Reprieve (SPN/Medium)
Reprieve
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Drabble - When dreaming of hellhounds, be sure to wake up before they catch you. And please ignore the bloody stranger in your house.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing.
Warnings: Gore, and spoilers for SPN Season 3
AN: Crossover_las entry. This was a crossover born of plot bunny that bothered me for years. I always shouted at the screen during Medium episodes, “Call the Winchesters!” - and now with extended ending.
There was a growl like thunder, a bark that rattled her bones. Alison ran. Heart pounding, legs screaming, chest tight , each breath an agony. “Faster!”
The man beside her was every reason to keep running all rolled into one damaged, horror fest. Clothes ripped, chest splayed open, covered in blood and gore. He kept pace with her, shooting anxious fearful looks behind them, ones she was too afraid to do herself. “Run, lady, run!”
Alison ran. Ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels, because they were. She could feel their hot breath on the small of her back, smell their rank sulphur and brimstone odour, hear the pound of many legs, barks and howls.
“Run!”
A scream rose in her throat as she tripped, something snagging her foot and as she fell, Alison twisted to raise her hands, defend herself. The snarling brutish face of twisted agony that leapt at her stole her scream and turned it into a wail of despair.
“No!”
Bolting upright in bed, Alison scrambled to get away and it took several long seconds for her to realise she was awake, and home and hale and alive. Heart still pounding, she looked down at her soft pink pjs, expecting to see blood and torn skin and death, but there was just smooth flannel.
“Hon, you ok?”
Joe, sleepy, hair mussed, eyes slitted and bleary. Joe. Taking a deep breath, Alison tried to calm down, steady her pounding heart and she nodded, “Yeah, yeah, the usual. Go back to sleep.”
“Wanna talk?” Joe sounded as interested as a husband whose nights were always interrupted by psychic dreams not his own could be. Weary but supportive. “No, no. I’m gonna...”
Joe was already asleep, conscious clear and Alison didn’t finish with her intent to go have a beer, or several. Grabbing her robe, Alison padded through to the kitchen. It was early, way too early to be up, and drinking, but alcohol was needed. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, a tall bloody man stood in her kitchen, staring at her fridge. Heart pounding again, Alison swallowed her shout and hissed, “Hey!”
The man turned to look at her and smiled, “Hey.”
It was the man from her dream, looking the same, if not more bloody and torn up. Only his face seemed to be spared, spotted with blood only. It was a nice face, and the smile was pleasant. “What do you want?” Alison hissed making for the fridge, shooing him aside.
Still smiling, the guy shrugged, “Small thing, tiny. I need you to do me a favour.”
Ah, hopefully this was going to be an easy one, no digging and prying, trying to figure out the meaning of the dream or anything. Alison pulled out a light beer, snapped off the lid and took a good long drink. Putting it down, she sighed, “Kay, what do you need?”
Staring at her beer with longing, the man said, “I just need you to make one phone call. To my brother. Tell him I’m ok.”
Alison stared at the ghost, his bloody clothes, gaping chest, torn up guts. Her eyebrow of scepticism must have been obvious, but he waved that off with, “Look, I know this looks bad, and I know I’m dead. But I’m not in Hell, and Sam needs to know that.”
Not in Hell. “Where you expecting to be in Hell?” Alison snapped, wondering just what kind of person he was, wondering if this was going to be a rough one afterall.
The guy though smiled reassuringly, actually embarrassed, “Long story. Made a deal to save Sam, so yeah, I was expecting Hell. Not ‘this’ and a dude in a trenchcoat telling me that the next stop is Heaven.”
“Trenchcoat? Heaven?”
Laughing in what could only be stunned relief, the kind of rush one gets when the worst doesn’t happen, the guy nodded, “Yeah, who figured angels watched Columbo. But yeah, I gotta let Sam know I’m ok, or as ok as dead can be.”
Alison leant against the counter, considering and figured she’d want to know too. If she thought Russ had been headed for Hell, and he came back to tell her Hell was closed for the day, she’d want to know.
“Ok, what’s his number, name and yours?” Alison snagged the phone off the cradle.
“Sweet! He’s Sam, I’m Dean Winchester and the number is...” Dean paused, patted himself down and cursed. Thinking hard he rattled off a number.
While Alison dialled, she asked, “When did you die?”
