Golden liquid hit the cheap metal of the sink, splattering the sides of the bowl and cascading down the drain. There was the sound of it hitting the water in the S bend of the pipe below it, and the glugging as air was sucked into the glass bottle, however the cheap hotel room room was relatively silent otherwise. That is, until Dean rolled over and saw what was happening at the low budget sink, jut meters away from him.

"Sam!" he yelled groggily and he rolled out of the tangled sheets onto his feet. "What the hell are you doing?!" Dean took a few short strides over to where Sam was standing, and tried to grapple the bottle from him, only to cause both of them to drop it. The heavy glass fractured as it hit the ground, breaking the neck from the rest of the bottle and sending what was left of the whiskey splattering across the already stained linoleum. Tiny shards from part of the bottle, any of which could cut through skin were scattered around their feet in a jagged halo. "What the hell Sammy!" Dean snapped, his annoyance evident. Rubbing sleepily at his tired red eyes he regarded the floor. "I just got that last night!" he mumbled sulkily.

Sam clenched his jaw and stared silently and pointedly at Dean. After an absence of a witty retort, Dean looked up at his brother only to be met with his stony expression. Dean sighed, exasperated, and shrugged his shoulders as if to say 'What? What did I do this time, you uptight jerk?' only to receive frigid silence again. It was at that moment that dean noticed the pile of emptied bottles of alcohol on the bench behind Sam, which made his sleep crusted eyes widen and his temper flare. Sam could see it coming, and interjected before the tirade could begin. "Dean, this is getting ridiculous," he said, and then quickly, before his brother could slip a word in "you really need to stop drinking so much – I mean, you're hung over at…" he glanced at his watch "twelve thirty on a Wednesday…"

Dean rolled his eyes, and began to have a go at his brother again for being sensitive, but was cut off short. "Dean," Sam's face was drawn and as well as just general annoyance showing, there was genuine concern in his eyes, "I really need you to stop. It's getting out of hand."

There was silence in the room as Dean avoided the apprehensive gaze upon him, his head turned slightly to look out of the window at the back of the hotel room. His eyes passed over the pretty lake that was just a short distance from them, and the thought of how out of place it was next to the grungy cheap motel.

Out of place.

The phrase brought a familiar face to the front of his mind. He tried to suppress it.

Dean chewed his lip for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. "Okay Sammy," he mumbled, "I'll do my best." Sam let a thin smile creep onto his face, then bent down to clean up the shattered glass on the floor around them. Dean stood, slouched and tired where he was, until the shards were moped up along with the sticky whiskey residue.

"I'll go look for another case," Sam said, straightening up with a damp dish towel in his hand. "Try sleep it off," he smiled slightly at Dean, before striding over to the door, snatching up the keys to the Impala along the way. As the door banged shut, Dean allowed himself collapse onto the hard mattress and mussed up bed sheets. He turned his head to face the door, and a few seconds later heard the car start and slowly drive out of the parking lot. Once the loud roar of the Chevy's engine had receded down the highway, he rolled onto his front and pulled his knees up to his chest. His eyelids suddenly felt impossibly heavy, and he let them slowly slide shut. Sam wouldn't be back for hours, he knew that much and he probably should try sleep…

But that face appeared each time he shut his eyes.

He was always there, no matter how much it pained him.

'Dimmit,' Dean rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm and sighed. He knew trying to get back to sleep was futile, 'you're going to keep me from sleep again, Cas?'

It had been months. At first he thought that the angel was just mad at him for some obscure reason, or maybe he was just busy, but after a while Dean just sank into a quicksand hole of sadness; he felt like he was struggling against some impossible force. He felt abandoned, Cas had left him and was letting him drown, slowly suffocating without his angel to keep him above the madness.

And that was when the drink really kicked in. It watered down the keen pain of desertion that he had felt many times before, it clouded his senses and above all, it let him fall into gracious, much needed sleep. When he was sleeping, he wasn't dead, but didn't have to deal with the implications of being alive.

But even when he was sleeping, the memory of Castiel still haunted him, in his dreams, and his nightmares.