The bottle of alcohol swings from his numb fingers. It is empty, so he pays it no attention as it falls and rolls across the floor. Good thing he had sank off the edge of the bed onto the floor himself. Dean is not rerally sure when that happened, but is not concerned. It happens often enough he stopped paying caring.

Dean remembers when things were so crytal clear. He was the good guy and his job was to catch the bad guys and keep the world safe from them. That line blurred a long time ago and is miles behind him. The things he has seen, the things he has done. Is there really such a thing as the good guys and the bad guys.

Dean chuckles soulessly as he presses the palm of his hands to the ridge of bone above his eyes. Something got fucked up somewhere. The world flipped upside down and he cannot tell the truth from his own lies anymore.