Its hot, the kind of lung smothering heat of a Texas sun, his knees are aching as one bruises the Impalas dash and the other folds underneath his thighs. Childishly sat, perched as if ready to bolt from the safety of the car and into the highway. His shirt is wrinkled and musky with the smell of hot leather and shitty laundromats but its soft and it's Deans old one which makes it okay. Over 30 years old and he's still proud to wear hand-me-downs. There a waft of melting liquorice. Tasteless and cheap from some hick town gas station but its Deans favourite. His toes are scuffing old receipts and salt granules while an arm, corded and tan drags over the seats thumbing the seams of the leather. His other hand resting on too heavy jeans, calloused fingers working the holes along the upper thigh. The road is crappy and broken up, and his head rolls with the impalas jilted movement making his mouth fall open at odd intervals. Burning eyes tracking nothing, blinded by the sun yet stubbornly determined to remain open. He shoved a tape into the deck after climbing in the car and Dean hasn't touched it. Psalm 86 provides a soothing hum over the sound of misery. Even if the words truly mean nothing. It's all okay.
Incline Your ear, O LORD, and answer me;
For I am afflicted and needy.
Preserve my soul, for I am a godly man;
O You my God, save Your servant who trusts in You.
It's a sad attempt at ignorance. Sam's dying. The final hoorah of a Catoblepas. As its flailing body stumbled into Sam and its final breath, its poisoned last breath, coiled down his throat. A poetic way to die in his opinion. No cure, but no pain. Dean's angry and grieving next to him panic driving them both to nowhere in particular. His eyes wet and his lips thin stubborn but weary and so so broken. Racing them to one more cheat of death they both know doesn't exist. Sam's dying and it's effortless and he's okay with it. Dying like this? Next to his brother, in his impala – like a metal funeral pyre; holding his dying body as the sun set him aflame. Was ok. Dean's sad pretty eyes roll towards him and Sam smiles, it's the only way he knows how to convey his love and his goodbyes. His last day on earth was okay.
But You, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious,
Slow to anger and abundant in loving kindness and truth.
His breathing is slower and Sam feels a fog of lethargy wash over him, coating his fingers like syrup. Dean's making low noises in his throat and pulls them over and the sun is still setting him alight. There a pull in his chest and he curls over lengthways along the seat, his head coming to rest on another warm thigh, his cheek pressed against Deans jittering stomach. Everything is blunt and so damn peaceful. His brother's stuttering litany of breathless denial is hushed and Sam is so sorry for making Dean so sad. There's a hand on his head, thumb delicate upon his cheekbone and nimble motherly fingers are just holding on, wrapped in his hair. He can't move and it's okay. Dean can see him, can understand him, as he apologises with his eyes. It's getting harder to see but he feels Deans grief drip onto his jaw, and it's okay. He's being salted in tears and burnt in the sun and its okay. Dean's whispering love and forgiveness and it's all really okay.
Show me a sign for good,
That those who hate me may see it and be ashamed,
Because You, O LORD, have helped me and comforted me.
"Goodnight Sam." It was a good day to die.