(A/N: What can I say? I've fallen in love with the show. I've just finished season 5 and I'm in shock. So here's me blowing off some steam. I need wrap my head around that tumultuous season, and even though I know very well that it isn't over yet, who wasn't depressed after "Swan Song"? Really? I'm surprised that I haven't started crying yet.

Fair warning, this story is rated T for Dean's potty mouth. There's nothing worse than what you'd see on the show, just trying to keep things in character. Spoilers for everything up to 5.22. There's also a direct quote from 4.01 "Lazarus Rising" and references to the Pilot and the season 3 finale. I'm sure you'll recognize them.

So, anyways, moving on. Enjoy!)

Disclaimer: Supernatural, Sam and Dean belong to Kripke. Bleh. iPods belong to Apple, "Wanted Dead or Alive" belongs to Bon Jovi, and therefore I am left with nothing.

iPod

The first time Dean sees it, it's messy. Covered with grime and dirt and mysterious substances that could have come from anywhere. He doesn't recognize it at first because it's six in the morning, he's in the driver's seat of the Impala and the only thoughts that are running in his woozy brain are Drop Ben off at school and Where's that shopping list? and I want breakfast so he really isn't thinking straight at all.

Somewhat curious, he picks it up and uses the sleeve of his jacket to rub off the filth, uncovering a shiny silver surface and a slightly cracked black screen. It's tiny, able to fit into his palm easily. He frowns, not really comprehending it, and runs his thumb over the round circle in the middle of it and starts as the screen goes white.

He stares in surprise at the new addition to his Impala. "What's this?" He asks incredulously.

He sees a small shrug of shoulders, hears a sheepish voice. "iPod jack."

Dean drops the thing like it's burned him because holy shit he's forgotten this existed and frankly is surprised to see it still working at all. He eyes the iPod jack, still hooked up to the damn car and flicks his eyes back to the iPod itself. Resilient little thing, aren't you?

He pales as he feels an all-too-familiar pang around his chest area (Don't think about it) and shoves the iPod in the direction of the (empty) passenger seat to get lost in the filth of the bottom of the car once again.

Ben finds it the second time. In retrospect, Dean really should have seen this coming.

He's talking to the kid, asking him about school and swapping stories on the awesomeness of every muscle car they've ever seen when Ben pipes up "Hey, I found this. Is it yours?" A small hand pokes out from the backseat (he's still too young to sit up front) holding something silver and shiny and small and Dean's gut clenches uncomfortably. He swipes the thing away from Ben and flings it on the floor in front of him. "Nah." He croaks out through clenched teeth, giving the startled kid an answer. "Not mine."

Ben's eyes widen even further and he looks…not really sad, nor pitying, but a strange mix of both as he nods in understanding in settles back into his seat. Dean swallows the ever-present lump in his throat at that expression and grins weakly. "So, what about 'em Land Cruisers?"

The third time is two weeks later (four months after the end of everything that mattered) and it's a voluntary action. He's just had a small fight with Lisa and is driving around to clear his thoughts. He decides that he really needs some music right now and the ever-present shiny silvery glow catches his eye again. Dean bends down and retrieves the object, hooking it up to the jack and watching the battery begin to fill up. His hands shake slightly as he holds it in place, keeping his eyes firmly on the road.

Finding an empty spot in the parking lot of a small diner, he pulls over and scrolls through the playlists present on the newly-revived iPod. There are way too many folders on the thing; everything is organized by the default artists, albums and genres as well as over twenty original playlists based on moods. He flips past the playlists labeled "Sad", "Angry", and "Hopeless" (No, crap, no) and raises his eyebrows at the ones marked "Spiritual", "Inspirational", "Feel-good" and "Classical". He grins as sees one labeled "Kick-Ass" (That's my boy) and pauses on the last one, clearly marked on the too-bright screen. "Dean".

He stares at the name until the screen blurs (from looking at it too long, dammit!) and fingers hover over the button on the iPod. Gathering up his courage, he presses on the playlist only to be led to two sub-folders (Typical), one marked "Mullet Rock" and another marked "Dean" again.

