A/N I'm finally getting back onto the metaphorical writing horse. A one-shot seemed like a good way to accomplish that. I felt all sorts of feels while watching Mother's Little Helper, but what really struck me was how Dean was drowning himself in drinking. This is what spilled out of my brain. Alcoholism is a thing. A not-so-good, very bad, evil thing. Whoops. ~Sammy
poison we cauterize, nectar we burn
He drinks.
His hands shake, and the whiskey sloshes against the sides of the almost-empty bottle.
It's not even four, and he's already three quarters of the way to blackout drunk. Fantastic. Opening up another bottle would be an amazing idea, Dean. Go ahead. Drink some more. You liver is totally going to send you a fruit basket as a thank you someday.
(And maybe he was way more drunk than he thought he was, if his inner monologue was starting to sound like Sam.)
He drinks.
drink and drink and drink until you can't string together the words to a sentence you know.
drink and drink and drink until your vision is shot to hell and your breath smells like a brewery.
drink and drink and drink until you fall over and pass out. break down. fall apart. drink.
(The can of kerosene's been flung across the graveyard, somewhere in the depths of the pervading darkness; and there's a ghost, with its head twisted at an angle that left its spine pushing up against pale skin and a length of rope hanging off it's bruised throat, that's got it's hands around Sam's neck, pressing him up against a tree. He can't remember anything except a seventh grade science lesson, alcohol is an accelerant, and the flask of jaeger he had in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, pours it all into the gaping maw that is the bastard's grave, drops his lighter in. The ghost's gone with a shrill screech, Sam collapses to the ground, heaving deep heaving breaths, and he can't take his eyes off the fire that's roaring up from the ground, like Dante's outermost circle of Hell.)
He drinks.
(He wonders if he could pour his blood into a grave, instead of lighter fluid. If he could set that on fire instead.)
He drinks.
('Alcoholism under the pretext of research, Dean? How much longer are you going to keep trying to be like dad?' his inner Sam says. Well. Screw him. What does he know. He researches better when he's got a beer or two in him. Obviously.)
He can't see the words in front of him anymore, couldn't see them a Jack Daniels and a half ago. Firewater fills his eyes with fog, heavy and sweet and cloying. He pushes his files away.
He drinks.
He holds his favorite lighter to his forearm. Watches the flame lick angry red not- scars. Tries to burn the mark straight off.
alcohol is an accelerant
The mark doesn't even blister.
He drinks.
Remembers Crowley saying he was Cain and Cain was he, and the mark was a burden that he had to carry. That he chose to carry.
He remembers Sam, burdened right from the start.
i'm taking this curse, and trying to make it into something better
He drinks.
Reaches for a knife, pretends it doesn't feel wrong in his hands, pushes it against his skin, drags down out forward.
Get it out get it off I don't want it.
The mark doesn't even chink.
He drinks.
Pretends, every time he reaches for the bottle, that he isn't wishing he was reaching for the blade, his blade, instead.
He drinks.
A/N So. That was weird. I don't even know how I feel about this. Meh. Let me know what you thought in a review? Reviews are apples for the metaphorical writing horse! :) ~Sammy