[ Dean doesn’t spend a lot of time in the sunlight room, choosing mostly to spend his free time in his room with his vinyls or in the kitchen cooking, distracting himself from his thoughts by keeping his hands busy.

Now, though, he’s there in the meadow on his back, hands behind his head as he looks up into the moonlit night, stars twinkling above. He tries to count them and immediately fails, giving up and instead allowing himself, for once, to think about the people he’s left behind, the people he’s lost along the way. Allowing yourself to get close to people is always a danger, both here and back home, and he wonders if Luke is alright, if he made it home safe, if he came to terms with the regret he’d had, letting it go and instead allowing himself to move on.

That’s the happy ending, he guesses. Dean isn’t sure he can let go of his regret, it spawns so many things; so many that he’s seen and that he knows are yet to come.

He wonders about his brother, thinks about the last time he saw him, the last things he said. He wonders if Sam will forgive him if Dean manages to fix this, if he rights his wrong and stays in hell on the rack, instead of caving to Alistair, instead of breaking the first seal. He wonders if he’ll be able to forgive Sam while he rots on that rack, tortured and broken, for choosing a demon over his own brother.

He wonders about Castiel, about how he’s alive after he’d been blown to smithereens by Raphael. He wonders, secretly, quietly, if they would have grown closer in the coming years, or if it would all be for nothing in the end, especially now that Dean’s choosing to undo that regret and instead of being saved by an angel, bearing his brand, he’ll stay in hell forever.

Dean stays there a long time in that meadow. You’d almost think he was dead, the way he’s so still, eyes barely blinking as he looks up at the ‘sky’. ]

[ When he isn’t angsting in the sunlight room or sulking in his room, he’s in the kitchen, searching for something to make that’s unique and creative, something that’s good instead of granola bars and rations.

He can be found there on any number of late nights, experimenting with what’s available. Usually, there’s a bottle of liquor beside him, a glass half empty as he putters around, searching for cookware, dishes, whatever he may need. Salt, spice. He doesn’t sleep much, maybe a few hours a night, so he has to find a way to spend his hours somehow.

On any given evening he’s there, apron on, humming Zeppelin and flipping pancakes or burgers or stirring mac ‘n cheese. Whatever’s available. ]

[ A habit he’s picked up from his old man over the years is keeping a journal filled with experiences and sketches, notes on everything he’s been through and how it was handled.

The leatherbound journal in his hands is simple, the pen equally so, but it does the job. He doesn’t need fancy charcoals or colored pencils. He just needs an inkpen and his memory, blank pages and some Zeppelin.

His door cracked, it’s easy to hear the rhythmic beats of John Bonham, the dulcet tones of Robert Plant echoing down the hall, Dean occasionally singing along (hey, he ain’t half bad!) as he sketches and writes, getting his thoughts out of his head and onto paper. ]

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