Summary: This oneshot takes place four years after Dean and Cas got clean.

TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of rape

Dean dropped the hood and checked his watch. Bobby had some paperwork to do in his office, and Dean needed to get some work done on the Impala, so Bobby had let him stay late to work on her. It was getting late, and he had just finished up, lowered the lift, and checked her over. He went into the lobby to grab himself a cup of coffee from the machine for the ride home, when the voice from the TV mounted on the wall caught his attention.

He turned around, and his blood ran cold when he saw Al being escorted to a police vehicle in handcuffs.

"Again," the newscaster repeated, "We are showing you footage of Alan Stair, convicted murderer, leaving the courtroom today after being sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole. Stair was brought in for questioning last year after state police received an anonymous tip that he was procuring prostitution. After finding DNA evidence in the trunk of his vehicle, which matched missing Oklahoma teen Darius Ramirez, Stair then confessed to over a dozen other murders taking place between-"

Dean's jaw dropped and the cup he was holding fell from his hand, hitting the floor and sending hot coffee flying everywhere. He turned and ran back out to the bay, practically tossing himself into the car and fumbling with the keys. He didn't even say goodbye to Bobby. He jammed the keys into the ignition and peeled out of the garage, pulling out onto the street and pressing down on the gas.

Twelve people. Al had confessed to killing over twelve people, and nearly five years ago, he was almost one of them. His stomach churned and he had to pull over onto the side of the road because he felt like he was going to throw up. His hands shaking, he flung the car door open before lurching forward and vomiting his lunch out onto the road.

Fucking christ, how many of those were in the last five years? How many of those people could Dean have saved if he'd just said something? An anonymous tip had led to Al finally being arrested. If Dean could have been stronger, he could have marched down to the police station and given them Al's first name, and the make and model of his car. Hell, maybe back then he even could've remembered some of his license plate. If he just hadn't been so weak, if he'd been thinking about anybody but himself, maybe he could have saved some of those people.

Everything he'd endured at the hands of Al came flooding back to him. He felt even worse knowing he'd only spent three weeks with him. How long had some of these other people endured his abuse before he finally snapped and killed them? Was he the only one who had survived?

A car swerved by and honked, so he reached out and slammed his door closed again. He crossed his arms over the steering wheel and lowered his head into them, tears streaming down his face. Why was he so fucking selfish? He should've gone to the police. Their deaths were on his head.

He brought a shaking hand to the shifter and dropped it down into drive, pulling back out onto the road and wiping his face. His hands were rough from working on vehicles, and his cheeks stung as he dragged the callouses across his skin. He started back home, slamming on the brakes and taking a sharp right into the parking lot of the town's small strip mall. He quickly parked the Impala and took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down before going out in public. He could only wait two minutes before his feet were carrying him into the liquor store. He grabbed a bottle of Jack off the shelf, brought it up to the register, and reached for his wallet.

"I.D.," the cashier drawled.

He pulled out his ID and slapped it on the counter. She leaned forward to look at it before leaning back and ringing up the bottle.

He snatched it back up and tried to shove it back into the clear pocket, but his hands were trembling. He ended up just tucking it into the back part with his cash. He slid his debit card out of another slot and inserted it into the machine. After a moment, it asked for his pin number, and he quickly punched it in. Then the machine beeped, signaling it had successfully read the chip, so he yanked it back out and shoved it in with his ID.

The cashier bagged his bottle. "Have a nice night," she said tiredly.

He grabbed the bottle and turned without a word, hurrying across the store, out the door, and back into his car. As soon as the door closed behind him, he pulled the bottle out of the brown paper bag, staring down at it and running his thumb over the label.

He was a little over four years sober, but that was ending tonight.

He cracked the bottle open and brought it to his lips, tilting his head back and taking a long swig. He scrunched his eyes shut at the burn in his throat. He didn't even care if he was arrested for drinking in public. At least he couldn't do anything stupid sitting in a jail cell all night. He re-capped the bottle and dropped it onto the seat next to him. He lit a cigarette, started the car, and pulled out of the spot to start the drive home.

