sorrow.

fury.

it's what he all could feel, drowning him to point of no return. crushing him like a lemon bursting acidic tears searing the path he walks onto, exploding like the blood of the man who had killed you, showering him red. and salt to the wound, was him praying to the very thing, begging, and needing to that devil who had you killed by orders.

it's the order of things, he learned. it's a plan, he's a strategy, a spare, the plan b— a lousy meat suit in a hanger for lucifer. he could've scorn sam winchester, but he couldn't find a heart to. he could've abhor the morning star, but he needs him to seize justice.

and now he has it. the justice, for you.

and it felt nothing. he felt dirty, for no change.

this justice won't bring you back.

kneeling like a crumpled puppet freed off his strings, leaving his body on a creaking cradle of his misery slowly rocking back and forth, his cries coming out like a kettle in peak of boiling, his sound that began as a mere mutt's whine growing louder, and louder and louder, morphing to an ugly, monstrous roar and screaming. convulsing, fists pounding the floor, lungs ripping out his throat to no end, leaving him feeling the same.

the tears won't end. no hand wiping them away.

that until he saw one's shoes stand before him.