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Tears on Earth

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When Michael returned from Hell he did that in the form of a carefully picked bouquet of the ten plagues. Dress to impress - and, well, Dean had to admit he was impressed. A little bit. It scorched into his mind. The mental image of wine spilled across the sky around an eerily white full moon that floated on steely clouds standing on a forest of lightningbolts. Even a demon could marvel at such aesthetics. What a horrendously beautiful, freaky sight.

An entire district had gone up in flames the same day. It burned for a week after. And yet - hundreds of people had walked out of the fire unscathed. Some had died a horrible death. True hellish footages were shown on TV. It seemed almost as if Michael had missed his earlier estate and so, upon his miraculous escape, his first deal was to redecorate. Not like they could have known it at first. Dean would never forget how Crowley had spent the next two weeks in a constant state of on the verge of hysterics. Paranoid of the unknown…

Dean could relate. He had felt an anxious grip tighten around his guts as well despite the sneer he wore as dust-covered armour made of dragon scales. The constant sharp burn in his nostrils and his lungs didn’t help a bit. Also he wasn’t on top of impulse-control recently, so that could serve as an excuse of his current surroundings.

Partially, at least.

He was sitting under the velvet-heavy smell of spilled blood mingled with the steam curling from the bathroom. Dean had the windows of the motel room closed, careful, to keep the heady scent within. Not for worries about anyone getting suspicious of possible murder – which would exactly be the case – but in order to wash his nose, windpipes and lungs clean of this sickening, burning smell that made him itchy all over. This scent, this lingering smoke he had a hard time tracing back to its origins made it impossible to enjoy his new-found freedom.

The tacky wallpapers had already been repainted with red and intestines – damn, Dean should have gone for interior design instead of becoming a hunter. The owner of said chunks (the pervert manager of the motel, no one would miss him) lay presumably dead and disembowelled on the floor. The soaked through patch on the carpet had almost reached the tip of Dean’s boots.

Right then and there, hair still damp from the shower, Dean came up with a clever plan of revenge. Because even through death and his cool new shades Dean wouldn’t let anyone off the hook for torturing his family. That was his and his job alone.