Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I am not making any profit from writing this.
Warnings: Mentions of drug use (addiction), prostitution; oral sex; cursing; suicidal ideation. Light Gordon/Dean. AU, open ending. Not proof-read!
Characters: Dean, Sam, Mary and John Winchester. Jess Moore. Gordon Walker. Castiel. Lisa Braeden. Deacon.
Summary: After fumbling through years on speed and crank, Dean is admitted to rehab. Three months later, he is emitted and ready to start a new life. Only, he isn't so sure that he wants to live.
A/N: My computer broke down last week, and the third chapter of Titanium died with it. I'm sorry that I have yet to answer your reviews for my other stories, but I will do so on spring break (next week). Feel free to comment on this one, and I'll make sure to answer every single one of you :)
The Tide
Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls
"Uh, hi... The name's Dean and I, uh, I'm a drug addict."
Nothing more, nothing less. Just a drug addict, because Dean Winchester likes to hide behind the label. He wants to say that this is a fresh start – this is it! – but he can't feel it. He doesn't want to be here, in a room full of junkies that are too much like him. He sits between a wrinkly man with sweat-stains and a once-pretty girl in a lime green dress. The others seem comfortable on the plastic chairs, but Dean is at too much unease to find a suitable position. He slides down and watches as they go around in the small circle, but he won't remember any names.
The counselor is a handsome man, dressed in neat clothes but his dark hair ruffled, but Dean can't recall his name. His eyes are cold, such an icy colour, and everything about him screams that he will not tolerate any bullshit. That would suck for Dean, but it's okay, because he is the master of bullshit. He guesses that the other junkies here are good at bullshitting – it might be a thing – but the counselor knows them.
"Gordon, put that away."
Dean looks up at the rough, cold voice. He feels as if he just was caught shoplifting, or maybe shooting up, even though the words aren't directed to him. No, the counselor is staring at a dark-skinned man, who is playing with his cellphone. The man, Gordon, is bulky and muscular like Dean used to be. His eyes are surprisingly sharp and his grin is wide as he puts the phone back in his pocket.
"Sorry, dude. My lil sis needs a ride to the dentist. Don't wanna forget the time."
Dean forces himself to look away when Gordon scans the circle before setting his eyes on the counselor. The man nods once, then parts his dry lips and speaks, gravel in his voice, "That's good. Does your sister know about your addiction?"
Gordon lets out a laugh, dark and far back in his throat. Dean doesn't listen to what is said next, doesn't listen to anything but his own breathing. This is much harder than he thought. After three months in a closed rehab, one would think that this would come easy. He had, somewhat, longed to be set free in the real world again, and this is the prize. Drug-free for about ninety days, but just being in the same room as other addicts makes his skin crawl and his breathing quicken.
These people, sitting in a small circle in a too-big room that usually is a middle school's cafeteria, aren't just here for the weak coffee and hard cookies. They are the same as him, basically, and they know exactly what is on his mind, what he is experiencing. They know exactly what it's like to think of nothing but their drug of choice. Be it popping little pills or injecting needles with expertise, they went through the same hell as him.
It makes him wonder if they are as shaky and nervous about being out in the real world as he is. If Gordon, who seems sober enough, ever thinks of offing himself. Or maybe the once-upon-a-time-cute girl next to him can sleep away half a day and then go to bed after dinner again. He can't see it, can't see them go through it, because they're nothing but junkies to him. Once a druggie, always a druggie, but those aren't his words.
The counsellor says something, a sentence with some sort of finality to it, and the circle loosens up into nothingness in a matter of seconds. Chairs are put back at their proper tables, and Dean hurries to put his in an empty slot before someone approaches him. Unfortunately, he is far from fast enough.
The counsellor is standing by the table with coffee and dry pastries, stance stiff and expression stern. His blue eyes meet Dean's, and he can't look away.
Not until the room is empty, save for them, does the other man make his move. He extends his hand, which Dean takes without hesitating. They shake, firm, and Dean's hand feels colder when they let go.
"Castiel," the man offers. "You will learn the others' names soon enough."
Dean isn't sure that he'll last the week, but hey, one day at a time. "Dean," he says, even though Castiel already knows this. There is an awkward silence; Dean puts his hands in his pockets and tries not to squirm. He prefers talkative people, people who'll give him something to work with, but the counselor stays quiet. "Uh, yeah. Thanks for today, I guess."
