This is it; the end of the line.
Dean lifts the glass to his lips, tilting it and feeling the familiar comforting burn as the whiskey rushes down his throat.
How could he have let this happen? He'd had fair warning.
The glass hits the wooden table with a clank, and Dean unconsciously refills it.
Where is Sam now? Is he at peace?
Dean shakes his head, chuckling humourlessly, knocking back another glass.
No, there is no peace for hunters, only pain. He did the right thing, the right thing to save his brother. He has to keep telling himself that.
Dean sighs heavily, the bottle of whiskey now drained.
The door behind him creaks open, stalling him from continuing his self-loathing. He isn't even bothered enough to turn around and see who it is, internally praying they're here to end whatever the hell he's become now. He listens, leaning back in the splintery wooden chair, as someone approaches from behind. They pause as they reach him, and Dean hears uncomfortable shuffling next to him.
"Hello Dean."
Dean swallows, the all too familiar voice involuntarily speeding up his heartbeat, and faltering his resolve.