I was up at three. I was awake all night, but at three I finally decided to give up the pretense, and I got dressed and went downstairs for coffee and research. More research. Yeah, it was the longest long shot we'd ever been up against maybe, but I wasn't gonna quit until quitting was all there was left.

Long about five I heard the boys getting up and getting ready. I couldn't imagine what it was being them right then. When Dean made his deal, every fight we fought was to keep him outta hell. Now we were fixing to fight to put Sam into hell. And we were headed at first light to Detroit to do it.

So every footstep above me, every squeak of a door or the floor, every question asked across the upstairs hallway was one more 'this is probably the last time ever…' between them. It felt like eavesdropping on something sacred to hear even their muted voices and muffled footsteps.

And it was damn heartbreaking to listen to.

When Dean was on his way downstairs, those boys had a year to work out their unwilling goodbyes, a dozen times over. Now, this time, they had hours, if that, to fill in every chink, seal up every hole, heal up every breach.

To say every word that couldn't be said.

Honestly, watching them that morning, I wasn't sure they could do it.

Especially since that damn morning, they hardly said one damn word to each other.

They came down the stairs close on each other's heels, set their gear at the front door and went into the kitchen for breakfast. They gave me each a quick 'morning' or 'did you eat?' but stuck close one to the other and I left them alone and only kept an eye on them from behind my computer.

Dean got the plates from the cupboard and made the eggs and handed Sam the first plateful of food. Sam made the toast and the coffee and set that first plate down at Dean's spot at the table. While they were eating, Dean got the jelly out of the fridge for Sam, and Sam got more coffee for Dean, and when they were done they both stood at the sink and did and dried the dishes and put them away.

After that, they headed out into the early daylight to pack up their car. Dean handed Sam his jacket, Sam handed Dean his duffel, Sam held the inside door open for Dean, Dean held the outside door open for Sam. They stood shoulder to shoulder as they packed the car and then each with a hand on the trunk, together they slammed it closed.

And they did it all without saying one damn word to each other.

Not one damn word.

I've known those boys most of their lives and they've always had trouble really talking to each other. Oh, they could ask and holler and demand and dictate and nag and sweet-talk each other. They could dig out a bullet, stitch up a wound, grind a new tip on a broken knife, waterproof a new pair of boots or take on a charging black dog for each other without being asked, but to actually say something to each other that needed to be said was damn near impossible for them.

It was easier to do something than to say anything.

It was then that it hit me - as they came in the house again, holding doors and taking jackets and shoving past each other to be the first one back upstairs, I realized -

- without hardly saying one damn word to each other all morning, they'd been saying goodbye all along.

And it was damn heartbreaking.

The End