A/N: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this chapter, and presumably any others in the near future. Enjoy!
No one ever thought of Dean's drinking as a problem; it just sort of lingered over them, like a white, fluffy cloud, ever-present, but never really affecting anyone. That is, until the brisk April morning when, after a long night out, Dean stumbled in at some ungodly hour, stinking of booze, stumbling, slurring and bleeding. Bleeding everywhere. It was then that the previously white, fluffy cloud became a grey storm cloud. Most of April continued as such, with Dean stumbling, slurring, and stinking of booze. Nobody talked about it, at least, not until May, when after a trip to visit his girlfriend Jessica, Sam found Dean passed out on the floor, surrounded by bottles. It was then that they decided that something had to be done. So on the fifteenth of May, the gang, which consisted of Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Mary and Kevin, decided they would hold an intervention. So when Dean came home that night from his job at the Auto Shop, they were waiting for him.
Castiel sighed as he flopped down on the bed. He had been at the Serenity Recovery Facility for approximately 18 weeks and his stay was almost up. Honestly, though, he was starting to enjoy the place. It had plenty of activities to keep him busy, and a pool, which was where he spent most of his time. He had even made some friends, which he hadn't been able to do at home. His parents had flown him halfway across the country to go to supposedly the best rehab place in the country, but Castiel suspected that they just wanted to get rid of him. They never came out to visit him, anyways, which wasn't much different from home, where they ignored him. And they wondered why he turned to drugs.
Dean fumbled with his keys as he tried to open the door, dropping them about three times before he successfully got them in the lock and opened it. He closed the door behind him clumsily and stumbled into the kitchen, where the lights were on and everyone he knew stood in a half-circle anxiously. Then Mary said the words no one - especially not an alcoholic in denial - ever wants to hear:
"We need to talk."
Castiel had the best night's sleep he'd had in weeks, or so he thought. The clock next to him disagreed, however, blinking neon-blue numbers at him: 4:13. How could that be? He thought as he opened the curtains to the small window next to his bed. He squinted slightly as the day's first rays of sunlight streamed through the dusty glass. He blinked groggily and rubbed his eyes as he flopped back onto the bed, spread eagled. He sighed and closed his eyes in a half-assed attempt to sleep. After a few minutes of not really trying to sleep, he stood up and padded over to his dresser, opening the drawer that contained the majority of his clothes. There wasn't much to choose from, clothing wise, and Castiel didn't care about his appearance, so he pulled on the first t-shirt and pair of jeans he grabbed, and a pair of plain, white socks. He pulled on his clothes and attempted to tame his messy hair, but to no avail. He shrugged on his coat as he stepped outside his door into the carpeted hallway and slipped on his shoes, grabbing his swimming trunks and a towel as he walked outside.
A/N: Thanks for reading!