Grief.
Grief is a tide, coming back time and time again, rewashing and scrubbing away the clarity and progress made in the mind.
Eroding.
Molding.
And Sam Winchester knows a lot about the sound of waves breaking against cliff rocks.
He knows a lot about the sound of last breaths, and the echoes of, "I can save you." leaving his lips, fading to a dull crashing sound.
The roar of water.
Consuming.
When Jess died, Sam felt like he was constantly drowning.
The first night was okay. The adrenaline was pulsing through his veins, his sole purpose in life narrowed down to getting the thing that did this and putting a bullet in him.
It was simple enough. A singular goal.
But when Sam Winchester dreamt that night of the flames dancing around the motel room, he woke up blindly, reaching, shouting for Jess.
The bed was empty. His heart cold.
Oh, how he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, clutching the pillow, making his knuckles turn white.
Dean's heart shattered into a million pieces as he woke up to the sound of each deep, gargling breath Sam took in to push out more waterfalls.
He got out of his bed and climbed into the one Sam was curled up in, shaking. He pulled the younger brother against his chest, his heart thumping a million miles an hour.
"Sammy?" He asked, trying to look at him through the light of the outside street lamps. Sam lifted his head slightly off Dean, his hair matted and sweaty, pushed up off his forehead. The tears were running down his face. His cheeks red.
"I can't-" Sam started before choking and slamming his face into Dean's shirt again, shaking and straining against the fabric. "I can't do this!" He shouted, muffled into Dean's chest, his waves washing over him again.
Dean could feel his eyes begin to burn as he gripped ferociously at Sam's back, holding him tight to him. "Yes you can." He whimpered into the crown of Sam's head, feeling his own emotions start to leek over.
"No-" Sam started, before Dean hastily pulled him off him to look him in the eyes, hands on shoulders, gripping tight.
Dean could feel his pulse in his fingertips. "You have to!" He choked out, shaking Sam with each word. His throat burned. "You just have to." He sobbed, bending his head down and pulling Sam back in the embrace.
It was more of a reassurement to himself more than Sammy.
Dean realized this when he squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life, almost as if Sam would float away from his grasp, leaving him alone, and lost. Again.
They were tangled in the worn down bed for hours, and Sam cried the entire time, soaking Dean's already sweaty sleep shirt.
Dean rubbed tiny little circles into Sammy's back and kept repeating, "We'll get that son of a bitch. Don't worry." because he didn't really know what else to say. He wanted to give Sam so much more to live for, so many more cliché quotes he could pull out of the air to inspire him, but he didn't know how to word it. His only solace fell to revenge.
Because revenge was all that John ever gave Dean.
No hugs. No kisses. No bed time tuck-ins. Just him, his thoughts, and his trusty gun tucked away under his pillow. At least Dean could provide some physical comfort to his baby brother compared to their father.
He was supposed to be the perfect soldier, yet he could feel his composure slipping away with each gasp of air from Sam. He was supposed to keep everything okay. But here they were, more broken than ever.
So they hunted. They did what they knew how to do. They killed, and kicked, and punched their way to try and feel whole again. The family therapy.
And it became a drug to Sam.
Every night immediately after a kill, Sam would stride in, set up his laptop, and begin scouring for the next one. He wouldn't even eat unless it was necessary, even when Dean went out and found salads and fruits for him. He became a machine, searching for that final kill. That final piece of the puzzle to connect the dots.
After finally convincing Sam to eat, and then sleep, Dean would pretend to be out cold under the rough motel blankets to listen to Sam and make sure he would be getting into bed.
Until he actually became sleepy, and felt his protective brother barriers caving against exhaustion.
And every night Sam would be awake for a couple more hours, thinking, breathing, planning, hoping to distract every bit of himself with the nature and planning of a hunt.
And every night, Sam would end up sobbing quietly into the bed, flooding the room again.
Raising the tide.