Author's Note: I realize I forgot to add in the horizontal lines...oopsie! Sorry guys. It's fixed now, and it'll be done in all future chapters. Sorry again!
Dean Winchester was a raging alcoholic and he knew it. If there was ever one thing he'd learned from his bastard of a father, it had been that if you had problems, a decent amount of liquor could make them just vanish for a time, leaving you with only the good things until the effects wore off, and then it was just rinse and repeat. When he was younger he had seriously doubted the truth behind those words, having seen firsthand the abusive mess it turned John into when he had more than a couple of drinks, but it hadn't taken him long to figure it all out, and by the time he and Sam were finally pulled from that house, he'd already developed quite a problem. It'd started as a way to temporarily forget the bitter words drilled into his mind and to ignore the aching pain, but things steadily got worse and over the course of time it'd turned into a complete dependency on the stuff. Even when they moved in with Bobby he couldn't kick the habit, because that just brought back the years of hurt he'd been slowly drowning and he couldn't do that. The old guy never knew, since Dean was careful never to take too much and would always wait until he was out or asleep—he couldn't be woken up even if a train drove straight through his living room, Dean swore—but it'd never just been his secret. Sam knew, had actually known for quite some time, and it seemed to be his life goal to persuade him to stop, to talk to someone about the things he was dealing with.
He'd never been very good with telling his precious little brother no, so he'd relented and told Bobby, who had in turn helped him find someone he could talk to instead of yelling at him like he'd been expecting him to. It was what John would have done, if he'd given two shits about them in the first place. For a while, the weekly visits to the therapist worked. He could tell someone all the things he'd been locking up without fearing that they'd judge him or that somehow his father would find out, and it was like a ten ton weight had been lifted off his chest and he could finally just breathe. The guy was nice to him but never acted sympathetic, which made him so very easy to talk to and Dean was thankful for it. It helped him way more than he'd ever thought it would, and he was able to stop relying so much on the strength of the alcohol, something that of course made Sam and Bobby all the more thrilled. He never quite let go of it completely, still indulging in a drink every now and then for the hell of it, but hey, at least he wasn't using it to dull the pain anymore. Life was looking up after all that time spent in a literal hell.
But of course, things for Dean could never stay in the positive. It seemed to be life's main goal to just fuck everything up for him with the cruelest of twists, some of which were easier to ignore. Flunking out of college due to depression, losing his job to some douche with a degree, his girlfriend being a cheater...those were all little inconveniences, as his therapist had told him once, and he could rather easily look past them. There had been one thing, though, that took everything he'd created for himself and just threw it out the window. He'd made a purpose for himself but suddenly that was all being ripped away from him and it was his own damn fault. It was the first realization he'd made when he woke up in that hospital room after the accident, bandaged and bruised, and the only thing he'd been able to think since then was that it should have been him, that it hadn't been fair at all for that to happen. It's not your fault, Dean's therapist had told him, but oh, it so was. Everything was, as John had told him all those years ago, and this certainly wasn't exempt from that. It hadn't taken long for him to fall back into that downward spiral he'd narrowly escaped before, but this time, he welcomed it and there was nobody to pull him away again. Even if there had been, he'd never have listened. Dean stopped going to therapy, stopped talking to any of his friends and became withdrawn from the world, and he'd taken to the bottle again, this time worst than the last.
There was only so much liquor at the house, though, so Dean found himself spending more and more time at the local bar, a decent enough place that had a wide variety of wonderful poisons. It began as just a weekly trip but slowly increased until he was there practically every day, aside from Sundays because that was when it was closed. It was a consistent cycle that went on for a number of years before it finally caught up to him. Bobby had been expressing his concerns for a while, telling Dean that he was going to make himself sick, but he'd just brushed him off and honestly, he didn't care if he became ill. It was less than the punishment he rightly deserved. That guilt from what he'd caused had never once left him or dwindled away; if anything, it'd grown far worse, to the point that he was almost considering not waiting for death to come to him. He had nothing to live for, anyway, right? What was the point? His family tried to convince him otherwise, of course, and it was actually during one of those talks that his habits finally came back to bite him in the ass.
