Dean awoke to the low hum of the television murmuring of pointless products. The dull ache of absolute sorrow pulling in his core. They didn't know. They could have lost everything; but they didn't. They still live, still work, still fuck, still consume. But he, what did he have? A beer and an empty promise to a dead brother. Around his drunken eyes, this room, this world seemed too soft. Much too soft for Sam to be gone.
From where he lay, he could see the soft blue light of the screen illuminating Cas' tired features from where he sat, ridged, in the recliner. His eyes fixated on a blank spot on the wall, his worries unspoken to Dean, nevertheless roaring in the dim room.
"What the hell Cas?" Dean whispered harshly, swiftly pushing himself off of the couch.
"Hello, Dean." Castiel replied, his eyes not meeting the former hunter. Dean watched him, his face unyielding to show any of the faintest hope he might have. Castiel remained silent. The clock on the wall ticking in time to their breathes, to their grief, to their inability to communicate. Dean turned, walking to the stairs that will lead him to Lisa, to Ben, to a life never wanted yet waiting to be lived.
Castiel did not visit him again.
Dean feels time sliding around him; slick on his skin, pulling him from Sam's goodbye, from Cas' visit, from Bobby's calls. His body moves on its own accord. Each breath sustaining life. At the dinner table, their mouths moves, words falling on deaf ears. He nods and smiles when Lisa frowns. That night she will not touch him. She will follow him to the couch, muddled criticism and worry matching her steps. She will ignore Ben's shadow in the hall. She will return to her room alone. Dean knows this, and so he nods and smiles.
Lisa knows about Stull Cemetery. She knows this man is broken. His face blank, and distant when her fingers glide over him. She knows her questions cut when there is nothing but a grunt in reply. She knows there is only a dead end on this road.
Ben is not surprised when the smiles falter. He is not surprised when the hushed arguments grow stronger. He is not surprised by the rumpled sheets on the couch, or the empty bottles that encircle it. He refuses to admit any surprise to hearing impala's retreating growl as it leaves for the last time.