Dean sat on the edge of his bed, as he did every afternoon when he finally decided to get up for the day.  Not that he did much.  He sat around, scrolled through his phone, read newspapers, and sometimes watched tv just to have noise.  But for the most part, he stayed in his room.  Most of the time, he felt as if he couldn’t even breathe, until he reminded himself that he wasn’t underwater.  It was just a wave of grief that he had never processed like this before.

At that moment, he wrapped his arms around his stomach as another painful wave of grief swept over him, and images of Mika’s smiling face flooded his mind.  He groaned, wiping a hand down his tired face as images of her death, and her cold body flashed the second he closed his eyes.

“C’mon, Dean.  C’mon…”, he whispered desperately to himself, his voice shaky as tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he fought to control his breathing.  Even months later, the pain swept over him every single morning/afternoon, until he was drunk enough to forget what emotions were.

Standing from the bed, he rolled his shoulders and shook himself, strolling over to his desk to grab a bottle of whiskey.  He shoved empty bottles out of the way, searching for one that had even just a glass in it.  But, every bottle was empty.

“Really?  When did we drink all the booze?”, he asked himself, slamming his fist down on the desk.  He glanced to the door, and then back down at the table, closing his eyes as he sighed and prepared himself to possibly face his brother.  He had avoided contact with Sam, to try and avoid the usual questions about his wellbeing.  He didn’t want to be okay.  He wanted to mourn, and mourning meant drinking, and being alone.

He groaned again, and stepped toward the door, opening it and slowly stepping out into the hallway.  Dean looked down at his clothes and sighed, knowing that Sam would likely have something to say.  He was dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms that he had worn for at least five days straight.

Running his fingers through his hair, he wiped his hands over his sleepy and bloodshot eyes, and strolled slowly down the hall.  He tiptoed into the war room, somehow hoping that Sam wouldn’t notice him as he passed, but Sam’s voice wasn’t the only one in the room.  There was a female voice that caused Dean to both raise his eyebrows and scowl almost in unison.  He tripped on the bottom step and caught himself loudly on one of the old chairs as he came to stand right at the top of the stairs leading to the war room.

“Um…”, he muttered, straightening up with a small wave, “Just coming down for something to drink.”