The Devil is closing in on them day by day, toying with them and letting them stew in their own insidious, inescapable fear; they're going to die and they've known it forever, but the only way they're going down is shotgun in hand and taking down enough hellspawn demons with them to make a difference.
Time was, Sam would have added to that in his own mind, the only way he's going down is side-by-side with his brother, watching his back and knowing his is covered in return; now that's no longer a certainty--Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him from behind, but he doesn't know what Dean's thinking anymore, and if he's allowed one last wish before the world around him goes to hell, all he wants is for his brother to look at him like he used to before, like he's his best friend and not just his burden, like there's no one else in the world more important to him.
Sam's eyes are stinging but he pretends it's from the putrid air around them, and he's focused so intently on checking his gun and not saying all he wants to, that he doesn't notice Dean moving closer until his hand is heavy on Sam's shoulder; he can feel Dean inhale, hesitate, then whisper into his ear, "You're my little brother, Sammy, and there's not one day I've wished it any different," and Sam blinks hard and swallows, and maybe they're going to die today, tomorrow, a month from now, but it doesn't matter so much as long as he has his brother.
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ninetydegrees
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on 2009-12-30 10:23 pm (UTC)Time was, Sam would have added to that in his own mind, the only way he's going down is side-by-side with his brother, watching his back and knowing his is covered in return; now that's no longer a certainty--Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him from behind, but he doesn't know what Dean's thinking anymore, and if he's allowed one last wish before the world around him goes to hell, all he wants is for his brother to look at him like he used to before, like he's his best friend and not just his burden, like there's no one else in the world more important to him.
Sam's eyes are stinging but he pretends it's from the putrid air around them, and he's focused so intently on checking his gun and not saying all he wants to, that he doesn't notice Dean moving closer until his hand is heavy on Sam's shoulder; he can feel Dean inhale, hesitate, then whisper into his ear, "You're my little brother, Sammy, and there's not one day I've wished it any different," and Sam blinks hard and swallows, and maybe they're going to die today, tomorrow, a month from now, but it doesn't matter so much as long as he has his brother.