Disclaimer: Supernatural, the Winchesters, and any other characters and/or places which may appear do not belong to me.

Whumptober 2020

Day #5; Time: 10:12pm

Prompt(s): Failed escape

Author's Note: AU of 12x22. Not a happy ending fic. Instead of resetting the lockdown, the Bunker remains closed to everyone and everything that could possibly help the boys escape. The only thing that comes of the explosion is Dean's busted leg.

Rated M + trigger warning for descriptions of suicide

Today's Whumpee(s): Sam and Dean Winchester

Sam gasped for breath on the floor of the map room. He managed to swallow a few times and inhale the quickly thinning air.

"Hey, lunatic," a voice croaked from above him.

Sam looked around.

Dean was limping down the metal staircase, grimacing in pain.

Sam's eyes traveled over his brother's body, looking for signs of injuries. He looked mostly fine, just some dust and bruises, until Sam's eyes rested on the torn and bloody mop of Dean's knee. Sam struggled to stand, forcing himself upright and over to Dean. He wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders and helped him over to a chair. They were both panting when they crashed down into the seats.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, hands blindly clutching at his leg.

"So it didn't work, huh?" Sam murmured.

Dean shook his head. He looked up at Sam, his eyes shiny. "That was our last shot," he whispered.

Sam grit his teeth, hitting the table in anger. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," he said. "It was supposed to be you and me, going down swingin', like Butch and Sundance, just like you said. Just like you always said. There's no chance in hell that this is how it ends."

"Sam, please," Dean said. His voice was coated in pain. Sam rubbed his hands over his face before returning his gaze to his elder brother.

He was out of breath, Sam noticed. And as a matter of fact, so was he. He should've been able to catch his breath by now. But the explosion… Sam realized. The explosion, the fire, it would have sucked too much air from what small amount was left.

Sam groaned. "This isn't how it was supposed to go," he muttered.

Dean cleared his throat. "Where's British Biscuit?"

Sam looked up before rolling his eyes. "I left her after the explosion to look for you." It was hard to read Dean's expression with the Bunker having gone black and red again from lockdown mode. All Sam could really see were the lines etched in his brother's face from pain. Sam rubbed his hands through his hair. "Okay, okay, I'll take care of this," he said. He stood up. "I'm gonna go get the first aid kit, patch your leg up."

"Get me a drink while you're at it," Dean called as Sam left.

As he walked, Sam started paying even closer attention to how much air he was taking in. He needed to conserve as much oxygen as possible if they had any remaining chance of getting out of here.

He fetched the first aid kid and a glass of whiskey for Dean, but not before taking a drink of it himself. He made his way back to the table where Dean sat. His blood ran cold when he saw Dean's head lolling to his side.

"Dean! Dean!" Sam dropped the whiskey and aid kit onto the table, moving his hands to frame his brother's face. "Dean, wake up for me, c'mon," he begged. He slapped his brother's face a few times. Not too hard, but hopefully hard enough to snap him back into consciousness. It worked.

Dean's eyes fluttered open a moment later.

"Dammit, don't do that to me again, Dean," Sam said. "Jesus, I thought you might've…" he trailed off.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean said, rubbing his face. "Shit, I'm sorry, I'm just… tired." Dean tried to fight back a yawn but failed.

"No, no, we are not doing that," Sam said. "Here," he handed Dean the drink. "I'm gonna bandage you up and then we're gonna go get Bevell and figure out a new way to get out of here."

It took Sam about twenty minutes to bandage Dean's leg. He'd thought that he'd have to stitch it, but in all honesty, there wasn't much to stitch together. Thank god it was just a flesh wound; Sam wrapped it up tightly, wincing when he heard his brother grunt or hit his hand on the table because of the pain.

"Okay, stay here, I'm gonna go grab Bevell," Sam said.

"Not going anywhere," Dean mumbled.

"Hey, and stay awake!" Sam called behind him. He tried not to breathe too heavily but it was so fucking hard, what with the anxiety and stress all building up within him.

"Hey," he called around. He had reached the hall where him and Bevell had taken cover from the explosion. "Hey, we —" Sam stopped. As he'd passed he doorway of the room where the explosion had taken place, a figure lying on the floor inside caught his eye. He hesitantly walked down the few steps towards Bevell. She was lying, facedown, on the cold stone floor.

