The telephone rang shortly before midnight.
"Can you come here? I can't be alone tonight."
At two he tiptoed out, looked once at the sleeping Dean and silently closed the bedroom door.
"Not that great in bed, after all. Should have known," was all he could think of during the drive home.
Back to the loft, he methodically put through the shredder all pictures of Sam he could find.
Then he lay down in what now was the spare bedroom, thought of the wedding, of House in his wife's arms, hugged the pillow and cried. It was all his own damn fault.