"You're welcome, Dean. I hope that you found it interesting."
"Yeah. Sure, yeah. See you tomorrow, then." Dean sneaks out through the door before Castiel can stare him to death, quick strides down the corridor and digging in his jacket pocket for the pack of cigarettes. He gets it out and puts it between his lips, letting it hang limp in the corner of his mouth until he gets outside. The schoolyard is void of children, but he doesn't light it until he's outside the gates. The first drag isn't as calming as he would like, as it used to be a few years ago, but it keeps his hands busy and his mouth occupied.
He has finished two and a half sticks by the time a familiar car rolls around. It's a sleek, silver car with toned windows and new tires; his brother's car. It isn't until Dean slumps inside the passenger seat that he notices how cold he is, even though it's the middle of July. The AC is merciless, blaring icy wind right at his chest, and he reaches out to direct it at his feet instead.
Sam doesn't speak as they roll out on the main road and drive towards centrum. The traffic is calm and safe, the way it only is during early afternoon while people are still at work, so they reach their destination within ten minutes. Sam still doesn't voice his thoughts, and Dean has long since lost his ability to read his little brother's every emotion by just looking at him. Nowadays, Dean has trouble reading even his own face. Mostly, it just stays blank.
Neither say a word as they enter the coffee shop, moving on autopilot as Sam goes up to the counter and Dean sits down by a vacated table. Never mind that this is only Dean's fourth day out of the clinic, but it has already become a habit. It feels a little different today, Dean is aware of that, and he knows that it's because of the meeting he just attended. It makes it unavoidable, makes it clear and obvious where Dean has been the last couple of months. He knows how it wears on his brother.
Sam comes back with two large glasses of diet coke and a bottle of water, sitting down across from Dean as they wait for their lunch to be warmed up. It would be awkward, but it's far from uncomfortable when Dean compares it to the wacky counselor just half an hour ago. He wishes that he could joke about it, tell his brother about the weird name and freaky staring, but it's still too sensitive.
Sam doesn't say anything until their lunch has arrived, a Caesar salad for the giant and a sandwich for Dean, and Dean's tunnel vision snaps on as soon as his little brother speaks. The baby wailing outside on the outdoor seating, the stupid Jazz music playing and the light chatter from the baristas fades away into nothing when Sam opens his mouth.
"How was it? It was good, right?"
He sounds so hopeful, as if this is it. This is the time it'll work, and maybe he's right. Third time's a charm and all that, but Dean doesn't know. Nevertheless, he pops a grin and offers the words his brother wants to hear.
"Yeah, of course, Sammy."
"You don't have to lie," Sam mumbles and shoves a big bite of lettuce in his mouth. He chews and sips on his soda, swallowing it all down before talking again. "Just promise me that you'll go to them. No skipping, or Dad won't give you the car back."
Dean snorts, playing with his sandwich. He's hungry, he really is, but he's so tired of eating. It's all he's done the last couple of weeks – eat, sleep, train and sleep, eat, train. He doesn't know what to do, has nothing planned, and he knows that it'll be his downfall. Without something to do but the meetings and therapy, he's going to go insane. He just wants to sleep and dream and sleep until he wakes up and it's all over.
He can't very well tell his little brother that, so he takes a swig of the ice cold coke and swallows loudly. The glass is slippery in his hand and he puts it down rather clumsily. "Sure, Sam. I'll go to the fucking meetings."
Sam doesn't smile, but his scowl lessens somewhat. "I want to tell you something, but, uh. I don't want to introduce you if you're just going back to the... the... that."
Then don't, Dean almost says. He bites the inside of his cheek, though, keeps it inside of him with everything else. He doesn't deserve Sam, and he knows it, so he doesn't want to hear whatever his brother is going to say. He doesn't want his brother to introduce him to someone (a girl, it's a girl, finally, Sam), because he doesn't deserve it and he's going to screw it all up.
"What's her name?"
"Jess," Sam says with a small smile. He looks down in his salad to hide it, to avoid Dean's teasing, but Dean can't find the strength to mock his brother's mushiness. "We met at Stanford, and she's coming up to work at the same place I work for the rest of the year."
Dean wants to leave, now, because he doesn't know where Sam works. He doesn't remember how old Sam is; can barely remember when his own birthday is. Everything is so jumbled and muddy without the drugs. "That's awesome," he chokes out.
