Author's Note:

Hey! So it's been awhile since I posted. I still haven't gotten a new computer, so I've been making due. Anyways, I was re-watching some episodes and I didn't like how Dark Side of the Moon ended. So I decided to write the ending myself. This is the first bit of it. The second chapter should be up when I finish it (so maybe a week?). I'm terribly sorry for any errors. Those are all my mistakes as I don't have a beta.

The usual disclaimer of I don't own the characters, and some of the dialogue (some is straight from the episode), but if I did, this wouldn't just be a fantasy.

I thought I wouldn't do this but... Please review! They're the life force of writers! Anywho, on with the fun!

Bittersweet Revenge

Chapter 1

Dean woke up when he heard a soft rustling sound. He stayed still and kept his breathing even while his hands slowly searched under the pillow, so as not to cause any movement, looking for the pistol he always kept there. When he couldn't find it, he felt a little bit of panic rise in him.

"Looking for this?" A rough voice asked him.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned towards the voice. He was looking at the muzzle of a shotgun; the wielder was wearing a black ski mask to obscure his identity. He looked to a second man, holding up his handgun before he emptied the clip and dropped it on the floor. The second man was also holding a shotgun, but his was pointed at Sam. They were both dressed in canvas jackets, and underneath, plaid button-up shirts could be seen; hunters most likely. Sam was sitting up, looking like he had been awake longer than Dean had; but then again, waking up to the prospect of getting shot certainly woke oneself up.

"Mornin,'" Dean said, still slightly groggy, to Sam as he turned to look at him. Sam was giving him one of his 'unhappy' looks that generally conveyed the message of, now isn't the time to joke around Dean.

"Shut up," one of the men commanded. He was the one that had emptied his gun; seemed like he was in charge. "Hands where I can see them."

Dean rolled over from where he had been sleeping on his stomach, and held his hands up off the bed, up near his face. He continued moving, positioning himself in a sitting position with his legs crossed.

"Wait a minute." Dean looked more closely at the man in front of him, holding the shotgun. "Is that you Roy?" When the man lowered the gun slightly and briefly glanced at his partner, Dean knew he was right. "It is, isn'it. Which makes you Walt. Heya' Walt." Dean said, smiling slightly. It was mainly just to cover how nervous he was, to be honest. He and Sammy clearly had the short end of the stick with this one, and unless he could diffuse the situation, it wasn't looking good for them.

A small part of Dean's brain was relieved, partially since he knew the men, and partially since he was glad he and Sammy were too tired to have sex last night. The situation was bad enough as it was, without adding them being naked and the whole incest thing to the mix. He could imagine how that would have played out: lots of shouting, confusion and disgust on their part, embarrassment on his and Sammy's part, rumors spreading like wildfire. Well that was one bullet they managed to dodge, now they just had to dodge the physical kind. Since Dean knew the men, he was hoping it would be easier to talk them down. He and Sam were great, dedicated hunters; that would play well for their case, whatever that was. Why were they being hunted? Surely some misunderstanding which he would have to clean up.

"Don't matter," came the reply as the two men looked at each other again. Walt pulled off his mask and wore it as a toque; Roy followed suit.

"Well is it just me, or do you two seem a tad upset?" Dean comment in a slightly sarcastic way, trying to take the attention off of the tense atmosphere and why they were here to kill them.

"You think you can flip the switch on the apocalypse Sam... and just walk away?" Walt said, completely ignoring Dean; Walt sounded deadly serious and pissed to top it off. How did Walt know about that? It's not like they went around advertising it. It was probably the damn demons... Crap, well so much for diffusing the situation. Dean struggled to come up with a plan, something that would let him and Sam walk out of that room alive. His mind couldn't come up with anything. Shit, shit, shit. He was the older brother! He was supposed to get them out of situations like this. He had his sawed off shotgun underneath the bed, but he couldn't reach it with Roy watching him like a hawk. Maybe they could talk their way out.

