Sam lies awake in the cheap motel bed long after Dean falls into uneasy sleep on the other side of the room, listening to his brother toss and turn. He knows all too well what nightmares sound like, by now.
"What if I had stepped in? Would you let him go?" "If that was what you wanted, we could certainly discuss it."
Once he makes his decision, it doesn't take him long to stuff a few things into his backpack, take the car keys, and head out.
"Tell you what. When I'm ready to 'discuss' it, I'll come find you. How's that?" "Pick a crossroads, any crossroads, and give me a call. I'll look forward to it."
The full moon overhead makes it easy for him to see what he's doing as he scrapes through the gravel to the dirt beneath.
Sam puts his Cumberland County Sheriff's ID on top of the rest of the things in the box. He snaps it shut, sets it in the hole, and covers it over with dirt, then gets to his feet.
The roads around him remain empty of anything save the occasional tendril of fog.
And it's as true as any oversimplified simple fact.
Which is to say, not very.
You get caught in lies, they're refutable. They can be disproved and dismissed, and then where are you?
A demon like Verity doesn't lie, Sam.
She tells the truth very carefully.
"It's okay, darling. You can admit it.
"You're going through the motions like a good little boy. You'll go on going through the motions, reading book after book, making call after call, visting library after library, grasping at increasingly tiny and fragile straws. Right up until the clock strikes twelve, and the coach goes back to being a pumpkin.
"But won't you be just the tiniest bit relieved when he's gone?"
Verity shakes her head, and starts walking back around to her original position, eyes never leaving Sam's.
"I'm sorry, Sam. Dean is old enough to drive, vote, drink, have a bar mitzvah, father a child . . . any definition you pick, your brother's an adult. He made that deal of his own free will, fair and square, no tricks, no loopholes.
"What if I had stepped in? Would you let him go?"
"If that was what you wanted, we could certainly discuss it."
Once he makes his decision, it doesn't take him long to stuff a few things into his backpack, take the car keys, and head out.
"Tell you what. When I'm ready to 'discuss' it, I'll come find you. How's that?"
"Pick a crossroads, any crossroads, and give me a call. I'll look forward to it."
The full moon overhead makes it easy for him to see what he's doing as he scrapes through the gravel to the dirt beneath.
Sam puts his Cumberland County Sheriff's ID on top of the rest of the things in the box. He snaps it shut, sets it in the hole, and covers it over with dirt, then gets to his feet.
The roads around him remain empty of anything save the occasional tendril of fog.
Come on, come on, how long's it gonna ( ... )
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"Are you out of your fucking mind?" he grits. "Of course I do!"
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"I mean, let's think about this for a minute here, Sam.
"Aren't you tired of it? Of cleaning up after Dean's messes and mistakes, day after day? Dealing with all his issues? Trying to make him see reason?
"To say nothing of taking orders from him. He bosses you around like you're still his snot-nosed kid brother. Like that's all you'll ever be.
"We both know you're better than him. Smarter. Stronger.
"And he doesn't even let you drive."
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(Except that sometimes they don't, he now knows, but that's Ruby and she's different.)
It's like he'd told Jo when she asked -- even when there's truth mixed in, it's just there to make things worse.
Sometimes a lot worse.
Like now.
"You watch your goddamn mouth."
The Colt's still steady, but his words are trembling with fury.
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Which is to say, not very.
You get caught in lies, they're refutable. They can be disproved and dismissed, and then where are you?
A demon like Verity doesn't lie, Sam.
She tells the truth very carefully.
"It's okay, darling. You can admit it.
"You're going through the motions like a good little boy. You'll go on going through the motions, reading book after book, making call after call, visting library after library, grasping at increasingly tiny and fragile straws. Right up until the clock strikes twelve, and the coach goes back to being a pumpkin.
"But won't you be just the tiniest bit relieved when he's gone?"
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Not the same thing at all.
"No," Sam snarls. "You're wrong."
His knuckles are white with the force of his grip on the gun.
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"You could have a life without desperate . . . needy . . . sloppy Dean screwing everything up."
She takes two steps closer.
"You could finally be free."
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"I mean -- this kinda thing is everything you wanted on a freakin' plate. What the hell?"
"Maybe I don't want it anymore, okay?"
"I had a life without my brother in it. And you know what? It fucking sucked."
Except for Jessica, of course, and for the parts that he'd liked -- but the thing is, all of that had been a lie.
This isn't.
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"Protest all you want, baby.
"You're still not selling it."
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Sam's voice hardens.
"You let Dean out of his deal. Right now."
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"I'm sorry, Sam. Dean is old enough to drive, vote, drink, have a bar mitzvah, father a child . . . any definition you pick, your brother's an adult. He made that deal of his own free will, fair and square, no tricks, no loopholes.
"It's ironclad.
"It can't be broken."
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"But if you're so all-fired sure this one can't, then I'll just kill you. Once you're gone, so's the deal."
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"You can't be so stupid as to think it's that simple."
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"What do you mean?"
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"My boss holds the contract, not me.
"And between me and you . . . my boss wants Dean's soul. Bad.
"Far too much to let it, or him, go."
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She sounds so certain.
"You're bluffing."
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