Sam retraces the Purgatory trail back to warehouse, but it’s another dead end. If Crowley wasn’t lying, and Dean — and Castiel, thankfully, though Sam wasn’t sure if it was good for the angel to be in the place he practically ate — if they were in Purgatory, the sinkhole of ghouls and dead gods alike, Sam knows there’s no time to waste. Next stop — the Campbells.
“Something different about you, Sam,” you say, and you mean it lightly, but his responding smile looks more like a grimace.
“Yeah,” he says. “So, can I?”
Curt as ever. His eyes are warmer and he actually says thank you when you lead him to the vault, but he is still all business, razor-edged and apparently tireless. You come back in the middle of the night to check on him and he’s bent over some crumbling tome in the dim light. You have to say his name three times before he looks up.
“You want coffee?”
Sam rubs his eyes, nodding. His voice is very scratchy and his eyes are very red. “Thanks.”
A dozen questions scroll through your head, but instead you say, “Coming right up.” You leave him be. He’s always preferred for you to leave him be, anyway.