By the time he was a mile away from home, he was already starting to feel it. His tolerance certainly wasn't what it used to be. He still couldn't stop thinking about Al though, so as soon as the car lurched to a stop in the driveway, he twisted off the cap and took another swig. As he lowered the bottle and stared at the house through the windshield, he was filled with dread.

He had to go in there and face Cas now, and there was no way in hell Cas wouldn't know he'd been drinking. He lowered his head, his eyes welling up with tears again. Cas was going to be so disappointed.

Four years sober down the drain. He couldn't have waited just one more day? Even 'til morning, or just an hour. Maybe if he'd just waited an hour, he could've calmed down enough to resist.

But he couldn't control himself, and now he'd relapsed; erased four years of sobriety because of a fucking news clip.

He took another gulp of the amber liquid. It burned less now.

Fuck, why did Bobby have to have the news on? He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. It was so much easier to blame somebody else, but he was the one who'd stayed late. If he hadn't planned on staying late, he would've brought Cujo, like he did every other day. If he had just gone home at the end of the workday-

You can blame it on circumstance all you want. But in the end, it was going to happen anyway. It's because you're weak. Weak, pathetic little Dean Winchester. Could never stand up to your daddy, could never stand up to Al. Sure, you beat some kids up in high school. But when it counts? You run with your tail between your legs.

Fuck. It had been so long since he'd heard that god damn voice, he'd almost forgotten what it sounded like.

Dean took another swig and re-capped the bottle. He took a deep breath, feeling the liquor churning in his stomach and up his esophagus, and pushed open the car door. He slammed it behind him and dragged himself up the driveway. It took him a minute to get his key into the lock, but he finally did, and he pushed the door open, slipping in and closing it behind him.

He didn't see Cas anywhere, but Cujo and Theo immediately ran up to him. Theo jumped on him excitedly but Cujo bean nudging his hands and licking his fingers.

Dean gently swatted his hand to shoo Cujo away. "Go'way, Cujo," he mumbled. It was too late for his help. He might as well take the night off. He took another swig from the bottle, and when he tilted his head forward again and lowered the bottle, Cas was standing in the living room, shock painted on his face.

"Dean-" He rushed across the room towards Dean, his expression changing to worry. "Dean, what happened? Why are you drinking?"

Dean's eyes welled up again, and he started to lift the bottle to his lips again.

Cas reached out and swiftly grabbed the bottle from Dean. "Give me that. Dean, what happened?" he asked, setting the bottle behind him on the kitchen counter.

"They're dead, Cas," he pushed out, his voice cracking. "They're dead an' I coulda stopped it."

Cas' eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "What the hell are you talking about?" He reached out and gently took Dean by both wrists, walking backwards and leading him to the couch. Once they were in front of it, he sat down and tugged Dean to sit down with him.

"Al," Dean said loudly, plopping down on the couch across from Cas. "The guy who fuck- who fuckin raped me," he sobbed.

"Dean, did you see him?" Cas asked quickly.

"No," Dean choked out. "He was- he was on the news. He confessed to murder." He paused. "Twelve people, Cas…"

Dean released Dean's wrists to take his hands in his own. "Dean…"

Dean looked up to meet his eyes. "I coulda saved those people, Cas, if I said somethin'."

Cas looked broken. "Dean, no," he said soothingly. "You can't blame yourself."

Dean took in a shaky breath. Fuck, you're so whiny and pathetic. It would be funny if it wasn't so sad. He shook his head. "I coulda stopped him. If… If I'd gone in, made a report, I woulda been evidence-"

"Dean," Cas said sternly. "That doesn't mean anything. He still could've gotten off. There are people serving less than a year for rape. I will not allow you to blame yourself."

"But-"

"No," Cas repeated. He released Dean's hands, bringing his own up to cup the sides of Dean's face. "Look at me."

Dean brought his eyes up to meet Cas'.