"Who told you that?" Sam asked, staring at Walt; he sounded surprised and the dread could clearly be heard in his voice. Dean knew how much he loathed himself because of the fact that he had, even though unknowingly, started the apocalypse, and he certainly didn't need any other people blaming him. God knows Dean certainly didn't. Fuck, to be honest, Dean had started the ball rolling when he gave in, in Hell. Dean wanted to do anything to stop Sam from hearing these accusations; he wanted to protect him, tell him that it wasn't his fault; he didn't know. He cursed himself and his helplessness; he should be doing something!

"We ain't the only hunters after you," Walt said menacingly as he glared at Sam. He cocked his shotgun and both Dean and Sam sat up straighter. Dean couldn't believe that Walt would do this. They had met each other before; exchanged hunting stories of their best kills. He thought they were on good ground; they knew of each other's reputations, although admittedly, Dean's was more impressive. He could hardly believe the last time they had met up, it had been over a couple beers. He wondered what had changed his mind.

Dean was scrambling for something, anything that would stop them from getting shot. Could he reach his shotgun fast enough? He wouldn't hesitate to kill these hunters if it meant saving Sammy, and a small part of his brain was scared how far he would go for his brother. He would kill two fellow hunters in cold blood for him and his brain brought up that once their relationship had been called, 'dangerously co-dependent.' That might have actually been an accurate assessment. Roy would kill him before he could reach it; the whole time he hadn't taken his eyes off of Dean. But would he kill him? Roy had seemed pretty hesitant throughout the whole thing; it was pretty obvious that Walt was in charge. The sound of Walt's voice snapped him out of his musings.

"See ya' in the next life," Walt said as he raised the shotgun and sighted it to Sam's chest.

"Hear me out!" Sam quickly raised his hands in front of himself, trying to get Walt to stop. "I can explain. Please." He looked pleadingly at Walt, bringing out the puppy dog eyes.

Dean was nearly frantic; Walt was going to shoot his brother! He glanced at Roy, but he was looking at Walt. Roy looked hesitant, so Dean decided to go for it. Just as Dean was diving to the side of his bed to reach under and grab his gun, two deafening bangs went off; Dean realized it was Walt firing his shotgun twice. Dean immediately reversed directions and started launching himself at Sam, but he was too late.

"Stay the hell down!" Roy yelled at him, once again bringing his attention back to his hostage.

Dean paid Roy no attention, his eyes only for Sam; his eyes widened at the sight of Sam, his Sammy, flung back on the bed, his arms sprawled wide, and head flopped to the side, his chest riddled with bullet holes. Blood was slowly seeping out of his wounds and staining his white, plaid shirt. Small circles of the crimson liquid were flecked across his blank face, and it had also splattered all over the bed and even reached the headboard behind him. Dean stared helplessly at his now dead brother, and fought back tears; he would not cry in front of Roy and Walt. He felt like the worst big brother in the world, he was supposed to protect and care for his little brother; his Sammy had been murdered right in front of his eyes and he hadn't done anything. Just a few piss-poor excuses of trying to diffuse the tension with sarcasm. He was the largest failure for a big brother, and he hated himself for it. If he couldn't even save his brother, the person closest to him, just one in seven billion, then how was he supposed to stop the apocalypse?

