A/N- I don't own anything. Unfortunately. That much hasn't changed since the last time I uploaded.

He's not quite sure how he got to this position, but he's lying in the backseat of the Impala. On his stomach. The side of his face pressed into the worn leather, his skin catching and sticking uncomfortably. One arm bent at some God-awful angle against the back of the seat and the other trailing on the floor, his legs sprawled haphazardly against the closed door and the back of the driver's seat.

His back is screaming at him, but he's strangely content, like he's melted into the seat and he never really wants to move again.

Because when he moves not only will his entire body snap into a hundred pieces, but he will have to face reality.

The reality that he screwed up. Again.

He screwed up and got Sam's collarbone broken (and quite frankly, they were lucky it wasn't his neck) and now Cas isn't talking to him because Dean'd snapped at him to stop whining, and if you hadn't gone and lost your freakin' angel mojo we wouldn't be up to our ears in the crap to begin with.

And as an extra-special on-the-house level of crap, they hadn't even managed to destroy the cursed clock that was responsible for the angry, violent, and incredibly vicious spirit that had so not turned out to be just a simple salt-and-burn, and now said clock had moved half-way across the country with its new owners because Dean hadn't gotten to the auction house in time, presumably taking the spirit with it, and so now they have a four-hundred mile drive to look forward to as soon as Sam comes back with dinner.

Dean sighs.

All he wants to do right now is peel off his dirty jeans and torn t-shirt and stand under a hot shower until the scalding water turns his chest red and dissolves everything that's crap about his life, and then drink a few beers, eat a burger, and sleep for a week.

But first he has to dig himself out of the gigantic shithole he's somehow landed himself, his brother, and Cas in.

Dean sighs again, and digs his face into the seat.

He doesn't want to do this. He would rather do anything else than drive to Detroit and burn a stupid clock.

But he does. As soon as Cas gets back from the bathroom and Sam gets back with dinner, he will start the car, pull off the curb, and press his foot down on the accelerator as they speed down the highway, driving one-handed with a burger in the other. He will find the clock, cover it in salt and lighter fluid, and drop a match on it. And then he will start again, check into yet another cheap motel, trawl through newspapers and police scanners, find something else to kill.

He does, because he has to.