"Look... Dean, the thing is, tonight... It almost got you killed. Now, I don't care how you deal, I really, really, don't, but just don't - don't get killed"
"I'll do what I can"
-Sam and Dean, The Slice Girls 7.13-
Silence descended on the car after their brief discussion, and Sam drove watching the oncoming road, hands griping the steering wheel tighter than needed, not even glancing at Dean.
Dean, for his part, had had enough of the day. He shrugged off his jacket and bunched it up, then put it on the window of the unfamiliar car. He lent on the door and rested his head on the makeshift pillow, closing his eyes.
He didn't drop off to sleep, though. Despite how tired his body was, his mind wasn't going to let him get any rest. It was busy working - and not on the best ideas.
Sam had told him that he didn't care how he dealt. That was fine. And... it gave Dean a few different ideas of how to deal.
As for not getting killed; well, that wasn't so easy to promise. He knew that his little brother was only concerned and frustrated that Dean wasn't finding any real reason for his existence right now, but it was the way he had said it. It wasn't a request - it was an order, almost. And Dean was good at following orders. Or, well, he used to be.
His trip in time the previous week had opened his eyes to how fragile time was, in a way. Chronos was just trying to stay with the girl he loved, yet that killed him in the end. And what of Lila? She had become an sad old woman, living in a retirement home with few visitors that bothered to see her.
Because despite her calling Chronos a 'monster' - or whatever; Dean was even sure what she had said as he had been busy being choked to death at the time - and feeling he betrayed her, she never forgot him that night he had disappeared.
Sam had told him all of this, of course. Dean had explained what happened that night and then his brother had revealed how Lila had turned out when he and Jody visited her. It made the whole point even more... pointless.
Sure, they killed the monster, saved a load of people, but who is the real monster in the end? Chronos killed people to be with the woman he loved forever; he'd wanted more than anything to stay with her and not have to lead such a life as him. But, as the God of Time, he was destined to perform his duty of travelling through time. A duty he let go for a girl he fell in love with.
Dean shifted in the passenger seat. This car was more than a little uncomfortable, and Dean missed his baby with an ache in his heart. Not just because he knew her and loved her, but also because she represented home. A home that they had never really had.
The young hunter had never felt so old. After their dad died, they had had Bobby. After Sam had died, Bobby was still there, even though Dean didn't want him. When he had come back from hell, Bobby was there, ready to help his boys again. Even when Sam threw himself into the pit to stop Lucifer, Cas brought Bobby back and he was still there for Dean, even if Dean didn't use the support.
And even, even, when a soulless version of one of the boys he had raised tried to kill him, even then he didn't leave the boys to their own. He helped both boys as they struggled through the problems the wall brought, and then afterwards, when Cas collapsed it, became God, and then died.
All that time, Bobby was there.
And now, he wasn't.
Sam was still here, but they were both so wounded, so hurt deep inside that they couldn't even support each other right now. Dean knew he was too weak, too tired, to help his brother now. Sam seemed to be doing fine anyway, considering.
Dean shifted again, grimacing as he cursed the seat for being too hard. He felt, rather than caught the shadow of behind his closed eyelids, Sam finally glance over at him. Dean stayed still and evened out his breathing in the hope that his little brother wouldn't talk or anything; would just carry on driving to God knows where.
But even through everything Sam had been through, he had never lost the ability to 'read' Dean, just as Dean had never stopped being protective of Sam.
Not ten minutes later, Dean felt the car slow down as it turned, presumably into a motel for the night. He groaned inwardly at the thought of having the pretend to sleep or even be tired, at least until Sam had fallen asleep.
The car bumped over a couple of potholes in the gravel before coming to a stop. As the noise of the engine faded, Dean could feel Sam's puppy dog eyes on him and knew his little brother was worried, but he just couldn't find the will to convince Sam he was okay, as he normally did.
After a minute of tension, Sam finally sighed and Dean heard the door squeak as his brother got out to get them a room. Dean counted to ten after he couldn't hear Sam's footsteps any more, and then opened his eyes.
They were indeed parking in front of a motel sign that boasted 'Vacancies - Wi-Fi, A/C, Secure Locks'. He could see Sam at the reception desk of the main building a few feet away, receiving a key. He nodded at the teenage kid behind the desk and turned, walking out of the room.
Dean couldn't be bothered to continue his crap facade, so he just sat, staring determinedly out the passenger window, his jacket in his lap, as Sam got back into the car. He started it and drove them around the building to park in front of their room.
They got out at the same time, but not exactly in sync. That had been lost a while ago. Dean stood by the door as Sam got the bags out of the car, not wanting to be near his brother at the moment.
Sam shut the trunk with a rather unnecessary slam, then walked to the room, pausing at Dean on the way and briefly holding out his bag. Dean took it and, letting Sam go a few steps ahead of him, walked to the door with the number 13 on it that Sam was heading to.
