Obviously, I've been spending a lot of time this summer rewatching SPN.

This is a super short missing scene for "The Purge."

With a Smile

The whiskey took its time but it's starting to settle in, now that he's up and moving. Dragging at his feet, making them feel heavy and uncooperative and slowing his steps.

His boot heel scuffs across the concrete and he bounces against the wall, plants a palm and shoves off of the tile, continues a crooked course down the corridor to his room.

They both know he's drinking too much, so even if Sam did give a shit, it's not even a subject worth bringing up.

You go to bed last night?

What he saw was the empty bottle at Dean's elbow, and what he meant was, we're hunting partners and I need to trust that you've got my back out there. Which is sort of funny, because Dean might have told a lie here and there but that's maybe the ONE thing Sam's always been able to trust his brother to do.

But Sam doesn't have a brother anymore, does he?

Dean's head is buzzing with whiskey, but even a whole bottle's not enough to properly muddle these thoughts, and it sure ain't doin' squat for the steady burn coursing through his arm, radiating from where the Mark of Cain rests.

I'll be ready in five.

He flips on the light and goes to the mirror. He looks…well, not his worst, but certainly not great. Wrecked, and wasted, and if this wasn't his little brother, Dean would say he isn't in any condition to be out there working a case. But it IS his little brother, and family might be something Sammy can turn on and off but Dean sure as hell can't.

You sure you're okay, Dean?

Dean drops his gaze from his pale, bloodshot reflection. He gives the tap a twist, cups his hands under a stream of cold water and splashes his face a few times. Leaves the water running, and braces his palms on either side of the sink. Almost immediately, his right hand begins to tremble.

Why wouldn't I be?

It's not exhaustion, and it's not the drinking. It's not even Sammy disowning his ass.

It's the Mark.

The tremor increases, and Dean winces, bends his elbow and draws his fiery, aching arm tight to his chest. Whatever this is, it's getting worse by the day.

He should tell Sammy, that something about this thing on his arm doesn't feel right. But it does feel like a means to an end, and that's really all he needs it to be. A tool necessary to get the job done. No use in turning this into more than it is.

I don't break that easy.

Dean cuts the flow of water with a harsh spin of the tap and pushes away from the sink, puts the ghostly man in the mirror at his back. He takes a pass with a can of spray deodorant, changes his shirt, preps himself to go out and face Sam once more.

There's no use for pretense in the bunker, but when they're on the job, they're on the job. Regardless of what's going on here, Sam doesn't need to worry about his six being covered. He doesn't even need to worry about awkward conversation and long silences.

Do it right, with a smile, or don't do it.

Easier said than done.

Dean drops his head, rubs at the back of his neck. Dammit, Frank.

Everyone who was living, who was carrying on despite the crap they'd seen and been through and been forced to do, everyone who supposed to be setting that precedent and letting Dean know that he could carry on, too – they're all dead and gone. Whether it was wanted or not, he's kept Sammy alive, but he couldn't save everyone.

It's just him and Sam now, but it's not really him and Sam.

I was just being honest.

Copy that.

He can do this. The job. This job, and then the next, and the one after that. One step at a time.

Hands no longer shaking, Dean fixes his collar and spares a glance back at the mirror. He sucks in a breath, then forces the wince pulling at that drawn face to twist into a grin. For the sake of the job.

And after a moment, it almost feels natural.