Dean Winchester clumsily unlocked the door to his dirty one-bedroom apartment, grunting as he made his way to the cramped bathroom. He stumbled over to the mirror above the sink, turning on the cold water and splashing it in his face, a small gasp escaping his lips. He usually tried to avoid looking at his pitiful reflection, but this evening Dean studied himself closely and with purpose. His face had the remnants of being very attractive, his once-bright green eyes were now dull and lifeless, his dirty blonde hair stringy and unkempt.
He ran a hand down his left cheek feeling the prickle of stubble against his calloused fingers. He sighed hopelessly.
Dean had lost his job today; Bobby Singer, the last bit of almost-family he had left in his life had finally given up trying to help Dean through his addiction, knowing a lost cause when he saw one.
Dean couldn't say he was surprised. Nobody wants a druggie for a mechanic. He chuckled, the sound more bitter than humorous, as he took a final glance at the man with sunken eyes and a frail figure.
He was hardly twenty-eight, but could easily pass for his mid-thirties with his appearance.
He walked with heavy feet to his old beaten couch, dropping down onto it hard, and began rifling through the drawer beside him, hands shaking as he searched for the only thing he had left that brought him any feelings of comfort.
He had done the movements so many times before that he hardly had to think as he sprinkled a generous amount of powder from the already-crushed pills onto a spoon, added some water, and applied his trusty lighter to heat it. Dean fidgeted, green eyes sad and hungry as the syringe sucked up the mixture.
His arm was prepped, spotted with old bruises and scars, and his breath hitched as he injected himself quickly. He sat back with closed eyes, feeling euphoria spread through him after only minutes, finally receiving a release from his painful life, if only for a brief moment. This strength, this pseudo-courage, is what he had needed to do what he knew must be done.
One final time, Dean reached into the drawer, grabbing a small handgun he kept for safety purposes. He squeezed his eyes shut, causing several tears to escape and roll down his cheek, as he pressed the cold barrel against his bare chest. His entire body, especially his hands, shook violently, but knew it was the right thing to do.
"I'm sorry, Sammy." Dean whispered through chapped lips, a smile touching his face as he clenched his fingers. His heartbeat was absolutely thumping through his body, echoing in his head.
A final tear slid down his face, and Dean Winchester pulled the trigger.