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Another year has passed. One in a series now, of sitting on the Impala's hood near the end of January, like decades on a rosary.
The snow is a couple of feet deep with a beautiful crystalline crust as Dean watches the dawn come, five planets just visible shortly above the horizon.
Sipping the coffee warming his hands, Dean mutters, "Here's to surviving another year. Against all damn odds. Go me."
His breath is soft puffs, slowly eddying in the air; the only other sound is the ticking of the engine below him, hood still warm.
Another year. Another friend gone. Friends, sort of. Rudy was the sort of. And Charlie...
Dean swallows more coffee as his throat works and pretends the wind has picked up to make his eyes water. He's still not sure he's forgiven Sam and Cas for the parts they had to play in that mess.
As the sky becomes paler and paler near the horizon, the planets start to fade from view. The darkness is being eaten away, like acid eating into an old photograph; the sky is curling at the edges, shrinking in on itself somehow.
Does Amara count as a friend? No... just as a mostly not-enemy. I hate what she does to me. I hate being a puppet for something else. It's just been a string of crap leading me around by the nose since dad died. The only break I got was Purgatory.
And at the centre of it, all of it... Crowley.
I know he means well... kinda. Sometimes. If he'd actually wanted Lucifer out of the cage I'd accuse him of being the biggest douche to ever live. But I know him... I've known him well awhile now. All he's ever wanted was family of his own and a job to do.
So.... state of the union: what are you going to do, Winchester?
The lack of a solid presence beside him feels crushing in its absence.
I'm going to nut up and save my damn brother.
Dean crumples the cheap paper cup and throws it away.