Bobby's place
Fort Pierre, SD

Bobby glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time that evening and felt the utmost need to pick up the damned phone and call Sam. But he didn't. Mainly because he knew it would seem pushy and also because he knew Sam needed space right now.

When the old grandfather clock in the livingroom chimed ten p.m., he figured enough was enough, but just when he reached for the phone lying on the kitchen table next to his coffee mug, he heard the distinct sound of that engine approaching. For a moment, he closed his eyes. Then he got up and headed for the front door.

Sam had gotten out of the car by the time he opened the door and in the light from the porch lamps, he looked like a ghost. Tired, pale and tormented. And again Bobby had the feeling that he was looking at John.

"Took you long enough," he said as ways of a greeting.

Sam glanced up at him, threw his duffle over one shoulder and climbed the steps to the porch. "I hope Lucy can help me," he said and came to a stop next to Bobby, but he didn't look at him. "Because if she can't ... I'm going to Maine."

Bobby had expected as much. If that time came, he would do what he could to stop it. If Lucy St. Clair couldn't help, Bobby didn't really think than anyone could. Not without taking that pound of flesh from Sam that he couldn't afford to lose, at least. "You look like death incarnate. Go get some sleep. Unless you're hungry?"

Sam shook his head. "No," he said quietly, stepped into the house and disappeared upstairs. And that was the last Bobby heard of him that night.

The following morning, Bobby got up at sunrise, mainly because he wanted to see Sam before he took off again, and he had to admit that he was a tad surprised when Sam didn't show up until eleven a.m., and even then he looked like he hadn't slept all night.

Bobby eyed him closely when he set a cup of coffee in front of the kid. "Sleep well?" he asked. It was a stupid question, but he couldn't stop himself.

Sam glanced up at him. "Do I look like I slept well?" he countered and brushed his fingers through his hair.

"Not really, no. So, you're up all night, thinking?" Bobby asked and settled down across from him.

"No, I sleep. I just don't dream. I ... just sleep," Sam countered and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Well aware what the response would be, Bobby still felt he had to try. "Maybe you shouldn't drive today," he suggested. "Stay a day longer. Get some decent rest."

"No," Sam said quietly. "I gotta do this."

"Sam, it really won't make that much of a difference if you wait one day. With the way you look right now, I'm afraid you'll end up in a ditch somewhere," Bobby tried.

Sam met his gaze dead on and at that moment the similarity to his father ceased. Throughout all the years Bobby had known John, the man's eyes had never been that cold. "It makes a difference to me," he said, his tone even and quiet and deadly.

Bobby nodded and leaned back on his chair. "Fine. I just think you should go a little easy on yourself. You're no good to Dean if you end up busting your head in over this," he said.

It took a moment longer than Bobby had hoped for, but eventually Sam dropped his gaze, suddenly self-conscious. "She turned up," he muttered after a moment.

"Who?" Bobby asked. He was not going to hold Sam's attitude against him. The kid had to be coming apart at the seams with grief; a grief he wouldn't allow himself to feel or show at this point in time.

"Ruby," Sam said and made a face, then took a sip of his coffee.

"What did she want?" Bobby asked.

Sam snorted and managed a cold little smile. "She wanted to inform me that Dean couldn't be brought back."

That didn't surprise Bobby. From what little he knew of Ruby, he sure didn't trust her. And that she had helped them restore the colt made up for nothing at all. Not in his book. "Since you're going ahead with your plan, I take it you don't believe her?" he asked.

"No, I don't," Sam agreed. "She said that Lucy was a human witch with delusions of grandeur."

"A witch?" Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, that's not what anybody else thinks."

Sam stared down into his coffee mug with both hands wrapped around it. "She's no witch. That much I know. Which means Ruby's lying. Which means she's probably been lying all along. Which means Dean was right about her. I should have listened to him."

"Well, I'm glad you've changed your mind about her," Bobby said. "I know she helped us restore the colt, but I've always thought that she had ulterior motives. Demons are, by definition, evil. They like to mess with your head."