"Yeah," Sam says, and that's that.
Lisa Bradean is a beautiful woman - lithe, strong body and long, silky hair - but Dean can't say that he's attracted to her. Maybe once, before all this mess, he would have gone out of his way to date her. Now, he can barely think of her in bed with him. She doesn't seem to mind, or perhaps she doesn't notice. Instead of flirting and trying to charm himself into her tight pants, he watches her silently as she prepares them grilled cheese sandwiches.
"If I wasn't so busy, I think I'd eat all the time," she says with a white smile. "When I went cold-turkey, I just couldn't stop eating. I think that might be Ben's fault, though."
Ben, her eight year old son. Her light and saviour, because if not for him, she would probably be dead by now. If not for her pregnancy, she would be buried somewhere or maybe slowly dying of HIV. He doesn't know, doesn't want to know. They're both lucky bastards, or maybe just paranoid enough, to have avoided the illness despite shooting up with a dirty needle or two.
"I bet you're eating your family out of their house."
It isn't true, because even though his stomach growls constantly, he can't really bring himself to eat more than once or twice a day. Whenever his parents decide that they should eat, but they aren't at home with him more than for dinner. He offers her a guilty grin, and she sits down next to him with their plates.
She's unlike his previous sponsors - his first one had given up on him a week after his release, a burly man with no patience; his second one had been a mousy man that cared too much. It had scared him away, scared him to the streets of New York City for a while before he came back, begging his father for money. No, Lisa is different. She cares, but she doesn't take no for an answer and her patience is infinite after having a son for eight years.
"Very silent today," she comments. "Something on your mind?"
"Nope."
"Dean." She sounds so much like his mother, like his brother, that it confuses him for a second. "How does it feel to be out of the clinic, then? How does it feel for Mary and John?"
He lets his eyes wander over her impressive kitchen, the granite counters and oak table. Her kitchen supplies glitters as the sun pours inside through the big, clean windows. He offers a shrug, but then opens his mouth to avoid her annoyance, "They, yeah. They're keeping a close eye on me. It's good, I guess."
"But?"
It feels exactly the same as the last time – tired, so lethargic and lazy; hungry for something other than greasy food; all the Technicolor pictures that paints disturbing scenarios on the inside of his eyelids. He doesn't have a purpose, doesn't have anything to do, even though his days are filled with sleep and meetings and therapy. His father hates him, he knows it, and his mother cries for him too often. They know how much he's taken from them and he knows how much he owes them: but he can't repay them. He doesn't know how and he doesn't have the means or the strength.
"Nah, it's going great. This sandwich's delicious, hun."
On his eighth day out of the clinic, Dean finally finds his old phone. Mary hid it just a week before he went to the rehab, and having it back in his hands is such a relief that he almost sobs out loud. He can't though, not now, because his mother is downstairs and John is in the backyard. They're attempting a family dinner, with barbecue and ice tea, and Sam's coming over in an hour or so.
The window in his parents' room is open, letting in the sweet smell of honey and smoke, but nothing is better than his cellphone right now. Nothing can compare to the surge of whatever - he can't explain this: the dread and relief and the feeling of coming home, but he's betraying them again. He flips it open, almost smiles at the tiny crack on the screen, and hits the power-button.
Nothing happens.
Dean makes a small noise (not a whimper, God no, maybe a grunt), because he feels exactly the same: dread and relief. It might just need to be recharged, but he didn't see the charger in the drawer. He hesitates before opening the back, letting the battery fall to the floor as he fumbles with the little card. He stops dead when he recalls that he hasn't saved any phone numbers on it. It's all on the phone, all saved there because of the paranoia he felt. If it's all on the phone, a mere smash would save all his dealers and junkie friends from being caught.
He hears a car, silent purring, and it might just drive past, but he just knows. It's Sam.
Sam, whom he promised. He promised, but he also knows how little his words mean to them. He knows that he doesn't deserve their trust, but Sam always believes him.
As fast as Dean's tired body allows his fingers to move, he pushes the battery back in place and puts the cell phone under the socks where he found it. He closes the drawer slowly, quietly, and then sneaks back out of the bedroom. Clearing his throat, trying to focus on the empty rumbling in his stomach, he heads downstairs to help his mother out. It might help him take his mind off of everything, how it aches.
