comment fic
When a shadow comes between him and the lazy light of sunset, Sam looks up into green eyes and just...knows. Despite the new edge to the way the man holds himself, despite the signs that Sam can still read as holster, knife, gun...Sam knows without any lingering, hopeful doubts.
It's not Dean.
Dean always projected his presence, took up all available space, and this man still doesn't. The look on his face is almost diffident, although the firmness of his stance is anything but.
"So it turns out there are...things." His voice hasn't changed, and Sam half closes his eyes, feeling the wash of memory like hands on his skin.
"And it turns out these things," a shift, something dark, "like me. And this isn't some sort of pity, begging gig." A movement by his side as his left hand twitches, and Sam glances away from what he'd been trying not to see in those long-lost eyes.
Those hands had always looked small when compared to Sam's. Sam remembers how they felt on him, how they looked when they held his guitar. There are two nails missing from his left hand. Pinky and ring finger, ripped out at the roots.
Sam feels something old and bitter and strong well up in him, and he's pretty sure he's not actually causing the new, chill wind that stirs the sand around him, but the shadow shifts anyway. Desecrated left hand clenches into a fist, right hand moves quickly up under the jacket. Holster. Gun.
"This isn't...I'm not asking. I'm doing fine."
"Hunting," Sam asks, as if testing the taste of it.
A quiet, sighing laugh. "More 'ed' than 'ing' right now. But I'm doing okay. I can do this on my own."
Sam glances around at the empty beach beyond them, no need to point out the obvious. "But you don't want to," he says, no question this time.
He knows.
He can't right old wrongs. He can't protect the ones he loves. He can't...
He stands up, steps forward and meets no resistance. The invading darkness stretches out around them like a promise, like a fight they might not win but can't avoid. Sam laughs because it does no good to scream, and a matching wild glint of smile meets him.
"Okay then. Let's go."
It's not Dean.
Dean always projected his presence, took up all available space, and this man still doesn't. The look on his face is almost diffident, although the firmness of his stance is anything but.
"So it turns out there are...things." His voice hasn't changed, and Sam half closes his eyes, feeling the wash of memory like hands on his skin.
"And it turns out these things," a shift, something dark, "like me. And this isn't some sort of pity, begging gig." A movement by his side as his left hand twitches, and Sam glances away from what he'd been trying not to see in those long-lost eyes.
Those hands had always looked small when compared to Sam's. Sam remembers how they felt on him, how they looked when they held his guitar. There are two nails missing from his left hand. Pinky and ring finger, ripped out at the roots.
Sam feels something old and bitter and strong well up in him, and he's pretty sure he's not actually causing the new, chill wind that stirs the sand around him, but the shadow shifts anyway. Desecrated left hand clenches into a fist, right hand moves quickly up under the jacket. Holster. Gun.
"This isn't...I'm not asking. I'm doing fine."
"Hunting," Sam asks, as if testing the taste of it.
A quiet, sighing laugh. "More 'ed' than 'ing' right now. But I'm doing okay. I can do this on my own."
Sam glances around at the empty beach beyond them, no need to point out the obvious. "But you don't want to," he says, no question this time.
He knows.
He can't right old wrongs. He can't protect the ones he loves. He can't...
He stands up, steps forward and meets no resistance. The invading darkness stretches out around them like a promise, like a fight they might not win but can't avoid. Sam laughs because it does no good to scream, and a matching wild glint of smile meets him.
"Okay then. Let's go."