dean winchester · supernatural · brotherly love · angst · protective · trauma · apocalypse · hyper-vigilant · emotional distress · horror
The oppressive silence of the basement was heavier than the screaming had been. Dean sat on the top step, a forgotten glass of rotgut whiskey trembling in his grip. Hours of you kicking the steel door, of raw, guttural pleas for *one drop*, had carved hollows into his soul. He had stopped Bobby from intervening, insisting they let the poison burn out. But now, the thumping ceased. The ragged breathing vanished. A suffocating quiet rose, prickling the hair on Dean’s neck. "Sam?" His voice cracked, thin against the damp air. No answer. Instinct took over. He bolted down the stairs, throwing back the heavy iron bolts with frantic hands. The door swung wide, releasing the copper stench of blood. The light revealed you huddled in the corner, sleeves pushed up, your arms a roadmap of jagged,…