He can't breathe; no, he's choking. Small gasps of precious oxygen are sinking in at rapid, uneven intervals, and he expels each one as it comes. Slowly, the darkness creeps around his vision again, and he knows that no air that his lungs have received is actually having an affect on him. He's still gagging on the blood and the blackness and the agonizing realization of what he'd just done, and somehow he's okay with that. He's convinced himself that maybe he just doesn't need to breathe; he's survived this far without doing so, yes?

He used to breathe. He used to breathe with no hesitation at all. The idea of not breathing horrified him. Recently, he's been trying so hard to intake the air that he needed. He did anything that could keep him going, keep his lungs working, but he never did better than abbreviated gasps, and it's always easier to simply not breathe at all. It felt so good, even though he knew that he was suffocating, life choking away. But he doesn't care, and he knows that should worry him. It doesn't matter; where's the harm in that?

There's crimson decorations everywhere, clouding his eyes and tainting his skin. Something is wrong, he knows. He's not exactly sure what, but his mind rests in a dull haze, not needing to respire as he sits there numbly. He can't feel anything, and he's happy about that. He's been feeling so much lately—conflict, pain, trepidation—that he's relieved of all that in this moment of still lull. He can still sense the twinge of an old wound on his forearm, but it's angry pulsating was reduced down to an insignificant flutter the moment his fingers caressed the serene, abating surface of a dagger, and he isn't quite ready to let it go yet. He doubts he ever will; it allows him to not breathe, and he's fine with that. But it's not the dagger, the one he truly wishes to mutilate with ,and now he's itching for more, or the sharp and shallow breaths will return. He's not sure he wants that.

He hears what might have been a scream, but wonders how that's possible because he thought that he'd killed everyone, and dead people can't vocalize.

"Dean." The word is spoken softly. It's a word he's not associating with himself anymore. Dean breathes; he doesn't. His gaze is pulled away from the blood-stained floorboards that he didn't realize he was studying and up to the looming form of his brother. He looks down; he can't focus on his brother, all of that horror and anger in his eyes. He finds himself snapped out of his murder-induced euphoria, wheezing slightly as he gasps for air.

Back to the breathing thing again, it seems.

"Dean," the word is repeated, and this time Sam's in front of him, yet still a million miles away. Sam's cradling his face in his hands, and he's tempted to just collapse into his brother's arms, to give in, to breathe. "Hey. Tell me you had to do this!"

Sam's angry and forceful, and he's not breathing. He musters up what meager air he can and forces out, "I did—I didn't mean to."

Sam isn't satisfied with this answer, evident by the clenching of his teeth and the ire painted across his face. His world has begun spinning, as if he were on a merry-go-round. He sways, even while held firm in Sam's angry hold. "No, tell me it was them or you!"

He looks into his brother's eyes, contemplating a lie, but nothing forms on his tongue. He looks away, unable to stand everything he see's on Sam's face. Somehow, his silence is answer enough. Sam knows.

Everything was so much easier when he wasn't breathing, he figures, still gasping and near-hyperventilating. So much easier.

So there's my late little one-shot tag to 10x09, The Things We Left Behind. Hope you enjoyed it.

Comments on the story? Thoughts on the new season? You know I love to hear it all.