It was six o'clock in the morning. Dean stood in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee that had long gone cold since he brewed the pot at four AM. He stared vacantly down at the sink. Sam came around the corner in black jogging shorts and a maroon tee shirt, ready to go for his run.
"Hey, Dean," he said cheerfully. "You're up early!" Dean did not respond. It was at that moment that Sam stopped and slowly looked his brother up and down.
"Yo, Dean. Dean?" No response from his brother, still cupping the mug, still vacant. Sam frowned, and slowly walked over toward his brother snapping his fingers. "Deeeaaaan? Dean Winchester? Can you hear me?"
Sam looked closer at his brother, and that's when he noticed his knuckles. They were white from the force he was exerting on the mug, squeezing it so tightly that his hands tremored. Now that he was closer, he could see his brother's glassy, bloodshot eyes, the rims red and puffy. His jaw clenched over and over. Every fiber of his body was tightened to the breaking point.
Sam tried one more time. "...Dean…?" He laid a hand lightly on his brother's shoulder and Dean unleashed an agonized, terrified scream. In one movement he slammed his mug to the ground, exploding cold coffee and shards of pottery like a shrapnel bomb, then turned toward his brother, slamming him up against the refrigerator and pinning him there with his forearm. His breath came out in ragged gasps as his eyes darted and scanned his brother, and then as quickly as he had attacked Sam he pulled away.
"Fuck, Sammy, I'm sorry…" Dean mumbled, eyes cast down and hands shaking. He slowly backed away.
"What the hell, Dean?!" Sam cried out incredulously. " Are you okay?" He strode toward his retreating brother on his long legs and Dean raised one hand palm out.
"Don't come closer, Sam. I'm not… doin' so good." Dean's voice was not much more than a croaked whisper. Tears sprang from the corners of his eyes.
Sam felt completely helpless. He had rarely ever seen his brother cry. To Sam, crying was about opening up and acknowledging his feelings so he could fix problems and move forward. Dean's rigid sense of gender norms precluded such catharsis. Simply put, Dean saw tears as weakness, and weakness meant he couldn't care for others. Saving people, hunting things. The family business.
"I'm not sleeping," Dean finally quietly admitted with a sniff. "I'm having nightmares, except they aren't. They're memories. Memories where I am the bad guy, not the good guy." Dean paused, seeming unable to find the words. "I'm the… I'm the monster."
"Dean," Sam said carefully, "you are not a monster. You are the best man I know, and my brother."
"If I'm such a good man," Dean muttered to the floor, "then why did I break that mug? Why did I attack you? You should…" Dean's bloodshot eyes rose to meet Sam's. "You should stay away."
With that, Dean stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room, bracing himself against the wall with his right hand. Sam could hear the bedroom door slam shut. He stood perfectly still and continued to listen. He heard the volume of Dean's stereo crank up, blaring Led Zeppelin IV.
If it keeps on rainin' levee's goin' to break,
If it keeps on rainin' levee's goin' to break,
When the levee breaks I'll have no place to stay.