Tired

When Dean says he's tired he means it. And it's not because the only sleep he gets is from total, mental and physical exhaustion, when his eyes refuse to stay open, his strength of will waning as the tender hooks of hell grip tight, tearing what remained of his soul back down to the pit…he wasn't allowed to forget. No.

Or that the fate of the world seems to rest so firmly on his shoulders. In fact the weight of it is almost soothing, if you ignore the excruciating crush of it bearing down on your chest, setting the lungs ablaze. Which he usually did. No.

It wasn't even that nagging suspicion that they were on the losing side. Except for the part about it being a suspicion. Dean was sure it was a certainty. Almost sure. No.

It was the whole going through the motions schtick. Walking through the part. Brave and righteous had both been words that could have described him and there was definitely nothing penetrating his heart. And yeah, he'd lost his drive, but whether he wanted to be alive? Well if anyone ever found out that he remembered the lyrics from the Buffy musical, then life would no longer be an option. There could be no living that down. But if the soft shoe fits…

Dean's been running on empty for the last few thousand miles, maybe more. And no matter what he does, how convincing the performance, even if for a fleeting moment he can make himself believe it, he cannot fill the gaping hole.