Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
Dean knew that he was running out of time.
He had been fine through the summer. He had tried to be fine through the fall. Nearly six months after he made that deal came Christmas. Finally, one bitter January night, it struck him.
I'm going to hell.
It was after midnight, and he couldn't sleep. Silently, he drifted past Sam towards the window to watch the snowflakes fall. They resembled grains trickling through the hourglass.
The snow was pure white as it glittered against the black velvet sky. He realized that he would never see it again. There was a saying, not a snowball's chance in hell.
Dean wondered what would happen. Would he burn? How many demons were in line waiting for him?
This month would be his birthday; his last birthday. He would be dead at twenty-nine. Hunters weren't known for their longevity, but Dean had always considered himself one of the lucky ones.
When spring eventually arrived, its flowers were bittersweet. Dean grimaced when he saw that he had crushed a yellow crocus under his foot; leaving its petals bruised and stem bent.
Callously, Dean kept walking.
Dean wondered if any flowers would grow on his grave.