For once, Sam was not roasting on a spit, like a suckling pig, or having imaginary conversations with Hallucifer. He was in a house, with a can of Dr. Pepper and a bag of Funyuns on the coffee table, and a Golden Shepherd curled up at his feet. It was one of his more pleasant memories from his teen years--if you overlooked the fact that it was also one of those times when he'd run away from Dean and John, in search of his own identity. It was a place he came to a lot, lately, in his current search for the same.
Maybe he should get a new dog.
The thought had just crossed his mind when the dog's ears perked up, and Sam realized he was not alone. "Molly?"