He freezes in his tracks as soon as he comes down the stairs, though, almost stumbling on the last step. There's a new person here, petite and blonde and latched to Sam's strong arm. It takes him too long to understand that this is Jess. Jess, who has moved here from Palo Alto to work wherever Sam is working. She's cute and her smile is just this side of naughty, and Dean can't help but wonder if she's ever met a drug addict before.
Ex-junkie, he reminds himself, because he hasn't touched any drugs besides his cigarette in over three months. One day at a time, third time's a charm and he really wants to be good to Sammy.
"Hi there," he says. Three months ago, he would have already shaken her hand and teased his brother about his pretty girlfriend, but everything is slower now. He even talks slower, like a retard. It's easy to slip on a breathy grin and offer his hand. She's just a stranger, she doesn't know him. "You must be Jess."
"And you're probably Dean." Her smile widens as they shake hands, and Dean nods to his brother. "I've heard a lot about you."
Oh no, oh no, oh no. "All good things, I hope?"
"Of course," Jess says. "Sam makes you sound like a superhero."
It hurts a little too much to hear that. His smile drops almost completely before he can save his face and pick it up again. He clears his throat, tries to cough up some energy, but everything is dull when you're sober.
"Sam! Jessica!"
Mary sounds absolutely delighted. She looks good, a healthy flush to her cheeks and her long, golden hair put in a creative braid. Her make-up is sparse, but she doesn't really need it - she looks as if she's been on a vacation. For three months.
"Mary," Jess says as they hug. Dean tries not to stare, but it's hard. He feels left out, but Lisa and his therapist, Deacon, has told him over and over and over, how normal that is. He's been away for three months, physically, but gone even longer mentally. He hasn't been all here for years. "It smells wonderful!"
"Well, that'd be John's doing actually," Mary says, her tone light. "Come on in, honey, you can help me in the kitchen while the boys play."
Dean wishes that he was up for 'playing': teasing his brother about Jessica being out of his league, trying to wrestle Sam into submission when his little brother denies it. Dean knows that Sam could take him out with a mere shove; he's just so tired, so he keeps his thoughts to himself. His mind isn't very playful as of lately. His mind isn't anything but a clump of uncomfortable lead – he doesn't like who he is, not now and not when he's high, but he prefers when he's on something. Then he can blame it on the drugs, blame all his flaws on the drugs and pretend that he doesn't need the speed to be a funny guy.
"She's pretty," he tries.
"Yeah," Sam agrees.
They stand there in the hall for a minute too long, before Sam makes his way to the kitchen, to help carry out plates outside or just watch the women laugh and talk. Dean walks with heavy steps to his father, who's sitting by the grill with a beer in hand. John looks as rested as his wife, and Dean knows that he owes them much more than money and apologies. He owes them rest and peace.
"Hey there, son," John mutters and puts the beer to his mouth.
Dean sits down on the bench by the wall and digs out his pack of cigarettes. He lights it up with shaky hands, hopes that his father isn't watching. A deep inhale, pause, exhale through his nose – but it doesn't burn or soothe. It just is.
"Ain't she a beauty," John says after a while, eyes glued to the grill. "Jess, I mean. She reminds me little of Mary when she was young."
Dean snorts. "Don't tell Sam that."
"I won't." John doesn't look at him, and Dean tries (he really tries, he does) not to feel hurt. He remembers a time, when they were just kids, when Dean would do anything to get his father's approval. Sam always found him silly for that, but Dean really wanted John's smile, wanted his father to just look and see what Dean could do.
"Well, aren't you a cheery bunch," Mary says as she exits with Jess and Sam in tow. They're carrying plates and bowls and utensils, and Dean is hit by how much he really hates eating outside. He can't think of anything but bending over picnic tables with his dirty jeans tangled around his ankles and having his breath thrust out of him by heavy truckers.
No one seems to notice, but he catches Jessica looking at him with disapproval. For a second, he thinks that she knows, everyone knows, but then her eyes zoom in on the cigarette between his lips. "You shouldn't smoke," she says kindly, "it really is as dangerous as they say."
It goes eerily quiet.
