Dean's eyes blinked slowly as he was once again rudely awoken by his brother's screams. A nightmare, again. He listened patiently as Sam evened out his breathing, murmuring to himself, "Just a dream, just a dream." Dean hated hearing his brother like this, but it had become a nightly occurrence since Jessica's death. He hurt for his brother, since nightmares and insomnia were supposed to be Dean's thing, and Sam was barely getting four hours these days. When he heard Sam's movements finally still, he allowed himself to fall back to sleep, though he knew that his brother would still be awake.

Dean hated how the day already had a rough start. His heart was aching, both for Sam and for his mom. It was November 2nd, so he knew he'd be drinking himself into a stupor later today. Mary had been dead for exactly twenty-two years, and the reminder still hurt like an open wound. Sam didn't know, but Dean still dreamed of his mother's unfortunate passing. He remembered the heat, the screams, his baby brother being pressed into his arms with orders to "Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don't look back!" While Dean had nightmares about his mother, Sam had nightmares about his girlfriend who had die in an identical way.

In the morning, both brothers were silent. They both knew what day it was, though Sam knew the day affected Dean more. Sam had never known his mother, so it was hard to grieve her. Dean, however, had spent a full four years with her, and still held vivid memories of her blonde hair, her green eyes, and the soft lullaby of "Hey Jude" being sung to him whenever he had bad dreams. He could really use that right now.

"Beer?" Dean offered softly, holding out the drink to his brother while he nursed his own. He sat down next to Sam on the motel's poor excuse for a couch, not sitting too close, but not sitting too far away.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "For…breakfast?" he asked cautiously, voice equally soft as he took the drink anyway.

Dean shrugged. Why the hell not? While he would normally opt for something much stronger, beer was all they had right now. It would suffice. "So, you gonna hang around the motel all day?" Dean said, breaking the silence.

"Why, are you?" Sam retaliated. When Dean didn't supply an adequate answer, he pressed, "Come on, Dean. You can't hole yourself up here all day."

Dean frowned. "You haven't forgotten what day it is, have you?" he questioned, his voice a mere husk of what it normally was. "What am I going to do, huh? Walk around and flaunt my misery?"

Sam cringed and said, "No, Dean, that's not what I meant, I just think getting drunk tonight might not be the best option…"

Dean wanted to get drunk. He didn't care what Sam said, but being two sheets to the wind really took the edge off of things. It was especially hard this year since he didn't have Dad to console him. Sam had grieved every year as well, but it had mainly been the two eldest Winchesters. Dad let him have his first beer at fourteen, and it had become a tradition after that. An ice-cold fear had been gripping Dean's heart as of late, and it was the primordial fear that his other surviving parent, his father, would leave him too. They were still searching for him, and Dean wasn't about to give up, but today, on the anniversary of Mom's death, Dean felt the abandonment like an eternal pang in his heart. Sure, he had Sam, but it wasn't the same.

A lump was rising in Dean's throat, and he swallowed it down with little ease. "I heard you wake up from a nightmare again last night, Sam," Dean said. "You were screaming her name in your sleep. So don't act like you aren't in pain too."

"I'm not, Dean!" Sam defended, setting his drink down as he looked his brother in the eye. His expression held extreme anguish. "Look, I'm not all right. I'm really not. But I don't think that washing away our sorrows with alcohol will solve much!"

"Whatever," Dean grunted, suddenly annoyed by this conversation. He placed his bottle down on the table next to Sam's with a little too much force. He donned his leather jacket and jingled his keys. "I'm going out. Don't wait up."

He slammed the door in his brother's face, then immediately his facade broke. He was depressed, worried as hell, and now, apparently, angry as well. The overwhelming torrent of emotions made him want to cry, to let it all flow, but he didn't let his feelings overtake him. He shoved them down where they couldn't hurt him and got into the Impala.

He didn't know where he was driving, but he didn't care. Simply the presence of his car calmed him. It was only when he made a fast, sharp turn that something heavy slammed into his side that he stopped, if only to see what had hit him.

It was Les Miserables, the full book. Dean stared at it, unsure of what to think. Sam had probably left it there on accident, as they haven't played their little "game" since he'd rejoined Dean. Though what he was doing with Les Mis was beyond Dean's understanding. Gingerly, he opened the cover. Immediately he wanted to vomit.

There, written on the title page in stiff handwriting, was a note: Know you said you've always wanted to read this, babe. Love you so much, Merry Christmas, Sam.

He must have been planning on giving this to Jess for Christmas this year. Dean didn't know when Sam had gone back into their apartment to retrieve it, but he had obviously deemed it worthy to come with them. It must hurt him to look at it, which is why he'd left it in the car.

Dean had always wanted to read Les Mis, but it seemed like too large of a commitment. Now, though…

That's how, on the anniversary of his mom's death, Dean Winchester found himself in his car reading one of the greatest books of all time. He didn't return to the motel until late at night, and when he did, he muttered an apology to Sam and got himself a cold one. He could resume the book tomorrow, but he wouldn't tell Sam about it.

Well, after writing this, I realized that on November 2nd of 2005, Sam would be on the woman in white hunt with Dean and Jessica wouldn't have died yet... Oops, let's just pretend she's died already.

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