AN: Not my characters. The title comes from a Bjork song which is good but has nothing to do with the story. Enjoy!
Ultimately, it hadn't been Heaven that had been the final straw. Sure it hurt. Suspecting that Sam could have lived out his life and been perfectly happy without him was one thing. Knowing it was a bitch. But that part of his heart had taken so many beatings that one more wasn't the end.
It hadn't been Cas losing faith. Cas was the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch he knew, aside from Sam. He'd be mopey for a while. But he'd be ok.
It wasn't even the kid's mother practically spitting in his face and blaming him for her son's death. He knew that was on his soul. Another corpse added to the endless pile he'd have to atone for at some point.
No, instead it was one simple, stupid moment of recognition.
"Is that a twelve-year-old loading salt rounds?"
That was what the apocalypse would do. Not just kill a load of people. In some ways, he was resigned to that and to saving as many people as possible along the way.
No, instead the apocalypse would turn out a generation of children who would be just like him. He'd made his first sawed off shot gun at 13. Killed a werewolf at 16. Been on his own hunting at 26. He'd been trained to fight until it was all he knew how to do.
Sam might have thought that he resented the desire Sam had for a normal life. And he did. But not for the reasons Sam thought. He resented it because he could never, ever have it. Like a vet from a war, civilian life was a mystery to him. Staying in one place, putting down roots, having kids, making small talk with the neighbors over a grill was as much a foreign land to him as India.
And that's what these kids would be like. That's what finally broke him.
The thought of a generation of Deans inheriting the earth.