After staring for another two minutes, he decides that he's chicken and presses on the "Mullet Rock" folder and putting it on shuffle, leaning back to enjoy the sounds of five very familiar tapes.

He's back again. Same parking lot, same diner, same iPod, same folder for about the fifth day in a row this week. Lisa says that it isn't healthy, and Dean doesn't think he disagrees. But he's found that he really appreciates iPods. They're handy, they're portable and they sure work wonders on a person's ears. But he's stuck to "Mullet Rock" the whole time, not feeling the need to change his song preferences.

This time, though, as he goes through the familiar process of choosing the right playlists, his fingers slip (really) and he selects the second "Dean" playlist. He curses softly but can't find the energy to go back, and as he tentatively scrolls down the list of songs, his eyes widen at the sheer number of them. There were easily over 500 songs on that playlist.

He looks at the choices and sees songs about friendship and family and brotherhood and holding on and sadness, as well as some achingly familiar tunes that once filled this very car with off-key singing and laughter. Dean's chest tightens more with every song title, and he lets out a small gasp when he spots a particular tune. Without leaving time for his brain to catch up, his shaking fingers hit the button and the beginning strains of "Wanted Dead or Alive" start to play.

"It's all the same,

Only the names have changed…"

Dean supposes that this is his cue to break down. This is the part where he's supposed to think about all the happy memories and beat his fists on the wheel and cry his heart out for everything he's lost. Really, though, all he can do right now is just sit there and listen. He's too far gone too react and he doesn't think his heart can hold anything of that capacity at the moment. But he's sure that an action as simple as listening to a song isn't supposed to be this painful. He wonders how long it'll take for him to listen to Bon Jovi without freezing up like a freaking statue.

It takes a couple hours before Dean can move again and about 100 songs have rolled by. He knows a thing or two about torture, and this recent experience felt way worse than the pain of blades slicing into his skin repeatedly. He'd known that it would be and how sad is that? I'm a sick bastard. I really am.

He fumbles for the iPod and just yanks it off the speakers, dropping it somewhere to his right and taking off like a maniac for his new home.

Dean can't get rid of the iPod. He knows he should be more careful about what he listens to but sometimes he isn't paying attention and the shuffle option is a disaster waiting to happen. He uses it anyway.

So, of course, the return of "Wanted Dead or Alive" catches him completely by surprise.

He's driving around in the Impala around about lunchtime, absentmindedly singing along with whatever comes up and improvising when it's something he doesn't know. He's halfway into the song, belting out "..cause I might not make it back. I've been everywhere…"

He trails off, leaving a pause for the "Oh yeah" before realizing with a jolt that it wasn't coming and it was never going to come and slamming down hard on the breaks as everything hits him all at once. The Impala skids for a few feet before coming to rest near the side of the road, Dean's heart pounding in his throat in tandem with his rhythmic mutterings of "Shit. Shit. Shit."

All he has time to think is I'm so pathetic before everything freezes and he knows that the embarrassing, overwhelming display of emotion is on its way. He rests his head on the wheel and feels the walls crack before letting out strangled sound of grief and completely breaks down.

He wakes up a few hours later in that same position, neck stiff and joints aching. He stares up the dull ceiling of the car for a few minutes before pulling himself up with a groan. He eyes his phone guiltily, knowing that Lisa was going to be frantic with worry. She's been worried a lot these past few months.

He swallows and pulls the car out of the awkward position he'd parked it in, slowly making his way home again. He can still feel his heart pounding, but now it's saying "Sam. Sam. Sam." and he's relieved for a second that he can feel it at all, that he misses hearing his heartbeat even if it opened up a gaping, painful wound.

Dean's always known that their story would only end sad or bloody. Knowing it is a completely different from living it and it's taking all he has to keep going, and every little reminder is like another stab in the heart. He wonders if this is what it was like for Sam, how long it took Sam to be able to listen to Bon Jovi again and compile a freaking playlist that reminded him of his brother.

It hurts, always will, but for now he's thankful that he's found Sam's name again. Dean gives a small, self-deprecating grin and leans down again to retrieve the ever-present iPod.

END

(A/N: Written in a rush without much editing, so I hope it came out good enough! Reviews would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading!)