Hands grabbed Dean hard and he stared at them - counted the hairs dotted along the knuckles - like it was the only thing he'd seen other than blood. Grabbed tight onto fabric, running splintered hands along it, because it was the first thing he'd felt in a long time that wasn't hard or painful.
And a fleeting thought crossed his mind,
that this?
This was the end and this was the undoing of him.
And Dean smiled at his termination.
Who was he to know that it was the complete opposite?
Walking with his brother now felt almost like he was spending it moments before falling asleep.
Except that it was days. Restless days. Days screaming in bed for that sleep to come.
Even in sleep he was waiting for more.
..
Even in sleep he screamed.
On an empty motorway, somewhere between Louisiana and Mississippi his brother tells him with sad eyes,
"Hell hollowed you out."
And Dean tried to tell him, underneath his skin isn't hollow. It's rotted out.
Instead he looks on, eyes dazed. And Sam wishes he could bring back the world.
He takes to sleeping in the Impala, leaves motels during the night and wakes drenched in sweat that feels too much like blood. Returning to his brother every morning with some excuse and coffee as a gift for not asking. Avoiding the crushed expression Sam seems to have adopted lately.
They meet hunters who are kind enough to offer them a bed in exchange for help on a hunt. Dean passes, insisting that they urgently need to leave. Knowing full-well that they've not had the chance to sleep properly in weeks.
He crashes out in the back seat of the Impala as Sam makes a trip for gas - thinking of how he related to this cold, emptied vessel that was useless on it's own.
A taste of reality shot back into him, Dean smacked his head back onto wood and he remembered splinters and holes. His muscles burned as he tried to pull himself up.
His body was near closing down and he tried to push it that much further only to hear Sam above him shouting a word that he used to call 'name.'
Dean asks him, 'Why?' Why would his body plunge only for his brother to open it right back up again.
Confusion and heartbreak only splits across Sam's face, looking at his big brother - at his hero.
Sam punches him. Slams his fists right into his chest, right next to where the knot that is his heart, beats. Because this family has only known to talk in violence. So Dean welcomes it and thinks,
"This is home."
Only to have Sam scoff - a scoff that sounded closer to a sob - at these words.
"Stop doing this, Dean! Just stop!"
They cave to the floor of the Impala. Sam's eyes streaming with tears and Dean, he looks on at his baby brother and remembers a time long ago when his father shouted the exact same thing, voice full of disappointment.
"What's wrong, Sammy?"
Dean just tells him that his own smile looks just like Alastair's, rotten and dead underneath.
That everyday he is an open sore, a walking scream.
And it doesn't matter.
Because you can try to fill him up however you want,
but he is empty and there is nothing that can fill him.
All you can do is t r y.