was in Michigan, that was... Ypsilanti. Christmas. Only, what, six or seven months ago, and now—it's just like he thought it'd be.
No. No, it's worse. It's so much worse. The Trickster didn't even get it close to right.
"Are you going to stare out at the rain all night?" Ruby says. He knows if he looks he'll see her half-naked in the bed, petite body on offer. Throat and wrists bare. "That's a little too emo. Even for you, Sammy."
"Shut up," he says, and doesn't turn around. She sounds like—
He shakes his head, drags a hand over his face again. The beer didn't wash away the taste of blood. Fuck, he can't believe he's doing this. That he's sinking this low.
There's a rustle, behind him, and then a small hand touches his shoulder. "Hey," Ruby says, quiet. "These guys we're after, they might have a line on where Lilith's heading next. We'll get her, Sam. I promise."
The rain's not letting up. He blows out a long breath. Imagines the light in Lilith's eyes going out, fire sparking under her skin as he eradicates her from the earth. Destroying her for how she destroyed him. Revenge, at last. It's the only thing keeping him going. "Yeah, I know," he says.
"Good," Ruby says, and turns him around. She's wearing his discarded t-shirt, and nothing else. She raises up on her toes and kisses the underside of his chin—the only thing she can reach, since he's not bending to meet her. The flicker of revulsion is quieter now. How times have changed, he thinks, and then she's slipping her little switchblade into his hand. She gives him an encouraging half-smile. "Come on. Time for another dose."
He flicks open the blade and takes her offered wrist in a tight grip. What else is he supposed to do?