Dean's gaze swept across each of those faces: the terrifying sight of Lucifer's future incarnation, the deathly silence of the ruined city, Castiel's despondency, and that exhausted, despairing "himself."
All those images crashed through his mind like a tidal wave.
But in the end, what remained before his eyes were the blood-red word "trust" in the notebook and his living, breathing brother Sam—the brother who worried, raged, struggled, yet had never once given up.
The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, still pale with the aftermath of disaster. Yet something firmer, clearer, reignited in those green eyes.
He let out a long, thorough breath, as though expelling the entire weight of that hopeless future.
Trust
Wasn't it right in front of him?
Everyone here was worth his trust.
Inside a barracks at the training camp that had been turned into a temporary meeting room, everyone had gathered. The air was so heavy it seemed as though water could be wrung from it.
The glow of the oil lamp danced across several faces, casting shadows of varying depths.
Dean's voice was low, even hoarse, but every word struck their hearts like a hammer.
He embellished nothing and concealed nothing. He recounted exactly what he had seen and heard in that so-called "2014."
The decaying city, the desperate survivors, the fallen and dissolute Castiel—and the Lucifer occupying Sam's body, sitting high upon a throne of bones with cold, mocking eyes.
When he heard that he would ultimately become the vessel of the Lord of Hell, Sam's hand clenched sharply on his knee, his knuckles whitening with force.
His face looked somewhat pale in the lamplight, his lips pressed tightly together. But beneath the shock in his eyes, a stubborn fire burned.
"That... was it." Dean let out a long breath