Beep, beep, beep…slam!
Dean groaned and opened his eyes a little, light bursting into his face. He scrubbed a hand on his face and turned his head to the side into a head of brunette hair.
For a split second, Dean thought it was Sam lying next to him, and that everything was back to normal, but as the figure turned to face him, his face dropped and his hopes deflated. …Lisa.
He sighed and turned over, looking out the window, the sun was rising and the clock showed nine a.m., and he knew he has slept for at least seven hours, but it didn't feel that way. Nothing had. For the past year, he had done everything to fulfill what Sam had promised him to do, but he still wasn't happy.
Nothing excited him anymore, nothing made him the least bit happy… but he smiled anyway, giving everyone his best, because he knew that if Sam ever found out that he wasn't happy, Sam would personally kick Dean's ass. But how was Dean supposed to be happy? He'd lost Sam, and that was the only thing that every really made him happy.
Lisa turned around and put her arm around Dean's waist and kissed his neck. "Good morning, sleepyhead," she said. He could hear the contented smile in her voice, and he mustered up all the happiness he could. "G'morning yourself," he says and turns over to look at her briefly, offering his wide smile at her. She looks at him, just the way Sam used to and frowned a little, "Dreams again?" she asked.
Dean got up and rubbed his eyes, "Yeah, same crap, different day, that's all," he said emotionlessly. Lisa sat up and stroked his back, offering soothing words, but nothing she said could come close to how Sam would've handled this.
He just smiled at her and said that he was okay; the usual routine.
God, the routine. He felt like that was killing him. wake up, breakfast, work, lunch, home, dinner, TV, sleep. It was driving him mad. He missed hunting, staying up all night, interviewing people, polishing his guns in the open (he did that in the garage in the late hours of the night nowadays), drinking in bars, the open road, …Sam.
He got out of bed and got ready for work, pulling on his uniform and buttoning it down. He looked himself in the mirror and sighed. Dean Winchester, mechanic, he thought and exhaled.
Breakfast with Ben and Lisa did make him smile, watching their antics every morning, and laughing at their jokes, but when Dean got into his truck to go to work, he talked to Sam. He knew that Sam wasn't there, but he talked anyway, over the music. He talked about everything, on his way to work and when he was driving home. It was something that Lisa and Ben didn't need to know about, and it was something that he wasn't in a hurry to tell anyone about.
Working though the day is easy enough if Dean isn't pelted with memories. Which he almost always is. So by the end of the day, he's gritting his teeth a little and muttering under his breath. Everything reminds him of Sam. When he's working on cars, listening to rock music and someone gives him a beer, when he's eating his bacon cheeseburger and someone comments that those will be the death of him. He can't take it, but he laughs along and jokes it off.
Sometimes, when he can't sleep at night he goes into the garage, where the Impala is, under a sheet. He unlocks the car quietly and slides into the driver's seat with the windows down. He sits in the car and just closes his eyes and takes in the familiar smells of the car. The leather, the faint gunpowder scent, the years of use and, well… Sam.
He would sit in the car for hours, sometimes talking, sometimes just keeping quiet. Lisa or Ben would find him in the morning, still in the driver's seat or curled up on the bench seat.
Always with tear tracks down him face.