"Come on, let's have another drink," Dean pleaded, picking up his near-empty glass of whiskey and downing the remaining sip. Or maybe three. He'd developed such a tolerance that it took a hell of a lot more to get him even buzzed, so three would be next to nothing for him, maybe just enough to dull his senses a bit more and get rid of the damned headache that had settled in about half an hour ago. Bobby, who had taken up his usual seat across from him in the booth, raised an eyebrow at him skeptically, and Dean just rolled his eyes. The guy rarely drank anymore, maybe because he was still trying to get Dean to quit, not that it really worked. This was what he wanted—to either die right there, or to drink himself into a stupor until his time came and he received what he deserved. Why was that so hard for people to understand? "Oh, don't be a bore."
"I think you've had enough," Bobby told him seriously, leaning a bit further forward on the table, reaching out to take the glass away from him and ignoring the scowl he received. Oh well, it wasn't like Dean couldn't just order another drink from the bartender; he could have the glass if he really wanted the thing. That wasn't going to stop him. It hadn't so far, anyway. "You've been at this what, a good two years now?" Technically longer, since he'd started when he was about twelve, but he wasn't going to mention that because he really didn't think anyone aside from Sam and himself had ever known. He didn't want him to start insisting that he had caused some damage and forcing him to go to the hospital. Dean had always hated those places with a burning, fiery passion, and avoided visits at all costs. "You can't keep doing this to yourself...you're gonna do some real damage, Dean. I've seen it happen, it's not good. C'mon, we can get you help—"
Dean barked out a short laugh, shaking his head and coughing into his hand, a rather disgustingly wet sound. The weather was starting to turn quite bitter; maybe he was catching a cold or something? All the more reason for him to just not leave the nice, warm bar, he supposed. "I don't want help, Bobby," he snapped, "from you or anyone else. We tried that shit once, remember? You saw how that one turned out." He gestured to himself with a dramatized sweep of his hand. Actually, it hadn't been the therapy that had made him turn to this; it'd just been his inability to cope with things like a normal human being would. Why he couldn't just go have a good cry and be fine was beyond him. "What I want is for you to butt out. You're not my father, so quit acting like you are damnit! It's my life; this is what I choose to do with it! I've got no reason to fight it anymore."
There was a long moment of pause after he'd shut his mouth, his harsh words clinging to the tense air between them. It was cruel, he knew that, and Bobby had never been anything but good to him and Sam, but it was just easier this way. If he disliked him, then he wouldn't be sad when Dean died. He wouldn't be leaving behind the kind of hurt that could destroy a person from the inside out, eating away at their very core until the darkness of death reached up to claim them, something that by that point was a mercy. It was a vicious cycle and Dean actually regretted saying he'd been swept up in it. As corrupt as his mind had become, some part of him still cared enough to be the last one to fall prey to such a thing. He'd go down without a fight, even if it meant everyone around him vanished one by one until there was nothing left, no loose ends that would have to tie themselves up.
Finally, Bobby spoke again, a defeated expression coming over his visage, his eyes revealing just how tired he really was. "You remind me of him now," he stated, and he didn't even have to say the name for Dean to know exactly who he was talking about: John Winchester. He'd been a good guy once, way back when, but the death of his wife, Dean and Sam's mother, had torn him up so badly that he'd turned to alcohol abuse, which in turn created the drunken bastard he'd come to know and love. Okay, maybe that whole love thing was bullshit, but it certainly was familiar. "After your mom, he just...gave up. I swear I've never seen a man so taken with the bottle before, but now there's you. Dean, I get that you're still torn up over this, but this is too far. You're becoming just like him..."
Dean almost couldn't believe his ears. He was becoming like John? No, fuck no. They were nothing alike! "Who the fuck do you think you are?" he hissed, curling his hands into tight fists and swallowing thickly, ignoring the way his stomach churned. "Comparing me to that—to that bastard! I am nothing like him, nothing, you hear?!" He was nearly shouting now, pushing himself up on unsteady feet so that he could glare down at the older man, who just watched him warily as he swayed a little. He was tipsy, but he could get himself home without assistance. His lungs burned a bit, his throat feeling kind of unnaturally slick, and now all he wanted to do was get to a place where he could get some allergy and cold pills to avoid being bedridden. He wanted nothing to keep him from his goal anymore, neither person nor force of nature. "I'm—going home—alone," he growled when he could catch his breath between sickly sounding coughs, something that earned him concerned looks from more than just Bobby. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if the whole bar was looking at him now. Maybe he'd find somewhere else to go. "And I don't...don't..."