Dean felt hollow and empty; he had felt this way before, but even then, it was different. This was a more final feel; there seemed to be no returning from this. He felt like he had a large, empty hole in his chest; only being away from Sam felt like this, but this was worse. It was almost as bad as the last time Sam died, except Dean had promised himself that he wouldn't let Sam die again; he failed his promise, and he had failed Sam. A coldness spread through his veins, through his body, numbing his senses. He could have been deaf for all he heard, the image of Sam's mangled chest and emotionless face searing into his mind. He couldn't seem to look away from his little brother's body; no matter how much it pained him, his eyes stayed glued on the sprawled form. He ceased to notice the background, just red, red, red. Blood, blood, blood. They had killed 'Sammy' in Hell multiple times in his torture but this, this was real. The gaping wound inside him, the insistent emptiness assured that it was not a hallucination, not a nightmare. His worst fear had come true, and the darkness of the situation brought back the pain of Hell, the horrors. The pain. The horror. The screams. The terror. The utter evil. He didn't even care if he died; if he lived, his only existence would be to bring Sammy back and to get revenge on these hunters, just so long as he was with Sam. He was just a body, a soul without a purpose; trying to save the apocalypse without really hoping for anything, without his Sammy. For all he cared, the end of the world could come and go; fuck it, let the world burn! He had tried and look where it had gotten him! These hunters, who didn't even understand the situation they were in, didn't even care to understand, had taken everything that Dean had left; had taken the only person he loved, his home, his hope.

Just as the wretched emptiness and hopelessness swept through him, eating at him, consuming him, drowning him, he felt something else start to rise in his stomach. It took a moment to identify the emotion curling in the pit of his being, but when he did, he realized it was rage. It was slowly building, growing into something dangerous, something uncontrollable. It filled him completely until he was almost whole; just a being filled with hate, no other emotions, nothing else. He didn't know how or when, but he would come back and he would kill these hunters slowly, have them begging for death. He would utterly destroy these men, and he would have no mercy on them, just as they had shown none to them. As the boiling rage, settled into his being, Dean was surprised how calm he was; he just didn't care anymore. So what if he was killed? They had already taken everything from him.

"Shoot him," Walt commanded Roy. Dean turned to face his brother's killers and stared at them, his face blank while the rage had settled just under his skin. He could taste a harsh tang in his mouth, which almost seemed testimony to how he was feeling; harsh emotions colliding within him, fighting to get out.

"Killin' Sam was right but Dean-"

"He made us! We just snuffed his brother ya' idiot." Walt cut Roy off, trying to insert command again, after the slight shock of killing Sam when he was trying to explain. "You want to spend the rest of your life knowing Dean Winchester is on your ass? 'Cause I don't." Roy still looked uncertain as he glanced at Walt. "Shoot him."

Dean turned to look at Roy, and stared at him, his face unreadable.

"Go ahead Roy, do it." Dean dared him, his voice even, but his eyes dangerous. "But Imma' warn you, when I come back, I'm going to be pissed." Dean continued in his deadly quiet voice. Roy stared back hesitantly; he still hadn't cocked or sighted his shotgun.

"Come on!" Dean yelled, his voice snapping out and making both the men flinch. What Dean didn't know, was that it wasn't his voice that made them flinch, but his eyes. They were a hard, crystallized green, almost with no life left in them but a certain dark glimmer. A certain darkness that couldn't be learned on earth; it was almost like the hatred of Hell was shining out of Dean's eyes, and they saw his determination, his anger, and Walt knew, if he didn't kill Dean, these eyes would personally see to his death. "Let's get this show on the road!" Dean dared them; even his voice had a deadly undercurrent in it. He didn't even care at this point; no amount of damage to his body would stop him. He would get his revenge, be it in this life or the next; whether he would be brought back physically was still iffy. Roy didn't make any move to shoot Dean, and he could see the fear in his eyes, even though he was the one holding the gun; a small glimmer of satisfaction pierced Dean, short and fleeting, because he had caused that fear. They would both feel more than that when he came for them.

"Come on already," Walt said, getting slightly impatient, though Dean could detect unease in his voice. He took a deep breath, though he tried to disguise it, before he cocked his shotgun and aimed. The sound was nearly deafening in the small room, and Dean felt immense pain claw into his chest. He almost welcomed it; pain to take away the emptiness, pain to fuel the anger.

