"At this moment there are 6,470,818,617 people in the world"
Dean mindlessly turns off the crappy television that interrupted his thought. Which really wasn't a bad thing at the moment. He looks around the once stark white room, trying to find an area, an inch, a dot that isn't covered in blood. He can't. And it tears him apart from the inside out. He sees a laminated note on the other side of the room. Dean tries to get across the room without stepping on the bodies, but it's impossible.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
The sounds of breaking bones makes him want to puke, but he won't disrespect the dead anymore than he already has. The laminated note is in his hands, yet he can't read it because of the blood. Luckily for Dean the monster who did this was kind enough to leave an opening flat so the note would stay dry. He wipes the tears from his eyes. It doesn't help; the blood on his hands just makes them sting.
Wait. Why are they so bloody? I didn't touch any blood with the exception of picking up the note. So why were they so damn drenched? Dean thought numbly as he unfolded the yellowing note. It reminded him of some old pages in Dad's journal. His hands are trembling, so it takes him a while to open it all the way. At the last fold, Dean isn't too sure if he wants to know what it says. Suddenly he hears something from behind him and he turns around quickly. Nothing is there. Nothing but a voice.
Dean!
No. You can't be him!
You're a fucking monster!
De-DEMON!
Dean feels something inside of telling him to read the note. He isn't sure why, but he complies. The note flutters to the ground once it was read. It quickly drowns in the pool of blood. He sees Sam at the door. Sam takes all of it in, horrified.
"Sammy. It-I I didn't do this! You have to trust me!"
Sam makes eye contact with Dean. "No, Dean. You did do this. Being a monster runs in the family; you know that. Grandpa Samuel worked with the bastard who claimed himself The King Of Hell. And I don't doubt for a second that he would kill us in our sleep if he was commanded to. Then there was Dad. Drunk, obsessed John Winchester. He emotionally abused us and had a different idea of a fun time. Look! There's two things in common right there; you're both achololics and have a grand time torturing innocent people. You could never really help me. You just kept pushing me away. Now I've got no soul. I killed Bobby and so many others. I know now that Lucifer was right. We are alike. No matter how many times you tell yourself a day that it's a lie. We're all monsters Dean. But do you want to know what makes you different?"
Dean's heart was pounding too fast to be considered a good thing. He looks at the variety of bodies all around him. Children, teenagers, young adults, incapable elderly. And right by his feet is a baby with a crushed skull. Dean breaks.
"What makes me different, Sammy?"
Sam grins and looks at the pathetic man before him. "You think you're on the side of the angels. You destroy and murder and torture like the monster you are, yet you still think that you're the good guy. It's sickening."
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Memories of torturing rush back to the so-called righteous man. Scream for help. Pleads to stop. The wailing of innocent children. Bones breaking. Blood flowing. Desperate attempts to escape. A glance in a mirror. Black eyes replacing green. Splatter of blood across his face. An evil smirk.
Snap. Crackle. Pop.
Sam is next to Dean, smiling at his brother."Dean. Dean. Wake up. Come on, man. You've been avoiding this for too long."
Dean snaps his eyes open. He's back at the motel. Sam is on his right side, leaning against the bed. There's a slasher film playing quietly in the backround. No blood, no dead bodies, and most importantly, no evil Sam. Sam doesn't notice that Dean is completely out of it. At least that's what Dean thinks.
"You okay, Dean? You know what, don't answer that. I know what the problem is." Dean looks at Sam with pure fear in his eyes, but his baby brother's back is to him, walking over to the make shift 'kitchen'.
"You haven't eaten in days! Don't think I haven't notice! You can't keep going on like this, you're going to be sick. Here, I picked up some cereal and milk while you were sleeping." Sam looked sheepishly at Dean. "I kind already ate, like, half the box. But I was really hungry! And there's still enough left for you."
Sam walks over to Dean with breakfast in hand. "Breakfast in bed? Oh, sweetie. You really shouldn't have." He mocks, trying to forget his horrible nightmare forever.
Sam rolls his eyes as he hands his older brother the bowl. "Whatever, Dean. It's your favorite from when we were kids." Dean feels sick to his stomach. "Guess what it is? I'll give you a hint. Snap, crackle and pop!"
Dean stands up and rushes to the bathroom, knocking over Sam in the process. Sam hears Dean pucking his guts out in the toilet. He rolls his eyes, mumbles something about always eating fast foods, and yells out to Dean that he's going to pick up some medicine.
When the door slams shut, Dean whispers to himself, "I fucking hate Rice Krispies."
The holy man cries the hardest he has cried in a long time. The only similarity between now and before is that there is nobody to save him. Not a single soul out of the six billion would save him.
And Dean can easily see why.