December 2007
He hadn't told Dean he'd bought cigarettes as well as the motor oil. He didn't really smoke, but ever since Meg, he found himself wanting one every now and then.
It was probably just stress.
He leaned against the porch railing as he lit up, and eyed his improvised Christmas tree through the window. His brother hadn't turned it off before going to sleep. The tobacco coated his mouth with a bitter, alien taste, which mixed badly with the after taste of eggnog and made him want to gag.
His fingers felt cold. It was probably just stress.