"You go home again, but I'm afraid, this time won't be like the last. This time, God wants you to remember," Joshua concluded. He looked sad, but Dean was too pissed off to care about his feelings; whether they were genuine or not. Just another disappointment in the long run; this is why Dean tried not to believe in anything, he usually ended up being horribly let down. After all, if angels were such dicks, why would God be any different? Just a dead-beat dad, and it pissed Dean off. The bastard could fix everything if he so wanted, but no. It wasn't his problem. He would just let his creations struggle by themselves, to try and save the freakin' world! Dean wanted to kill something, anything, right now. He would probably kill Joshua if he had an angel blade in his hands; the sorry bastard who was rooting for them and hoping they would pull it off. His condolences he can't do anything more. Dean clenched his jaw, trying to keep his rage and disappointment inside, but of course the dick Joshua had to go spilling his feelings for everyone to hear, so there wasn't much point in hiding them, if Sam already knew his failing faith in themselves. Dean glared into Joshua's stupidly calm eyes, almost visibly seething, as the angel stretched his arm out towards them.

A light started glowing from his palm, gradually encompassing his whole hand before it became too blinding to look at. Dean squinted and turned his head away, but still the light seemed to seep in, causing piercing pain to his eyes. The light slowly engulfed their whole garden surroundings, and the pain in Dean's eyes lanced through his whole body. He wanted to scream from the pain filling his entire being, but he couldn't seem to open his mouth. He wanted to run from the light because it was still persisting, and it seemed to be causing this pain, but he couldn't find his body; he couldn't feel any of his limbs; he felt like he was just floating. The pain went on and on, it could have been minutes or seconds, days or weeks, Dean couldn't tell. When the light started to fade slowly, so did the pain. Then, all of a sudden with no warning, he was crashing into his body. The pain was gone in an instant, only a distant echo of pain from being shot remained, and the only thing he felt was a sudden heaviness and weariness, which he supposed was the weight of wearing a body around his soul. The only light was the natural light filtering in from the windows, which spun as he sat up quickly, gasping for air.

He could hear Sam panting on the bed next to his, and he couldn't help but bring his hand up to his chest. His fingers met warm, sticky liquid, which had soaked through his now-torn shirt. He glanced down at his torso and was confronted with a crimson mess glaring back at him. He slid his hand underneath his ripped shirt and felt at the flesh beneath it. Dean half expected to feel holes torn in his skin and fresh blood oozing out of the wounds, but it was whole and smooth, without any scars to prove that he'd been shot twice with a shotgun.

"You alright?" Came Sam's voice from off to his right; he must have been thinking of everything that frickin' Joshua spilled. Sam was worrying about him when he should be worrying about himself, being Lucifer's vessel and all. That's precisely why Dean kept his doubts and thoughts to himself; Sam didn't need the weight of his problems on his already over-flowing plate.

"Define alright," Dean answered, deciding to go with something closer to the truth than he originally planned.

To be honest, Dean wasn't alright; not even close. He felt like his last hope had dashed itself to pieces on the ground in front of him, making sure that the shrapnel would hurt all around it. His last fuckin' hope. Was it too much to ask that for once something go their way? Too much to ask that God would help them, since his holy creations didn't seem to want to? You'd think God would be concerned about his creations dying and killing each other. So where did that leave them? Just two men and an angel standing between the angels and demons and the apocalypse; what chance did they stand? Less than one percent? Why did they even bother trying so hard? Their world was already being torn to shreds by supernatural monsters having their way, and there never would be enough hunters to fix it; why not just let the apocalypse happen? Dean highly doubted that they would be able to stop it; why not at least enjoy the last few weeks they had?

Dean stood up, swaying slightly before he walked over to his duffle bag. He needed a shower, and then some booze. Lots of it. "Where are you going?" Sam called after him, worry clearly colouring his tone.