Dean stared at clock and said, “Few hours ago.”
As the phone on the other end rang, Alison tried to sort out what she was going to say. When a deep voice, dead and layered with grief snarled, “What?” Alison couldn’t help smiling at the eagerness on Dean’s face.
“Sam? Sam Winchester? My name is Alison du Bois, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I have a message from your brother.”
*m*spn*m*spn*
“Bobby!”
Bobby looked up from his bottle of bourbon, already half empty, but the roar of grief within was only just beginning to rise.
Head pounding in rapid sync with his heart, wondering what in the hell, .... Bobby stalled at the thought of hell, bile rising in his mouth and stood. “Sam?”
Sam burst into the room, eyes wild, hair in disarray like he’d been tearing at it. “Bobby.” Less raw emotion, more... desperation, a plea for something.
Dean was in the next room, surrounded by a hastily gathered medkit and fresh pair of clothes. Bobby fully planned on burning the table Dean’s body was lying on, and if he got his way, Dean would be on it when he did.
“What Sam?”
Sam held out his cellphone, his hand trembling, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “I, I ... got a call.”
A thousand horrible, vile thoughts flitted through Bobby’s head. Who had called? What demon, what SOB? Who had called to rub it in, to ask... Or worse, had Ellen or Jo, or Rufus?
“Sam.”
Sam started a little at his name, even though he was staring straight at Bobby. “I... will you come with me?”
Bobby felt a small piece of his heart settle, just a bit. Maybe, maybe... “Sure, kid. Where are we going?”
“Phoenix.”
*m*spn*m*spn*
“Alison? Hon? You home?”
Joe slammed the door behind him, his briefcase and paper balanced awkwardly under one arm, while he tried to keep control on the two pizza boxes. “I picked up dinner!”
Silence greeted him and Joe cast an eye on the notice board. A huge note, torn out of a note book was pinned to it. ‘Bridge forgot about a project. At the store. Thanks for bringing dinner.’
Snorting in amusement, Joe tossed the boxes on the table, and headed for their bedroom. A house all to himself was an opportunity not to be missed. Ariel must have put up a fuss about going along on the errand, but it wasn’t often he had a girl-free house so ...
Joe pulled off his tie, quickly changed into some sweats and hurried back to the den. He had no idea if there was a game on, but there was a beer with his name on it and whatever mindless sport he could find. Slipping into the kitchen, skidding in his socks, Joe tore the fridge door open and peered inside.
Belatedly he paused, looked up and frowned. An odd prickle teased the back of his neck and Joe stood and turned around. There was movement, like someone quickly darting out of sight in the kitchen window and Joe’s heart rocketed with adrenalin. Frozen with indecision, Joe wondered whether he should go for the baseball bat in his room, or a knife from the drawer.
Instead, the door bell rang.
Eyes narrow, heart still racing, Joe skittered over the door and peered through the keyhole. “Yeah, who is it.”
“FBI, sir. Please open up.”
Through the myopic glass, Joe could see two besuited men, and an unreadable badge held up for his inspection. He opened the door a crack, feeling like a paranoid, but sensible individual and peered at the badges. “Agents... D de Young and ... C Burton?”
Joe didn’t mean to sound so suspicious, but he couldn’t help feeling a little freaked out. The FBI agents nodded, the older one smiling broadly, “Yes, sir. I assume you are Mr Joe du Bois?”
Without thinking, Joe stammered, “Aren’t FBI agents usually clean shaven, Agent Burton?”
And without missing a beat, Agent Burton smiled, “Only in the movies, sir. May we come in?”
*m*spn*m*spn*
Alison had a headache, a blinding, splitting headache. As the garage door rolled down behind the car, and the kids screamed into the house, literally, she grabbed the few bags of groceries and followed them in with a sigh. “Joe? There’s a car outside...”
Stepping into the lounge, Alison trailed off, and stared at the men sitting on her couch. “Bobby... Sam?”
Joe’s mouth fell open, and he was half out of the chair, paused between getting up and sitting down. A chill filled the room, goosebumps running along her arms. “Al, what’s... are these...?” Joe’s voice was fiiling with fear, worry. And Alison could tell he was wondering how quickly he could reach the girls, or if he should go for the phone. Smiling, Alison put her bags down and strode over to the three men. “Sorry, I... I was a little startled. Is there something...”