For a second, he felt really lightheaded, reaching up with one hand to press his fingers to the center of his forehead like he would to ease a headache, watching the world around him spin violently. Maybe he was drunker than he'd originally thought? Three bottles of strong liquor was kind of a large amount, after all. He'd had more, though, so it just didn't explain why his knees buckled under him and sent him crashing to the ground as if they were just too weak now to support him. It didn't explain why he'd been feeling so sickly the past few months, or why he now felt like his insides were being twisted around a fork like they were nothing more than pliable noodles. And as he knelt there coughing, his eyes watering as he watched the floor below him become speckled with a brilliant red, some part of him knew that this was just it. That he'd finally pushed himself to his limits and couldn't go any further. It was a truth now he couldn't avoid, and one he actually welcomed. Dean was dying.
He was only vaguely aware of the voices around him, mutterings of his name vanishing as the blood rushed in his ears, his swimming vision distorting the images around him, but he could honestly say that he didn't really care. This was what he wanted, what he'd been trying to accomplish, though he'd never thought it would hurt so damn much. Everyone said death was peaceful, like a calming darkness that just overtook you, but that'd been a lie. Maybe he just didn't deserve the peaceful kind of leaving, though. It was like karma for what he'd caused all those years ago. His brother hadn't had an easy going, after all, so why had he ever thought his would be any different? Pain, suffering, a drawn out end...it was no less than what he'd earned himself. Dean welcomed unconsciousness, if only to escape all the concerned faces and overbearing noises for a brief moment, foolishly hoping that he just wouldn't have to wake up again and face the world that held no purpose for him anymore. There was nothing for him here; only his own personal Hell called his name now.
Beep...beep...beep...beep...beep...
The first thing to break through the nice, dark veils that had surrounded Dean was this high pitched beeping that he was pretty sure could only have come from the deepest pits of Hell itself. It was bearable at first, but before very long it was the most annoying thing he'd sworn he'd ever heard in his life, and no matter how hard he willed it to stop, it just wouldn't. His head was throbbing and that damned noise wasn't helping matters in the slightest. For the first time in forever Dean wished he had those stupid earmuffs his mother had gotten him ages ago so he could block everything out again. He didn't, though, so his next thought was that he'd have to stop it himself. It was probably his alarm; he didn't remember setting one, but he'd been awful drunk last night and couldn't remember a whole lot, so he'd probably gone home, set an alarm, and then crashed for the night. That'd certainly explain his headache as well. With much coercing, Dean finally managed to crack open his eyes, immediately squinting against the harsh white lights above him and groaning softly. Well, he tried to groan, though it really turned into more of a pathetic sound in the back of his throat.
His throat felt thick, like it'd been filled all the way down with some kind of molding plaster or something equally horrid that made it impossible for him to pull in a breath, no matter how he tried. It was weird, though, he didn't feel like he was suffocating; in fact, it almost seemed like something was pushing air into and sucking it out of his lungs. Now, Dean was far from an expert in anatomy, but he was pretty sure that something like that wasn't natural. Maybe he should have panicked about then, but his mind was far too muggy for him to think straight. He lolled his head to the side so he could find his alarm and shut off that damned beeping and then get a drink or something, but he only came face to face with a rather large machine, one with a little black screen and green line that went up sharply every time there was a beep. Suddenly panicked, he looked to his other side, where he was greeted with a couple IV drips and a machine that had this little compressor on the side, one that expanded with every forced exhale and compressed with every inhale... Holy shit, Dean was in the hospital.
He would rather be lit on fire than even set foot in one of these damned places. He knew that they were made to help people, but that didn't mean he had to like them in the least, so he just never had and now he was in one? How in hell had he ended up here? The last thing he remembered was being at the bar with Bobby, who was badgering him over quitting his addiction before it got out of hand...oh. The pieces suddenly started to fall into place, much in the same way they would with a hangover, but a lot quicker. He was here in this bed because he was dying. All these machines and tubes hooked into him, they were just there because he'd destroyed himself far enough to land himself here. While he knew there was probably good reason for that, he just wanted out, so he set to quickly unhooking anything he could reach. He pulled out IVs with a grimace, watching the blood instantly bead over the little holes they left, and then removed those stupid little sensor patches from his chest, wincing when the beeping sudden turned into a shrill, continuous whine. That only left the damn tube they'd shoved down his throat. He curled both hands around the tube as tightly as he could, which wasn't very much because he felt so weak, and gave it a tug, instantly making a strangled sound of pain. Dean was determined though and prepared to try it again.
