It's all he can do to breathe. His arm is fire from the shoulder down, an ache that speaks of deep breaks, but Dean can find no comfort in fidgeting. He's held fast, head too heavy to lift from where his sharp chin digs into his sternum, lashes clumped with exhausted tears. He's come to the end of something, and the darkness inside him knows it, roiling up like a storm and stopping his breath for long moments.

But the storm breaks, and Dean gasps as he's released, bloody throat sucking down air through the respite he knows will be only temporary. There are bodies scattered near him, faces he's craved for long, muddled weeks, even as he resisted the dark thing inside of him carrying him anywhere near them. But they stand steadier than he does now, and in his exhaustion, Dean finds room to be grateful.

Something will die tonight. But it won't be them.