Chapter 1

The Colt felt cool against Dean's skin. It was a killing machine, no doubt about it: it was heavy, with a silky texture that was seductive, almost thrumming with life as Dean cradled it in his hand. He flipped it over and over in his hands, the inscription "Non timebo mala" on the barrel of the gun – meaning "I will fear no evil" flashing in the strip of bright moonlight shining through the slit in the motel curtains.

No doubt, it was a beautiful weapon. But Dean hated it.

This gun had brought misery to his life. Nothing but fucking misery.

This was the gun his father had searched for and finally found, to use against the demon that had killed his wife and the mother of his two sons. The gun had been used as a trade to keep Dean from Death's clutches – and killing John Winchester.

And now…now Jo was dead, for helping them reacquire it. Jo and Ellen, who sacrificed themselves, for nothing.

The gun could kill anything, anything. Well, that was a lie. It could kill anything but five objects in the whole world. The reason they had wanted the gun again in the first place was to kill Lucifer – and now they had it, Lucifer had revealed that he was one of the five things in the world that could not be killed by it.

Was God just set to bring as much misery to Dean as he could muster? It certainly felt that way.

"Dean?" Sam's voice brought Dean out of his thoughts. He shook his head, as if trying to physically push the thoughts out of his head. Yeah, right.

"What?" Dean's voice came out harsher than he intended, but he didn't feel like saying sorry.

The door opened, and Sam walked in, holding a paper bag. His big, dark eyes were full of concern, and Dean noticed they were still slightly puffy from all his crying. There was a small dark line on his bottom lip where he'd bitten it to attempt to quieten his sobs.

Little Sammy, with his big puppy-dog eyes. He just cried freely, not caring who saw; not caring that some may think crying was not "manly". He cried because he got attached to anyone who tried to make a difference in the world. Most of the time, they got hurt, or died, and Sam would cry some more.

But Dean would always be there for him. It hurt to see him like that, crying over someone that meant a lot to him. But Dean had never realized how you could get so attached to someone that wasn't even family, in such few days.

Now he understood.

Sam held up the paper bag, a nervous smile flickering on his face.

"I brought you some-some pie," he continued, stammering a little when Dean just stared at him. "I thought you'd be hungry."

Dean wasn't hungry, which was a first. But he appreciated the gesture. He should've known Sam would've done a kind thing.

"Thanks," Dean replied gruffly, standing and taking the bag from his brother. He pretended not to notice the concerned expression on Sam's face as his gaze followed Dean. He opened the bag and took out the steaming pie, the pastry flaking off onto the plain blue bedsheets. Dean just ignored them and bit into the pie, searing hot gravy burning his tongue. The pastry tasted like cardboard, but for the sake of making his dear Sammy happy, he chewed with difficulty, and swallowed.

The pie took an age to eat, but Dean finished it, and dumped the paper bag in the bin. He trudged to the bathroom, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

He took a long time brushing his teeth – much longer than necessary. Dean didn't look at himself once in the smeared mirror – couldn't bring himself to. He was too afraid of finding a miniscule flake of blood on his face, even after the half-hour shower that included such fierce scrubbing that his skin went a painful shade of pink. Her blood. Even though it had been washed off, he could still feel it sticking to his skin, dried and flaky. He could still smell it, still taste it, the thick, cloying smell of metal lingering unpleasantly in his throat, and no matter how much he swallowed, the taste refused to budge.

"Dean…" Jo's voice cracked, weak and scratchy. It tore Dean in a million directions to hear her like this. Jo, the feisty blonde with the trademark silky blonde hair, reduced to a mutilated wreck, guts hanging out, tear-tracks staining her face. This was not how her life was supposed to end. No.

"Dean, come here…"

He flew to her side. She coughed, a fine spray of blood coating her hand –

No!

Dean shook his head vigorously, as if trying to dissipate the memory, so fresh in his mind. Hell, it wouldn't matter if it was a day, a week, a month, or a decade after, it would always be fresh in his mind.

"Dean? Are you done yet? I need to brush my teeth," Sam called softly, disrupting Dean's thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm finished, Sammy," Dean replied, wincing as his voice cracked. He walked out of the bathroom, stepping sideways to let Sam enter the bathroom. Sam hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something, but snapped his mouth shut and closed the bathroom door.

Dean stripped off his shirt, but couldn't be bothered to fully change into his sleep boxers and t-shirt, so he just flopped onto his bed, head tilted back against the rigid headboard. His belt buckle dug into his stomach, but he didn't care. It didn't matter if he was uncomfortable; he wouldn't be getting much sleep, anyway.

Sam was now in bed, stretched across the sheets. He turned the bedside lamp off, plunging the cheap, dingy motel room into darkness, save for the dull glow of the streetlamps outside filtering in through the thin curtains. From his restless fidgeting, Dean could tell he wasn't asleep, though.

"Dean? You still awake?" Sam finally blurts. Dean allows himself a small smile. He wondered how long it would take.

"Yeah."

"Thought so." Sammy sighed, covers rustling as he shifted. "It's been – it's been a long day."

"Yeah."

"I wonder where Cas is."

"Yeah."

"Dean…"

"What?"

A silence followed. Dean could almost hear Sam biting his lip nervously. "Dean, do you want to talk? About…about today?"

"No."

"Uh…well, okay. 'Night, Dean."

"'Night."

As Sam fell silent, Dean almost wanted to apologise to his brother, and at least try to talk about what had…happened, earlier today. But he just couldn't. He wasn't ready.

He didn't think he'd ever be ready.

The last time Dean looked at the clock before sleep eventually pulled him under, a vivid red three blinked innocently at him.