𝕭𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 ² *ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ*

Chapter Thirty-One: Sooner or Later

     Not long after the conversation, Bobby departed the house. I could sense the underlying unease in him; Sam's lack of recollection must have been deeply troubling. He desired for someone to be held accountable for Sam's actions that occurred.

Dean left the house about an hour later, Sam's intention to catch up on more sleep allowed Dean to venture out. I remained behind, settling onto the couch, leaning forward, one leg crossed over the other, my gaze fixed vacantly on the floor. My thoughts scattered in every direction, unable to tether to a single idea. Unexpectedly, the creak of a floorboard reached my ears, causing me to lift my head abruptly. There stood Sam at the entrance of the hallway, his gaze locked onto me.

"Hi," he began, his voice gentle, as he ventured into the room. "I-I want to talk to you," Sam inquired, making my eyebrows knit together. It was puzzling to imagine what he could want to discuss, given his complete lack of memory about the past year and a half. He fidgeted with his hands, struggling to find the words he needed.

"I heard every word Lucifer said," his words sliced through me, summoning the memory of that horrifying moment, as if it had just happened. The recollection bubbled up like a persistent nightmare. "I heard every word, or at least I think he wanted me to hear it all," I couldn't maintain eye contact with Sam any longer; I shifted my gaze away from him

I remained silent, my eyes avoiding his, hoping he would let the topic drop and move on. But he did the opposite. He moved closer, settling onto the couch beside me, causing the cushion to dip under his weight.

"Abby, please talk to me," he pleaded, as though discussing it could somehow mend the damage. I turned my gaze back to his, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked, a shrug lifting my shoulders, as I battled against the tears. "He made it clear that my life was predetermined. That the choices that I made were essentially his. That my 'darkness' was his doing. That everything was leading to him," I spoke rapidly, my breath quickening. The whirlwind of possibilities started spiralling in my mind again. "Even now, his words haunt me,"

"You're not his version of Aradia," Sam asserted, his voice strong yet retaining its gentleness. "Everyone has darkness within them, but there's also light," I felt a mixture of emotions welling up inside of me as I looked into Sam's eyes. His words were meant to reassure, but the deep wounds from Lucifer's taunts remained.

"But what if he was right?" I whispered, my voice shaky as doubt gnawed at me. "I've always felt this darkness within me. Even before Lucifer. I always felt a part of me was somehow already tainted,"

"He doesn't get to decide how you live your life, what you do, how you do it," Sam's gaze never wavered, his eyes locked onto mine. "You make your own choices, make your own path," his words held some weight to them.

"I want to believe that," I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper. "But my feelings are justified, especially when they were voiced by him," unexpectedly, Sam reached his hand out, his fingers gently grazing the back of mine. The contact is warm and reassuring. I didn't pull away, or shudder at his touch. This version of Sam was nothing like soulless Sam, I could see the emotion in his eyes, in his touch.

"You've faced so much. Demons, witches, angels," he rolled off a few things that I've faced. "Your life has been so much pain and grief, but somehow, you've come out on top and stronger than ever. Rare people possess such strength. That's who you are, Abigael," His words held a sincerity that resonated with me, chipping away at the doubts Lucifer's words had sown. I allowed myself to meet his gaze fully, searching for any hint of deception. But all I saw was honesty, and a belief in what he was saying.

I thought my chance of redemption with Sam or even Dean died when I 'outed' myself as a demon, but here I was, receiving a speech. I managed an appreciative smile, extending my free hand to rest gently on top of his.

"Thank you, Sam," I said, sincerity lacing my voice. Our gazes held for a moment, the urge to divulge more about the situation gnawing at the forefront of my mind. However, I abruptly withdrew from his touch, possibly giving Sam reason for concern. "I'll leave you to rest," I stated a bit abruptly, rising from the couch and averting my eyes from him.

Sam remained silent as I departed, likely taken aback by my sudden departure. I was out of the house before he could react. The fresh air felt revitalising as I descended the steps. Sam's obliviousness to the rift he had caused between himself and Bobby was undeniable. While I wasn't overly concerned about his role in my two untimely deaths, Bobby's acceptance would be more difficult to secure. The tarot cards and their ominous implications came back to haunt my thoughts. Dean needed to be informed about the potential future we might be facing.

I navigated through the scrapyard, locating Bobby and Dean in the rear garage. Bobby noticed me and briefly broke away from Dean, a passing smile exchanged between us before he headed back to the house.

"Dean, we need to talk," I addressed him, my voice a blend of softness and authority. There was no room for beating around the bush. His attention shifted to me, our eyes locking in a moment of understanding. "While you were playing the role of Death's errand boy, I conducted a reading on Sam." I advanced toward the worktable that separated us, scattered with mechanical odds and ends. His gaze remained fixed on mine, his demeanour shifting to one that demanded an explanation. "I used Tarot cards, and the results are disturbing."

"You know I've never put much stock in that kind of stuff," he brushed it off with a hint of levity, attempting to downplay the impending gravity.

"Believe it or not, the cards I drew were The Hanged Man, The Devil, and the Nine of Swords,"

"Am I supposed to know what they mean?" He questioned, interrupting me and arching his brows.

"To sum it up, the weight of his memories, his time in Hell, will likely take a severe psychological toll on him," my words were strong, as I was trying to convince him of the seriousness of the tarots.

"Except he doesn't remember any of that, and I plan to keep it that way," Dean's response took on a darker tone, almost like a veiled threat.

"But eventually, he'll figure things out!" I raised my voice, taking another step toward the table, my tone carrying the urgency of the situation. "Maybe a week from now, or a month. We can't predict."

"For now, he's fine," Dean countered, rising from his seat, his expression firm. My frustration mounted, my hands clenched into fists, an exasperated sound escaping my lips. He was refusing to acknowledge the potential danger.

"Can you just believe me for once?!" I exclaimed, my voice reverberating through the air, causing the beer bottles on the table to hurl themselves in opposing directions. As they shattered upon impact, I released my grip on the magic I'd accidentally summoned, stepping back, my brows furrowed in confusion. Dean's gaze shifted from the broken bottles to me, assessing the unexpected situation.

"Do what you want with them," I threw my hand toward him as if tossing a deck of cards his way. As I did, three distinct puffs of smoke materialised in mid-air, lasting only a few seconds before fading. The cards graced the table's surface, sliding across before stopping in front of Dean – the very Tarot cards I had drawn. Without another word, black smoke crawled from the ground up, engulfing me in its embrace. Dean was stubborn, and he wanted this win. I understood that, but he needed to know the danger that was to come. Because it will come. Sooner or later...

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