Dean raised his chin in a slow nod as Sam explained away why Lexi was there.  He pursed his lips, believing his brother, deep down.  Sam didn’t connect with people on the same level as Dean, especially the opposite sex.  He tended to take them under his wing, sometimes, and if they were pretty enough and Sam was distracted enough, he would bring them home for some fun.  But judging by how stressed Sam seemed, and offended at his question, Lexi wasn’t one of those women.

He leaned against one of the long tables of the office area, and crossed one leg over the other, watching his brother closely.  As Lexi stood from her chair and randomly asked for the bathroom, Dean couldn't help but feel a slight pang of guilt, on top of his already aching stomach.  He watched her closely, as she strolled away from the table and down the winding hallway of the bunker, to find the bathroom.

“I don’t think she likes me.”, Dean muttered softly, glancing down at the coffee mug in his hand.  But Sam began speaking again and that pang of guilt in Dean’s stomach deepened at hearing that her situation was very similar to his own.  She was just better at dealing with it, after the time she had spent alone.  He took a deep breath and stepped away from the table.

“She seems pretty well adjusted for someone who lost their fiance.  Or maybe I’m just not…”, he couldn’t finish his words as that knot in his stomach tightened once again, almost pushing all of the breath from his lungs as he stood.  He cleared his throat to stifle the tears that almost welled up in his eyes, and pushed completely away from the table.

“Apologize to her for me?  And call me for dinner.”, he said simply, strolling back toward the hall as he blinked away a couple of tears.  He really felt like a mess.  He usually handled grief so well, considering that losing people wasn’t exactly something he hadn’t become accustomed to.  But Mika was someone he had made his life work to take care of.  He saw her as almost immortal, unbreakable.  She was supposed to outlive him, and go on to have a happy and normal life after he died.

Honestly, she wanted the same thing for him, as much as he could manage.  Yet, here he was, day drinking and eating when he remembered to, or when Sam actually cooked something for himself.  He hadn’t showered in days, and sleep came when it came.  Some nights, he was able to go to sleep without nightmares, because he was so black out drunk that his body had no energy to muster dreams.  Other nights, he saw her face.  He went over her death, and watching her body burn in her funeral.  And he would wake with a start, and go through the cycle again: wake up, drink, munch on something, and drink until he passed out.

Dean walked slowly down the hallway, his feet shuffling as he stayed close to the wall.  Sometimes that knot in his stomach turned into what Castiel had so bluntly stated as: Panic attacks.  They brought him to his knees, and he was half afraid that he would have one right there in the hallway, and Sam would have to come and pick him up, again.  Taking a deep breath, he clutched the whiskey bottle tighter, and kept walking.