"Shower," Dean grunted as he picked up clean clothes and shut the door after him. As he pulled his shirt over his head, he winced at the warm sticky feeling. He dropped the shredded shirt straight into the small garbage can and started with his jeans, knowing they would have to be thrown out as well, because of the copious blood stains on them. He shed his boxers and stood naked in the small room, staring transfixed at the bloody mess on his chest. The bright liquid was slowly starting to drip down his torso and hips. He looked like something from a horror thriller flick. He didn't let his eyes stray any higher than his shoulders, knowing that he wouldn't like what he found in his face. Fuck, when had it gotten so cold in here? He shivered and forced himself to move. He knew he should be hurrying; they should be hurrying because it was impossible not to have heard the multiple gunshots, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt so fucking empty; the world was going to end anyways. Fuck the police. What worse could they do that already hadn't happened to them? He stepped into the shower and started it, not even bothering to wait for it to warm up. He numbly started washing the blood off his body watching as the water went from clear to pink, to a deep crimson. He ran his fingers through his hair rinsing out sweat and blood. Dean seemed to be in slow motion, and he couldn't change it: his hands moved lazily and slowly, his thoughts spiraled in the same hopeless, self-depreciating loop.

A banging on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Dean! What are you doing? The cops are going to be here any second!"

Dean didn't reply, but he did shut off the water. He toweled off and survived three more bangs on the door from Sam. He tugged on his clothes, focusing on the mundane activities and carefully avoiding the mirror, trying not to let his mind wander. He needed something to drink really soon. When he opened the bathroom door Sam pushed by him and nearly knocked him over. Sam gave him one of the what the hell are you doing? kind of looks before he slammed the door. The shower was on and running in less than a minute. He walked over to his green bag and started packing, collecting everything from various spots around the small room: the gun and the clip on the floor by the foot of the bed, dirty clothes strewn by his bed, the shotgun under the bed, the holy water on the nightstand. When he had all of his stuff on the floor by the bag, he started stuffing things in, hell, he might have even grabbed a few things of Sam's. He forced the zipped shut and loaded his pistol and tucked it in the waist band of his pants.

What the hell were he and Sam doing with their lives? Times like this made him wonder. Their motel room was practically an armory with all the weapons they ported with them. He thought he had seen it all before, but no. He had been killed, again, and been brought back to life again. He couldn't but help and wonder at the amazement of it all. He and Sammy were like cats, they had nine lives. How long could this go on? They couldn't keep dying and being brought back. One of these times, their luck would run out and that would be it for sure, snuffed out by something supernatural. What made them so much more durable than other human beings? Sure they were trained and raised in it, but if everyone was, wouldn't they be just as fit for the job? Why were they the ones that the weight of the world should rest? Why them?

He stood in the middle of the room, staring blankly at the door to their motel room. He didn't have a plan. Dean freakin' Winchester was useless. He was out of ideas. He was completely and utterly hopeless. He couldn't even mask it for the sake of Sammy. His little brother, who he was supposed to protect, but couldn't. He was a failure. He let his brother get killed. He couldn't even help think of a new plan for the apocalypse. Failed. Useless. His father would be disappointed; his father was always disappointed him. He was out, done, down. He was an empty husk, all faith and hope drained. How the hell did he think he, Dean Winchester, alcoholic, closed off mess with abandonment and father issues, was going to save the world? Where had he even found that hope? He was simply bullshitting himself. This mess couldn't be fixed. It was too big, way too over their heads. Above all, he was tired. Tired of being the one who took control. Tired of being the one with all the responsibility. Tired of hunting monsters and risking their lives. They were missing out on so much of life, because of their stupid, under-appreciated job. And the world was going to end anyways. What did it matter; just another lost cause?

