"Batshit crazy L.A. drivers," Dean muttered under his breath as he jammed his hands into the pockets of the denim jacket he'd picked up in Wisconsin. His old one—the one he'd had since before Sam had taken off for Stanford what? Five years ago?—yeah, that'd been shredded in the demon-caused wreck that had trashed his baby. Thinking about his poor Chevy, sitting back at Bobby's lot, still in pieces, did nothing to help his temper.
Didn't help that it was pouring, and he was once again chasing after this Constantine guy. The man didn't even seem to know he was being tailed, but he still managed to stay one step ahead. Dean had been waiting around in the entryway for Sam to finish accosting the cute brunette. Not that he would end up with her phone number or anything—with Sam, getting lucky meant she didn't run away screaming. Anyway, he'd been standing here when Constantine hurried out of the building and out into the rain. A kid had gotten out of the cab and shouted for him, but the man had kept right on walking, traffic coming between him and Dean when Dean had tried to follow.
He sighed and forced himself to admit he'd lost him. At some point, while Dean was busy dodging cars driven by maniac assholes, Constantine had left the street. Oh, well, it'd been a long shot anyway. There was no way of knowing if this guy actually knew anything remotely useful about the demon they were looking for.
Or another way to kill it.
The demon had the Colt, the Civil War-era gun that could kill anything. If the Winchesters had played their hand right, they could have killed the demon that'd murdered Mom and Sam's girlfriend, Jess. But they'd screwed up and turned their full house into…crap because they were all so fucking eager to sacrifice themselves for one another. They'd missed their opportunity, and the demon had walked off with both the Colt and Dad's life.
All because Dad wouldn't just let Dean die. Maybe he wasn't the genius in the family, but he wasn't an idiot. No way had the demon just gotten the drop on Dad in the hospital. No way in hell.
Dean didn't remember throwing the punch, but when he pulled his fist back from the brick wall of the florist's, his knuckles were split open and blood was already gushing out.
He took an oil rag he had stuffed into his jacket pocket out. Wrapped it around his fist, pulling the knot tight with his teeth. Stupid…fucking stupid sonofabitch to hit a wall. Didn't hurt anyone but himself, and Dean was tired of hurting. Time for someone else to feel the pain for once.
He turned around and started to retrace his steps back to the Theological Society. From there, maybe Sammy and Jo could be talked into going out to a bar…or at least letting Dean go. He needed a beer or four. It wouldn't do much more than temporarily dull the ache that had been hollowing him out from the inside ever since they'd found Dad dead on the hospital floor. Maybe let him forget the truth for a few minutes—the nasty, god-awful truth that his dad had made a deal with a demon, swapping his life for Dean's in a trade that wasn't fair. Not at all.