He never wanted this.
No, no. He never wanted any of this. Not one bit. He had never bought into it, never saw the point, had never been able to imagine himself in the place he was now.
Not that it mattered.
The music pulsed loudly – too loudly – and his vision blurred. Suddenly, the song changed and it was all too much. His knees buckled. His heart raced.
He was no stranger to the side effects of a life lived hard and fast, but in that moment, it was all so foreign. He knew where he was, what he was doing, and what was happening to him – but he didn't know how. He hadn't asked for this.
It was Sam that did him in.
Poor, sweet little Sam with his wide-eyed innocence and brazen determination to keep the tattered remains of his family together.
If Sam had just let sleeping dogs lie, none of this would've happened.
He would still be home, waiting tables at the 5 & Dine, wasting away just west of Bumfuck Nowhere.
But Sam had dragged him out here. To the big city with the pretty lights and no last call. You'll like it, he had said. You'll love it.
And he did. Jesus, did he love it.
But it was wrong. All wrong.
He had been doing better – so much better – and he had managed to convince himself that this would help. He had allowed himself to give in to the ridiculous fantasy that moving out here would fix everything. That he would magically repair his relationship with Sam, get sober and stay sober, and somehow bring his dad back from the dead.
But the music was just too damn loud, and it was too damn hot, and he could feel his soul slipping away from him. Slowly, but surely. He would be joining his dad soon.
He pushed his way outside, past the pulsing crowds and the coat-check stand where he had paid an arm and a leg to leave his only coat. Urgently, relentlessly, he choked down breath after breath of the frigid air.
With shaking hands, he pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket, spilling them all over the pavement. He dropped to his knees to try and gather them, and after several desperate and pathetic attempts, managed to get his fingers around one.
He leaned back on his ankles and brought the cigarette to his mouth. But his lighter was still tucked inside his jacket pocket, and for all the good that did, it might as well have been worlds away.
He was quite literally on death's door and all he wanted to do in the last few minutes of his uneventful and meaningless life was smoke the goddamn cigarette. But he was going to die with his last wish unfulfilled. The anger he felt, the shear pity, was overwhelming.
But there was a man approaching him, dark haired and strikingly familiar, collar of his trench coat turned up against the cold.
The man slowed before him and, just for a moment, considered him carefully. He reached into his pocket and tossed a box of matches into his lap. He kept walking. Didn't stop. Didn't look back.
And as Dean watched him disappear into the night, he would've sworn the man was an angel. Maybe it was drugs, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was some tactless cry for salvation before his last few minutes expired, Dean could've sworn it was an angel.