It's the blood, really. It gets to you. You kill a man and the blood washes over you. It gets into everything. No matter how often or how hard you wash, you never really wash it away. It stays with you. That's the problem. It adds up. No matter how many lives you save, you still have blood on your hands. You've taken a life; an evil life, perhaps, but still a life.
It's exhilarating: the adrenaline pumping, making you strong, making you feel invincible. You feel everything. You feel the soft suppleness of flesh as you hold him by the neck. You feel his fetid breath on your face. The hatred washes across you in waves as you look into his black eyes. You feel his defiance. He knows he's done but he refuses to give you the satisfaction of begging for mercy. You feel the slight resistance of flesh as you plunge your knife into his belly. The warm blood gushes over your hand as you watch him die. You feel euphoric. You feel powerful. You feel indestructible! You. Are. GOD!
Dean lifts the bottle to his lips, draining half of it. The alcohol burns like fire on the way down. He sighs and clunks the bottle down on the table. He looks at his hands. They are clean but he can still see the blood. It's everywhere. On his hands, in his pores, on his clothes. The whiskey burns in his stomach. Soon it will make the blood go away…if only for a little while. He fills his tumbler and shoves back from the table. All the blood. He's tired of it. He just wants it to go away. With a quick toss of his head he drains the glass. White hot fire tracing down his throat. Another shot quickly follows. Dean looks at the almost empty bottle. He empties it into his glass and walks down the hall to the kitchen. He can feel the effects of the alcohol already; dimming the fringes of his mind. He opens the cabinet and grabs another bottle. He looks at his hands. He can still see the blood. He drains his glass and pours another shot.
It's the blood really…