"Dean, when did we stop caring about people? "
Dean arched an eyebrow and shot his brother a puzzled glance before he looked back out of the windshield. "Sammy, what the hell are you talking about?" He asked gruffly, his once tenor voice carrying a note of whiskey and sleepless nights.
"I mean," Sam said slowly, like he were talking to an idiot. "When did we stop caring about people?" The sharp planes of his face were illuminated by street lights as they passed.
"We care about people."
"No." Sam said with surety. "We don't. Somehow saving people, hunting things, just became hunting things. I mean you remember when it was so hard to gank a person who was possessed by a demon? Now we just slaughter them. Don't even think twice. Like they're as good as dead the minute a demon takes them for a ride."
"Dean grunted an acknowledgement and ran a hand along the stubble of his chin.
"So when did we stop caring?"
"I think around the time you stopped cutting your hair."
"Haha. I think maybe it was around the time we became pawns in some sort of unholy chess match between angels and demons?"
"Yeah," Dean said. "Around the time you stopped cutting your hair."
Sam opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again. It was his older brother's usual asinine way of seeing things...but... Sam pushed his fingers through his hair and snorted.
...Dean was right.