i know, i know! i already got stories on the back burner simply BEGGING to be finished... but i had to put this down or i woulda lost it. what a shame that would've been... (sarcasm, for all those people who can't understand it via typ-age...)

DISCLAIMER: Oh do I wish... :P

This is dedicated to my best friend, in case any of you readers care...

I stare at him long and hard. The sun is setting, but it's not one of those fiery-skied twilights; it's a dusty dusk, impending madness written invisibly in the gray, pale sky. Cold wetness seeps through my jeans as my knees sink softly into the earth. He must have an idea of how mad I am because he is dead quiet.

"You promised you wouldn't do this, Dean," I say in my best impression of a strong voice. His expression is black and cold. He's probably not even sorry. Typical.

I don't regret what I did, Buff.

The words in my head are never spoken. He faces me, a complete blank, saying nothing. I can't handle it. I can't hold up under that flat, lifeless stare. My composure breaks like a teapot that's been glued back together three times already.

"What about everything we could've had? Everything we were going to do?" I scream at him, shaking. He doesn't shake. He is rigid.

Tears stream down my cheeks now. They are hot, so much hotter than the rain that soaked my face the day he broke his promise. That dampness is still everywhere I go - a chill that has yet to lift from the streets that I now walk alone.

He offers no comfort as I sob. He silently watches my bawling recede into weeping, weeping fade to soft whimpers, whimpers shudder to a stop.

When I fix my gaze on him again I see my own eyes staring back at me. My mirrored emotion is the only expression on his face of marble.

"You threw it away in heartbeat, Dean," I manage to murmur finally. "Did I not mean anything to you?" My voice quavers and I can almost feel him reaching out to draw me into his arms. It feels so real. But it isn't. He says nothing.

Of course you matter. You're all that matters. Why else would I –

I don't let his imaginary words continue. I can't think about what happened. I just can't. I stand hastily and shiver because my legs are wet from kneeling. I turn to go, but I stop. An image of his head sticking out of the Impala window, calling after me, is burning in my mind.

Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?

I touch my fingers to my lips, gently. I rest my hand on the cold stone for a long while, tracing the graceful curves of his name with my eyes. It seems so final, these letters carved forever into a glossy black headstone. I think Dean would've chosen white. But I guess I'll never know.

wow. that was sad. sorry I did that to ya, folks. but i love reviews! :D