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Dean’s tears coated Sam’s pillow, the one that he slept on just the night before. Before he fell into the pit.
He felt absolutely alone.
“Fuck!” Dean roared when he got back to the motel. He shoved the microwave to the ground then flipped the small coffee table. He grabbed the gun from his waistband and shattered the TV screen with it. He tore the paintings from the walls and broke the lamps. Cracked the mirror in the bathroom, blood slipping down the reflective surface, shards of pain in his hand and in his heart.
He breathed in deeply, trying to at least have some comfort that Sam was somehow still with him in a way. Dean held Sam’s unwashed flannel closer to his chest and sobbed, the sight of his brother falling into Hell and out of Dean’s life the only image in his mind. An imprint of absolute, scorching heartbreak.