“I’m gettin’ to Jack, one way or the other. The only question is, you coming with? Or that?”
Lucifer shines his flashlight on the swarm of vampires clawing at the entrance, and Sam knows he’s right. With or without him, Lucifer will get to Jack. To Dean, to Cas, to Mom – everyone. As always, Sam’s choice is no choice at all.
The voice inside his head is screaming a siren of “I told you so.” Letting Lucifer into the bunker, letting him anywhere near Sam or his family is always a mistake. No matter how many times they think they have him trapped, it always ends the same way: with the Devil on the loose, and standing in front of Sam. Again.
But “I told you so’s” mean about as much as his illusion of free will right now. Which is to say, nothing at all. Even if Sam chooses the the vampires, there is no doubt in his mind that Lucifer will bring him back and offer him the same deal again. And again, and again, and again, until he gets what he wants. It’s not the first time they’ve played this game, after all.
(Sam’s mind flashes back to motel rooms and overdoses, and guns pressed against his temple and waking up gasping every. Single. Time. “I’ll kill myself before letting you in” hadn’t worked then either.)
And Lucifer is looking at him, looming large in the shadows with his fingers poised to release the horde of vamps, and Sam wishes he hadn’t brought him back. He would rather be dead in a foreign world than feel this helpless again. As much as he wants to say “go to Hell” he knows it won’t change the outcome.
The Devil has a chain wrapped around his neck as sure the blood drying stiff on his throat, and no matter what he chooses he’ll have to say yes.
Sam waits until Dean is in his room, and then double checks that his own door his locked before he dials the number; he knows he could go to Dean and tell him just how awful all this makes him feel, and he knows Dean would listen, but Dean can’t get it– through no fault of Dean’s own– and Sam needs to talk to someone who understands the feeling.
“Samuel, how lovely to hear from you,” Rowena’s voice travels through the phone, hazy and velvet, and Sam has never been happier to hear her voice. He can’t be bothered to heed Dean’s warning that she isn’t their friend; right now she’s what he’s got, and he believes in her anger as much as he believes in his own.
“Rowena,” he says, “please tell me that spell worked.”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line, filled with Sam’s hammering heart and the gentle static fuzz, the anticipation, the fear that never goes away, before he practically hears Rowena’s smile along with the words, “Don’t you worry, Sam– I won’t make his death quick.”
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