The Only Option
Dean lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His body shook uncontrollably, involuntarily spilled tears tracked from the corners of his eyes onto his pillow. His chest felt so tight, as if all the air had been taken right out of his lungs. His grief was rolling over him in waves that felt almost substantial, and there was no comfort to be found. Even his beloved memory foam brought him no joy tonight. He had performed his bedtime routine in a daze, unable to process the bombshell Sam had dropped on him. Dean had managed to keep it together until he laid down, but here in the quiet darkness of his room, he found himself drowning in an ocean of sorrow. All his life, Dean had, with varying degrees of success, buried his pain and fears, hoping most issues would resolve themselves given enough time. But tonight. Tonight he had no where to hide, no strength to deny that his worst fear had become a reality, and he was still breathing. He could still hear the echo of Sam's voice, still see the coldness of the face he loved above all else as the words that may as well have been a death knell to his very soul were spoken aloud. Sam would not save him. Sam did not want to be saved. Sam would rather have died than be with Dean, when Dean himself would do anything to have Sam by his side. Maybe I really am the selfish one, Dean mused. The thought alone of living without Sam there... no. Just, no. He had tried that once, when Sam had been in the cage, and it had nearly been the end of him.
As the weight pressing in on his chest grew greater, Dean found he didn't even have the energy to be angry with his baby brother. Dean was well aware that he had screwed up and hurt Sam in the process of saving his life. He couldn't bring himself to regret that choice, even if Sam did hate him for it. They had been down this road before, and he had always expected that their bond would overcome all of the stupid decisions that were made, all of the crap life threw at them. But now, Sam didn't even consider them brothers. Sam didn't need Dean, not any more. But Dean still needed Sam. A small part of Dean was proud of Sammy, in the way a parent is proud when a child surpasses them and moves on to better things than they had. That didn't make it hurt any less when the child left though. He had in many ways raised his brother, and must have done something right to allow Sam to be so strong and independent. But where did that leave Dean?
Gradually, Dean's breathing eased and the waterworks slowed. He was a man of action, he needed a course to take. All the chick flick moments in the world would not solve this. What options did he have? Sam was still willing to work with Dean. On a strictly professional level. He would have to be okay with that. He would have to let Sam go, even though he would literally rather cut off his own arm. At least he knew Sam would be fine without his big brother. Sam would make a new life, just as he had done when Dean had been in purgatory for a year. Dean chuckled bitterly to himself. That really should have been his first clue that things between the two of them had changed. He had fought tooth and nail and fang and claw to return to Sam, sure that Sam was desperately trying to find him, and he had been anxious to not prolong the agony for either of them. To say he had been surprised to find that Sam hadn't even tried would be a vast understatement.
It all boiled down to this: Dean needed Sam and Sam did not want Dean. Dean knew that he was beyond help in his drive to protect and watch out for his brother at any cost. And that drive had cost him. He grimaced. He had surely lost everything and everyone he had ever cared about, and now he had lost his Sammy, his very reason for living. The deep well of sorrow within his chest was ebbing away leaving a dead, empty hollow in its place. He had felt a similar emptiness after he had come back from the pit. Famine had told him he was dead inside, and the horseman had been right. He had wanted to give up so many times and the only thing that had kept him going was his devotion to his brother. Now Dean felt adrift. Who was he? He had no sense of purpose. No, that wasn't quite true. Dean felt a ball of steely resolve form in his chest. He had a mess to clean up. Metatron and Gadreel had to be handled, and he still needed to deal with Abbadon. Even thinking about her made the mark on his arm throb and burn. Dean ran his fingers lightly over the symbol that shouted out that he was a killer. There was price to pay, a burden that came with the mark. He wondered if it would cost him his life to end Abbadon. That would solve everything, really. He would go out cleaning up this huge mess, make the world a better place for Sam to grow old in, and he would not have to worry about Sam doing anything stupid to save him. He could do this. He would do this. He would focus on the hunt, let Sam have all the non-brotherly space he wanted, gank the demon, set things to rights, and then pay the price he deserved to pay. Dean closed his eyes and let sleep over take him. He had work to do.