It's hard at first. When you feel like your guts have been stomped all over and shoved back inside you, smiling doesn't come easy. It hasn't for a while. That's okay, though. You've always been a fast learner.

The first step is to contract your zigomaticus major muscle. The second: add a slight squint. Finally, peel back your lips. You got this.

In the mirror, while Sam's still asleep, you practice. First with teeth bared, as big as you can; next just with lips. It's exhausting but you'll get the hang of it.

You make stupid jokes. Sam doesn't laugh. You say, "don't get your panties in a bunch, Samantha." He doesn't smile, but you do. You smile and you laugh and you dig into your duffel for whiskey.

Frank tells you there's nothing anyone can do but wait. Still. You don't complain this time, though. You swallow down the anger and Frank gives you a look that might be approval.

Of course, Sam doesn't want to hang around and wait. Frank doesn't want you to hang around either. There are only so many reasons you can give them for staying before you just sound pathetic and desperate, only so many times you can yell at your brother before you just sound like an asshole. Sam finds a hunt in no time and it's hard to justify allowing a ghost to continue killing kids so you can stare at a computer screen.

Panic furls deep inside of you at the thought of trying to function, trying to focus on a hunt, to not fantasize about killing Dick Roman the whole time. You can't let this on, though, so you happily contort your face toward your brother in the passenger seat. You are okay. You are a professional.

It's apparently not as convincing as you would have liked. Sam raises his eyebrows and asks, "Dean? Why are you making that face at me?"

Chicago is nothing but gray sky and black buildings. The only color you've seen for days is the brown of your whiskey and the red of Sam's blood.

Maybe you've been on hunts worse than this one, but the sight of dead kids never gets any less depressing. The thoughts of if I had done just one thing different, maybe we could have saved the last one never get any less pervasive, no matter how many different reasons you've thought them.

In the car, ready to leave this suffocating shit-hole of a city, pain shoots up your arm, startling you. You realize you're beating the steering wheel. You keep hitting it and hitting it and Sam's hands are on yours, trying to push them down to your sides.

"Stop! Dean, what are you doing, fuck, stop it!"

You wrestle your hands away from his and bring them back up to the wheel, this time only gripping it. A loud, jarring noise interrupts your panting and you realize it's you, you're laughing. You laugh so hard your abs hurt and tears escape your eyes. It's funny.

Wake up. Have a drink. Get in the car. Make a joke. Shoot a gun. Laugh, ha, ha, ha.

It's funny it's funny it's funny. You're okay you're okay you're okay.

Find a place to crash. Check in on Frank. Smile. Drink. Pass out. Repeat.

Sam is pissed at you, but you're not really sure why.

"Goddamnit, Dean," he said in response to a joke you can no longer recall. "I'm serious. Cut it out."

Then you fought, and Sam yelled, and you smiled. The front door slammed. And now you're sitting on the couch with your head spinning, alone in so much more than this shitty, cold house.

You would think that maybe you were bleeding internally if you didn't already know what that felt like. That's pretty funny, you think. You laugh into an empty room and try not to notice how it feels like hemorrhaging.

~Fin