I was ready to die, Dean!

The words echo in his head, his brother's screaming getting louder as he lifts the bourbon to his lips with a shaking hand.

What you do want me to say - that I'm pissed? Okay. I am. I'm pissed.

He's used to this now, hearing Sam even though Sam's giving him the silent treatment from the other room. They're just fragments, flashes of memory that never really stop. He takes another swig of his drink and clutches onto the wooden desk in front of him, where the case papers left sprawled out, unread. Sam will be mad he's not doing research like he told him to. Sam will find a way to be mad even if he does read them.

So, what? You decide to trick me into being possessed by some... psycho angel?

"Stop," Dean groans under his breath, "Stop." He sounds weak and helpless even to his own ears. It was a nightmare to hear the words come from his brother's mouth the first time. He doesn't want to relive what he knows he fucked up. And he did. He fucked up, and Sam won't let him forget it. Neither will his masochistic mind.

I'm... I'm poison, Sam. People get close to me, they get killed...or worse

He hears his own voice, now, too. He remembers saying these words, meaning them. He still mean them, not that his brother would ever listen to him long enough to actually hear him out.

Go. I'm not gonna stop you.

It's Sam again, his voice cold and bitter. Dean feels the ripple of guild climb up and down his spine. He made him like that. Dean made him bitter, made him hate him. It's his fault, it's always his fault. And he's too caught up in his own thoughts and painful memories to realize he's shaking, so hard that the desk is moving and he can't see anything but blurs. His teeth are chattering, eyes blinking fast, and he's trying to calm himself down but he can't. He can't stop shaking.

Just go

He hears that last part over and over again, like the record of his mind is stuck on repeat.

Just go.

He screams in frustration, pushing himself out of his chair in one violent motion and swiping his arms across the desk. Papers go flying, the desk lamp falling and crashing to the ground. And then there's silence.

"What the fuck is going on?" he hears, before Sam storms in, the perfect mixture of confusion and pissed playing on his face. It's pretty much the only expression besides disappointment Dean sees from him anymore.

"Nothing I—" He doesn't know what to say. He's stumbling with his words, not sure how to explain it because he doesn't know what happened, either, "Nothing. Too many papers, too much stress, and too much alcohol." Dean flashes his most reassuring smile, hoping Sam doesn't ask questions. And then he remembers— Sam isn't speaking to him at all, really, so why would he ask questions?

"You're so freakin' weird," Sam huffs, rolling his eyes, annoyed, "I'm going to bed. Try not to scream so loud, okay?"

"You got it," Dean mumbles after he's gone, "I mean why should you be concerned your brother who just had a mental breakdown?"

On the other side of the door, Sam's trying his hardest to suppress the worry knotting in his stomach. Because he's mad, of course, but something's not right. Something's really, really not right. He can see it in the way Dean stands, now, guarded and tense, like he's ready for something deadly to explode into the room and attack him. Or maybe it's how he talks, or how he's stopped talking much at all. No more snarky comments or teasing comebacks— Sam hasn't even heard a pop-culture reference for days, weeks maybe. The only words that seem to come out of his mouth now are one word answers that sound like they physically hurt to say. But there can't be anything wrong. Because Dean would tell him, right?

Maybe not.

Sam knows he's been harsh. He knows he isn't being a good brother, but he'd be a bad person to let Dean get away with the shit he's pulled. Maybe the cold shoulder is unnecessary, but it feels good to finally be the one not doing something wrong. For once, he wasn't the one screwing everything up. Like with Ruby, The Demon blood, The Apocalypse, everything he did when he was missing his soul… Sam was the screw up of the family. Not listening to dad, not listening to Dean. But now Dean hadn't listened to him, and Gadreel is out somewhere with Metatron, damning the world together, and it's Deans fault. It's selfish and wrong, but it's how he feels. He really does feel betrayed, he really is pissed and hurt and confused. He didn't ask for Dean to save him, and he didn't want him to, especially not if Kevin…

Kevin would be so angry at them. Before he left with his mother he told them to stop. He called them out on their shit and practically begged them not to let it rip apart their relationship. Sam's not so sure there's much of a relationship to salvage anymore. It's slowly disintegrating, and it hurts like a bitch, but everything gets worse before it gets better. And Sam needs this to get better. He needs his brother, but he can't be so dependent on him. It's unhealthy, and wrong. Everything about them has always been like that.

