Crash! The clatter of rubble crumbling to the ground followed the smashing sounds that echoed through the bunker. Sam scurried down the stairs and coughed as he ran into a cloud of cement dust. Waving his hand until the debris cleared, he squinted to see what had caused the crash. The cloud slowly settled, revealing the dust covered profile of his brother holding a large pickaxe.
"Dean!" Sam yelled, tripping down the rest of the stairs. He stared at the hole in the wall which had grown since the grenade hit it. "Dean, what the hell?" he turned to his brother whose chest heaved up and down as he glared at the wall with such force Sam was surprised the hole hadn't grown just from that. "What are you doing?" Sam asked.
"Fixing the hole," Dean said as if it were obvious.
"With that?" Sam looked at the pick axe.
"I'm clearing the extra rocks," he answered, still acting as though Sam was the crazy one. Sam blinked at his brother in confusion until he saw the bottle on a ledge not too far away.
"Are you drunk?" he asked. Dean's glance followed his brother's and he shrugged.
"Maybe a little," he said. He looked back at Sam impatiently, waiting for him to leave so he could continue his destruction.
"Give me that," Sam said. He tried to grab the pick axe from Dean but Dean pulled it out of the way, narrowly missing Sam's head. "The hell are you doing?"
"I'm fixing it," Dean said again.
"No," Sam said. Again he made a grab for the pick axe and again Dean pulled it out of the way. "You're making it worse. The whole place could come crashing down on us."
"And?"
Sam stopped reaching for the pick axe. His arm fell to the side as he looked at his brother with drawn eyebrows.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, quietly.
"Nothing," Dean said. He turned away so he didn't have to meet his brother's large sad eyes. "Are you done?"
"Dean," Sam said in a probing voice.
"What?" Dean snapped. He turned to Sam with anger hiding the sadness in his green eyes.
"You don't actually mean that do you?" Sam asked gently. "You don't actually want to…die?" he whispered the last word. Dean grumbled and set the pick axe down, slamming the handle against the wall.
"Maybe," he said shortly. Sam couldn't speak for a second.
"But… you…" the words couldn't form. Tiny tears, like pins, pricked the inside of his eyelids. He swallowed a lump in his throat and stared helplessly at his older brother.
"I what, Sam?" Dean ran a hand over his face and as it dropped the angry façade fell away, replaced by exhaustion and sorrow. "I'm done. I can't keep trying to fix everything." Sam could hear the heavy resignation in his brother's voice.
"But you can't give up now," Sam said.
"And why not?" Dean said, the anger building up again. "We're getting nowhere with finding mom or figuring out what the hell to do with the devil's kid. I can't even fix this damn wall," he gestured at the hole. "I wonder if it would just be easier if I let this whole place crash in on us, if I buried us alive."
"You don't know what you're saying," Sam said, "You're drunk."
"I'm sober enough," Dean said, with clear eyes.
"But you can't just die," Sam shook his head. "We need you. I need you."
"That's exactly my point," Dean waved his hand around, "God gave me a mission. Saving the world. But what has that ever gotten us? What reward does saving people bring? Mom's gone. Cas is dead. I mean, how many friends have we lost to this gig? Hell, we don't even get paid. So why do we keep going?" He looked at Sam as if very interested in knowing the answer to his question. Shocked and hurt, Sam blinked back hot tears that filled his eyelids and threatened to spill over.
"Because we have to," Sam answered.
"Well I'm done," Dean said. "I give up." He threw his hands in the air in surrender. Sam flinched a little.
"And what about me?" He asked, hoarsely.
"What about you?" Dean snarled. "You want me to pick you up outta the dirt again." Sam's eyebrows drew together over his tear filled eyes.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He whispered.
"Nothing," Dean waved it off.
"No," Sam's voice grew as did his anger. "Dean tell me. What's that supposed to mean?" He clenched his teeth in his fight against his tears.
"It means I'm tired," Dean snapped. "Tired of cleaning up everyone's messes. Let them clean up their own mess."
"My mess?"
"Whoever's," Dean waved his hand again and turned away. "Forget it," he headed towards the stairs, leaving Sam staring at the wall in hurt silence. "I'm gonna go get drunk and then maybe drive off a cliff or something."
"Dean," Sam turned to his brother.
"Fine," Dean mumbled, "I won't drive off a cliff." He disappeared up the stairs. Sam leaned on the wall next to the large hole and slid down to the floor. He looked up at the ceiling and swallowed a dry, hot lump in his throat.