Chapter Text
Dean gripped the steering wheel, staring out onto the endless road stretching ahead of them. They had dropped Harry off at a bus stop a little while ago, and Sam was pretending to sleep next to him.
Ed and Harry's fight was replaying itself in his head, over and over. It was a shock, watching basically the same fight he and Sam had from an outside perspective.
He understood better why Sam was angry. He wasn't going to fight his brother on that anymore.
That didn't mean Dean regretted what he did.
He didn't regret a lot of things--things that maybe he should.
The Mark itched and burned on his arm. Images of himself and Sam, Ed and Harry, were replaced by Roger and his knife. The satisfaction of plunging Roger's own blade slowly and deliberately into his heart. The look in his eyes as life bled from them.
Dean shook his head, keeping his right hand with the wheel while using his left to cover the Mark, as if that would help at all. Nothing helped. He knew the itching and burning would soon fade, but it would come back.
It always came back.
Dean pressed his foot against the accelerator a little harder. The sooner he could get back to the bunker, the sooner he could give Sam the distance he so obviously craved and down a bottle of jack in his room.
Then, maybe, he could forget.