The impala is a wreck, just a frame twisted up and bent into like a damn gymnast who cried too hard and fell. He keeps telling himself she's fixable, she's fixable, ain't nothing to worry about but the smell of oil and grease and Sam's baby powder soft are you okay, Dean?, do you need any help? keep getting up into his head. No he doesn't need any help. He can take care of the mess he's left behind with.
He can always fix it. Always. Optimism has no place in his damn life but he can't keep his thoughts quiet when he thinks it and it becomes a mantra. Bitter and slightly off colour but whatever helps him sleep at night. He's fine, he's fine, he's fine and he's said it a million times. Sammy doesn't know what's good for him.
It doesn't feel like going mad. Not really. No epic spiraling out of control, no intense emotions right down to his fucking toes that sends insanity dancing up his veins. None of that. There's just echoing silence in his head. A dark gray world where once was three and now is two and if he ain't careful, it's gonna be one. Just one. And one ain't the loneliest number Dean could ever think of (it's closer to -) but it sure as hell is at the top of his list.
If it makes him a little skittish, well. What's it matter? If he likes the feel of his gun in his hands a bit more, if a blade is more precious than usual -- well his focus is just that much stronger, is all. Just his focus. Has nothing to do with coiled anger that he doesn't know where to direct. He's Dean fucking Winchester. He'll take his demons dead, beer cold, women hot and baby brother alive and fucking kicking.
Sam gets this damn pinched concerned look on his face too many times and Dean just wants to snarl and punch it right off his face. But the muscles in his arm tense up and then freeze, slacken because fuck. "if you can't" Dean refuses to think about can't. He's protected Sammy for far too long now. Too damn long. There is no way he's going to stop now. Motherfucking world be damned.
The worst part -- and not even when Sam's dying, some stupid virus ripped straight from twenty-eight days and no one to send in the calvary, saying, give me the gun I'll do it myself and Dean wants to fucking scream and kill every single person in the room who isn't Sam -- is that he think that Sam might not be the one they need to worry about.
Sam with his goddamn visions that make him bend right over and groan and send thrills of fear up Dean's spine, not with his damn fucking powers, he's the baby. He's the innocent one. He's saving lives all over the fucking shop. He's the one who knows how to say wait, stop, and enough. Dean hasn't been able to say them since --
It is on the tip of his tongue, vaguely, barely there. Sam isn't the killer. He isn't a cold blooded murderer. No matter how much he claims to be. It's just demons, Sam, that's what we do. It's true, for Sam, it's so true it makes Dean ache. Because Dean doesn't have clean hands anymore.
But he's not there yet. He can redeem himself from this. He's strong enough for this. Has to be. He's the older brother.
And the Impala is driving straight, purring loud, winning gold medals all over the place. He can always fix it.