We watch our world fall apart...
Dean was there until the end, clinging onto a wrinkled and liver-spotted hand, mindful not to damage the paper-thin skin or anything lay beneath it. It would have been too easy. He still looked as young as the day he was turned, while Sam had grown slower, older, weaker. Eventually it had been the only thing Dean could to to look after him as he had when he was all but four, minding for him every day, watching over him, keeping him safe.
He refues to trun his brother. He'd adjusted, he'd learnt to live off animal blood and how to keep himself under control, but he refused to do the same for sam. That's not to say he hadn't thought about it, especially in the last few years. But he could never condemn Sam to this life.
Not even as he lay on the bad, breathing with the aid of a machine and eyes staring almost unseeingly. They'd told the doctor Dean was a grandson. Well, Dean had. And claimed senility on Sam's part when Sam had claimed otherwise. It kept them happy. It felt like he was slipping under with sam as the breaths from his brother came slower. Then Sam's eyes slid to his. He breathed a word that while the doctors couldn't hear it, dean heard it clear as a bell. "Live."
How was he supposed to do that? It became no easier any time his brother died before, and it didn't come any easier this time. Life was like a daze, a dream, muggy and surreal, since the beep became continuous. But he lived. Because he couldn't just ignore Sam's goddamned dying wish. Damn you, Sam. Damn you for damning him to this long life.
But he lived anyway. The first thing he did coming out of the hospital was to phone Kurda. he was the only friend he'd bothered to make, other vampires (Though, the reason was fair) wary to befriend the hunter. Well, Kurda and lenore, but he didn't often see much of the female vampire, so it was Kurda that he thought of. Disconnected and automatic came the satement from him into the phone. Just a simple "He's gone." Before he closed the phone and dumped it in the glovebox of the still just-about-running impala. (He's not a miracle worker and even the best of cared for things run down and break eventually.) And then he ignored the world for a few months, running hard and fast, hunting indiscrimantely, tearing through things with as little sleep as he could get, eating only when he started to wear thin and almost snap on people.
Focus on the job. Then he won't think about the empty passenger seat, the other empty bed in the motel, the silence that deafened him.
It never occurred to him that he wasn't really living at all.