Summary: Sam is gone. Dean isn't coping well but Emily can't leave him.

Warnings: Grieving, smut, angst, smangst, angry Dean, alcoholism, toxic relationship, language, cheating (maybe),

W/C: 2.6k

Characters: Dean Winchester, OFC, Sam Winchester mentioned.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OFC (Emily)

Notes: First-person POV (OFC). I don't specify what happened to Sam but I do mention the bunker so let's go with Season 8-ish.

A/N: I was listening to Need Me - Eminem ft. Pink and this fic happened as a result. I've no idea where it came from if I'm honest, or why I wrote it in first person.

He's drunk. Again.

The room is trashed. Holes in the wall, the white plaster showing, chairs toppled over, lamps laying in pieces where they fell, the tv smashed. It smells like someone died drinking copious amounts of whisky, smoking cheap cigarettes while sweating buckets, and then decided vomiting uncontrollably would be their last act of destruction.

What is that? Fuck. The carpet is burned. A small black patch at the side of the bed. Just another thing we'll have to pay for.

I fling open the curtains and crack the window.

It's dark outside so no light filters in but Dean grumbles something from the bed. He's on his stomach, face squished against the pillow and I don't quite catch it.

"What?"

He lifts his head enough to mumble, "Fuck off," a little clearer this time.

I ignore him.

It's a small miracle he had the sense to put out the fire he caused, I assume with a cigarette, and not let the room go up in flames. Or maybe it's more than that, maybe Dean doesn't want to die after all. Though he's doing a fine job of drinking himself into oblivion every night.

He manages to get himself sitting up, slumping against the headboard. He grabs a beer bottle from the nightstand and polishes off whatever remains of it.

I wish I could just give up as he has.

I want to scream at him. I LOST HIM TOO YOU SELFISH PRICK! But I don't. What good would it do?

I hate to see him like this. But I always find him like this. Wasted, vomit on his shirt, wallowing in his grief.

"Why do you always come back?" he asks, watching me as I open the kitchenette drawers, looking for a trash bag.

Good question Dean. Why do I? I should have left his ass a long time ago. But if something happened to him that I could have prevented, I'd never be able to forgive myself. Sam is gone. There's no one left to look out for him anymore. Perhaps his question should be what would he do without me? He needs me.

"Go take a shower," I demand.

He doesn't protest and stumbles his way to the bathroom.

I rid the room of alcohol, tipping the last dregs down the drain. I scrub the sticky countertops and put a full trash bag of empty bottles and food containers outside the door. Maybe a futile attempt to get the room to smell a little fresher. If we're going to be here a while - which clearly we are - it at least needs to be inhabitable.

There's no reasoning with Dean. He refuses to leave the town Sam died in, just in case he comes back. He's not coming back. He's gone.

I should run for the hills. Move on. Put both Winchester's behind me. But I can't.

A vampire took everything from me, my whole family. Dean saved my life and Sam saved my soul. When I thought I'd never find happiness again, Sam breathed new life into me, he made me whole again. I'd have done, I still would do, anything for both of them. So no, I can't leave. Sam being gone doesn't change anything. I owe Dean my life.

I hear the lock disengage and I quickly wipe the tears from my face. I stand straight, preparing for a fight because that's his M.O. He'll shout at me for tidying up, throwing out the booze, and mothering him when he never asked me to.

He emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair still wet, dripping onto the shoulders of his Henley. He looks remarkably better. Almost like the old Dean.

He pauses a few steps into the room and catches my eye. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

It's an apology that doesn't require acceptance. He's just swimming in the Egyptian River of denial. We both know he'll say it again tomorrow, and the next day and probably the day after that.

He smiles, all white teeth and crinkly eyed. Bam! It hits me just like that. That's why I stay. His smile, as rare as it comes, reminds me of Sam and it's clear, now more than ever, Dean needs me.

I can't find my own smile, so I look away and continue to clean. I can feel his eyes on me. I don't know what he wants me to say.

