It doesnโt matter anymore.
Dean doesnโt eat. Doesnโt sleep. Barely speaks.
Heโs disappearing in slow motion and Sam watches it happen like a car crash he canโt stop.
Sam tries to keep track of the bottles, the bruises, the days Dean doesnโt come home. But Dean slips through his fingers like smoke, like heโs not even here anymore. Like he died with you.
The first few days, Sam thought maybe he just needed time. A few nights, a few drinks, some silence.
But Dean doesnโt bounce back this time.
He drinks until he slurs your name. Until he canโt stand. Until Sam finds him half-passed out on the bathroom floor, blood on his knuckles and vomit on his shirt. Still muttering your name.
Sometimes heโs mean. Not on purpose but thereโs nothing left in him but sharp edges and open wounds.
Sometimes heโs quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes Sam check every five minutes to see if his chest is still rising.
Dean doesnโt look at him anymore. Doesnโt look at anyone. Just stares past everything, like heโs waiting to wake up from this version of the world the one without you.
And then he starts vanishing. Middle of the night. Middle of the day. Doesnโt matter.
Sam finds him every time.
Dean sits there in silence. Doesnโt cry. Doesnโt move. Just sits in the mud with his head down like if he stays long enough, the ground will open and take him too.
Sam tries to talk him out of it.
โDean, please come home.โ
But Dean barely hears. His voice is gone. Hollowed out.
โYou asked me to stay,โ Dean says one night, not looking up, just digging his nails into the frozen ground, hands cracked and shaking.
โI shouldโve asked you not to go.โ
The words donโt sound like him. They sound like someone dying slow.
But thatโs the thing about love.
About the things he never said.
And Deanโs rotting with them.
Sam doesnโt leave him alone anymore. Canโt. One night, Dean doesnโt come back, and when Sam finally finds him at the grave soaked, freezing, lips blue, he realizes this isnโt grief. Itโs decay.
So he starts sleeping on the floor outside Deanโs room. Hides the car keys. Counts the bottles. Listens for movement.
Because Dean wonโt save himself.
And still, every night, like clockwork, Dean goes back.
He doesnโt bring flowers. Doesnโt say much anymore. Just sits there, broken and heavy, like the weight of it is finally too much.
Because you used to love sunrises.
Said they felt like maybe things could be okay.
So he waits for the light. For that split second where the sky turns gold, and he can pretend youโre watching it too. That youโre there. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Dean closes his eyes, face turned to the sun, and breathes in like it might bring you back.
โI love you,โ he whispers.
But maybe โ maybe somewhere, you hear him this time.
And maybe thatโs the only reason heโs still breathing.
Deanโs not really alive anymore.
And unless something changesโฆ he wonโt be for long.
this fic was just a little something thatโs been in my drafts for like ever and i havenโt posted in awhile so if itโs badโฆ..i apologize lmao
