Hello everyone. Had a really stressful and craptacular day today so this little ditty is a result of that. Thanks to all who read.

As always I own nothing to do with SPN.

It doesn't stop. Ever.

It's constant and irritating and he feels like he can't breathe.

He's suffocating in it.

Day after day.

Hour after hour.

Minute after minute.

Second after second.

It never leaves him.

He's coated with it. His blood is infused with it; the vacuum where his heart used to be is pumping it through his veins.

Despair.

Anger.

Guilt.

Just one day. Is that too much to ask?

One day where he doesn't have to think, or hurt, or feel?

He longs for just one day to go smoothly, where no one dies a bloody death, where the closest person to him on the planet isn't one hallucination shy of a total and complete psychotic break.

Please. Someone. Anyone.

Just one damn day.

The alcohol doesn't help anymore.

Neither does sex.

Or food.

That bastard was right. Seems so long ago that he looked him in those cold, dead eyes, but the words still ring true as they rattle around in his head. He was right, the filthy son of a bitch.

He is already dead. He is filled with a hole so gaping wide; so black and poisonous that he may as well be bit and turned into one of the damn creatures he hunts.

At least then he would have a purpose, as fricked up as it may be.

Because right now, he ain't sure if he has a reason to be anymore.

Everything is gone.

Everyone is gone.

He shouldn't still be here.

He shouldn't be breathing.

He shouldn't exist.

Neither of them should.

Yet here they are.

Living.

Breathing.

Surviving.

Dead inside.

The End.