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[He's furious, not at anyone else but at himself. He believed. He damn well let himself believe Sam would come back in a week and he hates the fact that he let people with optimism wear down his cynicism enough that he thought maybe, just maybe, his baby brother would come back here, all screwed up by something that happened at home but safe here with him, where he'd be protected from the mess that was bound to happen back home. He let himself think that something good might happen to him, and that he wouldn't be alone here, without his brother, and the fact that he even got his hopes up that high is why he's so angry.
So the feed starts up to show Dean, with a backdrop of old concrete walls, a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and a look on his face that has terrified grown men so much that they knew killing him was the only way to protect themselves. And he still came back. It was the face of a man who didn't fear death because his purpose in life wasn't there for him to live for.
Dean wasn't the depressed alcoholic he was just a eighteen months ago, but so much was wrong right now he didn't know what else to do. He took a long drink from the bottle of liquor and a cynical laugh came out of him.]
Next time you optimistic jackasses wanna sprinkle your rainbows and positive thinkin' my way, don't. 'Cause all of you who said Sam would come back were wrong.
[He shifts against the wall he's sat against and takes another drink, glad he can stay in the bunker where no one can get to him, not even angels.] And if anyone tries to tell me that he'll be okay, expect me to start swingin', because you don't know him, or me, or what kind of crap keeps hitting us. [A frustrated little sound rumbled out of him and he clenches his jaw.]
Fuck, I'm done with this bullshit. I am just done.
[And the blurs as the phone is tossed across the room and breaks something as it cuts out. A lamp, to be exact.]