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Dean didn't notice the man until he sat down on the barstool beside him. He was tall, taller than Dean, and his thinness didn't stop him from being intimidating. He was a few years older, maybe in his mid-twenties, with severely parted hair and old suspenders. He had the sharp, cold eyes of someone looking to inflict pain. And he was terribly handsome.

"Are the burgers any good around here?" he asked Dean, whose hands wrapped around a burger of his own. 

Dean set his food down, a drip of ketchup hitting his knuckle. His throat was very dry. "They're not bad," he managed to force out. The line cook gave him an affronted look from behind the partition. 

"Wouldn't want to be caught being too complimentary, would you?" the man asked. 

Dean paused in the wiping of his hands. "What?"

"Well, you wouldn't want people thinking you're too nice. Nice means soft, and you can't let anyone know how soft you really are."

He recoiled, his stomach tightening uncomfortably. "Who the hell do you think you are, man?"

The man smiled, his teeth glinting red under the neon sign of the cheapskate diner. "I'm nobody. Just like you."

Dean rankled. "I don't know what you think you're talking about."

He laughed, a low, enticing laugh, tinged with just enough sadism to twist something deep in Dean's guts. "You can't really believe you're somebody."

"Everyone's somebody."

The man quirked a narrow eyebrow. "Well, isn't that a nice sentiment? Only you don't really believe it."

Dean struggled for a retort as the man hailed a waiter. Dean glared at him as he ordered, languid and unbothered, as if Dean didn't exist at all. 

When the waiter finally whisked off with the man's menu, he turned back to Dean and smirked. "Doesn't take much to get under your skin, does it?"

"I don't even know who the fuck you are, man."

"Well, of course you don't. You don't know anyone. Like I said, you're nobody."

"I'm not fucking nobody."

The man leaned towards Dean, his voice softening into something almost apologetic. "Then why are you all alone?"

Dean tried to scoff, to cover the uncertainty damming his voice. "I'm not alone," he growled.

The man gestured to the empty seat beside him. "I don't see anyone."

"What, a man can't grab dinner by himself without — "

"Oh, we both know this isn't just dinner. When was the last time you saw someone who even knew your real name?"

Dean slammed his hands down on the bar, rattling the dishware. "None of your goddamn business, asshole."

The man laid his hand over Dean's, slender fingers creased with dirt. "There's no need to get angry. I'm only telling you what you already know."

Dean shoved him. "Get your hands off me!"

The man didn't even fall off his stool, putting a long leg out to brace himself almost before Dean even touched him. His voice retained its even keel. "I won't appreciate you getting us kicked out before I've had my food."

"Well, I don't appreciate you acting like such a fucking freak."

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"

Dean was again about to say something when the man shushed him, gesturing towards the incoming waiter. "My food's coming. I wouldn't want you to spoil it."

He greeted the waiter as if he hadn't a care in the world, thanked him politely for his meal, and watched with that same eerie smile as he disappeared back into the kitchen. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the man pressed a finger to Dean's lips. "You should eat your food. It's getting cold."

Dean reached up to push his hand away, but it was already gone, wrapped around his own burger, the same as the one sat before Dean. 

"Didn't your father teach you not to waste food?"

Of course, John Winchester had done exactly that. Hunting wasn't a job that left much room for waste, and if Dean knew anything, it was how to be a good hunter. He grabbed a fry and shoved it in his mouth. The man was right; it was getting cold. Dean ate another. 

They fell into silence as they ate, the light din of the diner ringing in Dean's ears. His food was no longer particularly good, soggy and lukewarm, with the grease starting to congeal. Still, he ate it, because his father taught him to, because he did what his father taught him, because this freak wasn't going to stop him from getting his dinner.

The man ate voraciously, tearing into his burger like he hadn't eaten in years, a drop of mustard streaking down to his wrist. His bites were loud, his teeth sharp, his eyes closed in the ecstasy of consumption. It made Dean want to vomit. 

They finished their food at about the same time, Dean finally managing the first word. "Didn't your father teach you any manners?"

The man's eyes lit up. "A few." He held out his hand, streaked in mustard, for Dean to shake. "The name's Henry Lowe. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Dean ignored his hand. "Dean Turner. Not sure I can say the same."

Henry laughed. "I suppose I deserve that."

"You do."

The man's eyes gleamed with something Dean couldn't quite recognize. "What do you deserve, Dean?"

"The hell kinda question is that?"

"People say they deserve all sorts of things. Love, money... pain, punishment."

