Work Text:
Dean looked into the sky. Then down at Sam's eyes. Frozen open and gray.
Sam wouldn't be closing them again. Not himself. Not ever.
He was gone.
The rain came down hard. Cold. Violent. Neither of them reacted. It felt like neither of them were really there anyway — just bodies in the mud. One warm. One less so every second.
Dean's jeans were soaked through. He didn't move.
He thought about their dad. About their mom. About every name on every grave their family had ever dug. The abyss had taken all of them, one by one, slow and patient and inevitable.
And now Sam. Sam, who was supposed to be the point of it all.
Would it matter this much? If he was gone instead? Probably not. Right?
He tried to remember the last thing conversation they'd had. Couldn't.
He tried to feel something other than the cold. Couldn't do that either.
Somewhere behind him — a minute later, an hour, he had no idea — boots slogged through the mud.
Bobby. Of course it was Bobby. Bobby, who always showed up. Bobby, who would want him to stand up and keep going and mean it.
Not now. He couldn't fix it now.
But later. When he was alone. When there was a crossroads and a deal to make and no one around to talk him out of it.
He would right this wrong.
Soon.