Agent ‘Bobby’ Burton stood smoothly and introduced them, his lie about needing help with a missing woman rolling off his tongue like grease and motor oil. Sam, er, Agent de Young was staring at her with hot, hot eyes, his grief and need seeping into the floorboards. Touching Joe’s arm, reassuring him, Alison smiled, “It’s ok, honey. The Agents and I can take this outside, right there.” The ‘where you can see us’ was implied.
Joe nodded, hesitant but Sam nearly flew outside, Bobby taking his time, less panicked.
Alison took her time too, got three beers out of the fridge and then closed the screen door behind her, giving Joe another reassuring look.
Bobby was perched stiffly on one of the loungers, and Sam was pacing, limited to one short stride back and forth. “Hi,” Alison smiled, and offered them each a beer. Bobby took his with a smile in return while Sam glared at her for a while before swallowing and reaching out for his. His huge hand trembled as it briefly touched hers on the smooth glass.
‘Shit,’ Alison gasped, as a flood of images rushed through her. Suddenly feeling queasy, she sat down and waved off Bobby’s concern. “I’m fine... just...”
She looked up at Sam, “He thought you might come.”
Sam stared at her with such desperate need it made her heart ache and eyes water. “He... who?”
Cracking her beer open, Alison took a sip, noting Bobby doing the same. Sam was strangling his bottle, knuckles white.
Alison dealt with a lot of grieving, disbelieving and hopeful relatives. People who desperately wanted to belief but were so afraid to. Dean had reassured her that Sam would believe her, eventually. But he’d be suspicious. Very very suspicious.
It was Bobby who spoke first, his eyes fixed on her, “Is Dean here?”
Alison shook her head. “No, he left once I’d made the call to Sam.”
“Where... where did he go?” Sam’s voice was deeper than expected, and so full of desperate urgency that Alison quickly replied. “As far as I know, Heaven. He seemed very ... excited. Relieved.”
Before Sam or Bobby could leap in with any more questions, Alison laughed, “Look, I help a lot of people pass on as I’m sure you’ve realised.” They both nodded, Bobby’s eyebrows quirking in amusement. “And frankly, Dean was the most well informed and adjusted ghost I’ve ever met.”
Sam snorted, some of the tension leaking out of him. Alison shared his smile, “He was almost... giddy. But he said you’d want proof or reassurance... well, he said you’d both be suspicious bastards.”
“Yeah?”
Alison nodded, “Yeah. So, what do you want to know?”
*m*spn*m*spn*
It was late, very late and Bobby was thinking of pulling over and finding a motel. Sam could tell by the set of his jaw, his stifled yawns. Sam hadn’t slept for days before Dean’s deadline. And he hadn’t slept since that night. The drive down to Phoenix had been fuelled by coffee and redbull.
Now though, maybe he could sleep. Bobby had insisted on driving, since Sam had driven down and it felt so weird, so wrong sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala with someone else driving, someone not Dean.
A raw, gaping hole still tore at Sam, gnawing and writhing within him. But something had settled too.
Alison du Bois.
Genuine smile, certain words, soft, warm hands. Sam believed her, he really did. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt it. Knew it.
Dean was ok.
A stifled snort nearly escaped and Bobby shot him a knowing look. Sam shrugged and looked out at the night shrouded scenery outside. Dean was ok.
Not in hell. Not in hell. Not in hell.
A warmth spread through Sam, primal and urgent and he covered his eyes with one hand, the other fisted on the smooth seat leather.
Dean wasn’t in hell.
The sob escaped, unbidden. A roil of relief, of utter gratitude, unexpected but so bitterly prayed for without any hope. Feeling like he was teetering on the edge, Sam fought back the tears, tried to lock it all away.
‘I was wrong, Sam. Wrong about a shit load of things. But ... not about you.’
Without realising it, Sam was crying, chest shuddering with suppressed emotion, tears leaking under his hand, welling between his fingers.
Not in hell.
Sucking in a desperate breath, Sam felt Bobby’s tough, calloused hand cover his and he squeezed back, in thankful joy.
Not in hell.
*m*spn*m*spn*
Fin (again)
AN: For Ria, because she asked so nicely J (And because she wasn’t the only one J)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Drabble - When dreaming of hellhounds, be sure to wake up before they catch you. And please ignore the bloody stranger in your house.
