Complete
Oh yeah, his life is complete. Complete shit. Complete chaos. Complete and utter fucked up nonsense. Staring at the empty bed, Dean passes stiff and harsh judgment upon his life.
He's like the antithesis of Midas, all he touches turns to crap. Everything he loves either dies or leaves. Hell, in most cases these days they die, come back and then leave. He just wants to be worthy, to be needed.
A wet splash hits the back of his hand. The cold bed mocks him from across the room.
The knob turns. "Dean, you're a real shit".
He's complete again.