Wasn't 13 supposed to be an unlucky number? That suited them just fine then.
Inside, Dean didn't waste any time. He dumped his bag on his bed - still the one closest to the door, naturally - and grabbed a t-shirt and boxers from it before making his way to the bathroom and shutting the door.
Alone at long last, Dean let out a breath and slumped down on the floor, back against the cold bath. He sat there for a second, just letting the last few days sink in again. Because they still seemed so unreal.
How could Bobby be dead? How could Dick Friggin' Roman still be alive? And how the hell was he meant to cope with this shithole that was currently his life?
At least he kind of had an answer to the last one. He felt in his back pocket and pulled out the weapon that always nestled there in case it was needed. Because the only other thing he had on him was his knife.
It was sharp - it had to be, to cut a monster's perhaps tough skin. It was a hunting knife, for monsters. But Dean was sure that by now he was a monster anyway.
Don't hunters always become like what they hunt?
Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. Dean couldn't find the will to discover answers for any more stupid questions he could think up. He should stop thinking altogether - and for that thought and reason was why he didn't have his gun currently with him too.
Because no matter how he felt, Sam had asked him not to die. And suicide definitely wasn't one of his favorite topics. But Sam had said it didn't matter how he dealt. So this was him. Dealing.
Dean stood up, his legs already cramped. He knew Sam would maybe already be suspicious, but he had told himself he was going to do this, had thought it out, and so he had to go along with it. Because if he didn't do this, God knows what he would do next time their world falls down around them.
He pulled off his top, throwing it in a heap in a corner. He ran a finger along the blade of the knife and barely flinched, even when the contact brought beads of red along his thumb. That was the point.
But Dean Winchester had spent 40 years in hell alongside his whole life hunting. He was much more creative than that.
He brought the knife to his upper arm; less noticeable maybe. Wordlessly, he pulled it across the skin. It stung, but only at first contact. Then the pain faded into a dull background pulse as blood began to pool at the wound sight.
Dean watched expressionlessly as red dripped down his arm, staining the floor with droplets. It briefly occurred to him that Sam might see it, but he couldn't be bothered by the right now. Why would Sam care anyway.
Dean was caught between rock and a hard place and the only thing he could do was to cut his way out. And he needed to get out. He got started on his only escape route.
Drops of water dripped sadly from Dean's showered body as he made short work of toweling himself dry.
He pulled new boxers and t-shirt on before his jeans, zipping them up and tossing the partly orange coloured towel in the corner for the cleaning lady. He made sure that the stains couldn't be seen by a courtesy glance at the washing, and then put his dirty t-shirt over his shoulder so it hung down, and opened the door.
Sam glanced up automatically when Dean came out of the bathroom and headed straight for his bed. The older brother jerked a thumb in the direction he had just come from. "Go take a shower; there's a clean towel on the rail," he told Sam without looking for him.
After a second of watching him, Sam sighed and got up, wordlessly walking into the bathroom and shutting the door.
Dean glanced up to make sure his brother was out of sight, then let out a breath and sunk down on the bed, removing his now tacky t-shirt from where it was discretely hiding the cuts from view.
He examined them with an expert eye. He wasn't a novice at torture, and he knew exactly how deep caused scars, bleeding, and how deep was enough to kill - and how quickly.
His weren't bad. The left upper arm was a mess of still trickling blood and scarred tissue. He knew he hadn't injured the muscle; he needed all his strength to hunt, and with an injured muscle, it made it harder. Wounds didn't.
He glanced up again as the shower started, signaling that his little brother would be out the way for a few minutes yet. Dean grimaced as he moved his injured arm to search in his bag for a bandage and wipe.
The older brother found both surprisingly quickly, considering that his bag wasn't the most organised item in his possession, and made short work of briefly cleaning, then dressing, his wounds.
He wouldn't have bothered at all, but as Sam was present right now, he knew unexplained blood on sheets and clothes wouldn't go unnoticed, so it had to be contained, at least for now. Maybe until Sam decided to take off, again.
Dean sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Just too much was going on and he couldn't keep track of it all. If he tried, the only question he could raise was what the hell was he doing anyway?
And he couldn't be bothered to answer that question. He was too tired. Always too tired.
He took a deep, weary, breath, and picked his bag off the bed. Setting it down beside him, Dean swung his feet up onto the bed, pulled the covers from underneath him and then put the on top of him, making sure his arms were underneath.
He closed his eyes even though he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep. In the bathroom, he heard the water being cut off as Sam finished showering and got dressed again.
Dean took a shaky breath, and, finally, tears began to slip down his face, patterning the pillow. He shifted so his face was turned at the least clear angle so Sam couldn't see if he tried.
I'm sorry, Sammy. Dean sent a silent thought to his brother, begging him to forgive his actions, before he surrendered himself to the dark array of nightmares that awaited in hell tainted unconsciousness. I'm just not strong enough.