Jess blushes, clearly not understanding what she said wrong. Dean feels sorry for her, because he heard the sincerity in her voice, but he can't bring himself to reply. He doesn't know what to say to that. It's okay, I've smoked worse. Don't you worry about that, sweetheart; I'm probably going to die before thirty-five anyway. It's okay, it's okay, because no one cares about these tiny fuckers as long as I don't slam up anymore.
"It's okay," Mary says finally, as if she's read his mind, and starts setting the table. "Sam, why don't you get the potato salad and the beer?"
God, he wants a beer. No, wait, he wants a few shots of whiskey and a line to snort up his nose, but he's in the suburbs with his family: no way that's going to happen any time soon. He doesn't even have a car anymore.
His hands starts shaking even more at the mere thought – he misses his car, his sweet baby, she could take him somewhere good – and he lights up a second cigarette. Mary points at the butt he just killed with his boot, face stern as she silently forces him to pick it up. He picks it up, plays a little with it between his fingertips, and takes a drag of his new stick. Everything tastes like this. No matter how hungry he is, it all tastes like smoke and wrong.
He watches as Jess sits down by the table, correcting a few bowls to make room for the steaks that John puts down, and he wishes that he could just sit here for the rest of the evening and watch them. He does, however, get up as soon as Sam comes back. When he's sure no one's looking, Dean flings the two cigarette butts over the fence to the neighbours. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he goes over and slumps down next to his mother.
He can tell that Jessica is examining them. They're both used to it – everyone does it. Dean is so alike his mother he can be without looking like a full-on girl: his prominent cheekbones, his full lips and his big eyes and the freckles. Dean remembers a time when he tried to look more like his dad, colouring his hair a darker shade, but he just ended up looking funny.
"You two are so alike," Jessica comments, awe in her voice.
John grunts, clearly as displeased with Dean's prettiness as Dean himself. Nevertheless, Dean can't deny that his slightly feminine features – his mouth, his eyelashes and his currently lean frame – have come in handy more than once (more than twice, thrice).
"Samuel, my dad, always says that," Mary clears her throat to continue, in a much darker voice and in poor imitation of her father: "'At least one of the boys ended up a Campbell'."
"And then he says that mom and dad choose the right kid to name 'Dean'," Sam says with a smirk. Dean wishes that he could feel annoyed, maybe embarrassed, over the teasing that's going on, but he can't.
"Why?" Jess asks, leaning forward with pure curiosity written over her face.
"Because he's named after Mary's mother, Deanna," John says, voice tight as if he just pulled out a tooth. Sam hides his mouth behind a big hand, but his chuckles can be heard through his flesh all too easy. Dean tries to muster up a glare, but it falls all too short. "Enough picking on the boy."
Sam looks over at Dean, smile still on his lips, and then starts laughing again as if this is a brand new joke.
Ten days out of the rehabilitation centre, and Dean is clawing at the walls. Deacon has given him assignments – "just check the boxes, one to ten, yes or no" – and he obediently calls Lisa every day. The meetings in the middle school cafeteria are a drag, mostly because he sits through them in silence while the others talk and grumble and talk some more. No one cries, no one fights and no one laughs (but Gordon, the fucker, he laughs as if he's still on something, always happy).
Dean finds himself in the clinic's parking lot on the tenth day, having left a blood sample and some piss, waiting for Sam to pick him up and going through his third cigarette packet in one and a half days. He can almost imagine the tar clinging to his lungs, making it harder to breathe until he coughs blood and chokes to death. The thought isn't as disturbing as it should be.
"Well, if it ain't Winchester!"
Dean looks over his shoulder, cigarette still between his lips, and finds Gordon-the-fucker standing there. He's leaning against a red, rusty car that probably was a beauty before Gordon laid his hands on her.
"You got one to spare?"
Dean walks over to the man, leans on the car and hands him the packet. Gordon grunts for the lighter, and Dean fishes up his Zippo. He stares a little too long as Gordon's cheeks hollow out. They stand in silence for a while, both facing the brick building that is the clinic.
"How you holding up?"
For some reason, Dean's mouth open and he replies, "It sucks."
"Tell me about it, man. Not a day goes by without me thinkin' about laying my hands on some coke." Gordon sniffs, his nostrils flaring, but his dark eyes never leaves Dean. "What's your poison?"
"Little bit o' that, little bit o' this," Dean admits. He flicks the cigarette away and doesn't start up on a new one. Crosses his arms over his chest and continues: "Been doing whizz since high school."
