He really wanted to cry, but he knew he shouldn't. It wasn't really his place to do so, since the last time he saw her was right before she slammed the door in his face, but he didn't really know any other way to deal with his heartache right now.
But he couldn't cry. If Sammy found out, he'd want to talk about it and take a break from hunting so Dean could 'deal with it'. If dealing with it meant he had to come to terms with the fact that the only woman he'd ever truly loved was dead which he was pretty sure Sam would want him to do then he'd gladly just suck it up and never think about it again.
A fresh wave of salty tears washed over him as an arrow filled with guilt lodged itself into his heart and refused to let go.
He'd never forget the moment he picked up his phone and was met with the muffled suonds of a crying woman. She said her daughter had gone out hunting because she wanted to know what he lived like, be closer to him and experience what he did. The last thing she said before he absently hung up the phone, was permanently burned into his memory; "Cassie died in the hospital this morning, Dean."
He'd sunk down on his cheap motel bed and kept the tears that came at bay when he drew up a mental picture of the love of his life in a cold hospital bed.
He tilted his head upwards, thanking Heaven or whoever else was up there and had a liking for him, that Sam was out and wouldn't be back for a while.
"Why her?" he asked, hands hanging limply into his lap. "Weren't my mother and father enough?" In his dismay he was met with nothing more than bitter silence. "Couldn't you at least let me have her?" But the fact was taht he didn't have her anymore, neither was he sure he ever had. She may have held his heart all this time, but he was never really sure if hers was truly his. And now, facing darkness, he realised that even though it was unconciously he never stopped making silent promisses to himself that he'd go back for her so he could - quite literally - run off with her. Get away from his father's urgent pushing him into the family business; the one that got her killed in the end. He just wanted a family with her, settle down, even though that was something he'd never admit to anyone, not even under pressure. He just wanted a little normalcy, the kind that Sam had been able to soak up in those four years at Stanford: a good life, a girlfriend. But most of all he wanted some peace of mind. Not having to think about monsters or demons, not having to play the silent hero behind the scenes all the time. He wanted a steady home instead of all the filthy motel rooms they've been stuck in.
But he would never have that because, as a first, Cassie was now dead (if horrified him to use those two words in one sentence) and, second, that yellow eyed skank wasn't dead yet. And as a third, he still had to avenge Cassie's death.
He'd been thinking things over in silence, his eyes having dried with lack of more tears when Sam came in and found him staring off into space.
"Dean?" he asked quietly, not wanting to scare his brother if he hadn't noticed him come in. "Dean are you alright?" Dean looked up at him and in his eyes Sam saw the same indescribable pain he could see in his own eyes when he thought about Jessica.
"No," his brother answered, standing up to face Sam and for one of the few times, speaking nothing but the truth regarding his feelings. "But we need to leave."
"Where are we going?"
"Cassie's funeral."