I Wish I Had a River

Merry Christmas

Dean Winchester wasn't a sad person. Sure, he wasn't about to burst with joy at every waking minute and sing kumbaya at the top of his lungs, but for someone who knew what was lurking in the darkness, he liked to think he turned out pretty okay.

It was three hours past midnight, officially January first. The start of a new year. And Dad and Sammy... well, they both had stuff to do. Sam was busy studying for exams that would begin after the winter break at Stanford. It was okay, Dean was proud of Sammy. And Dad was... well, surely he had better things to do than babysit Dean's sorry ass. It didn't matter that this was his first New Year spent alone, with nobody to joke around. Not a single presence was aware of how miserable Dean felt at that moment.

Dean should have gone to sleep three hours ago. He knew that. This craziness would go away in the morning. Or rather, would be pushed down and faked with a bright smile. He was sure that Dad would call him tomorrow morning and ask for a report. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd even wish Dean a happy new year when he was done.

This wasn't the first hunt Dean had gone to alone and it wasn't at all the hardest one. He hadn't even gotten hurt. Only his clothes smelled like smoke and his left arm was scratched. The ghost had burst into flames and Dean had no desire to somehow resurrect it and prove wrong, because one opinion didn't matter. No matter how loud it was shouted to his face.

So why did it feel this bad, leaning heavily in his single bed in his single motel room? The beer was warm and tasted like shit but Dean didn't feel like moving to get a cold one. Honestly, he didn't feel like doing anything. Well, maybe he could go and get that shovel and find the ashes to that ghost to prove that he was loved and he mattered.

But the ghost was gone and so was Dean's common sense, which was why he wasn't really surprised when he felt the first round of tears streaming down his face.

Please... someone call me.

Dean thought, staring longingly at the phone and immediately hated how pathetic he sounded in his mind.

I fucking hate your fucking guts.

He grunted to himself, punctuating each word with his head slamming against the headboard. The action made him dizzy and it gave him a sick sort of satisfaction.

Face it. He wasn't loved. He didn't fucking matter. Some other hunter would be ganking the ghost and whatever else that Dean had ganked in all these years of being a hunter. Sam proved to be fucking fantastic, thriving and blooming there with strangers. And Dad... Dean doubted that Dad would even notice he was gone.

Suddenly the gun sitting on his nightstand seemed really tempting. He imagined how it would taste and feel, the cold smoothness of his favorite gun in his mouth. Or his knife that was under his pillow.

But, he'd promised Sam. He promised Sammy that he wouldn't do that again. New year... new resolutions and all that shit. Honestly, he didn't care. He didn't know when it happened but over time, he'd gotten to an age when time passing didn't matter. Days flew and months passed and seasons changed and life sucked either way.

Damn, he was worse than John Winchester in a November.