Disclaimer: I still don't own Supernatural. And that makes me sad.

Author's Note: This story exists because I couldn't resist using the title. It came to me while I was rewatching Repo Man. I've always been amused by those bumper stickers that say Jesus is my copilot, or some variation thereof. But I do love me some imaginary friend Lucifer. And a big nod goes to the movie Ghost. You know Dean has seen it. It's a Swayze movie.

I'm listing it as angst and humor because I guess it depends on your outlook. It could be either. If anyone has an opinion on which it is, I'd love to hear it.

So, without further ado: Enjoy! Hope it's not too confusing.

Lucifer Is My Copilot

I'm Henry the Eighth I am,

Henry the Eighth, I am, I am…

Sam squinted across the table, willing himself to focus.

"Dude, what's wrong with your face? You look constipated." Dean waggled a finger in his brother's direction as if that would explain everything.

"Nothing. I'm fine."

Second verse same as the first!

"What were you saying?" Sam dropped his hands beneath the table, jabbing his thumb deep into the curved scar on his palm. Nothing happened.

Dean gave him the hairy eyeball, leaning back heavily in his side of the booth, but kept the commentary to himself for the moment. "I'm saying I checked the place out. Top to bottom. Twice."

I'm Henry the Eighth I am…

"Uh huh," Sam said. He stared emphatically at the menu in his hands.

Henry the Eighth, I am, I am…

"No EMF. No hex bags."

"Uh huh."

I got married to the widow next door…

"Oh, but there were clowns. Lots and lots of clowns."

"Uh huh."

She's been married seven times before…

"I brought a couple back for you."

"Uh huh."

And every one was Henry…

Dean snapped his fingers inches from Sam's nose, waiting until his brother's eyes refocused in a flurry of blinking. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing. Tired. I guess." Sam rubbed a hand down his face. He shifted uncomfortably. Lucifer lounged in the booth at his back, still humming under his breath.

Order the pot roast, Lucifer said. We're looking pale lately. Wouldn't want to end up anemic.

Their waitress popped up at Sam's shoulder and he jumped. He hadn't even heard her coming.

"I'll have the Cobb salad," Sam said the minute she had her pad out.

Dean shot him another questioning look as he handed over his untouched menu. He frowned, eyes measuring Sam as he placed his own order.

Pot roast. We want pot roast, Lucifer whined, leaning over the back of Sam's seat so he could speak directly into his ear.

Sam gritted his teeth, barely resisting the urge to snap back at the blond man no one else could see.

"…and a slice of cherry pie," Dean finished saying. He smiled charmingly up at the waitress. No doubt he would be getting an extra big slice for that.

Lucifer was still behind him chanting, Pot roast. Pot roast. We haven't had pot roast in years. Order us the pot roast. When Sam continued to ignore him, he added, I'll start singing again. Lucifer took a deep breath to make good on his threat.

Sam's hand shot out, barely snagging the waitress before she left. She looked down in alarm at the fingers wrapped tight around her wrist and then back up at Sam. "Yes?"

"Can I get pot roast instead of the salad?"

Dean froze like an animal scenting danger on the wind. "You can let go of her now, Sam," he said with a nod towards the hand still holding the waitress in place. "Sam?"

Good boy, Sam.