Notes: This is a sequel to moby-dicks-bong's fic Comfortably Numb as she is delightful and gave me permission to write this. You'll want to read that first. It's over at her lj.
A thousand miles is a long way.
Dean endures the pain of sobriety only long enough to obtain more beer and then weaves his way back onto the highway. He doesn't remember cleaning out the empties from his trip to Palo Alto. But more than halfway home, he notices that there's a new pile in its place. The cans are dented, clutched too tight by shaky hands.
He won't think about it. He can't. Every time he does the Impala veers to one side or the other and Dean doesn't care, at this point, if he's too drunk to be driving. Maybe it would be better if he just careened off into a tree, if only to just get it over with. And hey, if he lives, maybe Sam will take pity on him enough to visit him in the hospital.
He doesn't notice the blue lights. What catches his attention is the wail of a siren, harsh and angry behind him. Dean takes one look in his rear view mirror and knows that he is utterly fucked.
He doesn't know how many empty cans are in the back, doesn't want to know. One is enough to condemn him, he doesn't want to know exactly how screwed he is.
He stops the car and waits for his downfall in blue uniform, laughing because the only other alternative is to cry.
The holding cell floor is filthy. Sticky with who-knows-what, and if Dean were coherent enough, he would never have allowed himself to stretch out across it. As it is, the screaming in his head and the fiery ache in his gut make the grime of the concrete beneath him rather inconsequential. He spends the night vomiting; does it in the toilet when he can make it, just lets it spew on the floor when he can't.
At least none of the cell's other occupants bother him. He has a corner all to himself.
By morning, he's begging the guard for a drink. His limbs shake, he can't see straight. This is, no doubt, the world's most intense hangover. Dean feels as if he'll split in two, and dignity? Dignity is being too hammered to remember that such a thing matters.
Dean doesn't know how long he spends there, doesn't know how they got ahold of his father; but Dean wakes to a hand fisting in his shirt. In one swift, violent motion Dean goes from horizontal to vertical and the change makes him woozy. He thinks he may throw up again, struggles to pull away from whomever is holding him so he can; until he sees exactly who has hauled him to his feet.
"Dad," he manages, and that's it before his stomach clenches and rebels and he has to turn away, lest he vomit right down the front of his shirt. He heaves for several long, hard minutes, bringing up nothing but bile and then goes slack in his father's grip, panting hard.
John looks at him, just stares for a long time and Dean has to turn away at the look on his father's face. It's unfathomable, Dean doesn't know how to discern one emotion from another because they're all mixing into a volatile concoction of disapproval that manifests itself on his father's face. If possible, that hurts as much as Sam's rejection. If there's one thing Dean has always been desperate for, if there's anything that even came close to the Prime Objective Number One of looking out for Sammy, it's earning his father's approval.
"Dad," he tries again. God, if he'd just say something. It has to be better than that look. Dean can't take it anymore.
There's a snort and the hand releases him, pushing Dean until he stumbles back, almost falls. He catches himself in the doorway of the cell at the last minute and stands there wobbling, staring wide-eyed at his father.
"You're not my son," his father spits out at him, at last, all venom and caustic acid. Dean wishes they could go back to silence because silence didn't make his chest ache and his veins go cold. "Not right now."
Dean feels something hard being pressed into his hands, shoved, really. His father turns and leaves without another word and Dean clutches at the bars in order to hold himself up. He's almost given up trying when the guard whacks his knuckles smartly.
"You made bail, kid. Get the hell out of here." Dean swallows and nods, staggers out the door and hurries to catch up with his father - a kicked dog that still comes crawling back, for whatever reason.
He probably shouldn't be driving. He definitely shouldn't be getting into a car that's sitting in front of a police station. He figures his license is suspended after his adventures in OUIs. But his father had pressed the keys of the Impala into his hand before he'd turned away and that meant he was supposed to follow. It's not like he doesn't have at least six more fake licenses in the car anyway. His baby roars to life beneath his fingers and he's surprised to find that the new pile of empties has been cleared out, and so has the rest of his stockpile.
Five hundred miles to go and not a drop to drink. Dean pulls out onto the road behind his father's truck, head miserably clearer than it has been in months, and thinks that this will probably be the longest drive of his life.
The instant Dean enters the ramshackle house that they've been holed up in for the past month he finds himself slammed up against the wall, breath leaving his lungs in a painful whoosh.
He coughs, lungs aching, head swimming. He needs a drink. He hasn't had one in too long and reality hits him full force, reminds him why he turned to the bottle in the first place.
John has no mercy for him, no sympathy, no respect. Nothing but righteous fury and ultimatums. "I've had enough Dean," he says. Perhaps the scariest thing is that he isn't yelling. He just sounds tired and resigned. "This is the last straw. Either shape up or ship out."
Dean's heart goes cold to think that he might lose his father too. His entire life he's worked so hard to keep his family together and safe. To patch them up when they're hurt, to put his father to bed when he's had too much to drink (look who's talking), to keep Sammy out of harm's way. Now, his only consolation prize is that he gets to watch his entire life unravel in front of his eyes and he's left bare and shivering, devoid of anything he's tried to hold on to.
His father is slipping away too. Or, rather, Dean is driving him away. God, what has he done? Where has he been these last few months?
Dean blinks and John's hand trembles against his chest. An instant ago, Dean had seen a drill sergeant, all business and no nonsense, delivering words that are like physical blows. Now there is only a broken, worried father, weary and fearful of what he has done to his children, for them to end up like this.
"I've already lost one son," his father says, tone faltering like a broken accordion. "I can't lose another. I just can't."
Dean's heart breaks all over. He's done this. Him. God, he's so fucking selfish all the time. Never once, in all this time, has he stopped to think that John might be hurting by the loss of Sam too. It seems so obvious, now.
"Dad," Dean starts, and doesn't even know if he's worthy of calling John that anymore. "'m so sorry, Dad."
He hangs his head, not wanting to see the look on his father's face anymore. And then, he finds himself being pulled into a hug, his father's arms crushing around him until he feels like he might suffocate. It very may well be the most shameful moment of Dean's life, because he knows he doesn't deserve this forgiveness. Not one bit of it.
He buries his face in his father's shoulder and swallows down the lump growing in his throat. Maybe if he could just explain. Are there really any words for that?
He can't think of any that would make this better, that would make him worthy of that forgiveness. Instead he just says, "I jus' miss him, y'know?"
And that is the hard, cold truth. The one that he's been drinking away all this time.
"I know," John says, straightening and clapping his hands down on Dean's shoulders as if to say buck up, kiddo, it'll be okay. It won't; but maybe he can pretend, for his father's sake. "I miss him too."
Well then, Dean thinks, at least he's not alone.