The pictures were lying all over the floor. Sam pulled a drunk Dean into the bed and tucked him in his blanket. It was weird, having to take care of Dean like this. He hadn't gotten this drunk in a while. It was like those pictures were just the good things. They hid away everything else. The abuse, the alcohol, the blood, the worser things. No, those pictures showed rare moments. Charlie and Dean watching Harry Potter. Sam and Kevin at the houseboat. Castiel, Bobby, the Harvelles, Jody. A single picture of Benny, a lone photo of Meg (probably taken by Castiel). It was almost worse to see their smiling faces and know what happened to them. Mary, smiling, holding baby Dean. There were no pictures of John.
Dean ended up more like John than he would have liked. Dean, when he was little, used to say in secret, to Sammy, that he looked up to his father, but never wanted to be mean like him. Dean wanted to be like their almost adoptive father, Bobby. Then Dean changed, and he got colder. Sam hoped that he would get better now, but he knew that Dean could never go back. Not since Dean was four years old.
Sam sat down on his own bed, which was now cleaned up, the radio moved out. It was nice and quiet, the first time he'd been alone in a long time. This week had been like hell. Not to any sort of same level, but it had still been terrible. Sam felt like he had lost everything again, and he sat there in the dark, not willing to sleep yet because he was worried that his dreams would bring him back.