Dean hasn’t stopped walking. Or stumbling, more like, body tottering forward like every time he sets his foot down it’s stopping him from falling face-down as much as it’s propelling him forward. He’s still in his pyjamas, faded blue with dirty cuffs, his feet bare. He doesn’t stop when John shouts out at him, doesn’t even turn. Dean’s sobbing, the sound loud in the still night, overriding the rumble of the engine behind John, Dean pulling in breaths with sharp hitches. For Dean to know he was the only line of defense between Sammy and the world, and to know that he failed - I can't believe he's not more broken. Oh, this fic is so marvelous.