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He could be surrounded by his father and brother, and not a thing would change.
Sure, he was joking along with dad, a grin so large it was practically splitting his face in two as Sam grumbled and tossed things at Dean. Dodging, the smile didn’t fade.
Not until Sam finally retreated to the bathroom in a fit, unable to go anywhere else. Dad looked back down to his weapons, chuckles dying away, and the smile fell off Dean’s face, smooth as liquid.
His face felt as blank as he did within him.
All traces of joy he’d previously displayed only moments before? They felt foreign, as if it was someone completely different who had portrayed the happy, content man Dean was playing at.
Dean didn’t know who he was anymore.
oOo
He could just be with dad, and Sam could be off at Stanford. The absence of his brother ached as strongly as a missing limb, but even that painful pang felt foreign, distant. Wrong.
There was something else in his chest, this heavy feeling, and he wasn’t sure he could entirely blame it on Sam. Not when it felt too empty, too heavy… and like it had nothing to do with Sam, because it couldn’t. Not when it had been present since even before Sam left.
It couldn’t be because of Sam, but it couldn’t be because of dad either, Dean surmised, as he patched himself up. They were running out of thread, but that was only because he’d nearly used it all on John. Werewolves could get the best of the Winchesters after all, but it was dad and Dean who were left standing.
Except for that big black hole of nothing yet everything dark within him made Dean wonder if he was really there or not.
oOo
He could be just by himself, nursing a whiskey in one hand, a rag that was rapidly getting soppy wet with his blood in the other, and it was only the pain lighting his leg up like it was on fire that made Dean pause.
He couldn’t feel… he couldn’t feel the
lack
of feeling he’d held within him. Paradoxical as it was, he’d been starting to get tired of… of feeling tired. Of feeling weird. Wrong. Like everything he was doing, be it getting out of bed or elegantly rolling out of the literal fire’s path, required every ounce of willpower in Dean to get through.
But this fire in his leg, the fire that was leading to blood dripping onto the already stained motel floor under him, through the rag that he needed to burn at this point…
Dean found his savior. And it felt like a beacon in the darkness he couldn’t remember a time without.
oOo
He was on a hunt, and he wasn’t as careful. What were a few dings here and there when it wasn’t hindering Dean from hunting? Who wouldn’t get bruised after being tossed around by a vengeful spirit? And if Dean could have avoided them, well. He was more preoccupied with just focusing on the spirit, so he couldn’t really pay attention to his well being.
Except he was. Every time he landed wrong, the air being punched out of him, his ribs threatening to crack and break under pressure, Dean closed his eyes, for only the briefest of seconds. He relished in the pain. This close to death, and it was the most alive he’d felt in years.
oOo
He could be back with his brother, on the road, facing down the potential of endless hunts with his brother at his side, where he belonged. For all intents and purposes, everything should be as right as Dean’s demeanor would suggest.
But just as Sam would turn away in an attempt to hide his mourning, to hide his grief over losing Jess…
Dean would take those seconds to ponder upon the lack of ability to grieve for himself.
It was a catch twenty-two, trying to think it out.
oOo
Sam could be talking about leaving, back to school even though Jess was gone. Leaving, like he didn’t have a reason to stay, like he didn’t give a damn about his brother.
And Dean should have felt heartbroken. His brother was talking about walking away again, but all Dean could feel was… nothing.
It was nothing new. But it was every bit frustrating. Even more so that Dean didn’t… couldn’t feel frustrated.
He just felt tired.
He nodded at Sam in understanding, not saying anything else.
oOo
He could be under the power of this psychic kid with friggin Obi Wan power’s, pointing a sniper at himself. His mind was a blank slate, controlled as it was by someone else.
Hours later, under the sunrise, and flanked by police officers, Dean wondered how it would feel, what kind of clean slate would he get to experience if he actually pulled the trigger next time.
Next time.
Maybe.
Beside him, Sam brushed against his arm before separating to walk over to the other side of the car.
The warmth of the touch stung Dean’s skin through the layers even as he felt hollow and cold as a stone deep inside.
He wished if it was possible to claw it out.
But no matter how much he scratched, that feeling only seemed to reside deeper within him, unreachable. Unsolvable. Indestructible.