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There’s a section in the DSM-V regarding selective mutism caused by trauma—you can’t be bothered to read it, knowing that Dean can’t tell you what’s wrong with him, either way. He hasn’t left his room in a week, and the one instance you went to check on him, taking Sam’s guilt-ridden stead, he was lying in the memory foam with his face buried under a pillow, unwilling to acknowledge your presence, to even admit you existed.
He doesn't do much, these days. You don't expect him to—he’s taken it harder than anyone else, handling her death. It had only been a few weeks since your first encounter, and even now, it tugs at your heartstrings in a way it shouldn't. You barely knew her, but she was a sister to the Winchesters, a surrogate family member like yourself. Like Kevin was, before Gadreel. Before the pyre, before the Mark. Before the world went to Hell and all that was left was the empty shell of a man and a brother seeking forgiveness for doing what he felt was right.
In the long list of deaths in their lives, this was the one that finally drove Dean to catatonia. And it kills you to see him like this, secluded in his room, unwilling to talk to Sam or even look in his direction, unwilling to do anything but eat whatever food the two of you bring him, enough to keep him functioning but not to keep his soul alive. The brightness you once knew is dulled and torn, pulsing weakly, barely enough to say he’s there. That he’s breathing.
You don't know what to do with yourself. Part of this is your fault, or so says the guilt that coils in your stomach, acidic and eating away at whatever melancholy you have. If you hadn’t had left her for shackling Rowena away in some closet, if you would have just listened in the first place. Helped her, let her breathe, clear her head. Instead, her body burned on a pyre out by the lake, black smoke rising high into the sky until she was no more, ashes to ashes. There was no eulogy. No hymns sung, no last rites. She’s scattered in the Kansas winds now, greeting her family, long lost friends. Your eyes well up at the thought.
Sam won’t talk about it. Won’t even speak above a whisper when he asks if you want anything, if you’re planning on leaving anytime soon. He’s too tired to fight now, exhausted in his futile efforts. Somewhere, Rowena’s trying and failing to decode a book that’s trying its damnedest to keep its secrets. Somewhere, Sam is trying to hack into an email address with no results. Somewhere, Dean is dying because despite his bravado, despite his false sense of control, the devastation left in the wake of Charlie’s death has cemented the fact in him that everything he loves dies. And they won’t be coming back, not this time.
He’s awake when you visit him the seventh day of your return, but he doesn't look at you, can’t even bring himself to roll onto his back to let you know he’s alive. The bed sinks when you crawl in next to him, placing your hand on his shoulder, urging him to roll back, to show you his face. For the first time in a week, he looks somewhere other than the floor, faded green irises gazing up at you, bloodshot at the edges. He hasn’t been sleeping, eyes shadowed underneath, cheeks sunken and stained with aged tears. He wants to die here, away from everyone, on his own terms.
You’re starting to wonder if you should join him.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him, wishing he could believe the words. You’re always sorry—always will be, even for things that you have no control over. But Charlie was your responsibility; Sam told you to watch her, and you let your guard down long enough for her to escape. But even then, why hadn’t she fought back? You only knew her for a few weeks time, but she was strong. Resilient. She could have fought off anyone she dared, and yet all that was left was a body, if it was even hers to begin with. You don’t know. You won’t ever get the chance to.
Dean doesn't answer your statement. He rolls a full one-eighty and covers his eyes with his forearm, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, lungs filling enough to keep him alive, for however long they can carry him. You check his pulse periodically, letting the beat flutter against your fingertips, proof that blood still flows through him. That his sorrows aren’t strong enough to kill him. Yet.
You don’t know what to say—out of all the deaths you’ve witnessed surrounding these men, you’ve never seen him so emotionally torn. It’s when your hand is in his hair that he finally speaks, but not with his lips. What sounds oddly reminiscent to a prayer flits across your consciousness, the voice even frailer than you could have imagined. ‘So close,’ the voice whimpers, unsteady. ‘Though I was gonna be alright, thought I was finally gonna get somewhere.’
You don’t stop him when he starts; his pulse quickens where your thumb presses to his neck, breaths coming in shallow huffs against your pant leg. ‘Finally had everyone I wanted here. Charlie, you, Sammy… Thought things were gonna be normal. Maybe I’d just accept the Mark’n get over it, if I had y’all.’ He stops to sigh, a jagged, broken thing, the first sound you’ve heard out of him since the pyre. ‘Now Charlie’s gone.’
“You don’t know that,” you answer him, feeling him tense under your touch. He doesn’t calm until you speak again, keeping your tone neutral, “It could’ve been a diversion. She could still be out there—.”
‘You really believe that?’ He drops his arm and looks to you, dulled eyes narrowed in pessimism, spilling over once again, tears pooling in the crease of his nose. ‘You really think she’s still out there? That she’d pull this and run?’
“I’d like to.” You lower your head and pull your hand back, wringing them in your lap, anything to keep from looking at his face. “I’d like to believe she survived.”
Dean makes a noise akin to a laugh, now staring at your knee. ‘Me too, buddy.’
The prayers cease then, his eyes closing as his body loosens, breath evening out in slow rolls under the sheets. Against your better judgment, you shrug off your coat and shoes and crawl under with him, keeping enough distance to let him know that you’re still there, that you won’t be leaving. You don’t feel heat like you used to, but the warmth of his hand seeking your hip gives you pause, until he pulls himself closer, tucking his head under your chin. You bring an arm around him, feeling him shudder at your touch, but ultimately falling into it, like he needs you here.
Out of all the things to anchor Dean to reality, you never expected yourself to be his rock.
“Will you ever talk again?” you ask him, stroking your hand through his hair, the sticky strands spiking between your fingers. He needs to shower, needs to get out of bed before he develops sores. It’s a miracle he’s left to use the facilities.
He doesn’t answer with mouth—instead, he prays, ‘I don’t trust myself anymore,’ and leaves it at that. The meaning goes unanswered—whether he intends it to mean how he feels about his brother’s betrayal, about your own for getting roped into the situation, about whether or not his sanity is still intact. Whether he feels he’ll wake up tomorrow as a demon and kill you in your sleep. It would be a more peaceful death than having you do it to yourself, having him sink your blade into your stomach and slicing up and over, clean, letting the life fade from your eyes. At least then, you could be at peace knowing you could’ve never saved him. That whatever you did was all for naught.
Maybe you’ll see him in another life, where you can live your own happily ever after. You certainly hope so.
Instead, you hold him in your arms and let him sleep, keeping vigil until he wakes again, struggling with his own voice to say something, anything.
The words don't come—you don’t know if they ever will.