We're cut from the same cloth. I'm just as stubborn as he is. I remind him too much of himself and we drive one another as crazy as each other. We're both adults so there's no excuse for this game we're playing. The game of who will cave first and walk away, leave the other to cope on their own.

One of us should put an end to it. But we'd both rather set fire to the truth and believe a lie - Sam could come back - than move on without him. We'll never admit it but our relationship is toxic. It's co-dependency and I don't have it in me to put a stop to it.

Suddenly I'm thrown against the fridge. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Before I can recover Dean is in my face, his hand around my neck and he violently jerks my head to the left.

"What the fuck is that?" he spits.

I shove at him to get him off me but he doesn't budge.

"Is that a fucking hickey?"

Shit! He's seen the evidence of my coping mechanism. I can't drink myself into an abyss every night, one of us has to be sober, so I've found other ways to numb myself to reality.

I push against him as hard as I can, my palms flat on his chest but his fury has made him as solid as marble. "Dean, get off of me!"

"Have you been fucking someone behind my brothers back?"

I manage to at least turn my head back to look at him. "Sam's dead, Dean!" I yell, spittle flying onto his cheek but I don't care. "He's gone!"

"Was it worth it?" he snarls, "did getting fucked help at least?"

"Yes!" I growl back.

His grip around my throat deepens and he cuts off my air. "He's only been gone five minutes and…" before he finishes I raise my knee and he crumbles to the floor.

I stand over him, coughing to catch my breath while he rolls around cupping his junk and groaning. I want to kick him while he's down. I want to pummel him so much my taut muscles scream from the burn of being held back.

I run the short distance and throw my fist into a chip on the wall, making a small problem Dean had already made a larger one. My fist crumbles the plaster more and the skin on my knuckles splits painfully. I turn away from my handy work and crash back into the damaged wall before sliding down it.

My body shakes with ferocious sobs. I bury my mouth in the crook of my elbow and let out a primal, throat scratching scream.

I'm beyond furious. I can't remember a time when I've been angrier. I'm angry at Dean, and Sam for leaving me, furious at the world, pissed off at the cards I've been dealt. Why me? Why take away everything I ever loved then let me find Sam only to take him from me too?

I can't hear anything over my own sobbing but I feel Dean when he settles against the wall next to me. "Get the fuck away from me," I growl, scooting away from him. He grabs my arm and pulls me back into him, cradling my head on his chest.

"I'm sorry, Em," Dean soothes, placing a kiss in my hair. "I'm sorry, I had no right. I'm sorry."

I don't know how long we sit like that for. Dean never stops apologising, a mantra played on repeat followed each time by a kiss to my forehead.

Dean is the first to move, he gets to his feet and leaves the room without a word.

I'm past caring where he's going or what he's doing. I take myself to the bathroom and wash my hand under the faucet. The cut isn't deep, a band-aid will work fine.

I switch the hot tap off and run the cold, cupping a handful before bringing it to my face. When I straighten up Dean is leaning against the bathroom door, a bucket of ice under his arm. So that's where he went.

He holds my eyes in the mirror. "Do you blame me?" My fingers brush the steadily forming bruise on my neck and before I can answer he elaborates. "Not for that, although you should blame me for that," he waits until I meet his gaze again. "For Sam?"

I don't hesitate to answer. "No, not even a little bit."

He can't keep eye contact and he drops his head. "Thank you."

"I do blame you for the shit you've put me through since then though," I admit, turning to face him. "I can't do this anymore, Dean. Something's got to give."

"I know," he whispers at his feet.

"We need to leave this town, we need to go…home."

It won't be much of a home without Sam. I know that. But we need to start somewhere.

He raises his head to look at me again, tears shimmer in his pretty eyes and his voice shakes. "I'm not ready."

My heart breaks for him all over again and I don't have it in me to remind him he'll never be ready. I feel my lip quiver, Dean must see it because he rushes at me, engulfing me in a rib-cracking hug. He buries his head in the crook of my neck and he seems so small, so very fragile like cracked glass ready to shatter into a million pieces at the slightest bit of pressure.

