His back is broad and dark when Sam slips up behind him because he’s hunched over the ground, crouched over the corpse of a girl who had been in the wrong place in the wrong time and he’s so enthralled by her, her smell, her blood, that he doesn’t even hear Sam.
Sam wants to turn him around, get him on his back, break his teeth and a few of his own knuckles and watch him writhe with Sam’s blood on his lips before he really gets down to the good stuff, but Sam’s never really been that malicious.
It’s quick; a sharp blade sawing through major tendons and arteries like they’re butter and the son of a bitch has the audacity to call out for Dean with his last breath.
One hand clenched in the severed head’s hair, Sam can’t resist.
He draws the head up, whispers in ears that can’t hear, “He’s not your fucking brother.”