About that time the door to his room burst open and a group of people flooded in, freezing for a second when they caught sight of him sitting up and clutching the tube. He mentally cursed them for not coming in a moment of two later, when he would've already been out and homebound. After a moment of awkward staring, a rather large man who reminded him of his brother came over and pushed him back down on the bed, prying his hands away and strapping them down with those leather retaining straps that all hospital beds had. The doctor followed, holding one of his arms still and sticking him with a syringe before she started adjusting the tubing, telling him sternly that "the tube is for oxygen" and that he "needed it right now so leave it alone." He rolled his eyes at her and pouted as best he could, tugging at his restraints a little but giving up when a sudden, heavy exhaustion sapped the remaining strength from his limbs and body. Resigning himself, Dean sank back onto the bed, eyes slowly drooping shut—and in the corner of his vision, over by the door, he swore he saw a very familiar figure, tall and gangly, looking over at him sadly as he slipped back into unconsciousness.
When Dean awoke again, everything had changed. The first thing he noticed was that he was breathing on his own again, all the machinery aside from the heart monitor having been removed while he was out. Steady beeping filled the room, echoing slightly against the walls, but thankfully it wasn't nearly as loud now. Maybe he'd just been super sensitive at that time, because even the bright lighting seemed more bearable. Dean's head still felt like it'd been the battlefield for World War III, and there was a new pain blooming around the lower half of his ribcage. Something told him that was related to the IV he'd pulled from his arm earlier, which hadn't been replaced. The doctor probably figured he'd just take it out again; she was probably right, though as it was, moving wasn't exactly an easy task. His limbs felt like lead, completely immovable no matter how he tried, which seriously sucked because he was suddenly aware of how parched he was. It was like he hadn't had a drop of anything in the past year. He had been in hospitals plenty of times when he was younger, mostly because of his mother, so he knew that there was a nurse call button somewhere on the bed, it was just a matter of finding the damned thing...
"Oh, you're awake," a gruff voice sighed in relief, and Dean nearly gave himself whiplash, snapping his head around so quickly to see who else was in the room with him. To his complete surprise he came face to face with Bobby, who looked absolutely overjoyed to see him. He wouldn't have thought he would have been there, not considering how he'd been treating him back at the bar and he thought to ask him, but the only sound he seemed able to manage was something really scratchy and verging on guttural. Bobby just smiled at him sadly and reached over to grab the large cup off his nightstand, pressing a button on the side of the bed so that it sat him up a bit more, which was probably a good idea since he couldn't hold his own cup and was more likely to just spill the thing. It was actually kind of embarrassing, an independent guy like him needing to be taken care of like he was nothing more than a child, but as soon as the first drop of soothing liquid hit his lips, he didn't give a single fuck as to how pathetic he was, drinking greedily as if it was the last chance he'd ever get. All too soon it was being pulled away from him, Dean uttering a soft sound of complaint and trying to coerce his arms into moving so he could grab hold of it. "No," the older man told him sternly, setting the cup on the table again. He looked over at it longingly. "Too much so soon will just make you sick again."
Again...? Ah, he must have been referring to the bar. That was different, though, and they both knew it. "I don't—care," Dean croaked, cringing at the rough sound of his voice. It hadn't been like that before, and not drinking for a day certainly didn't cause that kind of effect...maybe it was because of all the tubes he'd had in him? Hell if he knew; he was no doctor. "Thirsty."
"I'm not surprised," Bobby said, adjusting his trucker hat and reaching out to press a button just out of his field of view. There was a brief little buzzing sound. "You've been on those machines for days now, Dean." Days? No way, he'd been at the bar just last night, hadn't he...? Sure, he was ill, but was it really so bad that he had to stay? As if sensing his confusion, the older man continued explaining. "I don't know how much you remember, but you got sick at the bar and passed out. We called an ambulance, and they rushed you here. That was...four days ago. The doctors were really concerned; they couldn't wake you up for a while there, and—"
The door flew open again, the female doctor who had tended to him earlier strolling in, clipboard in hand. At first she was just silent, checking the little chart at the end of his bed and taking his blood pressure, jotting down tons of little scribbled notes as he looked him over. "Do you hurt, Mr. Winchester?" she finally asked, a rather snide tone to her voice, like she was mocking him or some shit. He instantly thought up a smart remark but held his tongue, because picking fights right now didn't seem like a grand idea. He simply nodded slowly. "Well, maybe you shouldn't have pulled out your IV drip earlier...we had to move you to shots to keep you from doing it again. Here, give me your arm." Bobby paled a bit at her words, looking over at him worriedly, and it was clear that he hadn't known about Dean's little fit earlier. It made him wonder just how much they'd actually told him about this situation. The doctor grabbed his arm—she was not a patient woman, he learned that little detail very quickly—and stuck him with the needle, ignoring his soft sound of pain. He could feel a cold rush as she pressed down the plunger, injecting him with who-knows-what kind of drug and removing the instrument with expert precision. "Morphine. It'll help to ease the pain. While we wait for that to kick in," she said, tugging over a stool from the corner and plopping down onto it, "let's have a talk." Dean didn't like the sound of that.