Sam nodded. "I've noticed," he agreed, then glanced at his watch. "I'd better get going. I wanna make it at least to Billings before I stop for the night."

"Sounds sensible," Bobby said and rose when Sam did. "Just promise me you'll stop before you end up in a ditch. Think of it this way. If you get Dean back and you've messed up his car, there will be hell to pay."

For the first time since Dean had died Sam managed a semi-honest smile. "Yeah, I guess," he agreed.

"And stay in touch, Sam. If you don't call me by tomorrow morning, I'm calling you. And you better pick up," Bobby said.

"Okay," Sam countered, grabbed his duffle that he had dropped in the hallway and left the house.

"Good luck, son," Bobby muttered and sighed deeply. There was nothing he could do to stop Sam from pursuing the impossible. All he could do was hope that this Lucy St. Clair had the answers Sam was looking for or at least the sense to talk him out of taking this any further.

***

Sam held his breath when he drove into Whitefish, fully expecting to get sick again, but he soon realized that he had no sense for any odd vibes in town. It felt like any other town around and he figured his reaction to Whitefish before had been because of the demon essence inside him. Lucy's presence had obviously provoked an almost allergic reaction in Azazel's remains.

He cruised around for a bit, contemplating how best to go about this meeting, and figured that he shouldn't antagonize her. If she indeed was who she claimed to be and not a human witch as Ruby had suggested, then it probably paid to stay on her good side. If she had one. Maybe her 'good side' was limited to having some level of respect for Dean, which had granted him her help. So maybe she would turn Sam away at once?

"I should have called her," he muttered and finally pulled the Impala to a stop in front of her house. He lingered in the car for a moment, some part of him recalling how sick he had felt when he had been here that one time although he really didn't 'remember' it as such.

With a sigh, he got out of the car and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket while he eyed the normal-looking house with its white picket fence. Lucy St. Clair was living a cliche, the American dream, and it humanized her in a way that made it hard for him to imagine that she was more than what Ruby had claimed. But she was, at present, also his only chance of getting his brother back and he couldn't allow himself to slip back into th blind belief that Ruby was telling the truth.

He pushed the garden gate open and walked up to the house, still waiting for the effects to hit him, but there was nothing. No tingling, no nausea, no nothing. He stopped in front of the door and just stared at it for a moment, then raised a fist to knock. But before he could, the door swung open and there she was, looking as normal as apple pie. "Sam," she stated.

A little uncertain about the whole thing, he let his hand drop. "Sorry for dropping by unannounced," he said, incapable of finding any other excuse for being here.

"No worries," she said and stepped aside. "Come in," she added.

Slightly reluctant, he stepped past her into the house, trying to sense the evil that was bound to lurk here, but still there was nothing. It felt like any other house he'd ever been in. He noticed the brief smirk slipping over her lips and wondered if she could actually read his mind.

"Not so much your mind as your feelings," she said, confirming his suspicion. She closed the door and waved toward the livingroom. "Have a seat," she added.

Sam glanced at her, then walked into the livingroom and stopped at the end of the coffee table. This could be anybody's house.

"But it isn't," Lucy said and settled down on the couch. "What can I do for you?"

Sam swallowed, trying to retain the anger that suddenly started bubbling under the surface. "Dean is dead," he said and turned to face her. "Bela Talbot killed him. And you had told him that she would be dead half an hour after he had left here."

Lucy eyed him for a moment. "So, essentially, you're blaming me for his demise," she said and he nodded. "Well, it's always good to know where to lay the blame."

"That's not why I'm here," he said quietly. "I ... want him back."

She watched him intently, without blinking, and he looked away, let his gaze skim over the interior of the room rather than meet her eyes. "You ... begrudge him the peace he may have found then?" she asked.

"Peace?" Sam countered, a little stunned. "He was heading to Hell. The fact that Bela was around long enough to put a bullet in him suggests that she made a counter deal. He doesn't belong in Hell."

Lucy eyed him for a moment, then regarded her fingernails casually. "How do you suggest I do that? Bring him back, I mean. You burned his body," she said.