Dean slapped some cash on the counter and stood. "I think I deserve to kick your ass."

Lowe just smiled, as if Dean had offered him flowers rather than a beating. "Ah, that has nothing to do with deserving. You're describing a base, shallow want. I'm talking about need , Dean Turner." He wiped his hands and pulled out his wallet, an old leather thing that had seen better days, and set his own money on the bar. He stood too, a few inches taller than Dean had first thought, nearly towering over him. "Besides," he shrugged, "I'd like to see you try."

"You don't know what I'm capable of," Dean snarled.

"Why don't you show me?" With that, he turned and ambled out of the diner, leaving Dean to scramble after him, legs frantic to catch up with the taller man. 

Henry Lowe turned around the corner of the building, pace just quick enough to make Dean rush. When they were both behind the diner, he stopped, leaning against the brick with a grin that settled itself deep under Dean’s skin. “So, Turner, what are you waiting for?”

“You’re just gonna stand there and take it?”

“You don’t have any other plans for the evening, do you?”

Dean didn’t, not planning on leaving the one-horse town until morning. Rather than admitting it, he shed his jacket, dropping it to the cracked asphalt.

“Oh,” said Henry, “one thing first.” He reached out and took Dean’s hand, pulling it up to his mouth and pressing his lips against the already bruised skin of Dean’s knuckles. His lips were cold, but they sent flames licking up his arm and into his chest. 

He shook out his hand before balling it into a fist. “There’s something seriously wrong with you, pal.” 

He pulled back his arm and swung at the man. Faster than Dean thought possible, Henry had grabbed his bicep, redirecting his motion to slam him against the wall, the rough brick digging into his shoulder blades. The breath knocked out of him, his heart skipped a beat with something that was only partially fear. Henry cornered him, his lanky limbs surrounding Dean like a cage of flesh. 

“If there’s something wrong with me, it’s just as wrong with you.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “ What are you?”

"Shouldn't you be asking yourself that?"

“I know what I am.”

A long finger caught Dean’s chin, lifting his face to meet Henry’s. Dean swallowed, their faces intimately close. “If that was true, you wouldn’t be thinking about kissing me right now.”

His face blazed. “I’m thinking about burning your goddamn bones.”

“You can think about two things at once.” He leaned down, his curved nose brushing against Dean’s. “So, Dean , which are you gonna do first?”

The open disdain in his voice triggered something deep in the recesses of Dean’s head. He grit his teeth and straightened his spine, his hand reaching to grab the nape of Henry’s neck. He pushed their lips together, teeth clacking in his desperation. Henry returned in kind, one hand leaving the wall to wrap around Dean's waist, his grip just shy of painful. He kissed as voraciously as he ate, pushing Dean's lips apart as his fingers snuck under the cotton hem of his t-shirt. 

Dean squirmed as he grazed a hunting souvenir that hadn't quite healed. He felt Henry's lips quirk as he pushed a thumb into the scar. Dean gasped, hands moving to his chest to push Henry back. 

Henry didn't budge. Dean tried again, bracing against the wall to shove him away, but he just smirked at Dean.

"You don't really think that'll work, do you?"

Dean swallowed. Henry's touch pinned him to the rough wall, something jolting through his core as he realized quite how strong the man was and quite how defenseless he was against him. 

"What do you want from me?"

Henry's smile vanished. "To give you what you need. What you deserve."

His voice came out little more than a whimper. "What do I need?"

"You need someone to hurt you hard enough that all the pain feels justified."

Dean's heart raced. He looked down at the wiry arms that held him, their fingernails long and caked in dirt. One hand lifted to his jaw, caressed the place where it met his ear. He took a long, deep breath. 

"It's not often you get a chance like this. I wouldn't waste it."

Dean's eyes widened, hunger bubbling in his chest. "I have a room at the motel. You could do it there."

That wolfish grin again. Henry winked one gray eye, flashing monstrously in the dimming light. His hands disappeared from Dean's sides, one finger catching his necklace to lead him along. He swept down, graceful as a hawk, to grab the forgotten jacket and sling it over his shoulder.

"It's, um…" Dean dug through his pockets as he stumbled after Henry, pulling a jagged key from his jeans and checking it. "It's room 114. Second to last on the right."

Henry said nothing, keeping that same quick pace perfectly consistent as they crossed the two blocks to the motel with its sorely lacking paint. Dean, speed-walking to keep up, didn't notice Henry reaching for the key until it glinted between his fingers. He threw it up in the air, arcing up through the cold as if in slow motion. 