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing.
Warnings: Gore, and spoilers for SPN Season 3
AN: Crossover_las entry. This was a crossover born of plot bunny that bothered me for years. I always shouted at the screen during Medium episodes, “Call the Winchesters!” - and now with extended ending.
There was a growl like thunder, a bark that rattled her bones. Alison ran. Heart pounding, legs screaming, chest tight , each breath an agony. “Faster!”
The man beside her was every reason to keep running all rolled into one damaged, horror fest. Clothes ripped, chest splayed open, covered in blood and gore. He kept pace with her, shooting anxious fearful looks behind them, ones she was too afraid to do herself. “Run, lady, run!”
Alison ran. Ran like the hounds of hell were on her heels, because they were. She could feel their hot breath on the small of her back, smell their rank sulphur and brimstone odour, hear the pound of many legs, barks and howls.
“Run!”
A scream rose in her throat as she tripped, something snagging her foot and as she fell, Alison twisted to raise her hands, defend herself. The snarling brutish face of twisted agony that leapt at her stole her scream and turned it into a wail of despair.
“No!”
Bolting upright in bed, Alison scrambled to get away and it took several long seconds for her to realise she was awake, and home and hale and alive. Heart still pounding, she looked down at her soft pink pjs, expecting to see blood and torn skin and death, but there was just smooth flannel.
“Hon, you ok?”
Joe, sleepy, hair mussed, eyes slitted and bleary. Joe. Taking a deep breath, Alison tried to calm down, steady her pounding heart and she nodded, “Yeah, yeah, the usual. Go back to sleep.”
“Wanna talk?” Joe sounded as interested as a husband whose nights were always interrupted by psychic dreams not his own could be. Weary but supportive. “No, no. I’m gonna...”
Joe was already asleep, conscious clear and Alison didn’t finish with her intent to go have a beer, or several. Grabbing her robe, Alison padded through to the kitchen. It was early, way too early to be up, and drinking, but alcohol was needed. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, a tall bloody man stood in her kitchen, staring at her fridge. Heart pounding again, Alison swallowed her shout and hissed, “Hey!”
The man turned to look at her and smiled, “Hey.”
It was the man from her dream, looking the same, if not more bloody and torn up. Only his face seemed to be spared, spotted with blood only. It was a nice face, and the smile was pleasant. “What do you want?” Alison hissed making for the fridge, shooing him aside.
Still smiling, the guy shrugged, “Small thing, tiny. I need you to do me a favour.”
Ah, hopefully this was going to be an easy one, no digging and prying, trying to figure out the meaning of the dream or anything. Alison pulled out a light beer, snapped off the lid and took a good long drink. Putting it down, she sighed, “Kay, what do you need?”
Staring at her beer with longing, the man said, “I just need you to make one phone call. To my brother. Tell him I’m ok.”
Alison stared at the ghost, his bloody clothes, gaping chest, torn up guts. Her eyebrow of scepticism must have been obvious, but he waved that off with, “Look, I know this looks bad, and I know I’m dead. But I’m not in Hell, and Sam needs to know that.”
Not in Hell. “Where you expecting to be in Hell?” Alison snapped, wondering just what kind of person he was, wondering if this was going to be a rough one afterall.
The guy though smiled reassuringly, actually embarrassed, “Long story. Made a deal to save Sam, so yeah, I was expecting Hell. Not ‘this’ and a dude in a trenchcoat telling me that the next stop is Heaven.”
“Trenchcoat? Heaven?”
Laughing in what could only be stunned relief, the kind of rush one gets when the worst doesn’t happen, the guy nodded, “Yeah, who figured angels watched Columbo. But yeah, I gotta let Sam know I’m ok, or as ok as dead can be.”
Alison leant against the counter, considering and figured she’d want to know too. If she thought Russ had been headed for Hell, and he came back to tell her Hell was closed for the day, she’d want to know.
“Ok, what’s his number, name and yours?” Alison snagged the phone off the cradle.
“Sweet! He’s Sam, I’m Dean Winchester and the number is...” Dean paused, patted himself down and cursed. Thinking hard he rattled off a number.
While Alison dialled, she asked, “When did you die?”
