Summary: Dean likes it when they have a hunt. It's all those nights in between that he can't deal with. Dean angst. Big ole honking slice of it, really. Takes places sometime after Fresh Blood.
"One For the Road"
It's the worst at night.
When they've got a hunt, it's okay. Dean's always been good at channeling his emotional shit into a hunt, pounding the tar out of some evil sonofabitch until it's dead and sure to stay dead. Dean usually comes out of these hunts a little worse for wear, but the adrenaline rush is worth it, and being knocked unconscious? Best night's sleep you can get.
Dean likes it when they have a hunt. It's all those nights in between that he can't deal with.
He promised Sammy he wouldn't close down. Talk, or whatever, do the whole hand-holding shit. But it's a pain in the ass because he doesn't know what to say (how about you're gonna die, Dean, how about you're gonna BURN) and sometimes all he really wants to do is cry, and he's sure as hell not doing that in front of Sam. Like, chick flick moment, okay, but Jesus, he's got limits.
And during the day when he's stuffing his face or driving down the Interstate or finding the best way to piss off Sam, it's not as hard, it's easier to ignore. Not like he ever really forgets, it's just quieter, like
you'regoingtohellyou'regoingtohellyou'regoingtohellyou'regoingtohell.
And he can deal with that.
But at night when Sam's asleep and he's trying to be asleep too, the voice always gets louder, always
you'regoingtohellYou'reGoingToHellYOU'REGOINGTOHELLYOU'REGOINGTOHElL. . .YOU'REGONNA BURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRN, DEAN, foreverandever, you're gonna BURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRN.
It fucks him up. He can't shut it off.
And he doesn't know how to talk to Sam about it.
So, yeah, one night it's worse, because it's talking about Mom and Dad and how they're together and you're never going to see them, Dean, you're going to Hell, and you're going ALONE . . . and it's just more than he can take right then, so he doesn't even think about it when he leaves Sam for the bar. And yeah, he's supposed to not be shutting Sam out, supposed to be dealing with his shit like a good brother, not an asshole, but well, he is an asshole, right? He's pretty sure about that after his fourth shot.
He's also pretty sure that he hasn't had enough to drink. He feels the same way after shot number nine.
There's some missing time, then, maybe a good chunk of it, because he's in some alley somewhere and he really has to piss. He does, zips up, and almost falls face first into a wall . . . which, yeah, may be a bad sign, but he still wants to be more fucked up.
Because he's still conscious. And if he's conscious, he ain't drunk enough.
He stumbles into another bar and flashes enough money that they serve him anyway. Pretty sure he gets kicked out of that one . . . but he's still fucking awake.
Not sure where he is, exactly, what road or city or, fuck, if he's even standing. It's like there are three or four worlds just spinning around him, and he tries to pick one, but everything's going too fast.
He hears a voice that he can't recognize and guesses, "Sammy?" just because.
"Jesus, Dean," and yup, that's Sammy. Only Sammy can say, "Jesus, Dean" like that. Dean tries to grin at Sam, but he can't even see him, although he can sort of feel something pulling on his arms.
Then it's up (apparently he wasn't standing, just sort of crawling around some deserted road somewhere) and Dean's back to falling over again, only Sam's catching him this time. Dean tries to grab on to Sam's shoulder and ends up sort of patting him in the face instead. "Sam? Think I need a drink."
Sam snorts. "Dude. I don't think even can drink at this point. Come on." And then Dean is sort of being dragged somewhere, and it's really not fun. Dean whines and Sam ignores him; Sam's being even bitchier than normal. "Man, I need a drink," Dean complains, but Sam won't listen because Sam sucks.
Somehow, they get back to their motel (Dean doesn't remember much of the trip, only that he tells Sam he's an asshole probably at least fifty times) and Sam dumps him unceremoniously on his bed and picks him back up again when Dean falls off of it. "m not that drunk," Dean says, even though he is, sorta. But dammit, not drunk enough.
"Dude, how drunk do you want to be? It's amazing you're still conscious."
"That's the problem," Dean slurs into his pillow. "Always con—consh—thinkin. Always thinkin, can't turn it off."
Because even now, as everything is spinning around him, he can hear burnburnBURNBURN, and Dean tells the voice to shut up. "Shuddup, shuddup, I don't wanna burn."
Sam's face is suddenly there, right in front of him, like, real, close, and he's got big ole weepy eyes, and Dean knows he's making his brother cry again. "Sorry, Sammy," he says, patting Sam's face again. "Didn't meant to—tryin, trying to be good—didn't mean to, to be bad, bad brother, tryin, swear I'm tryin . . ."
He hears Sam swallow but doesn't see it—he must have closed his eyes, sometime, but he can't get them back open. "It's okay, Dean," he hears Sam say thickly. "It's okay. Just go to sleep."
I'm trying, Dean thinks. Didn't I tell you that's the problem? I can't go to sleep, I can't, I can't DEAL with it anymore. Sammy? I don't—you gotta tell me, I dunno. What am I supposed to do, Sammy? What am I supposed to do?
"What'm I . . . Sammy? Sammy, what'm I . . ."
He passes out.
-Fin