Work Text:
Cure All Alcohol
It was a late night, and there was a lot on his mind. But when wasn’t there? When wasn’t he thinking about every single thing he’d done up to this point in his very long, albeit short-lived life? Well, the answer was simple. When it got to became too much he distracted himself. Alcohol. Booze. Women. Tits. Waitresses and short skirts, heels and toned thighs. That was always a good distraction for him. Women for when there was no booze, booze when there were no women; and, if he really didn’t want to think about anything? He’d have both. He’d drink himself to a stupor, be approached by the cutest skirt, and then be on his way to the nearest seediest motel on the corner. He’d pull her close, wrench that fabric upwards and yank her garments down, bury himself into that warm heat and lose himself. The emotions that came would rush through, a waterfall plethora; his mind would be in a tizzy, and he’d clumsily close the distance between them and kiss her. His thoughts would be dulled, his body somewhat numb, but he’d still be able to feel her soft, willing body against his…
Everything would stop mattering to him in that moment, his rights; his wrongs. Dreams and nightmares, hopes—what hopes?—and everything would be alright. The people he had wronged over the years would be forced into the recesses of his mind. Those people and things that scratched at the back of his mind would be so far and out of reach, that in those moments, he’d be able to honestly say he felt human again. Release would eventually come, euphoria would ease his tensed muscles, and he would be in bliss. Sleep would come a lot easier to him.
But then morning would eventually come. He’d wake up. His morning greeting: An empty bed and an even emptier room, and the barest hints of feminine perfume in the sheets, and it’d all come crashing down upon him again.
He would start thinking again. They’d start to float up from the bottom of the ocean where he’d tucked them away the night before, and make themselves known. He’d let too many people down, killed, destroyed, maimed, and all for the safety of mankind. He wouldn’t look at himself, as he’d get dressed to meet back up at the motel he and Sam were staying at. Because he’d been too drunk to get back the night before, he was sure Sam was up and about, readying everything for them to get the move on. He couldn’t look at his reflection, because he knew what he would see. Death and horrors clung to him, like a second skin almost. Nails in his hands and feet, hooks in his flesh, scratches and gashes that still clung to him to this day. Even though his flesh no longer held those scars, it was still there in his mind.
When he was in Hell they treated him like their personal Jesus. Dean had read the Holy Bible, not completely, but he’d tried. First it had been chunks and pieces, a verse here and there, the bread and butter of his job. Eradicating demons, the other stuff didn’t matter. It honestly didn’t really make sense to him, but Latin infused words had an effect on the enemy, and he clung to those with a passion. But that didn’t mean he believed. After all, it was merely the prattling of madmen. Angels didn’t exist; God’s son died and was resurrected. Whoop-de-fucking-do.
He didn’t believe in any of it, because that’s how Dean Winchester was. Unless he could see it with his own eyes and touch it, he would only see it as an elaborate pipe dream for the masses. Demons were real, ghosts, vampires, and every creepy crawly you could think of. But angels? They were only a figment, an imagination, and Dean had believed this for years. He believed it when he’d been knocking on death’s door the first time, and he believed when he was dragged to Hell, kicking and screaming because he knew all was lost. Hell was very real to him, he faced it daily topside and 40 years endlessly down below.
Heaven? Heaven was for those that had it in them to pull the trigger and end their sad existences. But Dean didn’t have that in him. He would continue living, bleeding, and killing until he had nothing left. Because honestly, he knew, if it weren’t for Bobby and Sam, the world would be damned. He also knew—Sam and Bobby did too—the moment they were gone, there was nothing to hold him back from biting the bullet. So until then? He’d keep fighting, and continue his drive on that highway. ACDC never sang it better.
Because down below—in that fiery pit, that is—the only things that could hear your screams for help were them anyways.
But someone did hear him, after all that time spent there, after all the pokes and prods. He didn’t really remember it quite as well as he wanted—he felt he was better off /not/ knowing—but he remembered searing heat. It burned brighter than the flames that surrounded him. Like multiple pokers, fingers grasped his shoulder while he had been in the middle of torturing a weeping bitch begging for salvation. But there was that strong yank, the razor fell from his hand, and next moment he was breathing again, trapped in confined black. He dug himself out, the tough dirt was abrasive against his fingers, and his lungs screamed as he worked, his body slowly waking, questions plaguing his mind. When he had finally breached, he took in a lungful of fresh air—
Castiel.
He rubbed at his temples, using his index and middle fingers on the corresponding sides, his lips pressing together and brows furrowing. He wished…He wished Sam were here and not off doing his solo mission. It almost always seemed easier to deal with things with his little brother around. No matter what they’d gone through together or separately, the wins and losses, even though he knew Sam was his biggest disappointment in life in regards to being able to protect him—his ultimate disobedience to his father—he needed him.
But Sam wasn’t here, so he went on to the next big thing: A stiff drink, and right now. He pushed himself to his feet and made his way over to the mini fridge, rubbing the back of his head and he eyed the contents. Beer, more beer, and half a sandwich he’d eaten earlier today. He didn’t want beer though. Not tonight. He shut the door and stood up straight, his green eyes roving over the small room he was in: Two beds, one bag. /Sam’s not here./ His eyes rest on the small counter area and his lips twitched. Jack Daniels. He grasped the bottle’s neck firmly with one hand and moved back over to the bed. Screw cups right now. He just wanted to get a nice buzz, put his thoughts at bay, and sleep like a baby tonight. He turned on the television with a lazy flick of the remote that was on the bedside table, kicked off his boots and propped his back against the wall. He popped open the bottle and took a long swig until his throat was hot and his body tingled. He lowered it, settling it between his thighs so as not to let it spill, and he rubbed at his neck silently.
The more he drank the better he felt. He tilted his head back and released a slow breath, something likened to a lazy grin spreading over his features. Soon he found his eyes on the spackled ceiling, and his mind began to form shapes from what he saw. He saw wings, he saw claws, Sam wasn’t here, but he was too numb now to care. His fingers loosened on the neck of the bottle. He knows he’s going to regret it in the morning, and as if to make a point of it, he brings the bottle back up to his lips and drinks until he can’t feel his tongue and he’s practically choking. He coughs, sets the bottle off to the side and closes his eyes, the chatter on the television caressing his ears. He doesn’t care, because his memories are muddled. Like this, he can delude himself into thinking that Sam’ll be back in the morning, or into believing he’s not as much of a fuck up as he is.
After all, it was always easier for Dean to lie to himself while under the influence.
-----------Fin----------
