Dean Angst:
Sometimes when he and Sammy were apart and the world was falling down around him, Dean would feel it. That itch. He would walk into a bar and order a drink and wait. Wait for some asshole to misstep.
Sometimes is was the jerk would couldn't keep his hands off the waitress, other times the prick who was about to get behind the wheel after a few too many, and sometimes it was just the douchebag who happened to sit next to him. Dean could tell which ones could feel it too. Their masks made of thin paper just like his; they were so easy to entice because they wanted it just as much as he did.
The tension would build in his arm until his fist would form and his jaw would tighten. He was usually the one to throw the first punch and it felt good. The joy of pain he received when his opponent's knuckles smashed into his chin, or his cheek, or his nose. Warm salty blood in his mouth reminded him of all the blood his family had given up for this world. Fuck it, if the end was coming and he couldn't stop it, he was on his way back to hell, might as well rack up some points.
The fight always ended quickly, both men sated. Sometimes Dean was the one to walk away and other times he would lay there on the parking lot pavement catching his breath and assessing his injuries.
Sam never asked about the fresh bruises or scrapes. Dean suspected Cas knew something, and Bobby was letting it lay, for once. Everyone was happy with the illusion that the sword of Michael was out hunting things and saving people instead of beating the piss out of some dickhead at a dive.
Daddy Dean:
John had been away a long time now; Sammy was passed out on the musty couch at last. Dean had patched these jeans and sewn these buttons back on at least half a dozen times, but until he found some money his hand me downs would have to last a little longer. Poor Sammy, Dean knew his brother wasn't like him; wasn't willing to just accept the fast that this was their life and it wasn't changing any time soon. So, he had swiped a needle, thread, and whatever else he might need from the Home Ec. supply closet in an effort to make his brother's life a little easier. Maybe this school would be better for Sam, maybe this town would be the one he realized his worth, maybe this time when John came back, he would give a shit. Either way, Dean would be there, no matter what.
Happy New Year:
"Mom always loved New Year's. She would make a resolution every year. I don't know if she followed through on them, but I she loved to think that anything was possible on that day. A fresh start."
Dean jammed his belongings into the duffle on the bed as his mind drifted. He didn't want to spoil the moment for Sammy; but he couldn't help imagine how disappointed Mom would have been to know what kind of life her sons were living. She swore off hunting, choosing to believe good things can happen, despite all the evil in the world.
"I guess that's why Dad always took it so hard." Sam said, throwing his own bag over his shoulder.
Sam's memories of the holidays always sliced him a little; that image of Dad passed out in front of the tv with a bottle by his side. Dick Clark standing in Times Square waiting for the countdown. The boys in some crappy motel or apartment John had settled them in for the moment. It wasn't exactly magical.
Most kids got excited to stay up late and watch TV, shout, blow noisemakers, and bang the pots and pans. Most kids watched their parents kiss at midnight and ring in a new year singing Auld Lang Syne. But not the Winchester boys. For them there was no bedtime to stay up past, there was no singing or celebration, no party hats or hooting. Nothing but another year ahead, just like the last.
Dean bristled at the jab, but he kept it to himself, like everything else he was thinking.
"Let's go."
A few strides and they were climbing into the car. The cassette flared to life as the engine purred. Led Zeppelin pumped through the speakers as Dean backed out of the lot.
They didn't have a case waiting for them, no family, or home to see, just the road and the promise of a lead on how to shut the gates of Hell. Maybe then they could rest, make peace, begin to believe a fresh start was possible as their mother had.
No, thought Dean, that isn't how it will happen. Maybe some evil will disappear from the world, but after all he had seen; he knew there would never be an end. He was a hunter and he always would be. Maybe Sammy had a chance still, he seemed to think so at least.
Sam reached over to turn the dial, switching it to the radio. Dean didn't say a word. Maybe he didn't care about things like who picked the music anymore, or maybe he just wanted to let his little brother imagine himself as a part of that world. The ball was about to drop and Sam wanted to hear the countdown; the shouts from the crowd, and the cheering of hope that some people still managed to find.
…9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1! Happy New Year!
The road stretched out before them, empty and dark.
"Happy New Year, Sammy."
Dean said with a smile, glancing over at his baby brother, suddenly the image of a skinny little sprout with shaggy hair and hand me down clothes, a goofy smile on his face.
"Happy New Year, Dean."
Maybe this year will be the end, Sam thought.