Dean stared at clock and said, “Few hours ago.”
As the phone on the other end rang, Alison tried to sort out what she was going to say. When a deep voice, dead and layered with grief snarled, “What?” Alison couldn’t help smiling at the eagerness on Dean’s face.
“Sam? Sam Winchester? My name is Alison du Bois, and I know this is going to sound crazy, but I have a message from your brother.”
*m*spn*m*spn*
“Bobby!”
Bobby looked up from his bottle of bourbon, already half empty, but the roar of grief within was only just beginning to rise.
Head pounding in rapid sync with his heart, wondering what in the hell, .... Bobby stalled at the thought of hell, bile rising in his mouth and stood. “Sam?”
Sam burst into the room, eyes wild, hair in disarray like he’d been tearing at it. “Bobby.” Less raw emotion, more... desperation, a plea for something.
Dean was in the next room, surrounded by a hastily gathered medkit and fresh pair of clothes. Bobby fully planned on burning the table Dean’s body was lying on, and if he got his way, Dean would be on it when he did.
“What Sam?”
Sam held out his cellphone, his hand trembling, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “I, I ... got a call.”
A thousand horrible, vile thoughts flitted through Bobby’s head. Who had called? What demon, what SOB? Who had called to rub it in, to ask... Or worse, had Ellen or Jo, or Rufus?
“Sam.”
Sam started a little at his name, even though he was staring straight at Bobby. “I... will you come with me?”
Bobby felt a small piece of his heart settle, just a bit. Maybe, maybe... “Sure, kid. Where are we going?”
“Phoenix.”
*m*spn*m*spn*
“Alison? Hon? You home?”
Joe slammed the door behind him, his briefcase and paper balanced awkwardly under one arm, while he tried to keep control on the two pizza boxes. “I picked up dinner!”
Silence greeted him and Joe cast an eye on the notice board. A huge note, torn out of a note book was pinned to it. ‘Bridge forgot about a project. At the store. Thanks for bringing dinner.’
Snorting in amusement, Joe tossed the boxes on the table, and headed for their bedroom. A house all to himself was an opportunity not to be missed. Ariel must have put up a fuss about going along on the errand, but it wasn’t often he had a girl-free house so ...
Joe pulled off his tie, quickly changed into some sweats and hurried back to the den. He had no idea if there was a game on, but there was a beer with his name on it and whatever mindless sport he could find. Slipping into the kitchen, skidding in his socks, Joe tore the fridge door open and peered inside.
Belatedly he paused, looked up and frowned. An odd prickle teased the back of his neck and Joe stood and turned around. There was movement, like someone quickly darting out of sight in the kitchen window and Joe’s heart rocketed with adrenalin. Frozen with indecision, Joe wondered whether he should go for the baseball bat in his room, or a knife from the drawer.
Instead, the door bell rang.
Eyes narrow, heart still racing, Joe skittered over the door and peered through the keyhole. “Yeah, who is it.”
“FBI, sir. Please open up.”
Through the myopic glass, Joe could see two besuited men, and an unreadable badge held up for his inspection. He opened the door a crack, feeling like a paranoid, but sensible individual and peered at the badges. “Agents... D de Young and ... C Burton?”
Joe didn’t mean to sound so suspicious, but he couldn’t help feeling a little freaked out. The FBI agents nodded, the older one smiling broadly, “Yes, sir. I assume you are Mr Joe du Bois?”
Without thinking, Joe stammered, “Aren’t FBI agents usually clean shaven, Agent Burton?”
And without missing a beat, Agent Burton smiled, “Only in the movies, sir. May we come in?”
*m*spn*m*spn*
Alison had a headache, a blinding, splitting headache. As the garage door rolled down behind the car, and the kids screamed into the house, literally, she grabbed the few bags of groceries and followed them in with a sigh. “Joe? There’s a car outside...”
Stepping into the lounge, Alison trailed off, and stared at the men sitting on her couch. “Bobby... Sam?”
Joe’s mouth fell open, and he was half out of the chair, paused between getting up and sitting down. A chill filled the room, goosebumps running along her arms. “Al, what’s... are these...?” Joe’s voice was fiiling with fear, worry. And Alison could tell he was wondering how quickly he could reach the girls, or if he should go for the phone. Smiling, Alison put her bags down and strode over to the three men. “Sorry, I... I was a little startled. Is there something...”
