Sam should have known. He should have fought. In fact, he must have known. At some point, some point now damaged or misplaced, he must have known; in no history of possession, angelic or otherwise, is the vessel kept in the dark. It's a cruel ecstasy for a demon, that disembodied awareness. But if that's what Gadreel had tried to spare him, he'd done a piss-poor job. Of course, generally with angels you're allowed to know what you've agreed to, inasmuch as you ever can.
Dean had known.
At the very least, he should have pressed Dean. God knows he'd been acting strange enough. Sam should have pressed him hard instead of tapering off, the way he always does. He'd been afraid, he thinks. He'd been afraid the way he's always been about Dean's erraticisms, tailspins, darker ideations, and of finding something at the core of his brother that he could not trust, could not fix, could not defuse. Which in the end, of course, he had. It just hadn't been at all what he'd expected.
Or maybe it was. Or maybe it all went hand in hand. Sam doesn't know.
He lets his hand drop. He may never know.
Sam takes another mouthful of his tea, crocodile green. Over the rim of his mug he notices THAT GERMANY HAS SCORED TWICE IN SIXTEEN MINUTES. NO, FIVE TIMES IN EIGHTEEN. THE BRAZILIAN DEFENSE HAS COLLAPSED AND WHETHER THEY PUNCH IT STRAIGHT DOWN THE CENTER OR TAP IT TO BRAZIL'S UNDEFENDED LEFT FLANK, THERE'S PANIC AT IN THE EIGHTEEN. REALLY, SOME OF THEM JUST ROLL IN.
IT'S THEN SAM KNOWS THAT THEY ARE CERTAINLY FUCKED, AND THEY'RE NEVER GOING TO FINISH THIS FIC BECAUSE OH
Well, I tried. XP