He hated himself, he really did. He was a mindless soldier, stupidly optimistic and fucking useless. Some days he wished that he could be someone else, anyone else. Some days, though he never told Sam that, he wished it would end. The pain, the loathing, the masks, the hopelessness of it, the never-ending work. His dedication to Sam kept him going though; he could never leave Sam by himself. Honestly, he had so many character flaws it was a wonder that Sam loved him at all. Sam insisted Dean was a great person, but he didn't see it. Didn't see the huge gaping hole in Dean's soul. Didn't taste the bitterness, and hate on his tongue. And disappointment. Always disappointment. It always came in the voice of his father. That wasn't good enough. Sam almost got killed. He should have known about that strange monster quirk. His aim had been a little off-who cares if he was injured?- he was supposed to be the big brother, the good example. Dean! Haul ass! Do this, do that! Make sure Sammy is safe. Watch out for Sam. Research this monster. Help me with this hunt. Work on your aim, your Latin. Better, better, better! Disappointment. It plagued him, but it also spurred him on in a strange way, to strive to be better. That wasn't the case this time though. It washed over him bitterly, completely enveloping him in its cold embrace, and it sounded like his father's voice echoing in his head, forever disappointed. Forever failed.

And bitterness. It was deep rooted in him. Who knows how long it was planted, slowly growing in him until it was big enough to notice, impossible to ignore. Bitterness at the world, for failing him, for existing, for being such a crappy place. Bitterness at his father, who never said he loved him, never acknowledged him, never praised him, when that was the only thing he wanted the most. His entire childhood had been skipped, fast forwarded and jammed into his first six years, after that he was an adult. Look after Sammy. The only program he knew how to follow. He was bitter at God, at the angels. They wanted this. They wouldn't stop it. How heartless could you be? Especially God. His rejection had been a slap in the face. Not his problem? The whole fucking universe was his problem!

His thoughts circled around, and he remembered his duty; he should probably call Cas. He deserved to be told in person, as soon as possible. He walked over the table by the door and grabbed his phone. He flipped it open and clicked contacts. Cas was the first contact in the list. He pressed his name and was about to hit the call button when the bathroom door opened.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, still toweling his hair off.

"Calling Cas," Dean answered, hitting the call button.

"Why now? Dean the cops are going to be here any minute!" Sam protested.

"Sam!" Dean held the phone up the his ear, "Cas is just as much part of this as we are. Don't you think he deserves to know right away, from us?"

Sam opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to protest, but he shut his mouth and sighed, instead going to pack his stuff. Cas answered on the second ring with a gruff, 'hello?'

"Cas. Sam and I are at the Red Rock Motel in Tonopah, Nevada." Scarcely had Dean finished talking before the sound of flapping wings could be heard. He snapped his phone shut and slipped it in his pocket before turning around and facing Castiel. He was standing in his usual attire of trench coat covered suit. He had finally learned about personal space; only in the odd times of excitement and tense times did he forget and land too close. He was quiet, evidently patient and waiting for Dean to tell him the reason he was called. Dean was dreading having to do this. His stomach churned and he sighed before speaking, "Cas..."

"Cas, we talked to Joshua." Dean hesitated, seeing the intense way Cas was looking at him, "And uh, he said God... God won't help. He said it wasn't his problem." Dean let it out in a rush, hating himself for having to be the bearer of bad news. Hating the way Cas' face seemed to crumple at the news, the way his eyes dimmed. If for anything else, Dean wished God would help them for Castiel. Couldn't he see how good Cas was? How pure-hearted and faithful he was? Why -how- could he do this to him, an angel? In that moment, Dean hated and resented God more than anything. How could he leave his creations to burn? How could he let down and hurt his angels like this? If there was anyway to destroy or kill God, Dean would not have hesitated to do so. He clenched his hands; he wanted to kill something. To rip, destroy, hear something scream. Walt and Roy would pay. He would kill them with his own hands. Hear them scream, make them scream, feel their blood. Unable to hold Cas' disappointed and pained stare any longer, Dean glanced down and shuffled past him, to fiddle with his duffle bag.

"Maybe... Maybe Joshua was lying."

Pain lanced through Dean at Castiel's broken voice; he didn't sound very hopeful at all. He wished he could do something to help, but he was broken too, couldn't they see that? He couldn't fix anything. Anger once again lapped at his core, and he welcomed it. It was better than the pain and emptiness that filled him, and it could lend him strength. He vowed he would avenge Cas somehow. He might not even know he was being avenged, but Dean would do it anyways. He would kill Walt and Roy. That was as good as it was going to get.

