A/N: I may have a drinking problem. This is pretty much my experiences with drinking, written while drunk and floaty, spun to a Deanish perspective. Because he is the master of masking feels with drinking. Okay, that got too personal!

Setting is season 10, while Dean is dealing with the Mark and all that badness.

Fuck, I can't type worth beans. Thank Chuck for spell check!

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. I am making no money.

Summary: I drink to survive. I drink to feel. And in the end, I'll drink to die.

Whiskey

It's like pins and needles, you know? That feeling when your arm has been asleep, but you don't know because you've lost all feeling in it, and now it's waking up and it's like it's punishing you for almost letting it die.

But it's okay, because at least you feel something.

And what comes before is greeeeeaaaaaaaat. That floaty, free, nothing-really-matters-and-I don't-care-how-stupid-I-sound-I-wanna-sing feeling. Come on, I know you know what I'm talking about.

Shuddup, Sammy, I'm talkin' to the nice people here.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, I swear I'm not an alcoholic. And I know what you're thinking – That's what every alcoholic says… Dean, you need help. But so what? So what if I feel the weight pressing down on me, sending me into sleep when I'm not really tired. That's what caffeine was made for (and so what if I'm adding whiskey to my coffee – don't I deserve a bit of warmth after all I've done?).

I'm not a drunk. I can be sober when I need to be. And I'm always sober when Sam needs me, or Cas, or the whole damn world. It's just… when Sam or Cas or the fucking world is doing okay not fine, it'll never be fine isn't it okay for me to have a drink or two or ten and let it melt away into the warmth and comfort of the pins and needles?

I like the numb that comes, and the almost pins and needles that lets me pretend I can still feel and lets me ignore everything I don't want to feel and I miss you Dad. It's almost as good as the rage that can cover me, wash me in the wet heat of blood and death and freedom… I want to lie down and sleep in the violence and death that has become my life.

I wish Sam would die and leave me to the killing field.

And the pins and needles set me spinning away from that, let me live with Sammy and Cas and Baby and nothing but the open road…

It's nice, sometimes. Having somewhere to come home to. But sometimes, when there's an empty bottle and nowhere to put it, I miss housekeeping. And when there's puke on the seat and around the bowl and maybe a little splashed under my head when I wake up with the imprint of tiles on my cheek, I maybe want someone to clean it up without asking if I'm okay, if I want to talk, if I'm handling the fucking Mark okay.

No, Sam, I'm not. It makes me want to roll in blood and brains and organs. It gives me an itch that can only be scratched with bits of bone. It makes me want to taste your blood, eat your organs, scratch myself with your bones, and I know that would be the cure I need… but I can't live if you're not here, even if all you do is worry and nag and plot behind my back, so please.

Please.

Leave me to my whiskey, and the pins and needles that feel almost as good as my finger on the trigger and a muzzle hard and solid and real in my mouth.

Fuck.