"Have you ever heard of chronic liver disease?" the doctor asked them, and they nodded in response. It was what John had landed himself with after all the binge drinking a couple years back. Bobby still kept tabs on the guy just to make sure he was still alive over there; Dean couldn't care less. "Well, then, you may know that it has stages, and only some of them are curable. What you have, Mr. Winchester is cirrhosis, the final stage. I'm honestly surprised that it wasn't noticed sooner than this; it takes years to get this far and most people have symptoms like jaundice, excessive pain, bruising and bleeding...but you, you had none of those, according to your medical records. Check-ups all showed you to be in perfect health, minus the alcohol addiction. It's weird, for it to be so advanced..." The lady trailed off suddenly, probably realizing that she'd been over there rambling, and she actually looked a little embarrassed, though that only lasted a split second before she was back on task. "The thing is, you're so far into this that we can't do much for you. We can prescribe some pain killers for you, but that's pretty much it. In short, you're going to die no matter what we try to do." Wow, this lady was blunt, but part of Dean liked her honestly. There was no sugarcoating, no false hopes or lies, just the straight truth that there was no saving him.
Dean wasn't really bothered by the news, just shrugging to show his indifference, which earned him a concerned look from both the doctor and Bobby. They'd probably expected him to be torn up over it, to cry and bitch about how life wasn't fair, or to fall on his knees and beg them to help him somehow. No, this was pretty much what he wanted, so there was none of that emotional bullshit. There was a long, tense silence between them until Bobby finally broke it by solemnly asking, "How long?" The lady glanced down at her charts and then Dean, then back again, sighing heavily and informing them that he had, at most, six months left until his body shut down entirely. Six more months of waiting...maybe he could cut it down to three if he kept up his binge drinking.
"Well!" he exclaimed suddenly, wishing he could clap his hands for emphasis. "Now that we have that outta the way, can I just get my pain meds and get home? Got some work to catch up on, I should really—"
"No." The doctor looked over at him sternly and he scowled. What the hell did she mean, 'no'? He was a grown ass man, they couldn't hold him here against his will, and even if they could, he'd just climb out his window and leave. He had important business waiting for him, and its name was alcohol. He opened his mouth to complain at her, but she silenced him before he got the chance and continued. "Alcohol abuse is the reason for your disease, Mr. Winchester—" she had to stop calling him that, he wasn't his damn father "—and I don't know if you're aware or not, but that constitutes as an attempted suicide, and I am legally obligated to hold you until I'm sure you're not a threat."
"Hold me, huh? Well c'mere then." Dean finally managed to get his arms to move, extending them weakly as if to offer her a hug. She narrowed her eyes at him, pressing her lips into a thin line. He was testing her patience, he knew that, but frankly, he didn't give a shit. Let her get mad; what could she do? Yell at him? Yeah, he'd grown up with that kind of thing, so it didn't bug him anymore.
Bobby started to say his name warningly, but the doctor cut him off, that cool, snide appearance she'd originally had returning to her face. "No, thank you, I'll pass. Don't worry, though, you'll have plenty of time for hugs from the others in the psychiatric ward, where you'll be staying on suicide watch until further notice. Doctor's orders."
That took a moment to sink in, but as soon as it did, the playfulness simply washed out of him, leaving raw aggravation. There was no way she was serious, because he wasn't crazy! Spastic, maybe, and unpredictable, but his mind was stable. He didn't go around making flower crowns and singing, or whatever it was nutcases did in their spare time. "You're kidding me," he growled angrily, digging his fingers into his blanket. "I've got to stay in the damn psycho ward?"