Gordon doesn't say anything. He doesn't need too: Dean can practically hear him thinking about how good it would be to just get in the car and find something to light up or swallow, just push it in and feel it spread. Dean wants nothing more than to knock Gordon out, take the car and escape Kansas. Maybe go back to New York, hustle enough money to move in with a couple of stoners and just let it all take him. Feeling good and happy again; ecstatic and full of energy like before. Unstoppable.
"You wanna give me a blowjob in the car?" Gordon asks suddenly, stepping on his cigarette.
"Why not." Dean shrugs, thinking it'll give him something to do, well aware that Sam won't be here just yet. They have ten minutes.
Gordon grins that wide, toothy grin that makes Dean wants to hit him over the head, but they both get in the vehicle without another word. Gordon fumbles with his belt and zipper, hitching his jeans down to his thighs and sliding down behind the steering wheel. Dean licks his lips, gathering spit under his tongue, and uses his hands to spread Gordon's legs as far as his pants will allow him.
He dives down, sucking wetly on the head and holding the rest firmly in his sweaty hand. Gordon comes to live rather quickly, putting a big hand on Dean's neck. He doesn't push, doesn't twine his fingers in Dean's short hair, just lets his hand rest there. It's oddly reassuring. He takes in a little more in his mouth, tongue slipping over thin skin, and the thick dick grows harder rapidly. It's familiar, everything from the position he's folded in to the taste of sweat and pre-come. The moan he lets out isn't from pleasure; just a sound escaping his throat unwillingly.
"Yeah, that's it," Gordon whispers. "Yeah, knew you'd be good at this. You look like a fucking pro. Aahh, yes, fuck."
The coffee isn't half-bad once you've gotten used to it. One cup of bleak caffeine is better than no caffeine at all, so Dean drinks it with a grimace. The plastic chairs are still uncomfortable and they make whiny sounds whenever someone shifts. The meetings feel about as useless as an extra toe, but Dean goes every day and waits for himself to snap. Soon, he can feel it, so soon.
"Dean," Castiel says once they've gone through the circle. "Do you have anything to share with us?"
"Uh, no," he replies hastily. He really doesn't want to talk with these people; the once-pretty girl in neon clothing and the others are busy enough with their own problems. It's bad enough that he's seeing a shrink. Not that Deacon is the average therapist – he's rather fond of cursing and telling it how it is, the same kind of no-bullshit that Castiel has going on here.
"He sucked my cock yesterday," Gordon offers.
"Hey!" Dean is up on his feet before he can actually react, half-way through the circle to punch the bastard, but he's stopped by Roy, a bland kind of guy who is stronger than he looks. Dean shrugs him off, eyes never leaving Gordon's. "Shut the fuck up, Walker."
Gordon smirks. "You've got talent for it. Nothing to be 'shamed of, sweetheart."
There is a gasp and then comes the sound of plastic against linoleum floor as Gordon crashes backwards. It looks rather funny, Gordon scrambling up to his feet with a furious scowl and a hand on his jaw. Castiel is between them before a fight can ensue, which Dean is grateful for. Gordon has a lot of weight on him, muscles bunching under his clothes while Dean's muscles disappeared when he started using all those years ago.
"Gordon," Castiel warns. His voice is absolutely cold and leaves no room for protests. "Go outside and call your sponsor. That's enough for today, I think. Dean, you stay here."
Dean wants to follow Gordon outside, lay another punch on him, but a firm hand is pushing him down on a chair again. The tension is thick in the room as the others grumble and mumble, putting the chairs back sloppily before high-tailing out of the school. Gordon throws him a mocking kiss before leaving, and Dean feels the childish urge to tell Castiel. He stays quiet though, and the conselour sits down on a chair next to him.
"Dean," he says. His voice is still so rough, as if unused, but it's quite pleasant. "I've been going easy on you for some time now, but you really need to commit to the programme if you want to get better."
It might be the longest sentence that Dean has heard Castiel say, and it shuts him up. It's kind of nice, though, to actually feel something beyond the dull ache in his chest and the taste of ash in his mouth. "I'm not going to apologise," he says, just to make it clear.
Castiel stares at him, blue eyes wide and confused. Clearly, that isn't what he wants to talk about. "Dean, these meetings are for you. You should make the most of them. You have been given the means to get out of your addiction, Dean. Let us help you."
Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean. Castiel almost sounds like Sam did when he was a kid, always craving attention from his older brother.
"Okay," Castiel says and the word sounds so final. "Okay, you and I are going for a walk."
"But–"
"No."
Dean frowns, confused with what is happening all of a sudden. He has a logical excuse; Sam is coming to get him and they're going to get late lunch at the same coffee shop as the last ten days. "My brother–"
"Call him," Castiel orders and heads out the door.
Dean has no choice but to follow.
Once they're outside, the sun casting a grey shine behind heavy clouds, Dean has already called his brother and told him to come by later. Castiel is wearing a trench coat and it looks a little odd, even if Dean himself wouldn't mind a sweater or something. His mother had informed him about the rain coming in this evening, but he hadn't expected it to get chilly. Or that he would notice it.
"I feel that you haven't found your place in the group, Dean."
Dean looks up from the asphalt they're walking on, a slow pace that probably means that their walk has turned into a stroll. Dean can't remember the last time he went out on a walk just because he felt like it – he can remember the endless energy, though, so fresh in his memory; how he could spend the days running around on the streets, pick fights or flirt and fuck his way through the nights. It's such a different feeling from his current state; miserable and pathetic and tired.
"I won't comment on your relationship with Gordon–"
"There's no fucking relationship–"
"–but I hope that you will tell your therapist or sponsor about this. Let Ms. Braeden help you. She can tell you more about the programme and the twelve steps if you feel uncomfortable around me."
Something tells Dean that he wouldn't be the only one uncomfortable with sitting alone with Castiel, listening to the man's deep voice as he goes into detail about God and acceptance and lists of people he has hurt. In fact, Dean is feeling a little uncomfortable now. He can't honestly remember how to interact with other people. His family is one thing, so used to his behaviour that he barely notices the hurt in their eyes, and the places where he spends most of his time – used to spend most of his time – doesn't bat an eyelash if he decides to fly a little higher.
"I know that you are tired, Dean, but listen." Castiel reaches out and awkwardly puts his hand on Dean's elbow. "Think of your future."
And Dean wants to cry, scream and run away, because all he can see is his death.
Dean thinks that he should feel more awkward than he does, living at home as every day brings him closer to his thirtieth birthday. He can't bring himself to care – all he can do is wait, feel the anxiety grows as he wastes his life just lying around. Lethargic, grumpy and mean; just waiting to snap and screw up yet again.
He toys with his new cell phone (pick it up, put it down, feel it bounce back into the palm of his hand) and tries not to think about how stupid this is. He should just leave his parents be – let them relax, let them live – and go somewhere new. Maybe California; Sam's always praised the state anyway.
He owes it to all of them. If he can't get better (oh, God, this is just as bad as showing up stoned, so dead and boring), then he should leave. Die in a car crash, drive it off a cliff and hope that it explodes so that his body will be rendered unidentifiable. Turn him into an anonymous accident, die knowing that his parents still thinks that he's alive.
Dean doesn't think he's alive.
He might as well be dead, really, and did he actually feel this way during his previous attempts at getting sober? He can't remember – he always gave up before the ten day-mark.
There are two things stopping him right now. Stopping him from leaving and never coming back, nick someone's wallet downtown and travel west. Two things.
Sam.
And Sam.
Dean knows, logically, that there should be more than his little brother keeping him where he is. His mother's smile when she greets him at the breakfast table, delighted to have her son back. The meetings, Castiel's encouraging stare and Gordon's cocky grin that shows that it's possible to be happy. Deacon should be a greater help, pulling Dean's words out of his mouth with incredible patience and immovable faith.
Dean knows that he should consider all the downsides of amphetamine, count them in his head whenever things get tough. His fucked-up sight, blurry and watery and red. The way his body paid for the liveliness; the twitching and numb needles in his skin, the dizzy spells that he covered up with a quick smile and a witty comment.
All the people he hurt, all the people he scammed. The shoplifting, the pick-pocketing and the violence. It should scare him off, but he doesn't have anything but Sam keeping him grounded.
So Dean lies in his bed and waits for death, because Sam has Jess and mom and even dad. They look closer, Sam and dad, now when they aren't arguing about him. 'Dean needs help, 'no he's just a kid', 'he's sick, dad, sick', 'just fooling around, Sam'.
