Eventually Dean got the 4-1-1 from June, who’d wrangled the info from her sister, April, because April knew the veterinary receptionist. (This was the way small towns worked when you hung around long enough, Dean came to realize.) The dog had been hacking, off and on, for a month … could’ve been allergies, could’ve been asthma. Asthma? Really? Yeah, wasn’t unheard of.
After this last bad bout, though, the vet in nearby Latshaw had taken an x-ray and the results weren’t optimistic. Apparently, there was some serious fluid retention around Doc’s heart that indicated either congestive heart failure-unlikely in such a young animal-or more probably, a mass. Inoperable, and it simply wasn’t doable to submit the dog to radiation or chemotherapy, too complicated and too expensive, even if the clinic had the wherewithal to try.
Sam had made the humane decision to put Doc down. Humane, for everyone but Sam, Dean decided
( ... )
It was slightly surreal, the acres of carefully aligned evergreens, in their compulsively neat rows and arranged by type so that the greens changed and darkened in waves. Dean navigated the Impala down the dirt ruts, eyes peeled for the telltale flash of metal in the sun. Five rows deep, he saw the top of Sam’s head and the whiz of his shearing knife, taking off the tips of errant branches. Dean sounded the horn; Sam had his earbuds in, listening to something suitably emo, Dean supposed.
Sam shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, pulled on the fine cord running from his iPod, and squinted around a Norway spruce. His t-shirt was ringed with sweat and he was flushed from exertion and the heat. Despite a solid tan, there was sleep-deprived bruising under his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick
( ... )
This was so heartbreaking. Dean did a great job of being there for Sam and offering the help he knew Sam needed, without completely smothering him or being over-emotional about such a terrible situation.
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.” “Dean, I’m not-” “I packed a God-damned picnic.” “A what?” “Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.” Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?” “Shut up, ass hat.” ... “You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised. Awww :-) I could so see this.
I didn't see your reply here! Thank you bunches for reading; we have such a wealth of things to read in this fandom it's nigh impossible to get on anyone's radar. *smishes*
( ... )
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**********
Eventually Dean got the 4-1-1 from June, who’d wrangled the info from her sister, April, because April knew the veterinary receptionist. (This was the way small towns worked when you hung around long enough, Dean came to realize.) The dog had been hacking, off and on, for a month … could’ve been allergies, could’ve been asthma. Asthma? Really? Yeah, wasn’t unheard of.
After this last bad bout, though, the vet in nearby Latshaw had taken an x-ray and the results weren’t optimistic. Apparently, there was some serious fluid retention around Doc’s heart that indicated either congestive heart failure-unlikely in such a young animal-or more probably, a mass. Inoperable, and it simply wasn’t doable to submit the dog to radiation or chemotherapy, too complicated and too expensive, even if the clinic had the wherewithal to try.
Sam had made the humane decision to put Doc down. Humane, for everyone but Sam, Dean decided ( ... )
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**********
It was slightly surreal, the acres of carefully aligned evergreens, in their compulsively neat rows and arranged by type so that the greens changed and darkened in waves. Dean navigated the Impala down the dirt ruts, eyes peeled for the telltale flash of metal in the sun. Five rows deep, he saw the top of Sam’s head and the whiz of his shearing knife, taking off the tips of errant branches. Dean sounded the horn; Sam had his earbuds in, listening to something suitably emo, Dean supposed.
Sam shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, pulled on the fine cord running from his iPod, and squinted around a Norway spruce. His t-shirt was ringed with sweat and he was flushed from exertion and the heat. Despite a solid tan, there was sleep-deprived bruising under his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick ( ... )
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This was a great read! I love how you portrayed Sam's depression effecting his mental issues with Lucifer, too.
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Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what?”
“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.”
Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?”
“Shut up, ass hat.”
...
“You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised.
Awww :-) I could so see this.
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