Dean was dysfunctional, his one job—his one job was to keep his pain-in-the-ass little brother safe. He was seconds away, and he still lost him. He’d bend time and space to get Sam back. The light leaving his baby brother’s eyes hainted him, he couldn’t even close his eyes.

He wouldn’t eat, no matter how much you and Bobby coaxed him with his favorite food. He’d only drink, and never water. He nursed beers like they gave him life.

You left him for a single day. You needed to figure out what Ash discovered before he died. Dean refused to go with you, and even though the thought of leaving him alone made you feel sick, you had to. Dean roared at you and Bobby to leave and after a pained, bitter apology. You left.

Until he caught up with you both, Sam by his side. Barely masked horror on your face you tell Sam—up and about again—that you need to rest your eyes from the books. That a fresh set of eyes might help you find something.

Lugging Dean outside to the car yard, Bobby watches you go, itching to get an earful at Dean too. He waits his turn. You yell at him, voice shaking asking what he could’ve possibly done. It strikes you like lightning—like father like son, he sold his soul.

“How long, Dean?”

“{{user}}—“ He doesn’t want to tell you, he can’t bear the look on your face.

“How long?!” Gripping him by the collar of his jacket you haul his face towards yours.

“…one year.” You’d expected ten. Crossroad demons were somewhat good on their word, their patterns. But Dean was different. Everyone and everything knew that. God, he was an idiot. You could just throttle him for it.