There was blood on the mirror. It seemed to be staring back at him like an accusation. If you squeezed your eyes shut, you could imagine it being paint. Finger paint, the type Sammy used to like. Dean distinctly remembered countless motels just like this one – weren't they all just like this one? – where the walls had been turned into the canvas his little brother had never had. Faces, trees, animals, and sometimes, words or names adorned the walls. One particular hotel room had Dean's name written all over the inside of the cupboard. In twelve different colours, none of them red. After all, 'Dean' wasn't just the first word Sam had ever said, it was also the first one he'd ever written – Dean himself had made sure of that.

So, now, squeezing his eyes until they were as good as shut, he could almost imagine that the splatter of red on the mirror was not blood – just a splotch of finger paint. It looked almost like a terrible attempt at drawing a face – red angry and accusing. His own face was next to it, pale and drawn. His green eyes offered a stark contrast to the dark red next to it.

There was blood on the mirror. It made Dean want to lash out. It made him want to break the mirror, rip it from the wall and smash it into the wall. It made him want to throw it out the window. It made him want to scream.

There was blood on the mirror. Dean was keeping his tears at bay, holding them back like it mattered. He didn't know what he wanted more; to cry and break down, or to smash the mirror and let everything go. Both seemed very tempting. He did neither. Warm water streamed over his hands, they were starting to get crinkly. Slowly he took them out from under the tap. His fingers looked wrinkled and old. Idly, he wondered what his fingers would look like when he really was old. What Sam's would look like.

Then he remembered that his little brother would not get old.

Because there was blood on the mirror, and he was pretty sure it was Sam's.