A/N: I apologize if this is somewhat less than coherent. I was feeling (still am) quite devastated at the end of "Dark Side of the Moon". Those last seconds tore me apart. After sleeping on it, I woke up feeling that I just had to write a tag—sort through some of the feelings. This one is Sam's POV. I might write another from Dean's POV. I'm not sure yet. (NOTE: I did indeed write a companion piece from Dean's POV titled "A Deep, Despairing Lament".)

Anyway, this is really short, but I had to get it out there.

Ness


A Deep, Bone-Chilling Ache

By: Vanessa Sgroi

After watching my brother exit the motel room without a backward glance and trudge dispiritedly toward the Impala, I picked the amulet up out of the trash can. I'm not sure why. But my chest is tight, my heart hammering from the second I heard the thump when the necklace—a tangible symbol of our brotherhood—hit the bottom of the can. The sense of loss is nearly overwhelming.

The metal rests in my palm, and I curl my fingers around it, warming it then clenching it in a tight, trembling fist. My big brother's given up. I can feel it. Given up on hope, on faith, on God. And he's given up on me. He didn't say it outright, but then he didn't need to. Actions speak louder than words. I feel tears prick my eyes. His free will has been systematically, maliciously, stripped bare. What Famine's hard, twisted words started, Joshua's soft, comfortless words finished. In a perfect—or at least sensible world—my brother would have turned to me after giving up on everything else.

Our world, though, is far from perfect or sensible—we've been cruelly manipulated at every turn—and I've done a fair amount of pushing my older brother away. Now I want to pull him close, stand side-by-side with him and fight Heaven and Hell both. Just as he's reached the end of his rope.

I shove the amulet in my jacket pocket and trace Dean's footsteps out of the room and across the parking lot. He won't look at me as we stow our bags in the trunk. His head is bowed, face utterly expressionless. I want to speak, to repeat my words from moments ago, but I know I'll be rebuffed. Instead I slip my hand in my pocket and run my thumb repeatedly over warm metal. I'll leave the talking for later. As soon as I figure out the right words to say. If there are any at all.

Fin