Dean stumbled into the hotel room, dropped his bags on the floor and fell onto the bed, still in his jacket and boots. He barely heard Sam come in and close the door behind him.
"You just gonna stay there?" he asked Dean, who grunted and closed his eyes.
"I was thinking about ordering pizza," Sam continues.
"Sleep," was all Dean replied with, his voice muffled by his leather sleeve. Sam chuckled.
"You're slipping, Dean. Not usually this tired after a ghost hunt."
Dean didn't bother to defend himself. Sammy didn't need to know that he'd barely slept the past four days. Haunted by vivid nightmares, he got up every night as Sam started to snore and took a bottle out to the car where he could get dead drunk in some relative peace, his music and whiskey pounding out his thoughts. He then stumbled into the room again, drunk, where he passed out on the bed for an hour or two. In the morning, Sam never knew his brother hadn't slept (although he must have been noticing the extra empty bottles.)
For now, at the thought of pizza, Dean shoved himself off the bed and staggered to the table with his eyes closed. He plopped into one of the chairs, pulled a bottle out of a duffle bag at his feet, and started gulping it down. He ignored Sam's concerned frown. Finally he looked up and rolled his eyes.
"What?" he said.
"Dean…" Sam sighed and shook his head. "Nothing." He pulled out his phone to order the pizza. Dean was too tired to argue with him.
A few hours, a large pepperoni and half a bottle later, Sam said he was going to bed.
"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean said. Sam didn't move, but sat across from Dean, watching him drink.
"You going to bed soon?" he asked.
"What, are you putting me on curfew now?"
"No, Dean," Sam said with a frustrated sigh. "Something's wrong and you're not telling me."
"Something's always wrong, Sammy. It comes in the job description."
"But you could just talk to me about it…"
"Go to bed, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes. He pulled off his shirt as he rolled into bed. Dean stared at his half empty bottle and took a gulp, closing his eyes against the long night ahead.
He was alone. He could see through the darkness around him, although he quickly decided he didn't want to. He stood on a flat plain, surrounded by victims of the Croatoan virus: he could see it in their aggression, their zombie walk. Somehow he could also see their true, twisted, demon-like faces. He glanced down at the knife in his hand, shrugged, and attacked.
He slaughtered dozens of them. Glancing around at the carcasses, he looked up at the horizon, searching for something he couldn't name…
"Dean."
He turned around and saw Sam.
His brother's eyes were black.
Sam took two long steps and picked Dean off the ground, one-handed, by the neck. Dean fought to breathe as he stared at his once-brother. With tears pouring down his face, Dean shoved the blade in his hand through his brother's neck. The black eyes closed.
Dean woke up with a start; he took a deep, shaky breath and rolled over. The empty bottle was on the nightstand and he was in bed, on top of the sheets, although he couldn't remember getting there. He looked for the motivation to stand.
Sam walked in from the bathroom, wiping his neck with a towel. Dean shoved himself off the mattress.
"You look like hell," Sam said as he watched.
"Thanks."
He walked past Sam into the bathroom and closed the door. Looking into the mirror, he saw that he did look like hell. He washed his face and hair, trying to make himself look a little better, but it didn't work. He walked back out, changed his shirt, and started tossing his things into his duffel bag so that they could leave…
"Dean."
He tried to ignore Sam as he zipped up the bag and swung it over his shoulder.
"Dean," Sam said again. Dean turned and started toward the door.
"I don't want to hear it, Sammy," he said.
Dean walked out, threw his stuff in the trunk and got into the driver's seat before Sammy had come outside. After he got in the car, they drove off in silence.