Sam stumbles out of the house and ambles down the dirt path, tripping over a tangle of tree roots.
Yellow eyes. All he can think—all he can see—are those glowing yellow eyes and that malevolent smile.
Jack had vanished shortly thereafter in a billowing black cloud. Those yellow eyes had flashed in the dark and Sam was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to lift a hand or use his voice. He hadn’t thought to stop him, hadn’t thought to try and reach out to him, find some common ground. But maybe he should have. He doesn’t know. All he knows is—
Dean is still where Sam left him, still kneeling in the dirt next to the empty shell that had been Cas.
“Maybe,” Sam tries, but his voice sticks in his throat. He coughs, tries again: “Maybe there’s a spell or something I can find—”
Dean presses his fingers over Cas’s eyes and drags them down, shuttering them. His hand is remarkably steady.
“Stop,” Dean says, sitting back on his heels. “He’s gone.”
“There has to be a way.” Sam comes over to Dean’s side and lays a hand on his shoulder. “We can find—”
Dean shrugs Sam’s hand off and pushes himself to his feet. He rakes his hands through his hair and down over his face. “He’s gone, Sam.”
The slight tremble in Dean’s voice betrays the steadiness of his hands.
Sam sighs and presses a thumb against his eye. There’s a pounding inside his skull now, throbbing, threatening to split his head in two. Sam’s not sure if it’s Jack—yellow eyes—or everything that’s happened to them tonight. Maybe it’s a bit of both. Sam would prefer it to be a migraine. He has the plastic bottle of pills to deal with a migraine.
He doesn’t know how to deal with this.