Lift Your Head Weary Sinner

66

Sam decides to do something incredibly stupid, and no one is surprised. (Part 1)

***Season 5, Episode 22***

***Chuck's POV***

Chuck sat by himself in the darkness, typing up the latest Supernatural manuscript. He spoke aloud as he typed, eyes weary with what he had seen and heard through his own words and mind.

"On April 21, 1967, the 100 millionth GM vehicle rolled off the line at the plant in Janesville – a blue two-door Caprice. There was a big ceremony, speeches. The lieutenant governor even showed up. Three days later, another car rolled off that same line. No one gave two craps about her. But they should have, because this 1967 Chevrolet Impala would turn out to be the most important car – no, the most important object – in pretty much the whole universe. She was first owned by Sal Moriarty, an alcoholic with two ex-wives and three blocked arteries. On weekends, he'd drive around giving Bibles to the poor "gettin' folks right for Judgment Day." That's what he said. Sam and Dean don't know any of this, but if they did, I bet they'd smile.

After Sal died, she ended up at Rainbow Motors, a used-car lot in Lawrence, where a young marine bought her on impulse. That is, after a little advice from a friend. I guess that's where this story begins."

"And here's where it ends."

---

***Y/N's POV***

Sam and I were leaning against the hood of the Impala, drinking beers and watching the clouded sky. We were at Bobby's, preparing for imminent death. I look up as I hear footsteps and see Dean exiting the house. He opens the cooler beside the car, grabs a beer, pops it open, and joins us by the hood. He had that familiar look on his face, the "we need to talk, and I'm not happy about it" face. I could see that Sam caught it as well.

"Dean? What's going on?" Sam's brow crinkled into a frown.

Dean took a swig of beer. "I'm in."

I looked up at him, confused. "In with...?"

"The whole "up with Satan" thing. I'm on board."

Sam's eyebrows went from furrowed to raised so quickly that I was strongly reminded of the concierge girl at the hotel I stayed at, grâce à Lucifer. "You're gonna let me say yes?"

My oldest brother studied the ground. "No. That's the thing. It's not on me to let you do anything. You're a grown– well, overgrown– man. If this is what you want, I'll back your play."

"That's the last thing I thought you'd ever say." Sam said, sipping his beer.

"Might be." Dean reasoned with a shrug. "I'm not gonna lie to you, though. It goes against every fiber I got. I mean, truth is... You know, watching out for you... it's kinda been my job, you know? But more than that, it's... it's kinda who I am. You're not a kid anymore, Sam, and I can't keep treating you like one. Maybe I got to grow up a little, too. I don't know if we got a snowball's chance. But... But I do know that if anybody can do it... it's you."

"Thank you."

"If this is what you want... Is this really what you want?" I asked Sam, eyes darkened with concern.

"I let him out. I got to put him back in."

"Okay. That's it, then."

---

Sam runs a cloth over the knife's blade, wiping away the dripping blood. Behind us, bodies hang from the ceiling of the abandoned warehouse, dripping onto the demon trap beneath them. Dean stands nearby, watching, running a hand through my H/C hair. I wipe a splatter of blood from my cheek. Castiel tightens the lid on the last gallon jug of demon blood, and signals to us that we can start hauling the stuff out to Baby.