"He's been dead over two weeks. It's summer out there in case you hadn't noticed," Sam countered. The anger was bubbling up in him again fueled by resentment. But in the end the fear and sorrow won the fight for dominion. "Please. He's ... not supposed to be in Hell. He doesn't deserve it. He's always been there for me. Always. I need to get him back."

She let her hand drop into her lap and looked up again. "For something like that, I should demand an outrageous price," she said.

"I'll pay it," he cut in. "No matter what it is."

Lucy smirked. "Dean would have my head on a platter if I made you give up your soul, Sam," she said. "Like it or not, I respect your brother. Which is why I will do this." She rose and trailed over to the window facing the backyard and stood there for a moment. "But it will demand a sacrifice from you that you might not be willing to give."

Sam watched her. She had just said she wouldn't ask for his soul. So what else did he have to offer her?

"Not me," she said and turned back to face him, her eyes darker. "It's what you will have to give up to have your brother back. The proverbial pound of flesh. It demands blood, sweat and tears. Blood to reestablish the body, sweat the give it life, tears to reactivate the soul."

"How much blood?" Sam asked.

"Enough," she countered.

"How much? And who's blood?" he demanded.

"Yours. And it will be mostly everything you have to give," she countered quietly. "It's a dangerous procedure in any event. It can kill you unless you have a backup plan."

"A backup plan?" Sam was slightly confused by the whole deal, didn't really understand what she was asking him to do. "I don't ..."

"... understand?" she interrupted him. "No, that's obvious. The ritual that can bring your brother back to life is painful for all involved, but extremely painful for him. You will give up your blood to save him. It will be hard, it will be scary, but if you're lucky, you'll survive to see another day. Your brother will have to endure the torments of Hell to be reestablished into this world. And all because you can't face life on your own."

Her words hurt. They burnt him. Yet he still could not let go of the idea. "Will he ... be okay at the end?"

"He will be alive, yes," she agreed. "How he handles the transition is another matter. How much pain can your brother endure?"

"A lot," Sam said with conviction.

"If you're certain this is what you want to do, Sam, then I will do it for free. It will cost you nothing apart from what I've already told you about. This ritual demands blood, not life. You don't have to die at the end of this to make it a success. But I want you to keep in mind the pain this will cause you both," Lucy said and folded her arms over her chest.

Sam nodded. "I'm certain. What do I need to do?"

She arched her brow. "Well, first and foremost we need to find a place where your brother felt safe. Any suggestions?"

"Bobby's place," he said.

Lucy smirked again. "Oh, I can just imagine how happy Singer will be when I turn up on his doorstep," she said, her tone sarcastic.

"Bobby doesn't believe you're ... who you say you are," Sam countered.

"I think he feels more comfortable about not believing. It's a choice," Lucy countered. "Unlike certain others, I don't force my presence on my subjects," she added and snorted in disgust. "It's up to the individual if he or she wants to believe in me or not."

"That's very big of you," Sam countered with just the same amount of sarcasm.

Lucy gave him a smile. "Your sarcasm almost matches your brother's," she said.

He ignored the comment. "What else do you need?" he asked.

"Your willing participation, a place to perform the ritual on the land of the place where your brother feels safe and a no withdrawal clause once the ritual has begun," she countered.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because if the ritual is interrupted, your brother will remain in whatever state he is in at that given time. And that ... well, I suppose I don't need to tell you what a Hell that can be." She eyed him. "The question remains. Are you willing to do what I ask of you, no questions asked?"

Sam stared at her for a moment. A big part of him wanted to say no, leave it be, but an ever growing part insisted on the companionship of his brother, insisted on his release from Hell. "Will he remember the pain?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Lucy said.

"Will he remember Hell?" he asked.

Lucy's eyes darkened a little. "No," she countered.

"Okay. I'll do it. Whatever it takes. I want him back," Sam finally said. His hands had gone cold and he stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans. He feared the outcome of this endeavor as much as he feared not having his brother in his life any more.

"Give me a moment and I'll drive back with you," she said and left the livingroom.

