Dean practically kicked the motel door in, his hands too full and his mind to preoccupied to bother with opening it properly. He threw his duffel bag in the corner harder than necessary; anger oozing out of his pores. When he remembered the shotgun in his hand, he immediately put it down, lest he point it at Sam and do something he would never forgive himself for.
"What the hell was that, Sam?!" he asked his little brother, doing his best to keep his voice calm and level.
Sam came trudging in behind Dean, slowly making his way over the threshold, knowing what was coming next, and wanting to delay it as much as possible.
"What was what?" he sighed, knowing full well what it was.
"The thing back at the cemetery with that demon, Sam! I'm talking about you going all 'psychic boy' on his ass, when you promised me you would never do that again!" Dean shouted, unable to contain his frustration any longer.
"It was going to kill me, Dean!" Sam spat back, "I didn't know what else to do, alright?! I couldn't fight it with a goddamn knife!"
"Did you even try, Sam? Huh? Did you? Hell... you probably just threw that knife away just so you had an excuse!"
"Dean – I tried! Okay? I tried fighting it with the knife, but he was too strong for me. I did what I had to do!"
"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, "What happens the next time, huh, Sam? When you're doing what you have to do? How long do you think Castiel's gonna wait before he does what he's gotta do - what God asked him to do?"
Sam sneered at the mention of his brother's guardian angel, the angel that brought his brother back from the fiery pits of hell. The angel that had threatened to "take care" of Sam. And not in a Roma Downey nurturing, supportive kind of way.
"Don't do that Sam." Dean said, waving a condemning finger in this brother's direction. "Don't just shrug this off as some kind of parking fine, like this is a first warning... This is the word of God. You don't stop using these evil, freaky powers of yours, God is gonna put a hit out on you... and I won't be able to save you." Dean trailed off towards the end, tears threatening to well up in his eyes.
Sam understood his brother's pain. He knew from personal experience what it was like to watch your brother die before your eyes – Dean knew it too, and Sam knew that Dean would do anything not to go through that again...
"Dean... I'm sorry. But my 'evil, freaky powers' saved my life. They exorcised a demon and sent it back to hell, they stopped Samhain from calling forth god knows what. And because of my abilities, because I sent Samhain back to hell, the angels didn't vaporise this town. I save thousands of lives Dean! I did a good thing – I'm not apologising for it."
"They're gonna kill you Sam!"
"I don't care Dean!! I don't care! I'm can do good things with this. I've stopped talking to Ruby, so can't blame her for influencing me anymore... And it's not like I'm about to go all vigilante and chase down every demon in a five mile radius, alright... But if it comes down to risking our lives or using my abilities to get us out of trouble – I've made my choice."
"You don't get it, do you Sammy?" Dean asked, his eyes pleading with his little brother to see what he saw, "These powers, these abilities of yours... it's not beer on tap. You can't just take a glass whenever you're thirsty... It's power. You either quit cold turkey, or you'll become addicted... you won't be able to stop."
"Like you'd know!" snapped Sam. He couldn't fathom how his brother, the person he knew him better than anyone else on the face of the earth couldn't understand what he was going through, "You have no idea what it's like! To have this power! To have this god forsaken prophecy hanging over your head! You have no fucking idea!!"
Dean and Sam stopped yelling at each other and stared at the mirror hanging on the wall. As the final hate filled syllable shot out of Sam's mouth the mirror cracked. It was just a small star crack in the middle of the mirror, but as the brothers stepped closer to inspect it, the cracks fanned out like bolts of lightning, racing each other to the wooden frame.
The brothers stared, open-mouthed, as the shattered mirror fell to the ground piece by tiny piece.
"Yeah... you're right." Dean said, staring at the damage his brother had unwittingly caused, "I don't know Sammy, and I don't wanna know..."
Dean stepped around his brother and walked out of the motel room. He got in his car and drove, leaving Sam alone in the motel room, staring at the million fractured reflections of his tortured face.
* * * * * * * * *
Dean sat at a bar nursing his whiskey, staring at the bottom of the glass. Every now and then he would tilt the glass to one side and watch the ice cubes as they swam through the whiskey, eventually melting and merging with the alcohol.
Dean was perfectly miserable in his own company, not wanting for anything else when a strange smell announced itself, fighting the overpowering stenches of tobacco smoke, piss, and stale beer. Dean tried to recover the memory of that smell from the fog of his drunken state, eventually settling for peach cobbler... but knowing that wasn't quite right.
The sound of heels clicking on sticky floorboards caught Dean's attention. He glanced up from his drink and in the filmy mirror behind the bar saw a woman walk past him. As she walked past his right shoulder she glanced upwards, the two stared at each other via their reflections for but an instant. Dean was hypnotised by her eyes - her pale yellow eyes. For a moment he feared the return of Azazel but he knew that these are not the same noxious yellow eyes that destroyed his family, but it deserved investigation none-the-less. He slid off his barstool and made his way down the bar, a hand reaching out to touch the woman on the shoulder.
He trailed off as she met his gaze. Her eyes weren't yellow at all, they were green – light green maybe, but definitely not yellow. Light green eyes and wine soaked lips framed by dark chocolate curls.
"Can I help you?" the woman eventually replied, not sure what to make of Dean's strange advance.
Dean struggled to find the words to apologise, but they were lost in the darkness of his mind; tumbling over other words, words he would never have imagined himself saying... he wanted to tell her how much he wanted her, how he longed to taste her lips, to explore her body, inside and out. He wanted her to know all the ways he would pleasure her, how he could fulfil her every want, every need, every fantasy, should she give him a sign that she wanted him too.
"I'm sorry," however, was all that managed to escape his lips, "I'm sorry," he repeated, trying to focus, not on the smell of her perfume – jasmine, not peaches. Why had he thought peaches? – he reminded himself, but on the words he felt were required of him, "It's just... I saw your reflection in the mirror... thought you were someone I knew..." he said, scolding himself for being so pathetic, wishing the poet that resided in the deepest recesses of mind would make himself known and save him from his own ineptitude..
The woman smiled, her eyes dancing mischievously,
"No... You don't know me. Well, not yet, anyway," she said with a smirk.
Only then did Dean realise that his hand was still on her shoulder, her hand now placed gently over his, moving slowly down to his wrist as she stepped towards him. Dean returned her smirk in kind.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, as his pick up routine demanded.
"Actually," the woman replied, moving closer still, "I'm kind of tired of drinking..."
The woman went up on the tips of her toes and kissed Dean, slowly at first, breathing in his essence, a hand reaching out and caressing his jaw line. As the kiss intensified Dean pulled the woman closer to him, until their bodies were pressed against each other. The woman moaned softly and eventually pried herself from Dean's embrace, giggling to herself as she caught her breath. She stepped back out of Dean's personal space, picked up her clutch purse from the bar top and took several steps backwards. Smiling, her eyes let Dean know in no uncertain terms what she wanted from him. She spun on her heel and walked through the bar door and into the cold night air. Dean stared after her, as though he could still see her through the walls of the dingy establishment. A dreamy smile appeared on his face, he couldn't believe what a lucky sonofabitch he was... couldn't remember the last time he picked up with so little effort... couldn't remember the last time he wanted someone – a specific someone – so badly.
Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and absentmindedly threw a creased ten dollar bill in the barman's direction before following the woman out, leaving his half empty glass of whiskey on the counter. The last of the ice cubes faded unassumingly into their amber background.