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Destiel, Sam and Rowena hanging out.  1.5 k

Sam feels wrung out, like he can’t even summon one last drop of emotion about this latest failure.  Instead, he watches, numb, as Jack’s chest rises and falls at increasingly ragged intervals.

It feels like sitting across from Dean in a ratty motel room as the clock wound down, two days from the end, already imagining the way a hellhound’s claws would sound on the linoleum.  It feels like demon blood in emptied-out milk cartons and the Horsemen’s rings digging into his palms.

Inevitable.  Permanent.

Except not really, because neither of those endings had ever really been the end.  Sam can’t help but think that this really is it.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Rowena says.

Dean and Cas have long since vanished into another corner of the bunker.  Sam can’t help but think that his brother is looking for one of the bottles of ridiculously expensive whiskey that Crowley stashed in various weird places around the bunker.  As for Cas—well.  He hopes he’s going to angelically clean out Dean’s liver afterwards.

“No, wait.”

She pauses in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe.  Sam has been meaning to talk to her for weeks now, but things have been a bit crazy lately.  This time is as good as any.

“We need to talk.”

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