What Becomes of The Brokenhearted
The two friends, all put back together, said their goodbyes as Dean prepared to start a new life. He tossed his bag in the back seat. He was still unable to look into the trunk without the memory of the jugs of poison that killed his brother.
It was only a short time ago that Dean drove into Stull Cemetery. Did Sam think that the last time they saw each other would be in that filthy Detroit hotel room, with that monster?
He had hoped to speak to his brother and tell him he was not alone. But he met Lucifer instead, and the conversation started badly.
It began with a toss onto the windshield. It ended with Sam dragging Adam to be swallowed up by the earth. Bloody, beaten and alone, Dean was witness to this.
He stared at the solid patch of ground and thought, it wasn't important, but he couldn't determine which pain was worse, inside or out.
Dean's thoughts returned to the present. He would have preferred that the car was facing out towards the road so he wouldn't have to take that last look at Bobby, the one that could convince him not to go. Stay and pretend nothing has changed. Sammy is just on the longest beer run...
As he slid into the seat of the Impala and gripped the steering wheel, it felt unfamiliar.
The Impala had been their home, a source of comfort and his savior. Now, it was just too big.
Once on the highway, he drove as fast as the car would let him. Whether he was running away or running to, he didn't know. It took only a quick glance at the passenger seat for the truth to hit him. He could hear his brother say, "You know I'm not coming back".
His entire life he had one job. Take care of your little brother. Well, your little brother is gone.
He drove for hours. No matter what was on the radio or what else he tried to think about, he couldn't clear his head.
"You got what you wanted."
By the time he got to Lisa's, he was spent. He barely had enough to knock on the door. And when she asked him if he was okay, the answer was a big no, but he kept that to himself.
That was his way and it was his brother. He wasn't ready to share that, not even with her. Lisa and Ben loved him, he knew that. And he loved them, as best he could. He needed them, wasn't that the same?
But he missed his brother and the guilt and responsibilty, he felt, for not being able to change what happened, consumed him. In public, he put on his brave face, the one that stopped at his eyes. But, when he was alone, he reached for his best friend. He didn't seek comfort in people; he found it in a bottle.
What was he supposed to do, now? Get a job? Become a productive member of society? First, he needed a drink. He told himself there wasn't enough whiskey to fill the emptiness, but, he would try. That was a joke to him and produced a half-hearted chuckle.
In between his bouts of drunkeness, Dean tried every book, spell, demon, witch, everything he ever heard of, but no supernatural or unnatural force could help him. Time was meaningless and immeasurable.
On the nights, Lisa found, that Dean was not in bed, she would come downstairs, carrying a blanket. She would always find him on the couch. If she tried to take the bottle from his hand, she would find his grip too strong and let it go. There was no harm in that; it was usually empty.
Those were the nights she would cover him, kiss his forehead, and go back to bed.