Dark Is The Hour

As he let the comforting heat of the water warm his cold hands, he looks up at the image in front of him. It's of a man; not old yet it's easy to tell by the lines in his face that life has aged him beyond his years. His jaw line is covered in light stubble and his skin is dirty. Why does he let himself go like this?

And his eyes, they tell a story of hurts, failures, and regrets. His ears have heard lies and half truths by those he loves most; empty apologies; and secrets of darkness and hatred. His nose has smelled the stench of death; has smelled the coppery smell of blood flowing through an open wound; and has smelled the rain storm coming in the midst of a sunny day. His mouth has told the tales of happier and brighter days; has sung a tune to lull a crying toddler into the comfort of sleep; and has let out a deep breath of anger and hurt as he bit back his disdain. His hands have carried people out of harms way; have held tight to a sawed-off in an attempt to rid the world of one more evil monster; and have wiped away the few tears he inadvertently let slip.

He shakes his head, repulsed by this pathetic excuse for a man. The rusty knob squeaks as he turns the water off. As he stands staring at himself in the dirty bathroom mirror, he tries to smile, but only the corners of his mouth rise up. The smile's there, the emotion isn't.

He walks out of the bathroom and joins his younger brother at the worn diner booth they've been occupying for way too long as they made small talk over room temperature coffee and burnt toast.

"Hey Dean, you okay? You were in there for like ten minutes," Sam says with a look of concern.

A faint smile graces Dean's features. "Yeah, I'm fine." He picks up his cup of coffee, glancing out the window as the rain clouds gather overhead, blocking out the light of the sun.