Wow I havent written for this fandom in a long time. The Queer As Folk fandom kidnapped me. Anyway, after watching Swan Song, my brain kept flashing back to that shot of Dean slumped over in despair at the spot where Sam disappeared, all bloody and beaten. And so I wrote this.

When Dean watched his brothers disappear into the pit, he felt a strange longing take hold. He physically felt them leave topside, and desperately wanted to be down there with them, with Sam, because now he was utterly alone. He closed his eyes and waited for the tears to come, leaning back against the Impala. He turned away, didn't want to look at the bits of Castiel or the broken body of Bobby on the ground nearby.

He tried to keep his eyes closed, to just lean against the one constant thing in his life and let the grief come, but a strange force continued to pull his eyes open to stare at the spot on the ground that had swallowed up Sammy. Sammy. Just thinking the name struck a chord of despair inside him and suddenly he was scrambling dizzily to his feet, half-walking, half-dragging himself to the center of what had been the door to the cage. He felt his knees weaken, and just let himself fall to the ground.

SamSamSamSammySammySammy. Sam! He had no idea how many times he said that name, how many different ways, but the feelings behind them were always the same. He stared at the ground, as if he could develop x–ray vision and suddenly see down into Hell, see his brother. He'd always had a sort of sixth sense when it came to Sam, a sense and knowledge that came with years of practically raising him, of living out of his brother's pocket just as Sam was living out of his, of dying and promising and cheating and killing and living for Sammy. He'd always known when Sam was hurting or happy, and he had always been able to tell when he was nearby. Now there was nothing.

Tears finally came, leaking out his good eye and rolling down his cheek, smearing the blood with salt water, getting jammed up behind the eye that was swollen shut, stinging and aching.

He hated this, this aloneness. It was what he'd always dreaded. It was why he'd driven all the way to Stanford and convinced Sam to come with him to find Dad all those years ago. And now there was no one left. Kneeling here, where Sam had disappeared, it felt surreal. The grass was immaculate, just the way it had been, no burns, no marks to show that it had been a gaping maw into Hell only minutes before. It held a strange sort of finality to it, something that said "everything's locked up all tight, you cant get in, you cant get it back, you cant go back. This is the end." And Chuck was right. Endings fucking sucked.