âMy mind can linger where it pleases.â He hissed through a snarl, orange splintering his irises for a quick second before fading under closed eyelids. Sam drew up his knees under the blanket and draped his arms across them, lowering his head on a yawn. His temper had flared, but mostly he just wanted to go back to sleep. Quietly, he wondered if Sam would notice if he lay back down.
A sigh, and he propped one cheek on a hand, listening to the crunch of footsteps outside. âClearly.â He said, deadpan. It wasnât totally clear of he was actually taking it seriously or not, but definitely not as much as Sam wanted him to. Heâd said these things as if theyâd make much of a difference to him. He was still a Fallen, no matter whether he wielded a throne or not. The hunterâs tools of the trade were for demons, and he was something else entirely.
But then, maybe theyâd work on Sam. It occurred to him now that maybe that was why he was worried.
âWhy donât you send your dog out to fetch? Itâs not like they can see her.â
Sam stared back, trying to reel his agitation and alarm back in. Sometimes this haunting Archangel could really grate on his nerves, particularly because much like Sam, he seemed to live with one food in each word to some extend. He was an Archangel, but he served in Hell while also being a demonic Prince of Hell. Maybe that was why Samael was so unfazed. There wasnât a big threat for him.
âPompous, arrogant bastard, why do we hang out with him?!â
The image of Samael flimmered, overlaying itself with a ripped open chest, gashed throat and damp blood on the bed sheet. Sam furrowed his brows and flicked a hand upwards, twisting his head sideways, mumbling: âHush, not now. I am trying to think!â His demand was only met with quiet chuckle and more inaudible whispers in his head. His head was thrumming and the veins on his wrists pulsed.
Sam looked down at Jessica, who had rung the alarm in the first place. The idea hadnât even occured to the Boy King. He still wasnât that used to using the creatures of Hell in defence or as a weapon.
âWe told you so⌠we told you soâŚ. Just use her. You are in charge, stupid!â
Sam massaged his temple, not in the mood to deal with being criticised from essentially two fronts. It seemed ever since he had become the King of Hell, the demon blood had gotten louder than before. It of course had its reasons for doing that, trying to guide the human half, not well versed in demonic culture. Still, it made these type of moments rather awkward.
As Sam continued to massage his temple in the hope of easing his mind, he felt his body temperature rising and his conscious mind slipped downwards. His stance shifted. Where previously, he had been tense and agitated, even a bit bent over to make himself smaller, he now drew to his full height, dropped his arm and spoke with a calm and collected voice:
âJessica, sick âem.â
Jessica was used to her masterâs strange shifts of personality and thus she hadnât paid his mental wrestling any mind. Sam nowadays could handle this well enough to not be completely incapacitated. Instead she simply headbutted the door, forcing it open a knudge and slipping out of the building.
Samâs eyes kept peering through the slits of the shutter. Sounds of surprise and fighting drifted over to them. Screaming, wild gunfire as rounds emptied themselves rapidly, and the heinous tearing of flesh. It was impossible to make anything out in the dark.
The demon blood said: âWe appologise for having woken you up. We realise its unnecessity. If you wish to sleep again, you may do so, Samael. We can handle the issue until then.â