Sam stood there for a moment, his eyes on nothing, his thoughts in turmoil. "What the hell am I doing?" he whispered. But his mind was set as far as the ritual was concerned.

***

Bobby's place
Fort Pierre, SD

Ever since Sam had left the motel in Billings two days ago, Bobby hadn't been able to get through to him. And it worried him. It wasn't so much that Sam didn't pick up. It was more the fact that nothing happened when he dialed his number.

Well aware that Sam had Dean's phone with him as well, he had tried that number too with the same result. He got the dial tone, he dialed the number and then nothing.

"Dammit," he growled, more nervous than he was willing to admit. He was the one who had convinced Sam to go back to Whitefish and he was beginning to think that it hadn't been such a good idea.

Since he had no idea how to handle the situation, though, there wasn't much he could do and that frustrated him to the same degree as John's pigheadedness had always frustrated him.

The old grandfather clock in the livingroom chimed out twelve strokes, announcing midnight, and Bobby decided to head to bed, even though he was convinced he wouldn't sleep a wink. But a sudden sound made him stop short. The sound of the Impala's engine, which had popped out of nowhere. One second it hadn't been there, the next the car was right outside his front door.

Suddenly a little concerned, Bobby grabbed his shotgun and opened the door just as the driver side door opened and Sam climbed out. He was copied by a woman that Bobby didn't recognize.

"Hey Bobby," Sam said and raised a hand in greeting. The kid looked haunted by now, which of course was understandable under the current circumstances, and he looked just as tired as he had before.

"Sam," Bobby countered and shifted his attention to the woman. She looked perfectly normal, but Bobby had an odd feeling about her and until he knew who she was, he wasn't likely to put the shotgun down.

Sam glanced at her and she gave him a smile in return, then turned and looked up at Bobby. And for a split second he saw all the suffering of the entire world in her swirling eyes. Then the sensory overload vanished again, leaving him shaken. "That's Lucy St. Clair," Sam introduced her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Singer," she said.

Bobby just stared at her for a long moment, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on edge, his trigger-finger curled tightly around the trigger of his shotgun, then he shifted his gaze to Sam. "Why is she here?" he asked. Whatever doubt he'd had about Lucy St. Clair's claim to fame had vanished in a heartbeat.

"Because she has the solution," Sam countered. His tone, which so far had been tentatively mellow, took on a hard edge. "It needs to be somewhere where Dean feels safe. I couldn't think of any other place."

It didn't escape Bobby how Sam phrased that sentence; like Dean was already back among the living, and it made him worry a little of what exactly Sam had given up to assure his brother's imminent return.

"He has yet to give anything up," Lucy said with a smile on her lips, which did not negate the sense of pure evil that lingered just under the surface.

To have her here, in his yard, this close to his home, made him shudder inside. He wanted her gone, wanted her to leave, and he wondered if the sunlight of the coming day would drive her into hiding. "Forgive me if I don't take your word for it," Bobby said.

Sam grimaced, clearly aware of Bobby's feelings right now, but he said nothing. He needed Bobby's cooperation to do whatever he needed to do to bring Dean back and obviously would not jeopardize the chance by saying the wrong thing.

Lucy, however, seemed to have no objection to Bobby's lack of trust in her words. "I need an enclosed space," she said. "Unless you want to hamper this process?"

Bobby narrowed his eyes. Most of all he wanted to throw a vat of holy water in her face and exorcize her right now. It bothered him beyond compare that both Dean and Sam seemed so ready to trust the enemy when said enemy dangled a life in front of each of them. For Dean, it had been Sam. For Sam, it was Dean. He clamped down on his anger and aimed at helping Sam instead. But he would not help him commit suicide and he needed a chance to talk to the boy alone. "How much space do you need?" he asked.

Lucy's smiled was just a tad off. It wasn't entirely honest or genuine. "Enough for a man-sized sigil to fit on the floor, preferably with a high ceiling," she countered and eyed him like a scientist might eye a particularly interesting specimen he intended to dissect.

