Title: 'The Worst is Not Knowing'
Warnings: Spoilers for 10.1, language.
Summary: Do 300 words need a summary? The summary would be longer than the fic!
Sam cut off the call and pressed the phone to his forehead, the sharp ringing of Cas’ coughs lodged like corks in his brain. Cas was dying, actively dying. Even though the lot of them seemed to die every third Sunday, it was never happy and it was never commonplace. Deaths were like snowflakes, each one so alarmingly unique and fragile and special. Shit, look at Dean’s latest death (or not–death; God only knew and He wasn’t telling.) Sam felt like he’d had his eyes propped open for three straight days now. One last glance at weather patterns in Wichita, and he slowly closed the laptop.
The bunker was smothered quiet, except for the scraping of a chair and Sam’s footsteps as he plodded to the sink. He swiped water across his face with his off-hand. His right shoulder was still stiff and aching like a mofo, and there was audible clicking, felt as much as heard, when the joint rolled. The face in the mirror had shadows puddled under the eyes and no amount of water would wash the smudges away. No amount of justification or shared guilt would make this right, in any lifetime.
Eight ounces of whiskey, however, was just the right amount to file down the edges.
One foot in front of the other, Winchester. Eyes straight ahead. Do not pass Go, do not collect one red cent.
Sam palmed a bottle of Johnny Walker on his way out, turned off the lights, and got quietly buzzed enough to stare at the ceiling until dawn, according to the clock on the nightstand. Sleep gave way to dreams; dreams gave way to a curdle in the pit of his stomach that Sam chose to read as loss, because it felt empty and bottomless. But that was a lie.
Sam knew, in some voiceless way, it was terror.