Synopsis: Challenge on Tumblr to rewrite an episode. I picked 4x01, Lazarus Rising.
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It's been four months since Dean has been gone, and you still can't sleep an entire night without the visions of him being ripped to shreds had you sitting up in your bed, sweat beading on your forehead. You couldn't close your eyes without hearing the horrific screams as the hellhound dug into his skin, while you stood by, unable to help him as his life slowly faded away.
Sam had faded away from your life, immersing himself in hunting, leaving you floating, never really knowing what to do. Alcohol became your best friend, and you often had a bottle beside your bed, not that you slept much to begin with. Life had no meaning for you anymore, and neither did hunting. Nothing mattered except for the fact that Dean was gone, and you were all alone once again.
As you lay there, on another dreary afternoon, a bottle hung limply from your hand. A couple more littered the floor of your hotel room, and the TV had turned to some annoying soap opera. But you didn't care. Your gaze was on the nightstand, and the picture of Dean you had carefully placed there. It was the only thing you owned that you cared about, and you kept it close to your heart.
"Miss, you need to pack up and leave!" The housekeeper yelled, pounding on your door. "Your room's been up a day already! Either pay, or we'll call the cops!"
"Go away!" You yelled, chucking the bottle at the door. It hit with a dull thud, not even giving you the satisfaction of shattering. The chain rattled as she tried to open the door, but soon she gave up, leaving you alone in your misery.
Sighing, you stood up, stumbling towards the bathroom. Running into the table, you glanced down at the gun sitting there, teasing you. Picking it up, you made your way into the bathroom, staring at the person you no longer recognized. Your once shiny and long hair hung in tangles down your back. You couldn't even remember the last time you took a shower or brushed it. Your face was dull and greasy, with dark circles under your eyes. Your clothes hung on you, your once curvy body now lean, almost too skinny from lack of nutrition.
Glancing down at the gun in your hand, you knew you could do it. You could end this façade of a life, and end up with Dean down in hell. It had to be easier than this life you were living now. Anything would be better than this pain you felt deep in your soul.
Trembling, you lifted your hand, holding the gun up to your temple. Telling yourself it was the best way. Nobody cared about you now. Not Bobby, definitely not Sam. He hadn't contacted you since the horrible incident, and you wondered if he was even alive. With tears streaming down your face, you released the safety on the gun, your finger slowly moving to the trigger.
Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath, when your phone rang. A sound you hadn't heard in weeks, if not over a month. Wavering between ignoring it, you finally sat the gun on the counter, stumbling your way back into the room. Reaching for it, you almost fell over onto the bed as you glanced down at the number. "Bobby?" You answered, your voice hoarse from little use.
