Well, since I finished Season 2 the other day and needed a way to cope with my feelings, here's some fic. Set from Dean's perspective at the end of S2.
It's a strange feeling. The emptiness.
His life was shit, sure. He knew that. It seemed like the rest of the universe might know it too because they sure as hell seemed determined to keep it that way.
Sitting there, in that crappy room, in that burned out, haunted shell of a town, he sat and watched his brother at peace for the first time in far too long.
When Dean was little, he would sit up and watch Sammy sleep sometimes, especially later on after he'd had a close call with Dad. It was a reminder, a reminder of why he had to be the only sixth grader to have built his own sawed-off, a reminder of why he was the one who had to go off with Dad to hunt things most kids his age saw only in nightmares: he had to protect Sammy.
Hell, that had always been his job, and even now it was impossible for him to be anything but defensive of Sam's body even if he knew that he was already dead. When Bobby had suggested that he burn the body, it had been too soon, to fast, too much of an acknowledgement that this was real and he was gone and this would never be the same again.
It was much later that he finally came to a decision, after agonizing hours of pain and loss and yeah, all right, a shit-ton of self-loathing. That was nothing particularly new, though, to be honest. But this felt different than it had with Dad. With Dad, well, he had felt guilty as hell, guilty as hell and unworthy of the sacrifice that he had given. He'd felt the loss, felt the anger and the frustration that threatened to overwhelm him more than once.
With Sammy, though, there was just… nothing. He didn't have the greatest imagination in the world, to be sure, never did have the brains of his smart-ass little brother, but he'd always been able to see some sort of a future, no matter how crappy it was. Now, hell, he couldn't imagine living. Couldn't imagine going to Bobby's, or striking it out on his own, without Sammy there… He'd done it before, with Stanford, but that was with the knowledge that he was safe, that he was happy. Now, after all that had happened and everything he had sacrificed to keep the stupid little bitch safe, he found he didn't want to go on. He quite simply did not want to.
Sometimes he felt like he understood why Dad acted the way he did, why he had sacrificed himself. Like right now. Now, he was tired, tired and alone and he didn't want to be, couldn't be. This life just wasn't worth it without him. But for Dean there was no revenge that could ever be enough, for there was no one left to keep him going, just an old scrap yard owner and the corpse of his baby brother.
He drew in a shaky breath, just one, considering. He didn't want to die. Did he? To finally sit down and rest a spell would feel so good, too good. But with a track record like his he doubted there would be much resting where he was headed, down, down, below. But it wasn't that he wanted to die, he just didn't want to live in a world without Sammy. He couldn't.
His face was set, his will strong as iron as he looked into the eyes of a demon and kissed her.
And watching the spark of life come back into his brother's face, a face he knew almost as well as his own, watching the relief and incredulity of having survived flit across those beloved features was enough.
Oh, it would all go to hell as soon as Sammy found out, he knew that.
But the emptiness was gone, and the faint buzz of something resembling not happiness, but a twisted sort of contentment flowed through his mind.
And maybe that was enough rest for anyone.