Like it's the last night on earth, SPN fic.
Much love to nekonexus for looking this over! Spoilers for the end of S2/early S3. AU-ish speculation.
When you've had three hundred and sixty-five days to think about it (hey, thanks, Leap Year), deciding where you want to be when you die is a long process.
So it'd been a choice, a real choice, to sit in Bobby's salvage yard and drink beer and watch old movies. Bobby had gotten an extension cord so they could put the TV out in the yard; the weather was nice, and Dean wanted to see the stars, while he still could.
So where the fuck was Sam?
"He'll be here," Bobby said. "You know him. He's just having a hard time with all this."
"I know," Dean said, opening up his second bottle and tipping it back. "I know. But, hell, I'm dyin', he could at least show up on time."
The Impala came screetching into the yard. "See?" Bobby said. "He's here. He was probably just getting better beer or something."
"Yeah," Dean said, dubiously, turning toward the driveway just as Sam landed.
"Hey!" Sam ran out of the car. He looked...different. Maybe it was the leather jacket, or the sunglasses, or the hair or...okay, he was just different.
"Sammy," Dean snapped. "I'm dying and you get a makeover?"
"I did it!" Sam said. "Dean, I did it! You're not dying!"
Dean's nervousness turned to liquid anxiety. "You did what?"
Sam's smile was like an angel from Heaven's. "Everything's gonna be okay, Dean."
Dean could feel Bobby getting up behind him, the metal folding chair creaking with his weight.
"Sit down, Bobby," Sam said, and he felt the power behind the words. It was a gutpunch, a knife.
No, Dean thought. No. Bobby had been right. He'd been an idiot to ever summon the demon. He'd been a fool to... "Take your glasses off, Sammy."
"Now, now, Dean," Sam said, and it was Sam and it wasn't, and Dean started wondering how long he was going to last armed only with a beer bottle and a lifetime's worth of regrets. "You don't have to be so impatient."
"I don't have much time left, now, do I?"
Sam smiled and tipped the glasses back, eyes as yellow and vibrant as a cat's. "You're wrong, Dean," he said. "We've got all the time in the world."
I need a pretty princess Sammy icon.
When you've had three hundred and sixty-five days to think about it (hey, thanks, Leap Year), deciding where you want to be when you die is a long process.
So it'd been a choice, a real choice, to sit in Bobby's salvage yard and drink beer and watch old movies. Bobby had gotten an extension cord so they could put the TV out in the yard; the weather was nice, and Dean wanted to see the stars, while he still could.
So where the fuck was Sam?
"He'll be here," Bobby said. "You know him. He's just having a hard time with all this."
"I know," Dean said, opening up his second bottle and tipping it back. "I know. But, hell, I'm dyin', he could at least show up on time."
The Impala came screetching into the yard. "See?" Bobby said. "He's here. He was probably just getting better beer or something."
"Yeah," Dean said, dubiously, turning toward the driveway just as Sam landed.
"Hey!" Sam ran out of the car. He looked...different. Maybe it was the leather jacket, or the sunglasses, or the hair or...okay, he was just different.
"Sammy," Dean snapped. "I'm dying and you get a makeover?"
"I did it!" Sam said. "Dean, I did it! You're not dying!"
Dean's nervousness turned to liquid anxiety. "You did what?"
Sam's smile was like an angel from Heaven's. "Everything's gonna be okay, Dean."
Dean could feel Bobby getting up behind him, the metal folding chair creaking with his weight.
"Sit down, Bobby," Sam said, and he felt the power behind the words. It was a gutpunch, a knife.
No, Dean thought. No. Bobby had been right. He'd been an idiot to ever summon the demon. He'd been a fool to... "Take your glasses off, Sammy."
"Now, now, Dean," Sam said, and it was Sam and it wasn't, and Dean started wondering how long he was going to last armed only with a beer bottle and a lifetime's worth of regrets. "You don't have to be so impatient."
"I don't have much time left, now, do I?"
Sam smiled and tipped the glasses back, eyes as yellow and vibrant as a cat's. "You're wrong, Dean," he said. "We've got all the time in the world."
I need a pretty princess Sammy icon.