And then they were at the motel room. Henry turned the key in the lock, swinging the door into the darkness. He slung Dean inside, the door slipping shut behind them, heavy and final. Blackness settled around them, Dean's eyes still adjusting when he was shoved against the wall, marble lips on his, sharp teeth dragging at his skin. He scrabbled for the light switch poking him in the back, kicking off his hunting boots.

As the grimy overhead light flicked on, Henry grabbed Dean's wrists, pinning them to the drywall with one long-fingered hand. Henry's mouth traveled down to find its place at his throat, kissing and biting in equal measure. Dean whined, hands clutching at each other as a thigh slipped between his legs. 

And then Henry bit down, hard, and Dean cried out. His teeth were sharp, sharper than a human's should be, and strong. Blood trickled down Dean's neck to pool in the nook of his collarbone, Henry lapping at it as if he were dying of thirst. Dean pulled one hand from his grip, clapping it to the bite mark in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. 

Henry just laughed. "You'll be losing more than a little blood tonight." He grabbed Dean's hand and licked it clean, tongue dallying between his fingers long enough for him to savor the frenzy in Dean's eyes.

"Physical pain," he breathed, "I mean, it hurts. But I've done it all before. It's not… it's not enough."

His smile was somehow hotter dripping with blood. "No, a few bruises won't do much for you, will they? You need to be," his eyes dripped down Dean's body, harsh and carnivorous, "violated."

Dean gulped. Fast as ever, Henry's hands were at his collar, tearing his t-shirt down the middle as if it were tissue. It slipped off one shoulder, Henry chasing the cloth with his teeth, biting bruises across Dean's skin. 

"And trust me," Henry breathed into the hollow of his collarbone, "I know just how to destroy a fag like you."

Dean's breath flew out of him in something almost like a laugh, nausea dripping down his throat. "I don't know what — I'm not gay."

Henry pulled away, looked Dean up and down, and threw his head back in a loud, sharp laugh. 

"What do you think you're laughing at?"

Henry took a moment to regain his composure. "God, they're so much more fun like this," he muttered.

"Like what?"

Henry tucked a stray hair behind Dean's ear. "In denial." 

"Listen, man. I don't know where you get off, but I'm not fucking gay."

"Of course," Henry smirked. "You just mess around with other men sometimes. But that doesn't make you gay."

Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah. It's not — I mean, a guy gets lonely on the road. You take what you can get."

For a moment, something in the stranger's demeanor fell away. In the sickly yellow lighting, he looked sad and old and very, very tired. His nails scraped against Dean's chest, pausing to tease at a scar that rippled over his core. His thumb, callused and rough, became suddenly gentle, caressing the raised skin like a holy relic. His voice came out softer, lower. "You don't get much but hurt, do you?"

Dean coughed and shrugged, trying to clear the molasses from his throat. "Life's a bitch."

"Yeah," he said, "it sure is." 

And then whatever had disappeared snapped back into place, his thumbnail twisting to dig into the scarred flesh. Henry leaned down again, breath heavy against the curve of Dean's ear. "Well," he murmured, "I'll show you hurt."

He spun around, grabbing Dean by the belt loops and throwing him onto the shitty motel bed. A spring broke loose and poked him in the side, the bed groaning in protest. Henry pounced, yanking off the remnants of his shirt, teeth catching and scratching down Dean's bare chest. He played with the half dozen scars criss-crossing his torso, biting down on a particularly jagged line of raised flesh. Dean cried out, clenching a fist in the coarse bed sheets, hips jerking and leg twitching. 

And then Henry traveled an inch lower, finding a scar almost subtle enough to disappear in the rough maze. And Dean froze. 

"This one's different," Henry said, tracing the uneven circle with his fingertip. "This is the one that hurts."

Dean nodded. 

"Tell me."

It took him a long moment to gather himself enough to speak. Through it, Henry just stared up at him, gray eyes unblinking. He sighed. "The rest of them, they're all hunting scars. But, um… that one's from a bottle. Broken, I mean, obviously. Lost a bar fight."

"It's not like you to lose against a human."

"Four," he breathed. "Four guys. They… well, they thought I was cruising."

"Were you?"

Dean sat up, bracing himself with an elbow, staring at the tacky bedspread that pooled beneath him. "I told you. I'm not gay."

"Just lonely."

"Yeah." He ruffled his hair. "I guess I was looking for someone to take the edge off."

"So, they were right."

"What? I mean, they were just assholes looking for someone to punch."

