I've finally caved and written a Supernatural fanfiction, so I hope everyone enjoys it. Please feel free to given constructive criticism, I do appreciate it. This will be a multi-chapter fanfic if people like it.

As ever, I don't own anything related to Supernatural, much as I wish otherwise. Please read and review. This story includes a quote from Episode 5x16 (The Dark Side of the Moon) shown in Italics.

This is set between episodes 7x06 (Slash Fiction) and 7x07 (The Mentalists)

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Tiredness gnaws him to the bone, but sleep won't come easy tonight. The motel room echoes his every move, mocking him bitterly, taunting him with the knowledge that he is utterly, utterly alone. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the yellowed ceiling age with vacant eyes.

The other bed lies empty, sheets made, unslept in. Grabbing a twin room is second nature, something he no longer even thinks about, and now it only serves as a sour reminder of just how badly he's fucked this up.

Because Sam is gone.

He's gone and God knows – God's another issue entirely these days – God knows if Sammy's ever coming back again. It's like this every time the kid leaves, and hell, that's happened more times than he'd like to count. The buzzing in his brain is only silenced by a swig of cheap whiskey and this stuff has gotta be seven parts lighter fluid and three parts petrol, but as long as it does the job and kills his brain cells faster than head-butting a goddam wall, then it's good enough for him. Sam is gone and he doesn't want to think anymore. Sam'd laugh and tell him he doesn't do much thinking anyway. He takes another swig.

It's not as if he doesn't deserve it of course – being alone. Even heaven and hell can read the pattern.

Everybody leaves you Dean, have you noticed? Mommy, Daddy, even Sam. Ever ask yourself why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you.

He scrubs at his eyes with a grubby sleeve.

For the first time, he regrets not taking Bobby up on his offer. Bed and a beer. The old man's been a better father to him than his own – not that he'd ever mention it aloud. But he's of a mind that makes him piss poor company and Bobby's got enough on his plate right now. Beer just won't cut it and the angry buzz clawing at the back of his brain can only be soothed by crappy booze and killing. But the newspapers are devoid of anything that smells like them- like him. Sam has the laptop. And Dean doesn't have the money or energy to seek out an internet café in the arse end of nowhere.

So he's lying here, acting like an alcoholic and halfway to wasted while Sam's disappointed, hurt face swims in front of his eyes, over and over. So maybe he shouldn't have killed the Kitsune. But she – it had killed people. Would probably kill again, despite all the promises and all the begging. Leaving it alive was like turning a blind eye to a serial killer, just because it had sworn to change its ways. But the kid – he'd never intended for the kid to see that. He'd become a hunter to stop kids like Sam being orphaned by things that went bump in the dark, and for the Kitsune's son to see him gank her went against everything he stood for. Turned himself into the thing that went bump in the dark.

So he hates himself for doing it – but how could he not?

A rustle snaps his mind from self-loathing to alert in a fraction of a second. He's drunk, but he's not that drunk. The room is still empty. The whispering in his head grows louder, more intense. He blinks, tilting his head. Silence again. Could the alcohol be making him hear things? Hallucinations are more Sam's thing after all. He forces himself to sitting, fighting the dizziness that snatches at him from the change in altitude.

The room no longer echoes. It is utterly silent, and for a second he wonders if he has gone deaf and not realised it. The air is thin and he finds himself struggling for breath, the oxygen tasting dry and harsh as he heaves it in. Clutching at the bed, he launches himself to standing, wondering absently if he has finally consumed enough alcohol to poison himself. The whispering grows in volume, the voices angrier, shriller, crueller.

A sudden breeze tugs at his hair - cold and chill.

But the windows are sealed and the door bolted. There should be no breeze here at all. No air con, nothing. Something else is at play here and it stinks of the supernatural. He staggers towards his duffle, leaning heavily on the wall as he does. Mist blurs his eyes and in panic, he fumbles blindly, fingers latching on the ragged stitching of his bag, searching for a gun. The knife at his belt won't do crap against a ghost and this has half a dozen hallmarks of spirit activity.

Seems like the fuglies have brought the party to him.

...

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