Agent ‘Bobby’ Burton stood smoothly and introduced them, his lie about needing help with a missing woman rolling off his tongue like grease and motor oil. Sam, er, Agent de Young was staring at her with hot, hot eyes, his grief and need seeping into the floorboards. Touching Joe’s arm, reassuring him, Alison smiled, “It’s ok, honey. The Agents and I can take this outside, right there.” The ‘where you can see us’ was implied.
Joe nodded, hesitant but Sam nearly flew outside, Bobby taking his time, less panicked.
Alison took her time too, got three beers out of the fridge and then closed the screen door behind her, giving Joe another reassuring look.
Bobby was perched stiffly on one of the loungers, and Sam was pacing, limited to one short stride back and forth. “Hi,” Alison smiled, and offered them each a beer. Bobby took his with a smile in return while Sam glared at her for a while before swallowing and reaching out for his. His huge hand trembled as it briefly touched hers on the smooth glass.
‘Shit,’ Alison gasped, as a flood of images rushed through her. Suddenly feeling queasy, she sat down and waved off Bobby’s concern. “I’m fine... just...”
She looked up at Sam, “He thought you might come.”
Sam stared at her with such desperate need it made her heart ache and eyes water. “He... who?”
Cracking her beer open, Alison took a sip, noting Bobby doing the same. Sam was strangling his bottle, knuckles white.
Alison dealt with a lot of grieving, disbelieving and hopeful relatives. People who desperately wanted to belief but were so afraid to. Dean had reassured her that Sam would believe her, eventually. But he’d be suspicious. Very very suspicious.
It was Bobby who spoke first, his eyes fixed on her, “Is Dean here?”
Alison shook her head. “No, he left once I’d made the call to Sam.”
“Where... where did he go?” Sam’s voice was deeper than expected, and so full of desperate urgency that Alison quickly replied. “As far as I know, Heaven. He seemed very ... excited. Relieved.”
Before Sam or Bobby could leap in with any more questions, Alison laughed, “Look, I help a lot of people pass on as I’m sure you’ve realised.” They both nodded, Bobby’s eyebrows quirking in amusement. “And frankly, Dean was the most well informed and adjusted ghost I’ve ever met.”
Sam snorted, some of the tension leaking out of him. Alison shared his smile, “He was almost... giddy. But he said you’d want proof or reassurance... well, he said you’d both be suspicious bastards.”
“Yeah?”
Alison nodded, “Yeah. So, what do you want to know?”
*m*spn*m*spn*
It was late, very late and Bobby was thinking of pulling over and finding a motel. Sam could tell by the set of his jaw, his stifled yawns. Sam hadn’t slept for days before Dean’s deadline. And he hadn’t slept since that night. The drive down to Phoenix had been fuelled by coffee and redbull.
Now though, maybe he could sleep. Bobby had insisted on driving, since Sam had driven down and it felt so weird, so wrong sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala with someone else driving, someone not Dean.
A raw, gaping hole still tore at Sam, gnawing and writhing within him. But something had settled too.
Alison du Bois.
Genuine smile, certain words, soft, warm hands. Sam believed her, he really did. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt it. Knew it.
Dean was ok.
A stifled snort nearly escaped and Bobby shot him a knowing look. Sam shrugged and looked out at the night shrouded scenery outside. Dean was ok.
Not in hell. Not in hell. Not in hell.
A warmth spread through Sam, primal and urgent and he covered his eyes with one hand, the other fisted on the smooth seat leather.
Dean wasn’t in hell.
The sob escaped, unbidden. A roil of relief, of utter gratitude, unexpected but so bitterly prayed for without any hope. Feeling like he was teetering on the edge, Sam fought back the tears, tried to lock it all away.
‘I was wrong, Sam. Wrong about a shit load of things. But ... not about you.’
Without realising it, Sam was crying, chest shuddering with suppressed emotion, tears leaking under his hand, welling between his fingers.
Not in hell.
Sucking in a desperate breath, Sam felt Bobby’s tough, calloused hand cover his and he squeezed back, in thankful joy.
Not in hell.
*m*spn*m*spn*
Fin (again)
AN: For Ria, because she asked so nicely J (And because she wasn’t the only one J)