HI, HI. I just wanted to sneak in another comment before reveals to tell you how much I love this fic. ♥
He hated it—hated the ease of it, how his hands could relearn so quickly, how his body could be repurposed so smoothly. How it was against Sam when all Dean had ever wanted was to be for him. That is just heartbreaking and so full of perfection.
...he strapped Sam to a chair and watched Cas and Crowley drill around in all the parts of him that Dean couldn’t reach. YES. ;___;
Dean was a hunter of monsters: the world’s, his own, and Sam’s. Purgatory had proven a point that didn’t need to be made—Dean was built for the fight... Dean was built for the fight of keeping Sam alive, keeping all his loose ends bundled up, keeping him grounded and tethered—to life, to sanity. To Dean. I love the repetition of "Dean was built for the fight." He is, so much.
SMALL SAM IN THE HAZY DARK CRAWLING INTO DEAN'S LAP. And then this: Sam sprouted in all directions—long limbs and shaggy hair and courseless, bitter rage—and Sam’s spot (on the sofa, in Dean’s life) began to shift. WHY MUST YOU BREAK MY HEART IN THESE GLORIOUS WAYS.
I love that their only constants are each other and monsters, in that order. I love that Sam challenges him to push harder. And this: And his lockbox collection of memories—moments of gentleness stretched gummy like taffy between them, times when Sam had let him linger too close for too long and they’d never talked about it but it was there, had always been there. ♥___♥
Bracketing all this gorgeous stuff with the idea that Dean isn't much for religion is just, IDK, the icing on this heartbreakingly lovely cake? "The air was thick with reverence between them" and "for a heavy half-moment he could almost believe in a sanctuary for them both" are such wonderfully chosen words for the essence of Sam/Dean. I can't thank you enough, mystery author. I hope you never stop writing these two. ♥
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-04-16 06:48 pm (UTC)He hated it—hated the ease of it, how his hands could relearn so quickly, how his body could be repurposed so smoothly. How it was against Sam when all Dean had ever wanted was to be for him. That is just heartbreaking and so full of perfection.
...he strapped Sam to a chair and watched Cas and Crowley drill around in all the parts of him that Dean couldn’t reach. YES. ;___;
Dean was a hunter of monsters: the world’s, his own, and Sam’s. Purgatory had proven a point that didn’t need to be made—Dean was built for the fight... Dean was built for the fight of keeping Sam alive, keeping all his loose ends bundled up, keeping him grounded and tethered—to life, to sanity. To Dean. I love the repetition of "Dean was built for the fight." He is, so much.
SMALL SAM IN THE HAZY DARK CRAWLING INTO DEAN'S LAP. And then this: Sam sprouted in all directions—long limbs and shaggy hair and courseless, bitter rage—and Sam’s spot (on the sofa, in Dean’s life) began to shift. WHY MUST YOU BREAK MY HEART IN THESE GLORIOUS WAYS.
I love that their only constants are each other and monsters, in that order. I love that Sam challenges him to push harder. And this: And his lockbox collection of memories—moments of gentleness stretched gummy like taffy between them, times when Sam had let him linger too close for too long and they’d never talked about it but it was there, had always been there. ♥___♥
Bracketing all this gorgeous stuff with the idea that Dean isn't much for religion is just, IDK, the icing on this heartbreakingly lovely cake? "The air was thick with reverence between them" and "for a heavy half-moment he could almost believe in a sanctuary for them both" are such wonderfully chosen words for the essence of Sam/Dean. I can't thank you enough, mystery author. I hope you never stop writing these two. ♥