Henry dug his finger into the divot in Dean's abdomen. "I still think you could have taken them. If you'd tried."

"God, you never just say what you fucking mean, do you? You think I just sat there and let them skewer me?"

"I think," he grabbed Dean's jaw, "deep down, you knew you deserved it. Just like you deserve me."

Before Dean could manage a response, Henry released his grip, ducked his head, and dipped his tongue into the hollow left by the bottle. "What did they call you?" he asked the wound. "What did they teach you about yourself?"

Dean gritted his teeth as that icy mouth enveloped the scar, laving over its ridges. "Weak," he muttered. "Worthless. Pathetic." He looked back at the duvet. "Nothing my dad hadn't called me before."

Henry's head snapped up. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!"

His anger turned to pleasure. "Damn, you're a good one. So used to lying you don't even realize you're doing it." He lowered his head back to the bottle's mark. "But we both know you'd never let dear old daddy hear about your… proclivities."

Dean didn't actually know what a proclivity was, but the venom in Henry's voice was enough for him to guess. "Fine. Yeah, they called me a freak. A queer. A… a fag."

"And you let them."

A chill settled over him and he collapsed back onto the bed. "Yeah. I let them."

"Why?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I was tired and drunk and… miserable, I guess. I just didn't have it in me to fight it."

Dean couldn't see Henry's face, but his voice came out strangled. "It's exhausting, isn't it? All the pain."

Tears welled in his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling, trying to force them to dissipate. "Sometimes I think I'm just waiting for it to kill me."

"Yeah," Henry said. "If only dying meant you got to rest."

Dean rubbed at his face, trying to scrub away the emotion. "Can we go back to the physical pain, please? I don't want to do this anymore."

It took Henry a moment to respond. Two deep breaths. "I don't think you know what you want."

Dean pulled himself out from under Henry, curling into a ball against the headboard. "I did! Or, I thought I did! But you keep messing with my head and twisting everything I say and I don't know what you want from me!" His voice cracked on the last word, falling pathetic from his mouth. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth. I want you to finally tell yourself the truth."

"What truth? That I deserved to get my ass kicked? That I'm just as stupid and useless as my dad always said? That I'm all alone in this fucking world because no one is ever going to love me?"

He glared at Henry. The gaunt face was frozen, heartbreak etched in its angles. And then it changed. 

The humanity drained from him, replaced with a cool, calculating gaze. "The truth that you are utterly, unmistakably worthless. The truth that all you will ever get is more pain and hurt and suffering, because that is all you deserve. And then you will die and no one will visit your grave."

Dean spit in his face. "You don't fucking know me."

He wiped the saliva from his brow. "Where do you think all this hate came from? It's all you, Dean Winchester, the anger and the rage. I only hate you because you hate yourself."

"That's not true."

Henry pulled back his arm and slapped Dean across the cheek. Dean recoiled, ears ringing, shielding his face. 

"Stop lying," Henry snarled. 

"God," Dean said, "so, what? So, I'm worthless. So, I hate myself. What do you fucking care?"

"I was like you, once. Another man on the back roads, trying to escape himself." He pulled up on his knees, looming over Dean. "But there's some things you just can't escape."

Dean kissed him. He wrapped his arms around Henry's neck and pulled him closer, sacrificing himself to the marble idol. He crawled forward, settling into Henry's lap, strong hands wrapping around his hips. 

"You should fuck me," he muttered into Henry's mouth. Henry grinned. 

"Just can't get enough, can you?"

Dean curled a hand in his mussed hair. "Please, Henry."

"I was waiting for you to call me Henry."

"I'll call you whatever you want. Just fuck me, please."

He laughed. "Finally. Something you know you want." He twirled Dean around to push him down onto the bed, his legs wrapped around Henry's waist. His fingers found Dean's belt buckle, teeth pulling at his bottom lip as he unfastened the leather. Dean bucked his hips against Henry's hands, hard and desperate. Henry unzipped his jeans, Dean breaking the embrace for a moment to slink out of them. 

He reached up to undo the buttons of Henry's shirt, but his hands were slapped away. 

"C'mon, I'm lying here in my underwear and you won't even — "

"Correct."

"Man, you've got some serious control issues."

Henry wrapped a hand around Dean's throat. "You have no idea."

Dean laid his hand over Henry's, forcing his grip tighter. Henry complied, kissing him deeper as his head started to swim. Colors popped and sparked behind his eyes, kaleidoscopic. A thumb slipped under his waistband, ghosting over the base of his cock. Dean reared up against the touch, reality shrinking around him.

