Everybody had a breaking point, and no one knew this better than Dean Winchester. Spending forty years in Hell will do that to a person. He remembered clear as a bell the days that Alastair had spent pulling him apart in the most creative of ways—reaching down his throat and pulling out his spine, pulling out his intestines through his belly button, the way that he could lose so much blood that a heart beat sent stabbing pain through his chest. He remembered perfectly which one it had been when he finally broke. Alastair had pulled open his rib cage so perfectly that he was still conscious four hours later, watching his heart beat and his lungs expand. And that had broken him.
And yet, even then, he hadn't prayed. He had screamed for help and begged for mercy, but never had he prayed to God. It was always Sam's name that he called, or no one's at all. He had held on to the one person who mattered most in the world, and called out to them for help. Of course, even as he was yelling for his brother, he had hoped that Sam wouldn't help him. Because if Sam helped him, it meant that it had come at some cost to his brother, and that was unacceptable. But not once had he ever thought to appeal to God for help.
When he had returned, when the nightmares plagued him and his only comfort was alcohol, he hadn't prayed. He hadn't prayed when the guilt of his actions—tearing apart souls, day after day in Hell—had threatened to overwhelm him. He could still see the faces of all those souls: the first had been a pretty, red-haired girl who looked barely old enough to drink. He remembered the older men who had made deals because they were afraid to die; the women who had done the same because they were afraid to age…He had tortured them all, and felt guilt for everyone. But even then, he didn't pray.
He hadn't prayed when he found out that it was his actions that broke the first seal. He had tried to drown the guilt in whiskey and beer, but that didn't quite do the trick. He had ranted and railed and berated himself for not being stronger—his dad had held out for a hundred years, and he couldn't even last forty? But he had never thought to pray for comfort for himself, or to pray for forgiveness.
When he had finally prayed, it could hardly be called that. Instead, it was angry yelling for Cass, who had disappeared and left them with a mess. He had yelled and ranted and called Cass names, but never had the name "God" crossed his lips during his little tirade. He still couldn't bring himself to pray to God—who probably didn't exist—not when there was an angel who could do the job.
But this was different. Sammy was locked away, detoxing from demon blood yet again. Dean knew what was going on inside that room, the way that the blood was throwing his brother around, making him hallucinate. He could hear Sam screaming in pain and knew that when he finally opened the doors, Sam wouldn't be able to talk for a week. Sam's body would be bruised and battered, and breathing would be painful. He knew how it worked, and he hated it. He hated that he knew, and he hated that Sam had to go through it.
He hated that Sam had felt the effects of Famine, and he hated that he hadn't felt them himself. He could hear Famine's words in his mind, telling him how dead he was inside. He felt the fear that Famine was right, that nothing could be done to help him because he was beyond help. He felt the exhaustion that comes from running too long on so little hope, and he was ready to lie down and let it all go. He couldn't push himself any further or harder than he was now.
And yet, he was going to have to. He was going to have to be stronger, be better, because Sammy needed him to. It was one thing to sacrifice his own life, but Sam's was another. He had to be strong enough for two, and right now, he wasn't. He needed all the strength he could get, and it was only when he was at the lowest possible point—the breaking point not only for him, but for Sam, too—was he willing to try anything.
"Please…I can't…I need some help…Please," he whispered through his tears.
And so, for the first time in a long time, Dean Winchester let go and prayed. He wasn't strong enough to do it on his own, and he cried out for help. He begged and pleaded with God to help him. And not only him, but Sammy, too. He needed strength: for Sam, for himself…for the world. He needed someone to take some of the weight off his shoulders and let him rest just for a moment. At that moment—as he stood there staring into the vast inky darkness of the night sky—he needed more than anything to believe not only that God existed, but that He was listening.
Author's Note: So, yeah...I know that almost everyone has done a post-My Bloody Valentine piece, but I decided to do one anyway. I think the end scene shows not only just how desperate Dean is, but just how important Sam is to him. It isn't until Sam is in trouble that he gets truly desperate enough to pray. So, anyway, I hope you enjoyed.