"I don't think he was Cas. I'm sorry." Sam spoke softly, probably in just as much pain as Dean was at seeing Cas like this. Dean clenched the handles on his bag a little tighter and grit his teeth, shifting his weight. It was good Sam was talking; Dean didn't think he could manage that right now. He heard footsteps and looked up; Cas had walked over towards the door with his back turned to them.

"You son of a bitch. I believed... in..."

It almost broke his heart to hear Cas, naive and faithful Cas, renouncing his faith. Something snapped in the world, Dean was sure of it. They day when angels lose faith and demons help people was the day the world would end. Which he thought bitterly, was going to happen quite soon. Dean clenched his eyes shut, trying to push out his emotions. Right now he'd rather feel nothing at all than all this turmoil of anger and sadness. It was definitely because he was so angry that his eyes began to prickle and nothing at all to do with losing his last hope or anything. And it for sure wasn't because Cas was hurting so much. Successfully holding back his tears, Dean turned back to Cas just as he turned around.

"I don't need this anymore." Cas said in a dead voice, reaching into his pocket and pulling out Dean's amulet. He tossed it to him and Dean caught it clasped in both hands. "It's worthless."

Although Dean knew it was worthless, the words hurt regardless. He fisted the amulet, allowing -welcoming- the pain of the sharp horns jabbing into his palm. He stared down at his hands, pain freezing out any other emotion he was feeling. This, this was the worst. The world would end and there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it.

"Cas, wait." Sam called, but the fluttering of wings filled the room almost before he stopped speaking. Dean figured he had a pretty good idea what was going on with Cas; he would want to be alone too if he found out his father didn't care. Though he wanted to comfort his friend, he really did, he was in no state to. If he wasn't in a good mental place, then he wouldn't be able to help Cas find a better one either. Once again a failure.

"We'll find another way. We can stop all this Dean." Sam patted Dean on the shoulder, hope still evident in his voice. How did Sammy keep faith after all that had happened?

"How?" Dean wasn't so much asking but deadpanning. This had been one of their last resorts, and they both knew it. They didn't have any other plans, no aces up their sleeves. They were trying to stand up to the devil himself and the power of Heaven. They were just powerless humans compared to them. They didn't even stand a chance; they were practically insects to these powerful beings.

"I don't know, but we'll find it. You and me. We'll find it."

Normally, the 'you and me' would cheer Dean up, if only slightly, because it was nice to know his brother wasn't going to leave him again. Dean half expected him to. Sam deserved more than he got, and it pained Dean every day to know that he wasn't good enough, would never be good enough for his brother. Sammy was too good. Dean would never deserve him, and yet he could never make Sam understand that. Sam always insisted that Dean was the brave one, the courageousness one. Dean didn't believe him. He was useless. A whore at best, only good at pleasing women and following orders. He couldn't even fit a mask on, to hide what he was feeling. He didn't believe Sam when he said they could do it. There was just no end in sight, other than the world ending with the prize fight that Dean could see. He wished he could pretend for Sam's benefit, but he was too torn up, too shattered to be able to. In a couple of days maybe, but right now? Sam would get the bare truth, the true Dean. Dean the failure. Dean the hopeless. Dean the lost. Dean the weak.

He tossed the necklace up a bit; he wouldn't be able to keep this. It symbolized failure and pain. It would only serve as a terrible reminder, so he had to get rid of it. He hoisted his bag up, walking past Sam to the grungy door. He paused at it; was he really sure? Sam had given it to him as a gift. He had to though, it would only bring up painful memories if he kept it. He dropped it in the garbage and opened the door, striding out, leaving behind the blood stained beds, his pained brother, the torturous amulet.

Don't worry! The second chapter is when the 'M' of the rating comes in. It's not all angst by the way... Hopefully the following chapter will be less... self hating and suchness.