A/N: Standard disclaimers apply.
Dean Winchester was the world's best hunter.
People can argue and compare and deny all they wanted, but the fact remained.
He was smart, never one to overthink or undermine.
He was daring, reckless enough to jump in but cautious enough to make it back out.
He was all lightning quick reflexes and coiled springs ready to snap, his body was made for the fights and his weapons were an extension of his own limbs.
He was lethal in that single minded fierceness of his that allowed no room for doubts or mistakes.
He was passionate, the confidence and belief that he was doing the right thing radiated in him.
He was hunting personified.
And no one could even try to scale the mountain of talent he had when it came to hunting. Sam came the closest, but everyone else, his father included fell short by miles.
And when people told him, when Sam or Kevin told him that, he snorted and turned away. Because he knew he was far from what he could be.
Secretly, Dean longed for the days he had loved it. Because there had been a time, seemingly lifetimes ago, when he really had loved Hunting.
He had lived for it.
And despite what Sam thought, learning to love the hunt had not come easy to him.
Too many nights of looking out for Sammy, too many nights of bringing their drunk dad back to the motel, too many newspaper clippings on tragic deaths read through his childhood…
Dean hadn't been able to escape any of them. As long as his father carried the torch and continued in his crusade to kill the thing that killed mom, he was tied to the supernatural.
His early hunts had been ones he went along with mainly to watch his dad's back. Of course it was mostly his father who ended up saving his ass, but Dean's intent had been clear.
He was there to make sure nothing stabbed John in the back when he wasn't looking.
Protect. Save. Keep Safe. Those were the things on his mind.
And what was initially directed at his small family of two, stretched slowly. It built up to include friends, other hunters they crossed paths with, innocents that were unfairly losing their lives…
Then, silently, without him ever realising it, his purpose in life was born.
Hunting things. Saving people.
Oh, he brushed it off as family business alright, but deep within, he had known it was more and that changed him.
That made scanning the paper in search of a trail of body bags to follow into a new town became a habit, the moving around became more appealing.
The broken bones hurt less, the dancing scars across his skin became badges and the smiles of the family saved became more valuable.
He was doing something good. He was helping people.
And so all the things he wanted to run away from as a child, he began to run towards in his prime.
Those years of his life were the best.
Yes, he had lost Sam to Stanford and was a tad bit lonely, but he knew his kid brother was safe and happy and he could still check up on him whenever he wanted, so that was alright.
In the moments they weren't; when things got too quiet, he could always tag along for a hunt with dad or Bobby or Pastor Jim.
So he had no regrets as he breezed through towns.
Which was why, when Sam was back on the road and accused him of loving their job, Dean couldn't deny it.
He did love it. All of it. Beginning at the chase all the way to the slowly fading adrenaline rush after a job well done.
But more importantly, he felt good about himself.
Insecurities that said that he didn't matter to many people, that he wasn't worth much, it all fell away. Because he was doing something good.
He was a good person.
Hell had of course turned all that on its head.
The souls he tortured, the things he had done down at the pit, the horrible acts that plagued his every nightmare...it changed what hunting was all about.
It effectively sucked away the only good thing about hunting he had managed to discover for himself.
Because now he wasn't on a quest to help people anymore, the lives he saved didn't matter. They were just a means to an end. Just another drop of water he sought to wash the blood on his hands off with.
And with his purpose twisted, the job became painful.
He didn't feel the rush, he didn't see the grateful smiles, he didn't care enough to collapse blissfully on his bed and feel good about what he had done.
He simply sat up instead and wondered how much more he would have to do. He stared at his hands trying to see how many layers of invisible blood still coated it.
You see, a man never having found his purpose in life can meander through it aimlessly, but to someone who had it, to someone who had heard the ringing in his soul, losing it was the worst sort of torture.
He could take being gutted and having his skin carved, but the quiet in his soul after having lost his calling; that Dean couldn't bear.
He crumbled instead. Withered away, slowly but surely.
And everything in the middle, the multiple apocalypses, the betrayal from Sam, the betrayal from Cas, losing Bobby...they were all just things that sped up what had already begun in his very core.
That was when he had given up. Or at least he had been about to when a miracle happened.
Not that purgatory could be called that in any definition of it, but to Dean Winchester, it was exactly what he needed.
A world full of monsters that needed to be ganked so he could save Cas.
Purpose. Clear, pure, undistorted purpose. And he thrived in it.
It wasn't the old flame yet, but the spark had returned and it could be fanned to grow. He had found life within him again, felt the ring of purpose in his soul.
And for one year, one whole year he had felt alive again.
He might have been able to hold on to that life he found in himself, he really could have. But leaving purgatory without Cas destroyed any chances of that happening.
Sure, the angel came back but Dean hadn't saved him. No, Dean had failed him, left him behind. He had failed his angel, just like he failed his family, his friends...himself.
This time, he told himself that he didn't even have the hope of redemption. Even that distorted purpose he had felt post hell had been taken away.
And that made him normal. He was just another hunter now. It was just a job. Just duty. Routine.
Though, today, if he could wish for one thing for himself, he would wish he could feel the love for the hunt again.
Because Dean Winchester, by his own standards, wasn't the worlds best hunter.
But he could be.
He damn well could be.
A/N : Reviews would make me very very happy...just a word...go on...please?