There's only enveloping darkness here and the microwave blinks end end end; A blinding red glow of the inevitable and it's all Sam's fault. all my fault all my fault. Sleep is too far away; He ran out of sand miles ago, somewhere in Nebraska or maybe Idaho and everything he knows is days behind him, rotting on some blacktop or in a dingy, dying cafe on I-90. Somewhere Sam doesn't dare look back on. Somewhere with a hunt and a bottle of Jack and a wildly stupid mistake. I'm so sorry. Someday he'll remember the name of the motel or the smell of the diner or the feel of the Minnesota wind in storm season.
But not now. Now is for the darkness and the end and the sound of Dean's snores muffled against starched pillows. Fucking smells like dope and Jose. Now is for red-rimmed eyes and don't you fucking do it, Sam. Not here, not now or ever. You're wrong. Just… go away.
It's the end and it has been for weeks, but it never really comes. Just the waiting and the arguments and the hunts. moving in time like the old days when it had been all about the yellow-eyed demon. When it had been all about finding dad; When it was about Jess and mom and retribution and revenge. But it's not. It's the end and they're waiting.
The air is dead and quiet, except for a huff and a groan and restless-ness. "I can hear you thinking from here." There aren't any words for now, because they were lost, too. Somewhere with the hunt or maybe strewn in the wind like dust on the highway. "Sam." Another huff and groan and feet scrubbed on worn out carpet. A dip and a push, arms wrapped in arms and kisses on hair. "Sam, I-"
It's the end but they're alive with mistakes and a hunt and a bottle of Jack hidden under dirty laundry and Dean's favorite gun. I'm sorry.