Title: Rain
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 380 words
Disclaimer: Kripke is a god. I'm just playing with his characters.
Summary: One small mistake is enough. What Dean used to love, it's only a reminder of his failures now.
Warnings: Character deaths.
Notes: Focalizing through Dean, this fic was written for the prompt "rain". Scribbled down in the last fifteen minutes of math class as the muse suddenly hit, I owe deanscookie thanks for the beta.

When he was a boy, Dean used to love the rain. Whether it was the light drizzle that turned air to mist, or the outraged downpour that darkened the sky, the rain made everything seem so fresh and new. He used to sit by the windows all day when it rained, hearing the pitter-patter as the drops of water hit the sidewalk. His mother would be busy in the kitchen, the smell of her perfume and freshly-baked cookies lingering in the air.

After Mary died, Dean didn't like the rain so much anymore. It rained for days after she had gone, and Dean could remember thinking to himself that even the sky was mourning her loss. But at the same time, he was glad it had rained - it hid the sorrow of his four year old self as he'd held Sammy in his arms, holding onto his brother for dear life as the salty tears mixed with the rainwater on his cheek.

As he'd grown older, Dean had learned the family business. He'd become a proficient hunter, realizing the disadvantages of rainy weather. Wet, slippery ground caused accidents, and even the smallest of mistakes could be fatal in their line of work. But even then, a small part of him still savoured the refreshing and mind-clearing qualities of the water droplets on his face.

Now though, on his knees before the tombstone, Dean could wholeheartedly say that he hated the rain. He despised how it had taken away so many of his loved ones, giving the rest of the world a newness he could never again attain. It washed away the last vestiges of his family, their footsteps in the once-muddy ground, covering it forever with new soil.

It had rained the night Sammy died.

A simple slip of the foot on the moist ground, and it had been enough for the shapeshifter to embed its knife into Sammy's heart. And Dean, too far away to take action, could only watch helplessly as the crimson stream ran into the muddied ground.

And as he'd stood over the bodies of his brother and the shifter, Dean could only lift his hand up towards the sky, cursing the heavens for what had happened.

How could he ever have liked the rain?