Dean drove the rest of the night seeing an old diner, he pulled into the parking lot. He relaxed as he entered the diner, following the patterns of a lifetime spent on the road. He ordered the blue plate special with black coffee. Seeing a newspaper left on a nearby table he leaned over and grabbed it. Looking through the paper he found an odd story about a ruin. Finishing his meal he left taking the paper with him. Seemed the old ruin was the Renwick Small Pox Hospital located on Manhattan Island. Deciding he wanted to do more research he pulled into one of the truck stop and hotel. After checking and securing the room against angels, demons and the run of the mill supernatural baddies, he opened the laptop and started researching the history of the ruins of the hospital. Located on Roosevelt Island in Manhattan, it has the reputation of the most haunted place on the planet. Intrigued Dean continued his research into the night. The fourth time he found himself nodding off, he decided it was time to take a break, eat, and get some sleep. He looked at the time and was surprised how late it was, well maybe sleep and breakfast in a couple of hours.
Getting up and stretching he picked up his new duffle and dug out the new phone. Looking at the phone he felt reluctant to turn in on and reconnect to the outside world. He very seldom had gone so long without a phone. Powered up the phone showed missed calls from Sam and voice mails. Dean sat and looked at the phone, trying to decide if he wanted to listen to the messages or call Sam back. He was so tired of being wrong, of being the only one who thought family was important. He touched the screen to bring up the voice mails and touched the screen to listen to the first one.
Sam’s voice erupted from the phone, full of resentment and rage, “Dean, do you have any idea of how stupid it was taking the mark of Cain? Did you stop and think, of course not, Dean to the rescue, save Sam no matter the cost to the rest of the world. Not this time Dean, get back here so I can figure out how to fix this mess. I told you the terms, you want to work, let’s work. If you want to be brothers then we don’t work together. Sam’s rant continued even as the voice mail ended. Dean just touched the screen to hear the next one. Again it was the rage filled voice of Sam, “Dean, I mean it, get back here before you fuck it up past all hope of fixing it. I don’t know what you think” Dean stopped the message. Grimly he touched play on the next message. Sam’s voice once again came across the speaker, this time he sounded so much like Dad that the phone slipped out of Dean’s hand, landing on the bed next to him. Sam’s John voice issued orders, Dean needed to get his ass in gear and get back here so that Sam could take care of the problem of The Mark. Sam had stuff he needed to handle, serious problems of dealing with the angels and demons, the voice continued but he didn’t hear the words just the voice.
There was nothing of family in that voice. Dean touched the screen to end the message. He was numb, it seemed that Sam had no intention of “getting over it” as he had told Kevin. There was no forgiveness in those messages. Instead Dean and the mark were just an obstacle to overcome so that Sam could move on to the real work. Getting up he left the phone lying on the bed and walked out the door. He had passed a liquor store earlier, seemed to be just the place he needed. Coming back to the room, Dean opened one of the bottles of whiskey, not bothering with a glass, he started to drink until he couldn’t hear, couldn’t remember the words, the orders. Tired, so tired, he just wanted to forget the pain of caring, the weight of the deaths, the loneliness.
Dean woke up, and opened another bottle, passed out, woke up, and started the whole process over again. He lost track of the days, putting the “Do Not Disturb” on the door, paying for another day whenever the manager came to the door to collect money or kick him out. Waking up days later, weak, sick and hung over, he stumbled into the bathroom. The bright light in the bathroom made his head throb and he closed his eyes. Rubbing them he looked into the mirror. The man looking back at him was no one he recognized. Startled he stumbled he turn to see who was behind him. Falling against the counter he realized that was him in the mirror. Stunned, he looked at himself. In disbelief he took in the pasty skin, dark circles under his eyes, the half-grown beard, and the greasy hair.
He needed to make a decision, what person did he want to see in the mirror? The drunk he saw now? Or the man with a purpose, the man in control of his own destiny. Decision made, he poured out the rest of the whiskey, turned the A/C unit up to clear out the stench of booze and sweat. He turned on the shower, letting it run to get hot, he drank water and took aspirin. Clean clothes on, he packed up and checked out. He left the drunk in the dreary motel room and took with him the man in charge of his own destiny.