"I'm sorry I hurt you." He places a gentle kiss on my neck. My cunt pulses once and it's so unexpected I gasp.

He doesn't notice it. Or mistakes it for pain because he does it again, a little higher up this time. He peppers delicate kisses all over my throat, and it's not until he reaches my jaw that I realize it's deliberate.

"Dean," I whisper, whether as a warning or encouragement I don't know.

"You said it helped, right?"

"Yeah, but…"

"So tell me to stop," he says, as his mouth catches the corner of mine.

I don't have time to say anything - if that's what I was going to do - before his mouth claims mine. Our tongues find a frantic rhythm to dance to. Dean's hands cup my ass, he pushes his body forward and pulls me tighter into him.

He rolls his hips, rubbing against me and I instantly crave more. I need a release and I need it now. I tear his jeans open, throw my hand in his pants and take his dick in my hand.

He breaks our kiss to catch his breath, head thrown back, eyes closed.

"Fuck," he groans when I start pumping. He slips his hand in my jeans and panties, thumbing my clit while he unfastens my jeans. As soon as they are undone I shimmy them off. I turn my back to Dean, bending over the sink, and hoist one leg up on the countertop to give him better access.

Dean pushes his jeans down to his knees as he takes a small step closer and doesn't miss a beat before running his tip through my slick folds. He pushes in fast and when he bottoms out, it steals my breath. He doesn't wait for me to find it before he starts dragging backwards.

He meets my eyes in the dirty mirror, his fingers dig painfully into my hips, but I like the discomfort it causes.

"Ready?"

Under the intensity of his gaze, all I can do is nod once.

He's relentless, pushing, pulling, pounding, he doesn't let up for a second. The burn of his dick is intense, he's thicker than I'm used to. But it feels divine. The knot is tightening, it's never happened this fast before. He wraps his hand around my throat as much as he can from his angle and as soon as he applies a bit of pressure I'm clenching around his cock. Sucking him in to make sure he doesn't stop before I'm ready.

"Shit you feel good," he praises and it spurs me on to push my ass back harder onto him.

The echo of skin slapping is only drowned out by our moans and heavy breathing.

I mewl his name, my knuckles are white from the grip I have of the porcelain and my second orgasm feels like it's going to split me in half. I have to beg him to finish.

"Please Dean, you have to cum, I can't…"

He folds himself over me and snaps his hips but he's so deep inside me I swear he's going to break something. He bites down on my shoulder - anything to leave a mark - and thrusts once more.

"Oh god."

Another sharp snap of his hips.

"Dean, please."

He drives into me one last time, "Holy fuck," he yells up at the ceiling. He shallowly pumps himself a few times then stills.

Dean stays folded over me for a minute, panting for breath. When he has gained some control, he slips out of me and I immediately miss his warmth. He stands tall and tucks himself back into jeans.

"I don't feel better," he admits, throwing a towel over my shoulder. "I feel like an asshole."

"Isn't that better than feeling nothing?" I ask and feel the tears sting my eyes.

The tears aren't for Dean, or what we just did. They are tears of relief because I feel shame. Which is a new feeling, a better feeling than anger, hurt and chest crushing agony. Shame is easier to deal with because it's a decision I made, not a decision that was made for me. Sam made the decision to sacrifice himself and leave me, I had no control over that. But I had control over this and right now, I'm not sure that I regret it.

Dean ambles toward the door, but pauses, one hand on the doorframe as if he needs the support to be able to say whatever it is he's going to say. He turns his head enough to look over his shoulder. "I don't want this to change anything," he says.

"It won't."

"It can't…I…" Dean swallows and then drops his head to look at his feet. He's ashamed of whatever it is, that's obvious. "I know I shouldn't but… I need…I don't have anyone else."

"I know, Dean." I sigh softly and say the words he's not willing to, "you need me."