"Dean's your weakness," Gabriel once told him, back when they saw him as the enemy trickster he seemed to be, "And the bad guys know it, too. It's gonna be the death of you, Sam."

Sighing, Sam retreats to his bedroom. It's too quiet here, the building too big for just the two of them, especially when they're already worlds away. It's the ongoing Cold War in here, with Dean's room strategically placed as far away from Sam's as the building allows possible. Hell, if he didn't think Sam wouldn't notice, Dean would probably sleep in the office every night to avoid his angry brother.

Sam wants to cry, or scream, maybe. When did being Dean's brother get so hard? Since when did Dean start flipping shit over stressful documents? Dean probably thinks he hasn't noticed how much liquor disappeared from the cabinet on a nightly basis. How often Dean starts twitching and shaking. That he's been up until four in the morning every morning, and having nightmares for the two or three hours he actually gets to sleep. How he stares at the mark on his forearm for a second too long every time it comes into view, and how he's started wearing long sleeves, even if it's almost eighty degrees inside. The violent way he speaks, the sudden outbursts of anger. Sam notices, but he doesn't say a thing.

Sam can't even begin to think about sleeping, not when he can feel Dean's stress from the other side of the building, radiating from the office. He thinks about going and talking to him, but knows it'll only end in yelling and booze sliding down his brother's throat. He thinks about calling Cas for help, but he's not quite sure what he's dealing with and Castiel isn't exactly pleasant when Dean's health— mental or physical— is at question. So Sam just closes his eyes and pretends not to hear the sound of silence that deafens the bunker. Dean has never been quiet, not in all the years Sam can remember, so why the sudden calming stillness of a mute house?

The worry in Sam's stomach multiplies and tightens. Maybe he should call Cas, after all. But he knows he won't. Whatever this 'Mark' Dean refers to is doing to him, it's not something heal-able with voodoo magic. Especially when Castiel doesn't even have his own grace. Someone else's doesn't give him the power his did. Instead, Sam logs onto his laptop. When in doubt, research it all out, right? So he googles it, the Mark of Cain, and he gets pages. Millions of them. Filled with Wikipedia pages and Christian storybooks, and crappy movies. He reads about Cain and Able, the first murderer to ever walk the earth, cursed forever. God's disappointment, second only to Lucifer himself.

"Dammit Dean," Sam mutters under his breath, shaking his head. He can't decide if he's worried or angry, but the second option takes over. Sam paces around, his face contorting into every emotion he's feeling: different levels of pissed. He looks for cures, for spells, potions, anything. There's nothing. He clears his history before passing out on his mattress.

Dean stares up at the ceiling fan from a few rooms over, watching the endless loop of the wooden planks. He feels the cool air coming from it, but it's almost too cold. Like it's chilling him to the bone. Something is, anyways. He tries to imagine himself anywhere but here, losing himself in the swirling pattern of never ending circles.

So, what—we're not family now?

He sees a flash of his and Sam's conversation from weeks before, the offended, stricken words he'd spoken when Sam told him that family meant nothing. He remembers the crushing feeling of a brother telling you he can never trust you again. That you're hardly even family anymore. He knows he doesn't deserve it. That, really, he deserves to be alone. But that doesn't keep the words from hurting.

Even when you mess up, you think what you're doing is worth it because you've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad... But you're not

This is a different conversation. This one is from the room just three doors from where Dean sits. It hits him like a ton of bricks, too, how Sammy— Sam, just Sam now.— could say something like that. But he knows it's true. Dammit, he knows.

