I *loved* this. I loved the details you wove into it, the faint, almost not-there scars on Dean's body, the tension and skittishness in him, Sam's guilt and helplessness and love. Four months in Hell probably feels like four centuries for Dean, and I loved it that you only hinted at the horrors he might've endured there, only enough to make us, the readers, imagine it. Because nothing is more terrifying than our own fears. And of course, I'd love to read more of this, if you ever feel inspired to add to it.
I found a typo, sorry, I hope it's okay:
"I won't, you fuckers, I won't, you're lying. He's not...he'scan't be...I'm...I'll....get out, kill every f-fucking one of you, I –" Head down, seeing – something. Not seeing what was in front of him, Sam was sure. His lip was bleeding and Dean licked it – turned his head a little and spat, grimacing. "Fucking kill all of you...." Dean was trembling, his legs wobbling and then he was falling. Knees giving out and his coat scraping down the fence – hand slapping at the pallets and losing their grip. Sam lunged forward, hands out and the knife came up, steady enough, even through the jolt of Dean's knees hitting the cracked concrete.
no subject
I found a typo, sorry, I hope it's okay:
"I won't, you fuckers, I won't, you're lying. He's not...he's can't be...I'm...I'll....get out, kill every f-fucking one of you, I –" Head down, seeing – something. Not seeing what was in front of him, Sam was sure. His lip was bleeding and Dean licked it – turned his head a little and spat, grimacing. "Fucking kill all of you...." Dean was trembling, his legs wobbling and then he was falling. Knees giving out and his coat scraping down the fence – hand slapping at the pallets and losing their grip. Sam lunged forward, hands out and the knife came up, steady enough, even through the jolt of Dean's knees hitting the cracked concrete.