*Set directly after "My Bloody Valentine" Read and review.
"That's one deep, dark... NOTHING, you got there, Dean."
The half sleep Dean had fallen into wasn't doing much to alleviate the pain in his head where the demon had smashed it into the door. He might've had a concussion. He never really could tell anymore. Regardless, he'd drank enough whiskey, sitting with his back to the wall outside the panic room to fall into this trance-like state. But he was sobering quickly as the voice from a few hours ago pounded in his mind.
"I can see... how BROKEN you are! How defeated- you can't win. And you know it."
He blinked his eyes open before the memory could finish it's sentence. He didn't want to hear it again. Of course he knew. But hearing it just shattered any sense of hope he had left. He picked up the half empty bottle of Jack and leaned against the panic room door, listening for Sam. Nothing. He peered in through the grate and saw he seemed to be sleeping peacefully now. The worst was definitely over.
Dean decided to allow his little brother the dignity of collecting himself before he emerged from the basement and Dean made his way upstairs to wait in the kitchen. He got a beer from the fridge and sat down at the table, pressing the cool can to his aching head. He'd been too exhausted to even bother to really scrub the dried blood of his head.
It stuck to the bruises but Dean could hardly care. He didn't care about his pain. He didn't care if this was a concussion and if next time he fell asleep he never woke up. He hardly even cared that the apocalypse was nigh, he just wanted it all to end. Except for Sam.
Sam was his last hope. Not to say that Sam was going to stop the apocalypse or anything, but Sam was all Dean had left to hope for. Though this Famine induced relapse on demon blood had raised doubts in Dean that he could save Sam at all. His final hope was crumbling.
He grasped vaguely at consciousness, not wanting to slip into the self-loathing of his own dreams when at least awake he could drink himself into a numb kind of oblivion. But his head ached and throbbed and pushed him down under into deep, dark... NOTHING.
"You can't win. And you know it." Dean's chin rested in his palm, eyes darting beneath clenched lids, "But you just keep fight, just... keep going through the motions..." his breath hitched in his throat, his own brain trying to wake him up, unsuccessfully. "You're not hungry, Dean, because inside... You're already... DEAD."
Dean's head snapped up, and the cold feeling of his empty consciousness hit his stomach hard. His heart sank. His head ached. Everything felt wrong. Everything ached. Everything felt useless. Except-
"Hey."
Dean looked up and saw Sam had emerged from the basement. He'd cleaned himself up a bit, definitely rinsed the sweat off his face and pushed the sticking strands of hair back behind his ears.
"You alright?" Dean said, his own voice a little raspy from a lack of use.
Sam nodded awkwardly, crossing the small space to the fridge to get a water bottle. He sat down across from Dean, taking fast, but measured gulps of water as he took control of himself.
"I'm okay."
"How's your head?" Sam asked gently.
"Fine. Yours?"
Sam bit his tongue. He hated how Dean always put his own wellbeing behind Sam's.
"Not bad. Detox is pretty much done. Just sort of tired now."
There was a steady silence as Dean tried to reserve any judgement he had about demon blood, this wasn't Sam's fault. Everyone had given into their vices. Except Dean.
"What about you?" Sam said suddenly, his head clear of addiction he could see something eating at his older brother, "I never saw you- y'know... Chugging whiskey or stuffing your face or... Thank god, sex isn't your strongest need..."
Dean smirked, wishing Sam wouldn't ask him. Not wanting to say, look, Sammy, the reason I didn't lose my shit and start humping walls and downing shots is because I'm dead inside.
He pulled on his best mask of a living thing with an almost real smile and repeated, as he had to the Horseman,
"I like to think it's because of my strength of character."
Sam rolled his eyes, "You can tell me. Judgement free zone. A couple hours ago I was high off demon blood and Cas was eating raw meat, anything you did, I can't really say anything."
Dean knew his brother was trying to help. Get him to open up so that he could help him accept whatever his addiction was. But Dean apparently didn't have one. Didn't care enough to.
"Nothing happened. I didn't do anything." Dean said as casually as he could manage.
"What? Nobody in the same town as Famine could keep from slipping off the highdive, you were in the same room as him and nothing-"
"What'd you want me to say, Sam? Nothing happened." Deep, dark, NOTHING.
"Wow." Sam said, looking annoyingly impressed, "I guess your willpower is stronger than I give you credit for."
Dean felt that cold pit in his stomach crush deeper into him.
"No." Dean didn't mean to say it, he wanted to stop talking, but he couldn't, "About the exact opposite of strong. Famine... said that apparently... I wasn't hungry because I'm dead inside. So, I wouldn't chalk that up as one of my strengths in this whole mess quite yet."
Sam saw the blank, stony quality in his brother's eyes. The quality that had been becoming more and more pronounced in recent weeks. His brother was fading and he'd been too wrapped up in his own guilt and confusion to notice. He wondered if he could even reach his brother now.
"Dean-"
"I'm gonna go on a supply run."
Sam watched his brother go. His brother was disappearing. Sinking into that deep, dark, NOTHING.