A/N: Just wanted to scribble something. Probably not my best work. In fact, definitely not my best work. But, what can I do? (By the way, although "My Bloody Valentine" wasn't as good as last week's, Jensen was incredible through the whole thing. Especially that last scene. How does he do that?)

Disclaimer: Don't own anything. And, as always, MST3K.

Hunger

Sam willingly went into Bobby's panic room to detox. Dean figured it was a good omen. Although listening to his brother scream for both him and Cas was breaking Dean apart again.

Not that there was anything left to break.

Cas tried to reassure Dean that Sam wasn't himself, and Dean already knew that. That wasn't what was bothering him.

It was the same thing that had been bothering him for a while. Until now, it was nothing he could put his finger on.

Sam asked what was eating at Dean. Dean didn't really know. Except he felt weak. He knew he was breaking. But, how do you break something that's obviously broken? Isn't that kind of redundant?

He finally started getting a clear grasp on what was eating at him when Cas asked him what he craved. Everyone had their hunger. What was Dean hungry for?

Nothing.

Everything Dean had ever wanted was completely lost. In some cases before he had been even born. He craved normality. He wanted a mother who would make him tomato-rice soup right now, because heart-sick was sickness, right? Dean remembered her love and saw it in her eyes again. He had been loved at one time, but the last time he had been, he was four years old.

He wanted a father who would meet him for a beer, fix the Impala with him or meet him at a ballgame. That dream also ended when he was four years old. OK, maybe that wasn't his dream when he was four years old, but it made for a happy dream.

Maybe have a wife and children. He didn't think he would make a good father, but he would love to attempt it.

When he met his mother, he could see everything in her eyes. How much she wanted to be a mother. How great of a mother she was and what she would have been. And what an awesome grandmother she would have made.

He also wanted a brother who would look up to him.

Stuff that most people could have. Not him. He didn't believe in destiny, so why was he destined for such a solitary life?

Famine couldn't touch that craving. Because it was nothing tangent, physical. It slipped through his fingers when he was four years old. No, it had slipped through his fingers probably before time began.

What Famine hit upon was his worst fear. He never really made it out of Hell. Physically, he was fine. He was perfect. Nothing could touch him. He was invincible. After all, he was Michael's vessel. He suspected even if he was killed, angels would just resurrect him. Again.

But, Famine also said that he was dead. Dean had long suspected that he left a piece of himself back in Hell. Now, he was pretty sure what that piece was. It was his soul.

He was functioning fine without having a soul. Well, fine might be an overstatement. He was walking, talking, breathing, shooting, eating. But, there was a deep abyss in him. Stare too long into that abyss, you fall into it. And he was falling into it.

He wanted to have something to fill up that hole inside him. But nothing he could dream of would fill it up. Maybe it would help if he just felt something. Anything. But, he was a hollow shell, trying to look for comfort where there wasn't any.

There was nothing to crave. No food, no sex, even this bottle of Jack Daniels wasn't dulling the unending pain of having no feelings. No feelings of warmth, hope, love, laughter, sorrow, anger.

Nothing.

He had met the man that he was going to become. Someone so cold he would send friends into a deathtrap. He knew he was quickly becoming that cold man.

He didn't want to, but he knew it was happening. Moment by moment, he was changing to be that guy. The guy with dead eyes and a black heart.

How could he go forward, knowing what he wanted, what he was hungry for? Knowing how weak he was? Because he was weak. Broken.

Even though Sam had given in to his addiction, thanks to Famine's influence, Dean was pretty sure that Sam was stronger than he was. Sam would probably say no longer than Dean figured he could hold out.

This pressure was killing him. The breaking was costing him everything. It was fitting. Maybe if he died, he could get reunited with his soul. At least, he could feel something. Anything.

One thing Dean knew he needed was help. His personality didn't take to asking for help to easily. He had to just grin and bear it.

He was having a hard time grinning and bearing it.

The night sky stretched out above him. Endless and as dark as his heart. A storm had to be coming, since there were no stars or moon out. A violent, raging storm was rolling in.

He needed help. He hungered for help. Craved it. It was eating him up, tearing him apart more and more. Shattering him into even smaller pieces.

"Please help me," he whispered brokenly, hungrily, wondering if someone heard his plea and scared that someone did hear it.

End

A/N: OK, I actually had a few more ideas. But, I wanted to post before I went to bed. So, not my best, but I hope you liked it a little.