A/N: This was a one-shot I thought up while taking exams. I hate exams. Anyways, this is my first Supernatural fic, so if it's not good I'm sorry…But this is pre-pilot by the way. That's pretty obvious, but whatever.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
As you grasp the no longer cold bottle with your sweaty palms, that still have the remains of blood traced on them, you no longer care about anything. You are just done giving a shit. It doesn't matter right now, it never has. This is the only realization you are capable of coming to in your drunken state. It's also the only one you can never remember.
It's not worth it. You've told yourself that more than once. That's a blatant fact, one you've heard more than enough times from friends who have helped you get into this business. It's not worth it when you've got a five year old and one year old that you have to leave behind each time. You leave them. You think you've found it- gotten closer- to whatever it was that killed Mary.
You're wrong.
You come home and drown out your sorrows in the only friend you think will care at the moment. The whiskey doesn't always taste good, but it gets the job done. That's all you really want. At least something can finish what it's supposed to. And you know the only reason you feel this way is because you fucked up.
It wasn't the first time it had happened. No, definitely not the first. It's so fresh in your mind, though, and you feel so evil, so inhuman, for doing it that you almost want to drink your life away. Wouldn't that be so simple, though? A harmless binge-drinking spree- wouldn't that just be fine? It wasn't as if someone wouldn't have expected it from you anyways. In fact, you can hear their words now.
He always drank a lot. After Mary, he kind of lost it. Not horribly surprising, really.
The words get lost in your thoughts, but they're still there. You know that's what would happen. How big of a surprise could that really be? John Winchester- Drank himself to death on a cold, December night.
Except, you are John Winchester, not some pussy who's gonna give it all up because of one mistake. That's not how you work. You don't want your sons to grow up believing that's how you worked. Because, man, that would just suck.
You take another swig of the bottle, the liquid running down your throat numbly. Your mind is a little fuzzy, but you know what you did. You know what happened and by God you don't have a fucking right to try and drink away the thoughts that are tugging at that little guilt rope inside of you.
You're gonna try anyways, though.
Anyways, it wasn't like you'd meant to. You were angry, upset. Your emotions were so ridiculous and out of control that you felt like a hormonal teenager with all the problems in the world. You wanted to yell at everyone, you wanted to hit everything. You just wanted to crawl in a hole and slowly let the world take you naturally. You were too strong, though. You had too much pride. You weren't gonna let the world take you that easy- not after how it took Mary.
The whole day had taken you out like the weakest man in a boxing ring, though. So when it was time to head home you just weren't in the mood. You wondered if you were ever in the mood. You decide yes, often times you are, but only when the world doesn't seem to be crumbling around you at a constant rate.
Another chug, another suicidal thought, another mental chastisement of who you are. It's starting to become your routine.
If only you hadn't had a job. Oh, it wasn't that big deal, only a salt and burn. Of course, you'd still managed to fuck that one up. But, no, that hadn't been your problem. Your problem was it was the anniversary of your wife's death and you had a fucking hunt. Maybe a short and quick one, but it wasn't one that could've waited another day. It had to be done today and if you'd never been pissed off before, you sure as hell were now.
In your mind, though, it wasn't all that bad because this was what was helping to get closer to Mary's killer. It was almost like redemption for her death. You could maybe pull some pieces back together. You could become a little more accommodated with the lifestyle you'd had to live for the past year. Maybe you could even learn to let go, which was obvious to everyone that you'd failed to do so. It was the perfect chance for redemption.
And it would've been, had you been more careful and researched a little more. When you didn't burn every part of the body (You were missing the finger with the wedding ring- check that irony) you could've jumped right into that grave and let yourself burn with the bones that had been found.
When you realized the thing was still running around like it was on a sugar high, you chased the damn ghost around the woods for about half an hour. You felt like an idiot for it now. But, hey, you'd wanted to take the son-of-a-bitch out, right? It seemed like a good idea at the time. You should've known better. You did know better. But, hell, you hadn't even been able to walk straight earlier that morning, let alone get a decent idea to find its way to your mind.
So, you ran, you fell, got some kind of shit all over your clothes and face. You scraped up your hands a good bit, but obviously you'd dealt with worse. You'd gotten up, looked in all directions and for the life of you, you just couldn't spot the damn thing anywhere. Then you remembered it was a ghost. You weren't always supposed to see them.
You kicked at the ground, yelled fuck you to the wind and prayed so hard for a fucking beer that you actually believed it might land in front of you. When it didn't you told God to screw himself because you'd never been that religious anyways and you turned on your heels because all of this just made you want to take out a gun and pull the trigger on yourself.
