Dystopia!AU because I am a shameless whore for a good picture and this prompted ALL THE FEELINGS.
The evil crept back in slowly. Insidiously.
Sam was the first to fall. The first that was noticed. Dean found his brother still and silent in an alley in Westchester, not two blocks from the brownstone they were squatting in, the knife in his back still warm at the hilt.
Though he tried, he couldn’t find a demon to Deal with.
They’d killed too many.
Bobby was felled next, found slouched back in his chair, throat slit from ear to ear and wrapped up as a suicide when the police found his prints and only his prints on the knife dripping in blood and still at the scene. Dean moved into the house, parked the Impala outside and tarpped her. He’d never found what killed his brother.
He never finds what stole Bobby from him, either.
He hears about Lisa through another job, four towns away and rushes over. When he touches her, clothed in a suit and badge, she’s still warm, if just barely. He can’t bring himself to look at her face, though her guts have been removed and scattered about her until her ribcage lies empty and gaping. He has the dark thought that they’re a matching set now.
He takes Ben with him, Lisa’s Will bequeathing him guardianship over her only son. They stay in town a week.
Ben dies at school, in the gym locker room, wrists, jugular and femoral artery slashed so that the showers they find him in are painted in red.
Dean drinks so much that night that he passes out. When he comes to, two days later, the Wesson hotel across town is lit up in red and blue, body bags brought out by the dozens.
Cas finds him two months later.
"Enough, Dean," the angel’s voice is low, pained. Resigned.
Dean downs another shot, throat so raw he doesn’t feel the liquid one step up from turpentine slide down it.
"Cas," he rasps back, poring another two shots out.
He slams the first shot and the second, capping the second glass with a sharp slam.
"How nice’ve you to show up, you feathered prick."
Cas stares at him, silent and intent and Dean has no energy for this. Has just enough juice left, in fact, for this last hunt and then he’ll crawl off and find a place to hide until he dies or another hunt derails him from his passive suicide. It has the last three times he tried.
"Dean," forceful without being forceful. Why aren’t you getting it stop being deliberately dense own up.
"S’rry, Cas. Not exactly at my best right now. You’ll have to excuse the poor, lonely drunk." Dean levers himself up, leaning on the table for balance rather than strength. He’s not sure he can get drunk enough any more to need strength from furniture. Some days, it feels like the booze is the only thing keeping the crushing weight of his feelings off long enough to do the job. He doesn’t want to think about what it’d be like without it.
"Dean, I-" Castiel sighs, rubs at the back of his head like he used to. When everything was normal.
Dean would feel worried about this but, alcohol aside, he hasn’t been able to feel in so long, the sentiment wouldn’t get through anyway.
"I can’t let you keep doing this, Dean. It has to stop- Heaven is noticing, Dean.”
Castiel looks at him with eyes broken and so wretchedly sad that Dean thinks he’s not imagining the small, sympathetic something that breaks loose in his chest.
"Well, good for fucking them," he rasps.
Castiel closes his eyes, raises his hand and rests it on Dean’s head.
Later, when he has time, Castiel will wonder and pray and contemplate and ask himself what could make a man such as Dean kill the only thing he held dear.