A.N.: The writers have made it very hard to relate to Dean lately. (IMO) I mean, I feel like I know and love his character enough to read between the lines, but he comes off so cold and angry. And he has a right to be angry. He grieved Bobby and tried to move on and now it looks like he might have to do that again. He cares for Cas (see fic: Sacrafice for rant on that) but Cas hurt Sam and when has Dean ever been okay with that? Plus, the way I see it Dean is at the end of his rope, he's burnt out, he's only continuing for Sam, he headed towards a meltdown. (probably off screen *sigh *) Okay, that is all I got, hopefully this will give you a bit of insight to where I think Dean's head and heart are at, but I'll warn ya, my beta said it was a painful ride. Thanks to all who read and review and click on out of curiosity and hell, just for the fun of it and for karma, for those who hate it too! Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: Is the Impala back yet? *heavy sigh * Show's not mine.

He can't take his eyes off of the red colored vial, sitting in front of him as a tangible apology. He feels Sam's eyes on him, his little brothers mouth flapping like a tarp in the wind as he grapples for the right words to say.

Dean sighs, hoping to prolong the moment when the questions will begin with the puff of air.

"We can call him, you know." Sam utters, his hands flipping a page from one of the numerous books of lore in front of him.

Dean shrugs.

"I mean, he may not want to fight, but I'm worried about him too."

Dean thinks about his face, so open, so free, so at peace. "I'm not worried about him." he grumbles, reaching for the vial.

Sam scoffs. "Yes, you are. And you have every right to be. He could be with Meg or getting in trouble, who knows what he's capable of right now."

"He's a friggin' angel Sam. Powerful being and all that shit, he can take care of himself."

"Not in the state he's in."

"Yeah, well whose fault is that?" he growls before he can stop himself.

"Dean,"

He brushes off the comment with a wave of his hand. "Anyway, we have our hands full, now tell me you figured out the rest of that Word of God mumbo jumbo, cause I'm ready for a healthy serving of Dick on a stick."

Sam shoots him a look.

"You know what I mean. Seriously though, we got fallen angel blood, what's next?"

"He did the best he could Dean."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about this Sam."

"He did everything he could to make it right. Just like we would."

"Sam," he warns, his tone sharp.

"I know you know that."

"Yeah," he yells, leaping from his seat. "And what good has that done any of us huh? I did the best I could and brought you back from the dead, you did the best you could and let Lucifer free, Bobby did the best he could and now he is one step away from being Casper the vengeful ghost! Cas did the best he could and fell from heaven, for me! Because of me!" He slams the chair into the table, watching as the vial of blood tilts to the side.

"He had purpose Sam, he had a reason, a spark, fuck, maybe he even had a soul, now..." he breaks off, chuckling bitterly. "Now he watches bees."

Sam lifts out of his chair. "We'll fix this Dean. We will."

"Yeah? Like we have fixed everything else? Don't know if you noticed Sammy, but we are doing a pretty piss poor job of that lately."

"We are doing the best we can Dean and that's all we can do."

"It's not enough." he mutters to his feet, unable to meet his brother's face.

"It's you and me Dean and we'll find a way."

Dean resists the urge to throw the words back in his face, remembering so many times when he needed to hear that and all he got was grief.

Suck it up, Dean, knock it off, Dean, shut up, Dean, don't screw this up, Dean, so many inquiries of him to behave, be quiet, be useful.

You're not a machine, Dean.

The voice cuts through his defenses so quickly he touches his chest and expects to find blood.

How funny that a shell of the angel and man he had once called friend had seen so clearly through his smoke screen.

"You okay, Dean?" Sam inquires, concern and compassion bleeding into his question.

"Yeah," he mumbles, retrieving the fallen blood from the fallen angel. "Yeah, I just need to get some air."

He's out the door before his brother can protest.

He doesn't go far, having no desire to load up in the piece of shit car of the week to get away. He longs to feel his baby roar to life, to feel her rumble in contentment as he eats up miles of road, to feel like he has a home.

He shakes his head to clear away those thoughts, no time to feel sorry for himself, he's got to save the world...again.

He feels his breath shudder out of him in a way that is usually the opening act of a meltdown.

No...hell no.

He sinks down to the ground, balancing on his knees as he tries to slow his breathing down.

There is nothing special about this moment, nothing different or more or less terrible than the moment before, nothing that should be making him come undone like this.

His fingers clench around the vial.

Cas didn't deserve this. All he has every done has been for them, for him. Shit...

But he started this and isn't it right that he should try to fix things, take responsibility for his actions, own up to what he has done.

Like Sam did, when he went into the cage.

Sorrow hits him like a wrecking ball in the chest, recalling the year without his brother, the torment his heart had gone through.

'You know me, always willing to bleed for the Winchesters.'

"Fuck," he hisses, his brain bombarding him with images he has long fought off.

It's too much. No one can be expected to take this much on and not crack apart from the pressure, no body can possibly watch everyone they love be broken and twisted and still find some sort of reason to get out of bed.

He might have eaten a bullet at this point if he wasn't so afraid that Sammy would follow his lead.

He'd told Kevin that souls break you, break angels and he'd never seen Castiel so broken as he had once he had come back to himself.

'I remember you, I remember everything.'

He feels the slight pop from the vial in his hands, the glass giving under the contact from his hand.

His hand opens as he stares at the fissure of glass in his palm.

A tiny scar runs alongside the bottle. Broken... just like everything else.

He wipes his wet eyes on the back of his sleeve, done for the moment with his out pour of pain.

He closes the chasm with determination, pocketing the vial and stalking back towards the cabin, remember what he was here for, what he needs to do.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

He's never wanted out so badly in his life.