He hesitantly grabbed one of her shoulders and rolled her over. Her face was pale; it looked haunting in the red lockdown light of the Bunker. Her clothes were coated with blood, and Sam soon saw the cause. A deep cut across her lower neck.

Sam frowned. He didn't find himself feeling very sorry, but she had said she was the only one who could possibly hope to fix their mom. Sam ran his hands through his hair, before standing up and going back into the library where Dean was trying to limp to the kitchen.

"Woah, woah, Dean, what're you doing?"

"Wanted more whiskey," his brother mumbled.

"Well, I'll get it for you," Sam said. "You sit back down."

"Where's Biscuit?" Dean asked, allowing Sam to take the glass from his hand and help him back to a chair. Blood loss and lack of access oxygen were making Dean tired, Sam realized. He figure it was doing the same to him, maybe just slower since he wasn't hurt.

"She — uh — she's dead."

"What?" Dean said. "The explosion get her?"

Sam shook his head as Dean sat back down. "No. She — uh — she killed herself. Guess she didn't feel like dealing with us anymore," he said, trying to force a bit of levity into his tone. He wasn't sure if it was apparent though.

Dean nodded. "Well, can't say I'm disappointed," he mumbled. "More oxygen for us, huh?"

"True," Sam said. "Stay here, I'll get you another drink."

Sam ended up just bringing in a whole tray of their best alcohol and an additional glass for himself. They had already gone through every damn book they had, and thanks to Ketch, no spells or witchcraft would work. Like Dean said, they'd tried brawn by trying to break through fucking concrete. That didn't get them very far.

And even using Dean's precious flamethrower hadn't gotten them anywhere. Unless you count a brother with a busted leg and even less oxygen getting somewhere.

Sam moved the alcohol to Dean's room, then he helped Dean get there too. Neither wanted to voice it aloud, but they both knew that the flamethrower had been their last shot. And anything else they tried would only suck up more oxygen that they didn't have. They did try one last summoning spell for Crowley, but it fizzled out before the flames even burned red. They both continued praying to Cas for a little while longer too, but the spells and warding on the Bunker all seemed to have been turned inwards. It was as if there was a stone wall that was stopping the prayers from getting across. Sam supposed that was an ironic metaphor considering that it was their own cement, warded home that they would die in.

Sam and Dean sat side-by-side on Dean's memory foam mattress. They were both drunk off their asses, too drunk to care much. But of course they still did.

"'m sorry, Dee," Sam slurred. He passed their final bottle of beer back to Dean.

Dean humphed. "'S not your fault," his brother slurred back. "'S just so fucking messed up," he mumbled. "Not dying with a gun in our hands, or saving someone. We're not hunting monsters, not even being shot by other hunters. No, we're being suffocated to death in our own fucking home," Dean said, his voice strong as he spoke, but then falling back to a muffled sob. He hiccuped.

"Could be worse," Sam said softly.

"How could this be worse, S'mmy?" Dean said, looking over at him. The room was dark, but Sam could still see a slight glint of Dean's green eyes.

"At least we're together," he replied.

Dean hiccuped again, taking a sip of beer. "You're right, Sammy. Sorry."

Sam shook his head as he took the bottle back. "Don't be. 'S okay."

"'S not," Dean mumbled.

Sam sighed this time. "You're right, it's not," he said. Sam didn't bother trying to swallow down his tears. He was pretty sure Dean was too drunk and depressed himself to call him out for it.

"For the record though," he continued. "You're still a jerk."

Dean laughed sadly. Sam felt one of his brother's arms wrap around him and pull him closer.

"Yeah, and you're still a pain in my ass, little brother," Dean muttered. "Bitch."

Silence passed for a few minutes. The brothers' breathing was slow and shallow, getting slower and shallower with every second that passed.

The red light continued to flash, as Sam's vision began to grow fuzzy. "G'night, Dee," he muttered. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his big brother's shoulder.

A moment later, he felt Dean's head rest on his own.

"Night, Sammy."

AN II: Yeah definitely not crying rn. I hope you guys like this. I don't know why you would, it's a fucking sobfest. Istg idk why I write this sometimes. And yet I do. And ya'll read it lmao. If you read this, I'd appreciate a review.

Are you all liking this so far? The whole collection I mean. Let me know if there's anything you think I could change or anything. Thanks for reading. Love you guys.