AN: This little piece came to me while listening to the song "I'll Be Good" by Jaymes Young. I strongly recommend listening to it before, during, and/or after reading this.

This little story takes place just prior to the Mint Condition horror movie episode (s14).

The sound of shattering glass was a balm to his soul. Although not so much for his hand. Sam was bound to ask questions now. He picked up the crow bar and gave the rusty beer can a good kick, enjoying the clattering sound as it sailed through the air and bounced off a pile of junk. He had needed this, but he supposed it was time he head back to the bunker.

"Tell Sam I had to run an errand. Be back in a bit." Mary nodded in response, her mind elsewhere.

Dean had to get out. There were too many people in his 'home'. Every time he turned around he was bumping into a stranger. The constant noise was driving him crazy. He retreated to his room like a hermit, but then, instead of silence, he was bombarded with his own thoughts. Drinking until he passed out was no better. That's when the dreams hit. He knew. Knew they were more than just random imaginings of his messed up mind. Knew they were snippets of memory. Michael's memory; the thief.


He had told Sam and the rest that he didn't remember what Michael had done while taking his body out for a joy ride. It wasn't entirely a lie.


He really didn't know what Michael was up to. Truth. But in his fevered dreams and nightmares there was so much blood. Piles of bodies. He tried to make it better by telling himself that they were all monsters anyway. What was it to him if Michael had killed countless monsters on his little road trip? But that was a lie too. Wasn't it.


It was a lie. In his mind's eye he could see the many innocents mingled in with the piles of dead. Their faces staring at him, eyes accusing him, pleading with him. Why had he let it happen? Why hadn't he helped them? Why hadn't he stopped him? The thoughts were off base. He knew that. Those innocent people didn't know he had been there, trapped within the body Michael had appeared in. But their dead eyes accused him anyway.


Every night the eyes of the innocent accused him. Every night. Every. Damn. Night.

He moved on from the windows and started in on the trunk. The sound of denting metal an encouragement for more.

He was so weak. He hated the feeling. Like a grime and filth he couldn't wash off. He had fought and struggled, clawed like an animal, but he hadn't been able to do it. He was too weak. He couldn't even take control of his own fucking body.

The crow bar busted through the trunk. He wrenched his shoulder in the effort to remove it. The pain was good. He relished the pain.

Why can't he seem to learn? How many 'deals' had he made over the years? How many had ever turned out like they should have? He was an idiot. Weak. Stupid.

He moved on to the hood. His back and arms were beginning to burn with the strain of the beating he was giving the old car.

And poor naive Sammy. "It wasn't you, Dean. Everything that happened is on him, not you." He barked out a harsh laugh. Funny, but in his mind when he sees the bodies flung across the room, when he sees the knife slice through the soft flesh, over and over, when he sees the looks of terror and confusion, it's his hand doing the deed. His voice spewing hate and condescending bigotry. It was hard not to feel as if it was he, himself, that had done it all.

He threw the crow bar to the ground, pulled out a knife and fell upon the backseat of the car with a vengeance, leaving it in tatters and shreds by the time he was done with it.

And now? Now they look for Michael with the deluded thought that they can somehow stop him. What a joke. He doesn't want to find Michael, but he can't tell Sam that. What if Michael jumps him again? What if he brings back all the memories in a flood of blood, horror, and shame?

Dean climbed out of the destroyed car, turned to the car next to it and, with a shout of rage, put his fist though its side window in a rain of glass.

He stands there panting; back, shoulders, and arms burning. Hand now bleeding at two of the knuckles. His head hung low. He finally admits to himself the truth.

He picks up the crow bar and spots a rusty beer can a few feet away.

He's scared.

On the way out of the junkyard, he drops another $100 on the counter. Who needs a fancy shrink? He gets into his car, plasters a fake grin on his face, and heads back to the bunker.