"The old garage out back. I use it for storage. Might take a day or two to clear it out," he said. It was the only place that came to mind despite all the clutter he kept there; old things he had no use for any more, cars that were beyond repairing and of no particular interest.

"I can deal with that, unless it's something you wish to keep," Lucy said. "Can I see it?"

Bobby glanced at Sam, who looked like he was dead on his feet and decided that this would have to wait until morning. "I think we need some rest before we get into this," he said resolutely.

"It's okay, Bobby," Sam tried.

"No, it's not," Bobby disagreed sternly. "You need some rest."

Lucy glanced at Sam with a slight frown furrowing her brow. "Rest might be appropriate, considering what awaits you," she said. "Besides, the ritual has to take place on a full moon night and that's two nights away," she added.

Bobby glanced up at the sky. "It looks pretty full to me tonight," he said while studying what to him looked like a full moon.

"And yet it is not," she countered. "Let us start the preparations tomorrow."

Sam didn't look happy about that and Bobby knew he wanted this over with as fast as possible, but the full moon could not be rushed.

***

The following morning Bobby had to admit that he wasn't the least bit surprised to find Sam sitting at the kitchen table, bleary‑eyed and even paler than the day before. He had made coffee, which was drinkable as opposed to the sludge Dean had liked to make, and Bobby poured himself a cup before he settled down across from him. "Been up all night?" he asked.

Sam eyed him for a moment, then dropped his gaze to his coffee and wrapped both hands around the mug. "Pretty much," he agreed. He sounded a little hoarse.

With the feeling that this was the worst decision ever, Bobby still couldn't bring himself to try and convince Sam of how wrong this felt to him. "What exactly does she want you to do?" he asked after a moment where Sam had said nothing and continued to stare into his coffee.

"The only thing I can do," Sam replied after a moment and glanced up at him.

"Sam." Bobby didn't quite know where to start, but since Sam had yet to react in any other way than with anger to his brother's demise, he figured it might be a good idea to break that dam before it tore the kid apart. The question was just ... how could he make Sam give in to how he really felt?

"I know what you're gonna say, but I can't accept that," Sam said without looking up. "Dean has proven that you can bring someone back from the dead and Lucy has assured me that I won't have to give up my soul to accomplish what my brother did," he continued. "If there was no other way, I would do the same. But there's no real sense in giving up my life to save Dean's. I know how much he hates being alone."

"It's not certain that Dean is in Hell, Sam," Bobby said.

"No? Lucy didn't deny it. That means a hell of a lot more than if she had said he wasn't, you know," Sam countered a little aggressively. "I need to get him out of there, Bobby. He doesn't belong in Hell."

It was hard to argue with the raw pain in the boy's eyes, but Bobby still felt the need to squash that notion, even though he had no idea how right now. "I know he doesn't. But ... he did it willingly, Sam. He sold his soul for you, so you could live. And I still don't believe he's in Hell. I think he moved on to a better place. A place where he won't be alone."

"I wish I could believe that," Sam muttered.

"You look like death warmed over."

Sam glanced toward the doorway and met Lucy's gaze. Bobby eyed her suspiciously. He had no idea where she had spent the night. He hadn't offered her a room and she hadn't asked for one. But that was not the foremost thing on his mind. He didn't know if Sam had asked directly and it didn't seem like he would, so Bobby took that responsibility, hoping against hop that the answer would be a negative. "Is Dean in Hell?"

Lucy met his eyes, hers expressionless, indifferent. "Why would he be?" she countered.

That would probably be as close to a no as he would get right now. Bobby glanced at Sam, who was staring at her intently, but didn't say a word. "Because Sam thinks he is," Bobby said. "Because Bela said he would go to Hell instead of her."

Lucy pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes a little. "Did she now? Well, that wicked little bitch," she muttered and her expression tightened. Bobby got the distinct impression that she was upping whatever torment Bela was going through just by thinking about it. Then Lucy focused on Sam. "No, your brother is not in Hell. But he came to me and he made it very clear that he wanted to come back."

Sam sat up straighter, swallowed hard. Hope was flaring in him like a gasoline-soaked fire now. "Where is he now? Is he here?" he asked. Bobby saw the goose bumps racing up his arms a split second before the kid shuddered.

