She was gone.
Jo Harvelle was dead.
A million thoughts swirled through Dean's mind. It had been a few days since Carthage, since she had died for him.
She had died for him.
And Lucifer had walked.
He'd lost her. He'd lost Jo, and she was his everything.
He couldn't breathe. The room spun at ninety miles an hour, and her voice echoed through his head.
Wrong place, wrong time. Wrong place, wrong time.
He'd told her that first. He'd said it. This was his fault.
He didn't deserve her. She had so much life in her.
This was his fault.
His whole body hurt as he gasped for air. He felt like he was going to throw up. He wanted to scream. He needed to scream. His throat burned with all the words he'd left unspoken.
He couldn't let Sam know what was happening. He couldn't bring his baby brother down with him.
He was choking on everything he should have told her. His heart was pounding it's way out of his chest with the thought of her. His mind was on fire with what ifs and maybes. His vision was blurred by tears that wouldn't fall.
And yet the night was warm and the cicadas buzzed and everything was as it should be.
But yet nothing would ever be the same for Dean.
He couldn't stop thinking about her. He couldn't stop waiting to hear her laughing or call him some name or another.
She could have been everything for him, but he'd pushed her away. He was the reason that she was dead.
Damn it.
And the tears spilled over and he felt everything.
And he felt nothing.
It was worse than Hell.
He wanted to take her place.
It should have been him. It should have been his side the hound tore into.
He should have saved her.
He should have saved her!
He hurled the empty beer bottle at the wall, and watched as it shattered.
And suddenly he understood how he had survived this long.
Jo Harvelle had been the only thing holding him together since his father had died.
She was the only thing that had been holding him up.
And now that she was gone, this was him crashing down.