Dean sighed as he flopped down on his bed. Not for the first time, he felt old. Too old to deal with any of the recent crap that had come up, but having none of the wisdom old age was said to bring. Truth be told, he wasn't quite sure how old he actually was. It could be argued that he was 35, having been born in 1979 and it being 2014 now. Or he could take into account the 40 years he spent in Hell and the nightmarish year he spent in Purgatory; there really wasn't any kind of rulebook on factoring those into his true age.
He was giving himself a headache, so he decided he'd just stick to being 35.
As much as he felt too old though, Gadreel's words kept ringing in his mind.
You're nothing but a scared little boy who's afraid to be on his own because Daddy didn't love him enough.
Shame flooded him as he allowed himself, while alone in the confines of his room, to admit what he had tried denying for so long. Gadreel was right. He was afraid of being alone; ever since he was a kid he had hated being on his own. He remembered how he felt when Dad had finally let him go hunting alone, how elated he thought he would feel. Instead, all he got was nerves a large dose of self-doubt. The hunt had gone fine, the vampire dispatched with nary an injury, but that feeling of uncertainty, though it lessened over the years, and in spite of the countless monsters he had taken down, never quite went away. Dean needed people around him to reassure him that everything was going to be okay, that at the end of the day, despite all the horrible things he had done, despite all the blood on his hands, he was still human. Still a decent person.
He snorted, rolling over. Now he truly was getting soft. His eyes unwittingly fell to the small photo propped up on his bedside lamp and he reached over and plucked it up with deft fingers. Mary Winchester smiled up at him, as loving and accepting of him now as she was 31 years ago.
Maybe still missing his mother did make him a cowardly little boy, but Dean couldn't bring himself to care. Sammy was too little when Mom had died to really remember her, but Dean did. He remembered the way she smiled, the sound of her laugh. How she'd tuck him in bed every night, and kiss him whenever he cried. How even when he would pull all the stupid crap that kids did or throw a temper tantrum or something she never once raised her voice or was angry. He still heard Dad barking out instructions during a hunt, but lately it was his mom's voice that cropped up more often than not….
"Oh sweetheart, what's the matter?"
Dean blinked as he suddenly took in his surroundings, their living room in Lawrence. Mary Winchester sat next to him on the couch, her hands holding one of his, her eyes trained on him with that face of utmost maternal patience. His expression must have told her all she needed to know and she simply pulled him into a hug without waiting for his answer.
"It's all right, Dean, it's all right. I'm here sweetie."
Burying his face in her hair, Dean took in a ragged breath as the feeling of tightness eased in his chest. It had been so long since he'd felt so secure, and even then he knew it was fleeting. This was a far cry from what he remembered of his mother's love, but he'd take whatever he could get.
"Dean, get up, I think I found a case in Chicago."
Jerking himself back to reality, Dean yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Awesome, what are we killing this time?" Receiving only silence in response, he opened his eyes and turned toward the door just in time to see the contempt in Sam's eyes before his brother disappeared back down the hallway. So that's what it's going to be like Dean thought grimly to himself. He stretched and felt a twinge of regret. He knew it bothered Sam when he talked like that, and honestly he didn't know why he felt such satisfaction in hunting as he did now, but he did and it seemed like he was driving Sam further away in the process. Was there really anything wrong with it though? He'd seen so much crap go down in his 35 years that he felt he had a right to be a little jaded and feel a little bit of pleasure in taking down the sons of bitches that had made his life a living hell.
He stood, Mary's picture fluttering to the floor. Had he fallen asleep with that on his chest? He bent down and placed it back on his bedside table, guilt surging through him as his mom smiled at him. She hadn't wanted him to become a hunter, to become this. She knew the life, how cold it made people, how cold it had made him. Yet despite all the mistakes he had made, his recent bloodthirsty attitude, she still smiled out at him from the picture the same way she had as when he was four years old. Loving, accepting, unchanging, a far cry from the annoyance and anger that slowly seemed to be tinging his relationship with Sam. He wished he knew how to fix it, because he badly needed help working out what exactly the Mark was doing to him, but Sam had made it clear that he was only at the bunker to work. Sam was still so angry at him, and he didn't want to admit to his brother that he'd screwed up again, that he'd made a mistake again. He couldn't do that and give Sam another reason to despise him. Even thinking of what Dad would do didn't help with this one. Quit whining boy, there are people dying out there and you want to throw a pity party for yourself? I didn't think I raised a spineless son. No, John Winchester wouldn't have understood. He would have told Dean to man up and get over it, to stop feeling sorry for himself and actually take action. Do something or get out of the way, that was John Winchester's life motto, and he would surely rip Dean a new one if he were here now. A disappointment as a son, a selfish bastard of a brother. Gazing at Mary's picture for another second, Dean turned and left his room with the sobering realization that perhaps the only person who would ever love him unconditionally had died 31 years ago.