sunday_reveries: Definition not found in the dictionary (quote #6)
Dean was perching on the bed, a book ostensibly in his hands (arms propped on his knees) before his eyes, but holding very little of his attention.
From time to time, he was looking sideways to the bed where his brother was sleeping, tucked in properly and looking, much-neededly, peaceful (bless Cassie). Other than that, he was staring ahead - and feeling... inadequate.
He'd run on adrenaline and what not for days. The knowledge of what they let out always there, always terrifying, but also a focus. A damn good focus, too. There was something that just had to be stopped, and he had no right - nor intent - to hide from the necessity to do that.
But it was too damn big. Why did he think he could make any difference... or, well, fucking positive difference? He'd started it all already, so apparently he could make SOME difference, but not in the direction he'd want to.
Each time he'd reassured his brother, or anybody, in the previous days, he'd meant it. There had to be a way to fix it, there just had to be. And he'd been, they'd all been, looking for ways to do that.
But this wasn't just a demon. Even stronger ones like, whatever, Yellow-eyes or Alastair or Lilith had given them all a damn hard time. But this was... Well, technically an angel. And they still had no freaking clue how to do anything about those. And an angel who'd probably gun for them, but do a fuckload of other stuff besides. (All of that. My fault. I should have...)
What pride or freaking idiocy let him think even for a moment that he could do anything to stop that?
(He's here. There's no place to run to, nowhere to hide.)
It wasn't possible. He couldn't do it. He'd let everybody down again, and they'd see how unworthy he'd been of their trust from the beginning. Never, not ever good enough. Not worth a shit. Daddy's little girl. Not good enough to do his job properly, not even good enough to take proper care of his brother.
Failure. As always. The world's going to burn, and you started it, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.
Staring ahead. Looking at his brother. Staring ahead some more. Thoughts locked in circles that constricted around his throat and made him want to run, so that his curse wouldn't be on the rest of them, his coming short, absolute and undeniable, every time, and so it would be, wouldn't it, Dean? Yes, sir. No, sir.
Nowhere to run to.
Not to mention that if he did try to run, Sam would collapse. He couldn't, nor should have to, take that. Not right now. ("All I know is that he's your brother. And he's drownin'." Bobby had been right. And Sam was still drowning, and nothing Dean could do was helping, was it? Sooner or later, they'd face what they'd have to face, and Dean would buckle and fall. As always. And then Sammy would still drown. Not good enough.)
I'm sorry, Sammy. If I'd held out more... if I'd shot the fucking bastard before he got to you. If I'd... The spine of the book in his hands creaked and he realized he was twisting it badly enough that if it wasn't bound in sturdy leather, he'd already be tearing it apart. He let it down on the bed and clenched his fists.
No, no going away, that was just plain stupid. There was no other place to be, was there. Maybe there was no hope - but he wasn't going to lay down and die, nor was he going to make it so that Sam would want to. He couldn't. He didn't know how. (And maybe the angels were right. Maybe Zach and company would win, and there'd be peace and fluffy sheep or clouds or whatever. And he'd learn to play the harp.)
It's just...
... he wasn't good enough to deal with all of this. And he wasn't good enough to make Sammy better. No use of Dean, none at all.
But there wasn't anybody else... was there. (Well. There were the girls. Who obviously could, make at least some of it better. He was redundant.) Sam wanted him there. Whether he needed him was a different question; but while he was wanted... he was going to stay (Sam had walked out. Again. Not only his fault, dammit.) Neither of them meant any of it to be otherwise than stay together, find some way to deal with this, and get through to the other side.
They hadn't meant to start the apocalypse either. They hadn't meant to come that freaking close to killing each other, at separate times, either. They hadn't meant--
Hopeless.
His fingers dug into his palms as his fists tightened enough to make his knuckles white.
He wasn't needed; his brother didn't need him. He didn't need the failure that he was, never had, and all of a sudden, that stung more than he knew how to deal with. What had gone wrong with Sam had been Sam absolutely succeeding in exactly what he'd meant to do; he only needed to focus more on what he aimed at, and he'd be fine, he'd get his stuff in the end.
What had gone wrong with Dean was always, always the same. Coming short of what he meant to do. Not shooting fast enough, not holding out long enough, not saying what was needed on time. Who needed such a loser in their lives?
Nothing made any fucking sense, nothing he could do led to any kind of hope.
But he was going to stay and try to fight anyway.
Even if he saw how that might even make things worse.
Even so.
He was sticking with his brother. (Clinging. The word is clinging.) And the rest... ... just hurt.