Last Outpost of All That Is by eight_horizon.

Slash.

This is the comment I made to the author, straight up:

I don’t like end of the world fic either because it makes me sad too. Amalthia, though, I trust her like crazy, and she assured me that this was fantastic. And it was, so very very much so. I read the whole dang thing in one sitting, because it was that good. Amalthia had warned me so I was ready. As I ever could be, considering.

First, your writing is so good, you capture the characters, Sam is Sam and Dean is Dean. Which, sometimes is much harder than it might at first seem.

Second, they don’t rush into sex. Sex becomes a part of who they are together, but it’s not the only thing that defines them, and you do that beautifully here.

Third, I think you got it right. I could tell you’d thought it through, and didn’t rush through thinking about gas stations and frozen pork chops and running water. Even though it boggles my mind to read about, you did a fantastic job, I believed it ALL. You never rushed any of it, it felt careful and real and honest.

And lastly, I was very brave. I read the whole thing and jumped at shadows when the boys jumped, and was glad when they pulled out their guns, or shouted to each other. I about died when Sam fell off the roof. And then I got to this part:

“Sam took up drawing. He’d sketched throughout his life for fun, but with more time dedicated to it, he turned out to be pretty good. The landscape around the house, the beaches of the reservoir, the way the light hit the stairs from the front windows; he captured them easily. Dean thought it was cool until he woke in time one morning to catch Sam sketching him.”

and

“Dean started writing his own music on the guitar. Sam knew it right away, and not only because he didn’t recognize the songs. He felt them in his bones as if he was listening to Dean’s voice murmur in the dark about things he’d usually never dare say.”

It was at this point that I bawled my eyes out, no longer brave. No longer to say, yeah, sure, apocalypitic fic, everything’s okay. Because Christ on a crutch, you….you, hell, I can’t even explain it. I can’t take stuff like this, just can’t. Thank GOD the story was over mostly at that point (except it wasn’t, because thank goodness you didn’t kill them off, they’ll outlive us all, and that’s something good, right?) because my insides felt like they’d been twisted around peices of metal and then that metal got twisted around something else, and just. Just.

You slay me. I don’t think I will EVER and I mean ever read apocalyptic fic again, not even if Amalthia rec’s it to me. Okay, maybe if it’s got Evil!Sam or something, then it’s just a fantasy, cause Sam would never really turn evil and hurt his beloved Dean.

Right? RIGHT?

Hell, I don’t know what to belive anymore. This story was SO good, my head is spinning. Are we done now? Can I crawl into bed and pull the covers up way high and try to think about pink ponies and fat sassy kittens and…something easy. Life Lite. Anything! (Yeah. Job well done. You got to me.)