Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural in any way, shape, or form
"the hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows" -- phil collins
His hands tremble a little bit on the buttons, and he knows his tie is crooked. He consults himself in the hotel mirror, and he gazes in wonder at the man he sees. Eyes red, puffy, glassed over with unshed tears. Jaw set, rigid. He's biting his tongue; he tastes the blood.
He turns away; incapable of holding his reflection's gaze any longer. His long fingers, dark hairs sprouting just below the rough knuckles, try and direct buttons through holes in the suit.
He knows he'll never wear this suit again. He just wishes he could do up the buttons and be done with this day.
"Daddy?" He peeks in, timid and scared. This isn't Daddy. This isn't his mighty Dad, with muscles that ripple under t-shirts and who comes home smelling like gasoline and streaked in grease. This is an imposter man, hair slicked back and halfway into a suit that's too stiff. Daddy doesn't wear suits; he wears raggedy shirts that his mother complains about when she folds the laundry, saying they might as well be the rags she scrubs the countertops with.
He wipes his eyes. "Hey, kid." This isn't his son, that he knows for sure, this is the empty shell of a boy he once knew, a boy whose energy could make the sun rise and set, the boy with wide expressive eyes that could unlock all the treasures of the world, that understood more innocence than he ever got a chance to discover. This was not his son, this helpless being before him.
"Help me, Daddy, I can't do the buttons."