"No," Lucy countered and eyed him for a moment. There seemed to be some change in her demeanor. She looked ... milder, somehow. "He has moved on for the time being."

Sam's disappointment was almost touchable when he returned his attention to the coffee cooling in his mug. "Moved on where?" Bobby asked.

"I can't give away the big punch line," she countered without looking at him. Her gaze was locked on Sam.

"You said he wants to come back," Sam interrupted and glanced up at her again.

Lucy nodded once. "Yes, he was very adamant about it," she confirmed quietly.

"Why didn't you tell Sam this before?" Bobby asked. He figured she didn't have such sensibilities as trying to lay the worries of others to rest without prompting, but he still had to ask. If for nothing other than to make Sam see that she wasn't trustworthy.

Her gaze snapped to his and her eyes darkened a little. "Because he didn't ask," she countered, her tone a little clipped. "I would like to take a look at this ... garage."

Bobby glanced at Sam, who had once again returned to staring into his coffee, and figured the kid needed a moment to digest this. "I'll show you the way," he said and rose.

Lucy followed him outside without a word.

They made their way across the front yard in silence until they reached the side of the old garage, where Bobby stopped just short of the door there and turned back to face Lucy. "I swear to God, if you mess with that boy ... if you're lying to him about this..." he tried, angry enough to make it difficult for him to get the words out.

Lucy met his gaze dead on. "Then what? You'll kill me?" she asked.

Bobby glared at her. "I'm assuming that can't be done, but then again ... up until fairly recently I didn't think demons could be killed either," he said. "However, I do have a fairly extensive network. Every demon in the country will know where to find you if you mess this up. I hope that's understood," he added.

She stared at him for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the door behind him. "This is the garage, I take it?" she asked, her tone conversational.

Anger was hard to swallow, hard to suppress, but so was the fear of this creature standing before him. Bobby wasn't entirely sure what to make of her yet, but it was obvious that she went above and beyond any demon he had ever encountered. And if she truly was who she claimed to be, then he was afraid that the future – which had already been pretty damned bleak – would look a hell of a lot worse for the boys. And that was providing her promise to bring Dean back held true.

Lucy's gaze snapped back to him and she eyed him briefly, her eyes slightly narrowed. "When I give my word, Mr. Singer, I keep it," she said, her tone quietly intense. "And, like it or not, I respect Dean Winchester like I've respected none other in the history of mankind. You may wonder why, but that is between Dean and myself."

Bobby considered what he wanted to say, but could only settle on a plea instead of another threat. He had the feeling she didn't respond well to threats and in her case that wasn't something he wanted to test the boundaries of. He took a second to compose himself, to tone down the anger. Then he looked her straight in the eye. "You bring him back right. That is all I ask of you. Don't ... add anything. Just bring him back like he was," he said. He didn't want to owe this one anything, but he would if it meant Dean and Sam would be alright in the end. "They deserve better than what you and your kind have given them."

Although the latter part might be considered rude by others, Lucy obviously didn't take offence. The right corner of her lips twitched upward in a lopsided little grin. "I have no intention of bringing him back any other way," she assured him. "Besides, it is all in Sam's blood. And his is as pure as it was the day he was born." The grin actually made her look more human. "I prefer Dean exactly the way he was before he died. I have no reason to bring him back any other way. But it is, in the end, up to him."

Bobby felt genuine respect in her and it made him wonder what exactly Dean had done to earn that respect. Knowing Dean's willingness to go out of his way to protect his family, Bobby feared the worst. "How can it be up to him?"

The grin widened a little and her irises became almost transparent for a moment. "I believe in the freedom of choice," Lucy said. "Shall we take a look?" she asked and nodded at the door.

Bobby didn't quite know what to say to that and decided to leave it for now. He still wasn't convinced she had anybody's best interest at heart, but she did seem taken with Dean for some reason. Of course ... she was female and had obviously been in this shape the first time Dean had met her. And it was rare that Dean ran into a female he couldn't handle.

***