And then Henry released him, rearing up on his knees to pull the suspenders off his shoulders. He unbuttoned his pants, clearly sewn before zippers came into fashion. 

"If you really want me to fuck you," Henry said, "I suggest you lose the briefs."

Dean paused, suddenly bashful. "You, um… you know I haven't… I mean, it's just been hand stuff."

"Just messing around, right? But now you want to get serious." 

Dean nodded. 

"First things first," Henry leaned over Dean, erection pressing against his stomach, stubble scratching his ear, "admit it. Tell me what you really are."

Dean turned his face away. "I don't want to."

Henry sprung upright, breaking all contact in a fraction of a second. "Fine," he said, "then you can fuck yourself." He vaulted off the bed and to the mirror, righting his clothes without so much as a glance at Dean. 

"Wait," Dean called. "Don't leave me."

"I'm not fucking a liar," he told his reflection.

"I'm not lying!"

"Well, you're hardly telling the truth."

He adjusted his suspenders and headed for the door. Dean jumped up, shoving his body between Henry and the exit. "Please," he said, his hand resting on Henry's chest, "don't leave me."

He paused, considered. "What are you going to do to make me stay?"

Dean set his jaw. "Whatever I need to."

"How very determined," Henry said. "Or desperate."

"Fine!" Dean snapped. "Yes! I am tired and I am lonely and I am scared and I am desperate for someone who isn't going to leave me! Is that what you wanna hear?"

"Almost. But if you can't say it, perhaps you can show it." He hooked a finger in Dean's necklace, pulling down until he scrambled to his knees. He stumbled forward, shoulder knocking against Henry's thigh. The world tumbled for a moment. 

Henry knotted his fingers in Dean's hair and righted him. Reality slotted into place under his slender, grubby thumb. 

"You're not too stupid to figure out what comes next, are you?"

Dean shook his head, hands fumbling at the buttons just refastened. It took him a few too many tries to slip them from their places, clumsy fingers grazing the skin beneath. 

Henry chuckled, scratching circles into the top of Dean's head. "You're so nervous."

"Shut up," he muttered, finally releasing Henry's cock, long and hard and terrifying. Dean swallowed. 

"Come on, little butch," Henry sneered, lifting Dean's chin to brush his lips against his dripping head. "Show me what you really are."

He let his jaw fall open, leaning into the touch, cock slipping onto his waiting tongue. He wasn't sure if he liked the taste, salty and bitter but not altogether unpleasant. He ran his tongue along its underside, finding a vein and tracing it towards the tip. It felt almost natural. 

"Like a fuckin' fish to water," Henry sighed. He moved his hand to the nape of Dean's neck, easing himself deeper into his mouth. Dean fought to relax, open himself up, quell the bile rising in his throat.

And then he was pushing Henry off, coughing and writhing and hyperventilating. He flailed away from him, falling to his elbows, hacking and choking, trying to expel something clenching itself around his lungs. His body heaved, pressure building in his head, his chest, his quickly closing throat. The lights were too bright, the carpet too rough, the blood in his ears too thunderous. He squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his hands around his neck, entire body crying out.

The lights flicked off. A hand found its home between his shoulder blades, cold skin against burning. Dean flinched, muscles tensing in the certainty of oncoming pain, a slap, a kick, a knife to the back.

But no pain came. Henry simply knelt by his side, hand firm yet gentle upon his back, as the earthquake turned to tremors, panic receding back to its sphere in the edges of his vision. 

Dean took in a deep, shaky breath, peering up between his fingers. "Why are you still here?"

Henry paused for a moment. "I don't know," he confessed. "I shouldn't be."

Dean memorized the stains on the carpet. "Are you going to kill me?"

"You wouldn't let me kill you."

He shrugged. They were both silent for a moment.

"You shouldn't, you know. Being dead's not all it's cracked up to be." Henry rubbed a slow circle into his ribs. "Besides, we're not all killers."

"What's your deal, then? You've gotta be haunting this place for something."

"Looking for someone to push the misery onto, I suppose, just for a little while." He pulled his hand away, a sudden loss. Dean fell still. "I'm a parasite, Dean. I sit next to men and inhale all their anger and their sadness and their hatred and it simmers and simmers and simmers in me until I have to give it back. Until I have to breathe it back down their throats."

"And then you fuck them?"

Henry's turn to shrug. "Sometimes. Not always."

"Only when you really hate them?"

"Or when I really love them."

