A/N: Just a little one-parter; as twisted as it sounds, I actually needed to take a breather from Lits for an hour. This is Dean's POV; set 2 to 3 years into the future. Vague inferences to Rory and Lindsay. Probably not for Dean lovers or haters. I'm a big fan of reviews, so please give me your feedback! -molly-

He blew it.

He stands, staring into the frosted, reflective glass of the window, loathing his stature. For a few seconds, he knows that maybe it was not his fault; maybe his height blew it in his place.

He also knows bullshit. He could see it coming a mile away.

He knows that 'it' is not really an 'it.' 'It' is more of an 'everything.' He knows he would not have any more peace if 'everything' was still an 'it.' He cannot decide which of all the everythings would make him feel less guilty.

He knows which one would make him feel the most, though.

And that is the worst it of all the ones that he blew.

He gets the mop cut so it is not a mop anymore. He never really did like it. He wonders why he kept his hair like that all this time.

When he stares into the glass again, he thinks that the haircut makes him look even taller.

He buys a baseball hat.

They are both gone now. He silently curses himself, because he knows that he was the one who blew both of them.

He thinks they should change the rules. Two strikes – you're out.

Three does not seem possible anymore.

He despises construction. It takes too long. All of the screwdrivers and hammers now seem more threatening. He knows not even extreme caution, safety glasses and a hard hat could keep himself from injury.

Why stop with big ones? he thinks. If I can handle wounds that gaping, I could certainly handle something this small.

He sits alone in his apartment at ten thirty at night, watching a Jets game. He does not like the Jets.

His thumb is in a small white cast. When the hammer connected with it, it felt like nothing. He thinks that tomorrow he will hit it again for good measure.

He thinks about how he never used to watch television alone. One of those that he blew would sit beside him, faking a smile and eating the pretzels. The first ate a lot of pretzels.

The Jets lose. He is happy.

He thinks that he never should have picked fights. He thinks that he never should have played basketball. He knows that he never should have quit school. He liked school more than construction.

He liked it more than an empty apartment.

He wants to forget.

He deletes the blowups from his speed dial the next morning while he listens to the sports news. He wonders why he kept them on there for so long. It takes him a long time to delete their numbers.

He knows it won't help, because he has the numbers memorized anyway.

It wasn't worth a try.

When his boss asks him to go check on a plumbing problem at the Inn, he says that he cannot go. He says he has another job to finish.

He calls the local paper and puts an ad in for the dreaded car that he hasn't driven in two years. He puts a FOR SALE sign on the front and back windows.

He takes the long route to every place he must go, making sure to avoid anything or anyone that will remind him of what he blew.

He throws the gold wedding ring in the garbage, and immediately brings it out to the curb. He sits inside and watches the Giants game. He does not like the Giants.

The Giants win. He is pissed.

He hits his thumb again for good measure. The doctor says there could be possible nerve damage. He knows that it cannot be more damaging than what he blew. His nervous system is the least of his concerns.

His boss says he is worried. He shrugs off the comment of concern. He is told to follow up on the plumbing problem at the Inn.

It seems as though all of attempts to forget were worthless.

He knows that God knows he blew it.

He shows up at the Inn and the slightly more wrinkled Frenchman directs him to the room with the plumbing problem.

He glimpses the first one he blew as he ascends the stairs. Her hair is longer and darker and she seems taller. He notices the silver band on her ring finger.

He convinces himself that he has heartburn.

He sees the man behind her, causing a jolt of high school memories, and the heartburn becomes more concentrated. He feels his scalp itching and wonders why.

After fixing the pipe, he skis down the stairs and out the door, startling the wrinkled Frenchman.

But all he can see is a whirlwind of chestnut hair and the harsh, unfeeling glint of silver under muted lights.

He decides that he has been doing the wrong thing – that he should remember so much that he can't anymore.

He can't think in big words because he blew it with the one with the extended vocabulary.

He can't think in detailed pictures because he blew it with the one that sparked princess stories in his mind.

He hits his index finger again for even better measure.

He blew everything, and now he is blowing up himself.

His fingers heal (one half of them). He can't feel his left thumb anymore. That is nice – he likes that a lot.

Somebody buys the car. The garbage guy takes the trash away in the green truck. It is slowly taking him longer to recall each set of seven numbers.

But all he sees is chesnut hair and golden locks and a pair of glittering brown eyes that change to blue. Then the shadowy glint of silver.

Cold silver.

Cold left thumb at night – but he doesn't notice, because he can't feel there anymore.

He can't feel anywhere anymore.

Explode, burst, blast, detonate, combust, flash, flare, disappear, blow.

He blew it – at least that's what his left thumb says.

But it can't feel. ('it' is 'everything') ...