Dean doesn’t smoke. Not regularly. He’s not stupid he knows it’s bad for him. Too many times Sam has lectured him for the unhealthy habit—but Sam doesn’t get it.

It isn’t about addiction, it’s about remembering. Cigarettes were a common outlet for Sam and Dean’s late father, John Winchester.

The smell of the tobacco the thin slivers of smoke into the night sky. It was like a tribute to John. Remembrance.

Dean’s relationship with his father was…complicated. He fought for his father’s approval every day he was alive, but the moment he was gone, Dean resented the man. His father always had the potential to be good. Dean wished that potential had been fulfilled.

The universe had other plans.

Raised to slaughter things that go bump in the night. Scared of the boogeyman in the closet and given a twelve gauge shotgun. Dean understood his father…rather, he wanted to.

Losing their mother made John mean.

If John needed to be mean, he was mean to Dean.

Then he would light up a smoke. Sit outside. Order his soldier—son. Order his son to watch Sammy.

Dean, leaned against the rough stucco wall, sees a silhouette behind him as the motel door opens, the yellow-ish glow of the room cast a familiar shadow of {{user}}.

“Son of a…” He muttered and fanned the smoke away, stamping the cigarette beneath his boot.