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Most people thought Dean was exaggerating when he told them he only got about four hours of sleep most nights. He wasn't.
To Dean, sleep was a necessary evil. He knew he needed it to keep his reflexes sharp, to help heal bruises and torn muscles, to give his brain time to recharge. But if someone had walked into their motel room and handed him a pill that made it so he'd never have to sleep again? He'd have tossed it back without a second thought.
It wasn't something they talked about a lot, but Dean and Sam both had nightmares. And who could blame them? If nightmares were the cost of saving the world, so be it. But Sam didn't seem to fear sleep the same way Dean did. Given the opportunity, Sam would take eight hours of shut eye no problem. It was the same way he was about salad—it wasn't good, but it was good for you, so Sam did it.
But four hours, well, with a little Hunter's Helper Dean could muscle through four hours.
Sam had fallen asleep almost they moment they got back to their room. He'd barely gotten his boots off and thrown his shirt and pants on the floor before collapsing on his bed. It had been a particularly exhausting ganking that demon and Sam had taken most of the abuse as they had pinned the bastard down. Still, Dean was a little irritated Sam hadn't even stayed up for a beer—or at the very least a freaking shower—before going to sleep.
It was only midnight. Dean needed to wind down, and it would be hours before he was willing to try to sleep.
Dean briefly considered leaving Sam a note and heading out for a nightcap, before remembering they were working in a dry county. Sonofabitch. At least he had some whiskey in his bag. He always had whiskey. The three things Dean needed for survival were whiskey, his gun and holy water, and he figured he'd probably make it okay without the last two longer than he would without the first.
Dean pulled the fifth out of his duffle bag and threw it on his bed, searching for the glass he knew was rolled up in a clean t-shirt somewhere. He certainly wasn't above drinking straight from the bottle, but Sam tended to give him those Bambi worry eyes when he caught Dean doing that. Dean figured a toad was a toad, but if a glass made Sam feel better about Dean's drinking, he'd use a damn glass. It was the same reason he drank beer, even though it barely even took the edge off. If Sam saw Dean drink a whiskey with lunch he'd worry, but beer he barely seemed to notice.
Glass located, Dean moved to the rickety table in the kitchenette and poured himself a belt and then another before sitting down across from the bottle. Dean could barely remember the last time he'd been truly drunk. Maybe he couldn't get drunk anymore. He knew from experience he could drink half this bottle and as long as he chewed some gum Sam wouldn't have any idea.
Getting drunk wasn't the point, anyway. Dean drank because it was part of his ritual. It helped him keep everything as deep down as he could shove it. Put everything in the box. Burry the box. Drown the box.
Dean poured himself another glass.
Three hours and four more drinks later and Dean was considering calling it a night. He'd passed the time like he usually did- surfing the web, looking for a case. He felt better when he had a problem he could solve in front of him. Something to focus on. It helped silence the parts of him he had trouble numbing.
He poured himself another glass—if seven was good, eight was better—and went into the bathroom, pulling his boots off along the way. He closed the door and sat his glass on the ledge of the shower and turned on the water, stripping off his clothes as steam filled up the room and fogged the mirror. The was part of his ritual too. Dean didn't like to see himself in the mirror—not at night, not when he'd been alone with his thoughts for a few hours. As much as he'd needed to cultivate it, he hated to see the deadness in his eyes—the byproduct of the walls he'd spent so much time building.
Dean got under the nearly scalding water, wincing. He knew this was another thing Sam would worry about, if he knew. He'd go all armchair psychologist and suggest Dean was trying to wash away things that couldn't be washed off. Hell, Sam could no doubt relate to the feeling, which is why it would worry him so damn much. But this was another thing on the long list of things Dean didn't think about, especially before bed.
Dean didn't think about his mental health, or Sammy's. He didn't think about his father, he didn't think about the world, or demons or people that died. He didn't wonder if his hands would shake if he didn't drink every night, or if he'd made a mistake saving Sam. Most of all, he didn't think about how the hell he'd make it through another tomorrow.
Instead, Dean thought about music. He though about when he needed to give the car another oil change, or his top ten favorite movies. When he was really tired, sometimes he just counted tiles. Dean rinsed off the soap and turned off the water and dried off with one of the threadbare towels. He finished his glass and rinsed it out, setting it on the sink to dry. He'd be up before Sammy saw it anyway. He brushed his teeth—whiskey and toothpaste don't mix, but Dean had gotten used to the taste ages ago.
Dean turned off the light and made his way to his bed. Sam was still sound asleep and Dean hoped he was dreaming about something nice. Dean found his gun and made sure it was loaded before slipping it under his pillow.
He used to sleep with a knife.
Dean set his phone alarm for four hours. Four hours was how long it would take for the whiskey to work its way from his system. Eight glasses bought him quick sleep and four hours of very little dreaming.
On bad nights—really bad nights, not like tonight—the whiskey wouldn't do either job. But tonight, at least, Dean fell asleep easily.