Happy New Year, my friends. This very short piece is just a take on Dean's first holiday season without Sam, after Sam goes off to college. Please let me know what you think, and then head to my blog where I answer all reviews. Thanks to all who have made this a lovely year of writing.
The wind howled over the lake like a banshee, screaming through the trees and rattling the windowpanes with each strong gust. Snow swirled in the air, trailing and twirling, catching in little pockets in the crooks of trees and on the windowsill. Dean stared out into the dark, looking at nothing, lost in thought. Far off down the street he could see the bright glow of a country house, strung with what looked like billions of tiny colored lights draped over every tree and banister. He gave his head a little shake, foregoing an eye roll as taking too much effort, and turned from the window to collapse to a seat on the edge of his bed.
Another motel, another room, another New Year. A six-pack of Guinness was chilling in the bathroom sink, and several white cartons of Chinese food sat on the tiny bedside table, smelling of garlic and ginger. Dean reached back and snagged a nugget of honey-garlic chicken, ignoring the chopsticks and using his fingers instead. The leaden feeling in his stomach had nothing to do with hunger, and he tried to pass it off as weariness. Truth of the matter was, he was just plain sad.
Dick Clark's plastic smile was splashed across the TV screen, ever youthful, as he tried not to disappear into his heavy overcoat and hat. Dean made a little noise in the back of his throat and clicked the TV off, watching as the picture shrank to a tiny white spot, which finally blinked into blackness with a staticky pop. A hot shower, then bed, he thought. No point in staying up to ring in another year. They all blended together anyway. He stripped off his t-shirt and chucked it on the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, thinking distractedly that he had better find a Laundromat soon or he'd be forced to wear one of Sam's emo-band shirts.
Sam. Dammit. Dean bit the corner of his mouth to stifle a curse, and kicked off his sneakers with a little more force than necessary, sending one of them caroming off the door with a dull thunk. It was all Sam's fault he was stuck here alone on New Years Eve, sitting in a dingy motel room with only the television and perhaps some roaches for company. Stupid Sam, stupid Stanford, stupid New Year.
John was in Florida, chasing down some ghoulie or another, and Dean supposed it was good that he hadn't gone along. John would only spend all his time grousing about how Sam had left them in the lurch, and that the job would be so much easier if only Sam hadn't walked out on them like a selfish sonofabitch. Same song, different day.
Dean sort of wished he could feel the same way. There was a kernel of anger in him, glowing and burning deep down, but it was overpowered by the sheer weight of missing Sam. They had never spent a holiday apart, and the triumvirate of Thanksgiving, Christmas, and now New Years had hit Dean harder than he would have thought. He missed the kid, dammit, and there wasn't much more to it than that.
He poked his arm into the bathroom and plucked a bottle of beer out of the sink, and cracked it open with a comforting snapping hiss. Glancing back out the window at the windblown snow, he raised the bottle slightly in a half-salute.
"Happy New Year, Sammy."