There was that pride thing again, though, always getting in the way of what you really wanted
You tried to find the finger, honest to God you tried. There went that little bell inside your head reminding you of your screw-ups. You didn't find it. Another person died. You didn't redeem Mary. You didn't redeem shit. Now you still weren't finished with the hunt.
Then you came home to a crying baby and a five-year-old that looked more than a little distraught.
You almost snapped immediately, but you held your tolerance, because you knew from experience that it wasn't good to take your anger out on Dean. It just wasn't. You just lost it sometimes. Dean told you it was okay, every time, but it took you hours to erase the image of your little boy's terror-filled eyes that were trying hard to not let tears spill.
Dean didn't like to cry in front of you. You really hoped that wasn't your own doing and that it was just the boy trying to be a man. Your conscience knew the truth, though.
You really, truly hadn't meant to get mad at Dean. Dammit, that was the last thing you'd wanted to do. Your limits had been pushed, though. You'd struck out and the anger from it had caused you to go off.
All he did was tell you he was tired when you asked him to take care of Sammy. Sammy was crying, had been since you got home and, for God's sake, you were tired as hell. All you wanted the kid to do was change his upset, little brother. Sure, you probably already knew Dean was tired, but you were having the worst day of your life.
Now you took a giant swig of the whiskey. It was moving through your veins. You could practically feel the numbness that was starting to come around. It wanted you to forget, just like you wanted yourself to forget, too. You weren't proud of yourself for what you'd done. You knew Mary would have just been hysterical over the little hissy fit you'd thrown that day.
It was her day, though- not a very celebration-like sort of day- but still a day.
Dean wasn't one to whine. In fact, Dean usually knew exactly what you wanted at any given moment and he would do it. No asking or bribing. The kid just did it. God, he was a good kid. You knew it. Sometimes it seemed like he was destined for trouble, though.
Except, tonight all his trouble had been your fault.
"Daddy, I'm tired. Can't you do it?"
You know it had to have been the whine from the small boy that had tipped you off. It had to have been because even for Dean it had been a pretty damn good whine. It was enough to set you off. All you wanted to hear was that automatic 'yes, sir' that you'd been trying to get Dean hooked on lately. You didn't get it and your reply was almost instant.
"Just do it, Dean! Jesus," you snapped, barking it out like an order. It had been a little ridiculous. You hadn't said two words to the kid. Of course you'd find a reason to yell at him like that.
You watched his lip tremble slightly. Damn, the kid was tired.
It wasn't the only reason Dean was so quick to find emotion, though. You didn't know it, but Dean knew exactly what day it was. He knew it was exactly one year since she'd died and he had been on the verge of tears all day. He just wanted his daddy to hold him and tell him it was gonna be okay. That's what he'd wanted and waited for all day.
Then you came home like this.
You knew you were being the dick of all dicks. Hey, you'd already been crowned King of all Fuck ups. One more award wasn't that big of a deal.
So, badly you'd wanted to go over and hug the little boy to death. You wanted to say sorry. You wanted to tell him everything would be okay, even though you barely believed that yourself. Those eyes, just daring to spill, broke your heart and the pain was almost worse than thinking about Mary.
You knew that boy was hurting. Maybe he did know about the anniversary of the death or maybe he didn't, but you constantly saw the longing in his little face every time they went somewhere and he saw every other little boy or girl with a mommy there to hold their hand.
Aw, Buddy, c'mon. Don't cry. I'm sorry, baby.
You can't do it, though. You can't get the words out. As usual, you're a little too focused on you. You wanted to hold both those boys in your lap and just forget. Problem was, there was a bottle of whiskey just forbidding you to do so.
You watched him turn quietly; still holding back those tears that he constantly claims are only for babies.
Just like Sammy. He's supposed to cry. Five year olds aren't allowed to cry, Daddy.
He grabbed Sammy and went to the bathroom to change the small baby. You wanted to scream for him to come back over, that you'd do it. You wouldn't, though. You knew that.
The alcohol was pulsing through you. It was hitting you hard, but good God it wasn't like you were the kind for keeping your alcohol consumptions at a measured amount. You had no clue how much you had downed. Enough, you were sure. You were going to keep going, though. Anyone could have told you that.
You swore to God you saw her then, though. Her face, her body. You reached your hand out and the pain you felt when you went right through her caused you to choke up. It was excruciating. She disappeared.
She was right there! Fuck it, I saw her!
You're going mad for the night. You've decided that in the back of your mind. Deep down, you know the awful truth that Mary in fact was not right there. You'd rather believe she was, though. Then maybe she'd come back. Maybe she'd look at you again, talk to you, touch you.
She'd tell you how you were wrong, too. You wouldn't care. She was so much better with the boys. You had a habit of yelling. Mary was so sweet that she could make you melt by looking at her. She'd hold one of those boys and all of sudden all the tears and fears and upset tummies would be gone. They wouldn't come back until next time and Mary knew to do the exact same thing and resolve the problem again.
