A.N.: Spoilers up 7x10

When All Is Lost

By Daylight

Dean wakes up with grit in his eyes and an empty feeling in his chest. The grit he wipes away with his knuckles and the back of his hand, but the empty feeling doesn't go away so easily. It's not a new feeling. It's actually something that's plagued him more and more of late. It has almost a physical presence like something dark and cold was placed in his chest and clings to his heart stealing air from his lungs.

He takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out trying to push the feeling away, but even when the air is gone, the feeling remains.

For a moment, he lays there, his eyes following the pattern of water stains on the ceiling; then with considerable effort, he wills movement into his heavy limbs and pushes back the covers swinging his legs out the bed until he's sitting on the edge. He doesn't want to get up, but he knows if he lies there much longer the temptation to not move will simply grow until it threatens to swallow him whole.

There is a small niggling fear sitting in the same place as the empty feeling that one day he simply won't be able to get up at all.

The feeling grows worse once he's upright, and he pauses there on the edge of his bed, the call of the starched motel sheets trying to pull him back down. Instead of giving in, he looks over at the form lying on the bed beside his. Normally, the first thing he does when he wakes up is check on Sam, but his reactions are slow today.

Sam's back is to him. All Dean really sees is a shaggy mass of brown hair and the outline of his brother's overly large body under the red and green checkered pattern of the quilt, but as he watches, he can make out the rhythmic movement of Sam's breathing, and it helps calm him. Watching Sam sleep has always made him feel better though Dean will never admit that to his brother.

Sam rolls over in his sleep letting out a guttural groan as he does so. The lines around his tightly squeezed eyes indicate his rest is not as peaceful as Dean assumed. Sam's left arm flops limply onto the bedspread and Dean can see the overly-abused, red scar on his hand. Suddenly, watching Sam doesn't make him feel better anymore.

Finding the energy somewhere, Dean pushes himself to his feet and takes stumbling, half-asleep steps towards the motel's tiny bathroom. He slaps his hand against the light switch and pushes the door shut without bothering to lock it. If Sam comes barging in there, anything he sees will be his own fault.

After emptying his bladder, he stares at the shower and the mildew creeping up its curtain for a while; then the thought 'why bother' passes through his head and he turns to the sink instead. He goes about his normal routine, deodorant, hair, teeth, but everything seems to take ten times the effort it usually does like some unknown force is working against his every movement.

When it comes time to shave, he squirts shaving cream onto his hand, and then looks up to face what he's been trying to avoid ever since he entered the bathroom: the mirror. It's a crappy mirror, but then it's a crappy motel, one of the crappiest of the crappy they've ever stayed in. Unfortunately, it's only really crappy motel rooms they can stay in these days as the people who own them are less likely to call in a supposed pair of possible serial killers when they likely have their own things going on they wouldn't like the cops knowing about. The mirror is rectangular with no frame and has several cracks crisscrossing its surface. There are also parts that are distorted and blurry, and others where the silver backing has peeled away leaving black splotches.

All these distortions don't prevent Dean from doing exactly what he didn't want to do which is catch the eyes of his reflection. It's only for a moment before he quickly slides his gaze away, but the glimpse of the deadness in those green eyes makes the hollow emptiness in his chest grow larger. He does his best to focus on his chin instead, but even that proves difficult as its reflection lands right on a splotchy part of the mirror.

The image of Cas' face covered in similar splotches flashes through his mind, red blisters where skin has simply melted away. He recalls the dried splatter of blood stains across his coat, the look of sorrow and despair in his eyes as the angel turned to say he was sorry.

Dean lets the shaving cream slide off his hand into the sink and just stares at it for awhile. He stares at the soap scum and rust stains covering the basin absorbing every detail in hopes they will push all other unwanted images and thoughts from his mind, but images cascade out tumbling over each other: his father's body being consumed by flame, Jo's face pale and cold with loss of blood as he kisses her goodbye, Sammy screaming and waving a gun at things that aren't there, Alastair handing him a blood stained knife…

Shaking himself, Dean realizes he's been standing there staring at nothing for several minutes. With tremendous willpower, he steps away from the sink until he stands in the bathroom doorway. He holds onto the doorframe staring at the thin carpet that covers the motel room floor. It's a faded shade of puce and spotted by stains of things he'd rather not think about.

And all he wants to do right then is lie down on it and not move.

It's the feeling in his chest. It's grown so heavy it threatens to drag him all the way to the ground. How can something that feels so hollow weigh so much? It continues to spread crawling up his throat and down to his gut. He begins to panic. He needs… He needs… He doesn't know what he needs. He just wants the feeling to stop.

He glances over at his sleeping brother. He's tempted to wake him hoping the simple sound of his brother's voice will drive the feeling away, but he doesn't want to burden him with more problems. Sam has been through enough. Maybe if he calls Bobby…

Bobby…

Suddenly, all the strength vanishes from his legs as they refuse to support him anymore. He slowly sinks to his knees onto the grimy carpet and stays there, thoughts spinning around so much he feels dizzy.

Dead.

Dead.

He's dead.

They're all dead.

Something is screaming in the back of his mind or maybe it's laughing.

Not sure of his destination, he begins to crawl forward. He reaches the end of Sam's bed before he gives up and just sits there, back supported by the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. It's not long before a tightness develops in his throat and his eyes begin to prickle. His breath starts coming out in short gasps which turn into sobs as tears fall down his face.

He curses himself, tells himself he's a stupid idiot, a weak baby for sitting there like a useless blob of meat crying his eyes out, calls himself every swear he knows as if they could pull him out of the pit he has sunk into, but instead it just makes him feel worse.

"Dean?"

And now Sam is awake and he's going to see Dean acting like a giant crybaby, but he can't seem to care.

"Dean?" Sam says again his tone confused and anxious. He appears in the corner of Dean's eye as he kneels down beside him. "What's wrong?"

"I… I…" is all Dean manages to get through his painful throat. Looking away, he shakes his head. It seems as if the emptiness has swallowed his words as well.

Sam's eyebrows are drawn together in worry, and Dean can sense the panic radiating off his brother as Sam kneels there running a hand through his hair like he has no idea what he's supposed to do.

This isn't how it's supposed to be. Dean's the one who is supposed to worry over Sam, take care of him. Dean should be doing everything in his power to erase Sam's concerns, make sure his little brother has no worries, but he can't seem to care about that either.

And that scares him more than anything.

More tears pour down his face. He can't stop them. His breath hitches so much it feels like he can't get enough air.

An arm wraps around his trembling shoulders and he hears Sam sit down beside him. Dean catches a glimpse of his face and sees tears are leaking out of Sam's eyes too.

"Breathe," says Sam, a catch audible in his voice. "Please, just breathe."

Breathing like so many things seems so much harder than usual, but it's Sam, so Dean does his best to obey forcing his lungs to take longer, slower breaths. Feeling exhausted, he leans against his brother. The arm around his shoulders holds more tightly.

"I've got you, Dean."

Clinging to that thought, Dean lets his little brother hold him as what feels like a lifetime's worth of tears pours from his eyes.