It happens in an instant.
Dick Roman is grinning like a maniac and that smug expression, the one that makes you want to punch until your arms give out and shoot until there aren’t any more bullets, just freezes in place. No one else seems to notice, so you glance over your right shoulder, instinctive like gravity, to Sam, but he’s not moving either. In fact, no one else in the room seems to be breathing, swaying, sweating—not the demon bitch to your rear, the new King of Hell beside her, or the mad fallen angel at your shoulder. The Leviathan aren’t attacking, Crowley isn’t giving a snappy rejoinder in his million-dollar suit, and Cas isn’t muttering to himself about bees in a broken voice that once commanded armies in Heaven.
Jesus Christ. Around the midpoint, right when foreheads were touching, I started bawling.