"Which am I?"

"I haven't fucked you, have I?"

"I guess not. So, neither, then?"

"I didn't say that."

Dean hummed. "I guess I'd let you, you know. If it meant you'd stay."

"No one stays, Dean. Not for long."

He sat up, looking Henry in those harsh gray eyes, now softened by exhaustion. "'Til morning?" he asked. "You can do anything you want to me if you'll just stay the night."

Henry hid his face in his hands. "You don't have to do that."

Dean crawled to him, easing his hands away. "I will. Whatever you want, I'll do it."

"Please," he breathed, but he couldn't seem to muster anything else.

"I'll say it," Dean pleaded, "okay? You're right. I'm a fag. I'm a worthless fucking faggot just like they said. Just like I let them say. Okay? Please, I'm not lying anymore. I promise, I'm not lying. I don't have anything else to lie about. Just stay. Please, stay."

Henry didn't look intimidating anymore. He didn't look mysterious or dangerous or endlessly cruel. He was just a man. A tired, tired man. 

"I'll stay," he nodded. "As long as I can."

Dean let out a shaky breath, face breaking out into a grin. "Okay. Okay. Come here." He leaned in towards Henry, pressing their lips together, but a hand at his shoulder pushed him back. 

Henry shook his head, tucked himself away. "Let's just sleep. Please?"

"Don't you want — "

"No." He rubbed at his eyes. "No. I just want to rest."

"And you'll be here in the morning?"

"I'll try."

Dean bit his lip, worrying at the bruise starting to form there. "And you don't… you don't want me to — "

"I think we've both done enough tonight." His hand slid down Dean's arm to grasp his hand, standing and pulling him to his feet. 

"It's not a very good bed," Dean said. 

Henry shushed him. "It doesn't matter so much when you're as tired as I am." He crossed the few steps to sit at the edge of the mattress, guiding Dean down beside him. 

He submitted without another word, pulling down the mussed sheets and crawling between them, offering the undone bed to Henry. He followed, letting Dean nest the blankets around them, tucking their bodies tightly together. 

They faced each other, arms and legs twisted and intertwined. Henry's mouth was at Dean's forehead, his breath steady on his skin.

"Don't go," Dean said, "without kissing me one last time."

"I won't," Henry said against his temple. 

And they fell asleep like that. 

Dawn had started to creep through the half-drawn blinds by the time Dean awoke. His arms and legs were no longer heavy with the weight of another body, his skin no longer cold from Henry's deathly chill. 

Despair settled in his lungs. His eyes shot open as he reached out across the mattress, hands grasping at empty air. His breath sped, his heart pounded, his stomach twisted. 

And then a hand on his shoulder. A voice in his ear. "Dean," it said, "I'm here."

He turned, finding gray eyes catching the morning light. 

"One last kiss," Henry whispered, "before I go."

Dean pulled away. "No," he said. "You can't go. It's not time yet. You can't leave."

He tucked a bit of hair behind Dean's ear. "It's morning."

Dean shut his eyes, shook his head. "No, it's not."

Cold lips pressed against his cheek. "I thought we were done with lying, little butch." 

"I am," he gasped, eyelids snapping up, "I am!"

But Henry was gone. Dean was alone.

"Shit," he cried. "Shit, shit, shit." He sat up in bed, blankets rustling around him. Daylight left lines across the empty side of the mattress. His chest heaved. He raised his hands to his face, trying to hide the tears threatening to burn their way down his cheeks. He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at it, trying to ground himself. 

He failed. A sob burbled in his throat, escaping in a soft moan, and then there was no stopping it. The tears fell. Everything he'd breathed in last night came crashing out, flooding biblically from his lungs.

He curled in on himself, crying like he hadn't cried in years. Since his mother died. Since he became a soldier. Since he lost whatever else he could have been. Since he started being so goddamn tired.

It took a long time for the tears to subside. Longer still for the sobs. 

But eventually, Dean Winchester had to pick himself up. Eventually, he had to start moving again. And he did. 

He packed his things in silence, checked his guns, grabbed the room key from where Henry had dropped it last night. It was only as he swung the door open, light swarming into the room, that he noticed it. Smudges, distinct and purposeful, striped across the mirror opposite. 

Dean turned to the glass, bag falling with a thump to his feet. He pressed his hands to the wall on either side of the mirror, letting out a long breath. 

There, in a messy scrawl, were the words, "Nothing stays forever. But things don't usually leave forever, either. Not around here."

Dean's lips made something almost like a smile.