The beginning of something I threw together amidst a weekend of breakdowns.

Speed of Sound

It's all so fucking loud as he stands there and stares at himself in that dingy streaked glass. His shirt is ripped from the mass amounts of frustration fueled self destruction that's taken place in the past six hours. Voices are yelling and people are screaming and guns are firing, but only in his head. It's silent. The entire room is silent, not even the relentlessly pumping space heater is making a sound. This cannot be said for what's going on behind that mask of tired, red eyes and shaking breaths. It's so loud, it's deafeningly loud, enveloping him in a flurry of concentrated sound. He wants to scream, to beg them to stop, to drown them out, but that isn't really an option because his brother is asleep in the next room, and when Sam is asleep without screaming or thrashing it's close to a miracle-so frustrated and desperate interruptions are out of the question.
There isn't any way to wait it out anymore. Waiting it out stopped being bearable around 2:30, four hours ago, and now, at 6:24, it's impossible.
He throws the door open, leaving the light on and the sink bloody as he tears a page from the back of the nightstand bible, one of the blank ones in the back. Sam's pen is beside it, the red one he's been using to make sidenotes on research articles with, and scribbles through the blur of saltwater and the pull of shaking fingers an excessively messy, "I love you, Sammy." He starts hard and abrupt across the room, only to stop, taken back by what he plans on leaving-what's in that bed.
Through all the yelling, screaming, firing, he can hear those gentle, serene breaths. It would completely blindside him, crush him, horrify him. He'd never cope-never get over it but, strangely, it doesn't matter as much as it should.
Because it's so loud.
"I'm so sorry." He adds, taking one of those cold hands and tightening the limp fingers around folded paper. A little twitch, very little, is the response.
The bed parallel to that sprawled out mess of a brother is still made, and atop the rough sheets he puts his jacket, his gun, and after a long, long second of staring down at them in his hand, the keys to his baby.
He empties the handgun of bullets as if to hint that he doesn't want to see his brother any time soon, and throws it back onto the bed with his jacket emptied of weapons and crumpled up phone numbers. It smells like him, like vinyl and whiskey, something comforting to the both of them, like home.
He turns around and pulls the sheets up over Sam's shoulders. He twitches a little more this time. "Shh," Dean whispers, his entire body shaking from a billion different emotions at once. "It's okay."
Sam turns over onto his chest, sighing gently.
"It's gonna be okay."