I mean, Kevin's dead, Crowley's in the wind. We're no closer to beating this angel thing.

And it's Dean's fault. It's completely his fault. He wakes up and it's the first thing he thinks: "Hey Kevin's dead, your brother hates you and you've pretty much screwed yourself over with everything else."

His stomach hurts, but then again it always does. Maybe it's the alcohol or a side effect of the Mark. Or maybe it's just because, in Dean's experience, there will always be nervousness or guilt or worry in his gut, because those are the only emotions that stay. Everything else leaves. Everyone else leaves.

Please tell me, what is the upside of me being alive?

Mental-Sam begs him, almost mockingly, and he wants to tell Sam that he being alive means everything. That without Sam Winchester, the world would fall apart. His world would fall apart. But that's selfish, and exactly Sam's point. Dean is selfish. Worthless. Pointless. If there really is one too many Winchesters in the world like Sam thinks there is, Dean would be damned if he let Sam be the one to leave it.

He sees pieces of Sam's disappointed eyes in his mind. He feels his hands wrap around a glass bottle, but he can't tell if it's the memory or if he's taking a drink from the one that was on the desk with him. This memory tastes like Scotch and anger. He knows how it'll end, but he still hopes maybe it won't.

You didn't save me for me. You did it for you.

Selfish.

Selfish Selfish Selfish!

Dean is too self-centered. Too full of himself to give Sammy what he deserves. And he'll burn for that, just like he'll burn for Kevin's death and Cas' fall from heaven and all of the people he couldn't save, like Adam who did nothing but take the burden of Michael that Dean was supposed to bear. Dean will burn again. If he isn't already.

You didn't want to be alone, and that's what all this boils down to. You can't stand the thought of being alone.

And Dean struggles, thinking of the nights spent after Sam left for Stanford, while dad went off on his own and he was left sleeping in the back seat of the impala, pretending everything would 'go back to normal' in a few days. It never really did. Normal was family, then, but Sam seems to think differently. He isn't considered family anymore, through his brother's eyes. So what is normal?

This is definitely not normal, having PTSD moments about how much of a disappointment you are. And drinking a fifth of whiskey every night wasn't either. Meeting the original Knight of Hell and taking on the weight of a trillion year old curse with deadly side effects to stop an evil demon from taking over hell…? Then again, chasing after monsters of the night that want to eat you isn't considered normal. Talking to angels isn't normal. Normal, in Dean's life, is a fucking lie.

If the situation were reversed and I was dying, you'd do the same thing.

Memory-Dean says, and the real Dean cringes, because he knows what Sam will say next.

No, Dean. I wouldn't circumstances...I wouldn't.

He can feel the fist tear trickle slowly down his face, and once the first comes they don't stop. They sting his faces, dripping off his chin and onto his chest. Tears steam, fast and steady. It's the won't kind of crying, the soundless, broken kind, because no one can hear you and you realize that even if someone did— they probably wouldn't care. His face twists and contorts, the pressure building up inside of him, but he can't cry out.

He can't bother Sammy.

So instead, he just lets the tears fall and pretends not to notice them at all, as he takes in another swig of his drink. The symbol on his arm feels like it's burning into his skin. The memories feel like they're burning into his head. He almost screams again, but stops and walks out. Maybe he would go for a drive, if he was in any sober, sane condition to. But he's not, and he can't, even if maybe running off the road now wouldn't be the worst thing to ever happen to him. He craves the thought of death. Not necessarily his, but someone's. And maybe he needs to grieve the death of his relationship with Sam first, maybe then this longing for violence will end. He knows it probably won't.

The Mark burns deeper. Everything burns deeper. Especially the yearning for morbid events with gruesome ends, and the masochistic taste in his mouth. He's angry, but he's not sure why. Probably just angry with himself. Everyone knows Dean Winchester is a fuck up, after all.

He retreats to his bedroom for the night, and almost half-wishes he won't wake up in the morning.