The bunker was silent, empty. Dean tilted the beer bottle at an angle and studied the drop of condensation working its way downward. Just like him. Going down. He slammed the bottle down onto the wooden table top, shattering it. "Great, that's just great." He thought about cleaning up the mess, but the Mark was throbbing, pushing hate through his system. He felt the same all the time, like he was moments from exploding. Something held him back every time he got too close to the edge, to losing himself to the Mark. He wasn't sure if it was the tattered remains of his soul or the way he felt about his family, but he was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of the Mark. Tired of the burning in his veins. Tired of the way Sam and Cas watched him like he was seconds from losing it. Tired of feeling like he really was on the edge of losing it.
He stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back with a screech. The sound grated on his nerves. Hell, everything was grating on his nerves anymore. He left the bottle where it lay and headed down the halls of the bunker. Even the only place he'd ever felt at home wasn't comfortable for him anymore. He didn't feel right behind the wheel of Baby either. It was like the Mark was scratching his skin off from the inside. Nothing felt right anymore. Food didn't taste as good, liquor didn't numb, women…well, there hadn't been any women in longer than he cared to contemplate.