"Dean, there is nothing you could have done. You don't know what would have happened if you'd made a report, okay? You could have been poked and prodded after all that trauma, for them to extract a DNA sample, all for nothing. You don't know. And then he could have come looking for you- he had your address. You did what you thought you had to do."

Dean nodded slowly, lowering his gaze to his lap, where Cujo was lying his head on his legs.

Suddenly Dean's face drained of all color and Cas jumped up from the couch. "Stay here." He bolted off into the bathroom, returning with the small waste bin and thrusting it out to Dean, just in time for him to lurch forward and heave into the can.

Dean threw up a decent amount of liquid, most of it whiskey, which made it's way up his nostrils and burned like hell.

"Fuck," he whined. Why did he do this to himself?

Cas reached down and placed his hand on Dean's back, rubbing in small circles. "Get it all out and you'll feel better." He again disappeared into the bathroom. When he returned, he held two hand towels in his hand. He sat back down and pressed one to Dean's forehead. It was soaked in cold water, and it made him feel a little bit better.

He heaved again and what was left of his lunch came up. Cas held the dry towel out and Dean took it from him, bringing it up to his face to wipe his mouth, his other arm holding the waste basket to his chest.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean murmured.

"For what?" Cas asked softly.

"Fuckin' up," Dean mumbled, closing his eyes.

"It's okay, Dean," Cas said gently. "It'll be okay. I promise. But you can't do this on the medication that you're on. If you hadn't drank so fast that you threw up right away, I might have had to take you to the hospital."

Dean nodded slowly.

"I don't think you should go out alone without Cujo again, okay?"

Dean nodded again.

Cas stood up and walked over to the kitchen counter, picking up the bottle. "I'm dumping this down the drain."

Dean nodded a third time, causing himself to get dizzy, and he wretched into the can again.

Cas re-appeared next to him, lowering himself onto the couch again and setting his hand on Dean's thigh. "I want you to listen to me, Dean." He paused. "I don't want you to let this set you back. Just because you relapsed and had one bad night doesn't mean you have to throw away all of the progress you've made. ...Okay?"

"Okay," Dean said weakly.

"Would you like to lie down?" Cas asked.

Dean nodded, and Cas took his hand and pulled him up from the couch. Dean followed him into their bedroom, clutching the waste bin to his chest with his other hand. As they neared the bed, Cas took it from him and set it down on the floor.

"Get undressed."

Dean vaguely remembered that he'd just been working all day- his arms and hands were probably covered in grease. "But-"

"It's okay," Cas interrupted. "I'll change the sheets tomorrow. Just get some rest." He smiled warmly. "Tomorrow's a new day."

Dean nodded and undid his jeans, dropping them with his boxers and sitting back on the edge of the bed. He yanked his tee shirt off over his head and dropped it onto the floor with his jeans. "Are you gonna lay with me?"

"It's only nine, but I'll stay in here with you."

"Please," Dean said softly.

Cas nodded and left, momentarily returning with a glass of water. He turned the light off on the way in, then walked around to his side of the bed and clicked on the lamp. Cujo jumped up in the middle of the bed, and as Dean lifted the blanket, Cujo climbed underneath with him. Cas held out the glass of water, and when Dean took it, he settled back into the pillows on his side and picked up his book from his night stand.

Dean took a few sips of water and set the glass down on his night stand. He settled down on his back, turning his head to watch Cas. Although he'd thrown up most of the alcohol, what had made it's way into his system was still there, and he was still buzzed.

Cas' eyes flicked over from his book, and he smiled. "Do you feel a bit better?"

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "Thank you, Cas."

"Any time, Dean."

"Thank you for always putting me back together. You keep me sane."

Cas smirked. "I'm pretty sure that's the medication."

Dean grinned sleepily. "Yeah, yeah." He paused, staring into Cas' eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Cas leaned down to give him a quick kiss. "Now get some rest."

Dean nodded and shifted onto his side, closing his eyes. As he drifted off to sleep, he expected to have some nightmares, but he had a small smile on his face because he knew Cas and Cujo, like always, would be there to wake him up.