You knew you weren't Mary. You knew you weren't as good as Mary. You knew that no matter how hard you tried, you would never be able to replace Mary. And in all honesty, you didn't want to.
The vision of her didn't come back and you think about swigging the rest of the whiskey down your hoarse throat. But, what's the point? She'd come back and she'd leave again. You didn't want to feel the pain, the anger over and over again. Was it worth it, though? To see her for only a few seconds even if it wasn't real?
Yeah, you'd fucked up because not only had you yelled at the little guy, but seconds later you took it a step farther. God, you knew you should've just let it go. They were just laughing. You stood, though, because you're headache was getting overwhelming and not the cutest, sweetest child could have settled you down at the moment.
You stalked towards the bathroom, listening to your boys' laughter. You'd just seen Dean with eyes so watery they looked like they would overflow at any moment. Now you were trying to stop his happiness because you needed some peace. Yeah, you could be a pretty big dick.
You opened the door. You saw the mess. You saw the boys, and the little nerve inside you broke. You didn't want to lose control.
There was shaving cream everywhere. They had it on their faces like fake beards. It was all in Sammy's hair and it was all over the hotel, bathroom floor.
Well, shit. Didn't this just put the cherry on the fucking cake?
You really didn't want to get mad tonight because, well honestly, you were tired of acting like a bitch towards everyone. You were tired of yelling. You were tired of thinking. You were tired of this whole God damn day. You were just tired.
You didn't like to take things out on your boys. Really, you didn't, but fuck…
You grabbed at Dean and you knew that when the boy squeaked that you'd pulled him too hard. You were gripping his arm tightly. You were taking your frustration out on him again. You didn't grab Sammy, but his eyes had gone wide at the sight of his older brother being man-handled that way.
You pulled Dean out the door and all the happiness had left his face. He'd become a fairly paler color and he was shaking. If you weren't in such a bad mood you would have laughed at the shaving cream covering the boy's eyebrows and chin.
You were in a bad mood, though, and you weren't laughing. You were still holding his arm, not loosening grip. If anything you tightened it.
"What were you doing?" you yelled. It was loud. Dean winced and tried to move out of your grip. You didn't let up, "Dean!"
" 'M sorry," he mumbled. You saw the tears. You saw the first one fall. You felt horrible. You felt like a monster, "We were just playin'."
You wanted to tell him it was fine, that you were not mad. Again, you wanted to hug the crap out of the kid. You couldn't bring yourself to do it, though. The day had been too long, too heartbreaking and even the pain you saw in that five-year-olds face couldn't bring you to do the right thing.
"You made a mess, Dean!" you couldn't stop now. You were too far in, "You know better."
But maybe he really didn't. You didn't know, but you'd always figured Dean just knew. It always seemed like Dean just got it. He didn't usually have to be told.
Dean didn't say anything and you knew he was trying to stop the tears, but they failed to cease. He's hiccupping and you fear that rages of sobs are going to occur. What a fucking great Dad you're being, huh? Make him cry. If it makes you feel better it's not that big of a deal, right? You push the sarcastic thoughts out of your head because they're not true. This doesn't make you feel better, not one bit.
Dean doesn't answer you. You wanted to shake him until he did, but something told you that wouldn't help a bit. You hold your grip a second longer. Then you turn Dean back, stop once he's in the bathroom and let go.
"Clean your brother up and get rid of this mess. Then go to bed," you hiss the last part, because at this point you really don't trust your voice. You turn quickly, feeling your own tears start to brew.
"Yes, sir," it's so quiet it's barely heard, but you catch it. And you feel sick to your stomach.
How did you become this…this…monster? You find it extremely ironic that you're calling yourself that. It's the scariest sort of irony you've ever come up with, though. You hurt him. You know that.
And as you down the whiskey, the only comfort you usually have got other than your sons, you know you were stupid and you aren't going to forget how badly you fucked up this day. You shouldn't have bothered with a hunt on this day. You shouldn't have gone on the hunt without some more research. You shouldn't have let yourself stay in such a bad mood once you got home. You shouldn't have immediately grabbed the whiskey once you heard Dean's soft snoring.
You should've been there for those people. You should've been there for your son. Hell, you should've been there for Mary a year before when she was killed by God-knows-what for God-knows-why.
And the tears start rolling. Maybe it's the alcohol or maybe it's just you.
Damn it, because your life is over. Your sons' lives are over. There will be no, white picket fence, apple-pie, smiley-smiley, love thy neighbor bullshit with the three of you. All you've got are each other. All you'll ever have is each other.
That's what the alcohol tells you, and you believe it.
A/N: Good? Bad? Ehhh? Let me know!
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