Dean's head lolled back onto the solid wood of the door. He struggled to push the rising bile back down his throat, but managed it all the same.
Gradually, he worked up the strength, or maybe it was courage, to open his eyes. He was afraid he'd see those haunting puppy-dog brown eyes swimming in front of his face. The confused, pained look that had been the last his brother had given anyone. Dean could recall exactly the time Sam went limp, and when he felt the chilling, detached emptiness flood through him as if the events of a week ago had happened mere minutes before.
Vaguely Dean wondered how much he'd slept since then. Not much, surely. But when he did sleep, Always Sam's face came back to haunt him. The ghost of unspoken words of forgiveness that he desperately needed to hear little more than a feeble whisper on the bone chilling drafts.
Stumbling over to his own bed, Dean picked up the glittering silver knife from the bedside table. Holding it up to the light he wondered how easy it could be. He could make it all go away, with one, maybe two clean, concise cuts.
His eyes roamed hungrily to the gun that lay next to the spot he'd picked the knife up from. How easy would that be? Holding the gun to his head and pulling the trigger?
He lay the knife back down with trembling hands. He couldn't do it. It just further disgusted him to look in the mirror at himself, to know it was possible he could think those thoughts. What would Sammy say? A now familiar twang of pain at the thought of his name.
Bobby had left. Dean was alone, once again, with Sam's still corpse. Dean's eyes roamed the pale shell of what had been his brother, his best friend, and long-suffering companion.
Every single wall that Dean had ever put up, ever distanced himself with, threatened to come crashing down. He clenched the fist of his right hand until he could feel the silver of his ring biting painfully into his palm. Oh, how Dean wished he could say that the pain made him feel better, but all it did was make him feel like a selfish bastard, because he could still feel and Sam couldn't.
Dean's trembling hand reached out and ghosted over the pallid skin that still held a small tinge of his little brothers tan.
Crash. There goes one wall. The one that held their troubled child hoods.
"Do you remember, when you were five or six, you started asking questions? I begged you to stop Sam. You asked why we moved so much, where Dad was, why we didn't have a mom. And I told you to shut up. I just… I wanted you to be a kid. I wanted you to have that innocence that always shone out of you for a little while longer. Just the smallest bit."
Crash. There goes another one. The one about mom, and dad. He bit his lip until he felt coppery blood gliding smoothly over his tongue.
"Then… then you found out. And the look on your face when you asked me what Mom was like… it tore me up, Sam. I wanted so badly for you to know her, to be able to remember something other than her screams. And then you asked Dad. He told you to ask another time, but you never did. You saw the look on his face, and it scared you. When he…when he traded himself for me, Sam, I felt like… I felt like I wasn't worthy of him. And you asked me. You asked me how I felt. You cared. And I made fun of you, of me, hell, I made fun of dad. Because it scared me, Sam. Feelings scare me. And…And now I want to tell you. I want to tell you so badly it hurts. I need to tell you."
Dean took a deep, shaky breath. And the last of his walls collapsed. He felt bare, exposed. When the tears began to roll down his cheeks, he couldn't stop them.
"I let Dad down, because I didn't protect you. Hell, he never even had to ask me to do it, it was automatic, you know. And I failed. I failed Sam."
He barely stopped the sobs being torn from his throat, choking them back down. Because if he started sobbing, he would never, ever stop. Outwardly, maybe, but inwardly, never.
"And…And I let you down Sam. I let you die. I felt you die. And I couldn't do anything. You just died in my arms. And then you didn't answer me when I called you. And I felt it. I let you down."
A strangled, gargled cry struggled through the lump in his throat.
"I suppose that's what I do though. I let down the people I love." He mused, a sad smile forming on his full, pink lips.
It quickly dissolved into a frown, his mouth opening as Dean struggled to regain a breath.
"What am I supposed to do, Sammy?" He asked, his hazel green eyes never leaving Sam's serene, if somewhat drained face.
"What am I supposed to do?" He asked louder.
Suddenly his eyes grew wide, angry.
Rubbing a hand over his face to brush away the tears, Dean felt white hot anger rising from nowhere at the utter helplessness of his situation.
Everyone he had ever loved, cared for, they were gone.
"What am I supposed to do!" His voice broke at the top of an angry yell.
Unable, or perhaps unwilling to control his anger, Dean kicked the chair over, out of his way.
He stopped himself from tripping over the door frame, but only just. He stumbled out to his beloved car and popped the trunk.
Searching, finding what he was looking for, Dean shoved it in a small, handmade box.
He drove to the nearest crossroads, to finish the madness. To finish his rapid descent into somewhere only Sam could pull him out. And hopefully, Sam could. If he made the deal.