He closes his eyes and dreams in bright colours of lying down with his legs spread and his nose running, just eighteen years old (he can tell, because it's a memory, a nightmare), the skin on his back sticking to the Impala's upholstery as someone slithers inside of him.
He wonders how he'll do it. Day fourteen; and he isn't at his NA meeting, loitering near the train station and waiting for a friend of a friend. His fingers keep twitching, making it hard to smoke, but he needs to keep busy.
He should go inside, buy an over-priced cup of coffee and leave. Leave before it gets too hard, before it's too late. It doesn't really matter, though, because the friend-of-a-friend is going to show up with Dean's last hit. It's going to be lovely, just pushing it in his already-scarred elbow (doesn't have time to undress anywhere else, won't have time for nothing but going down the alley and shoot up).
Dean stands there for a long time. The gigantic clock on the train station's brick wall tells him so. One hour, two hour, three and fifteen minute. Two packets of cigarettes that takes longer to smoke with shaky hands. Then a text, but it's from his friend, who is the friend-of-a-friend's friend as well.
'got caught won't show go 2 pauley'
Maybe it's a sign. A sign from the God that Castiel seems fond of. Dean doesn't know, doesn't care.
So he goes inside and buys a cup of over-priced coffee.
"Where the fuck were you?"
Sam looks rather silly when he's mad. Dean knows that he shouldn't think so, not when Sam is so clearly worried, but it's hard not to compare his brother and father (just because they're so alike, so God damn alike). Sam towers above him, all broad shoulders and white knuckles, obviously making his girlfriend uncomfortable where she sits at the kitchen table.
Mary isn't at home, John is at work, and Sam is there waiting when Dean comes home.
"You weren't at the meeting, Dean. You weren't there!"
"I'll go tomorrow," he answers with a sigh. He knows, from the way that Sam isn't asking what he wants to ask, that Jess is unaware of his 'condition'.
"That's not good enough, Dean! You promised me."
"I know! I know, okay?" Dean thinks that Sam should see that he's still clean. He's so different from before – feels slow and dumb now that everything goes by in snail pace – that it shouldn't be hard for his kid brother to see that Dean is sober.
"Let's talk outside," Sam says, but he doesn't push away from his place against the counter. Dean doesn't dare move, something foggy and lukewarm swirling in his stomach unpleasantly. It's the anxiety that Deacon keeps talking about; it's the fear that Lisa feels every morning when she wakes up, afraid that today will be the day she snaps.
"Sam," Jess says then, calm and reasonable, "Dean is a grown-up; he can take care of himself."
That makes Sam bristle, choke on air, "He can't! He can't, Jessica."
Dean wants to say that he can. He wants to fight his little brother on this one, he really do, but all he feels is such fatigue that he has to lean against the door frame. In the back of his mind, he knows that it isn't his body. His legs could probably walk him a thousand miles if his mind was up to it. It isn't, though.
"Why not?" Jess asks, voice tiny and curious.
"Tell her, Dean. Tell her why you didn't visit me in Palo Alto, why you live with your parents. It's pathetic, Dean, pathetic."
Dean leaves before Sam has any time to regret his words, but he hears Jessica's startled "Sam!" before the front door slams shut behind him.
He doesn't know where he's heading, doesn't remember where his phone is. His mind is nothing but a jumble of thoughts – Sam hates me, Sam is embarrassed of me, Sam hates me hates me hates me hates me. It's on repeat, a never-ending loop of thoughts that he has shoved away so deep inside of him. It burns in his throat, just burns so fiercely that the sob that breaks out feels like a relief.
He almost falls on his ass when a car passes him, but he manages to get a grip on the fence next to him.
One second, Dean wishes that he had fallen and cracked his skull open on the pavement. The next, huge hands are grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around.
"Sorry, so sorry. Please, I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't mean–"
This is a role Dean knows – he can slip into it like a second skin, it almost feels good, tight and warm against his dead body. He wraps his arms around Sam's larger frame, lets his little brother hide his face in the crook of his neck.
The tears are hot against his shoulder as it seeps into his t-shirt. His brother has always been a messy crier: snot and animal-like bawls, tears big as raindrops and face turning red. His long fingers try to find something to grab – they wander over Dean's arms until they find a comfortable place around Dean's waist, gripping the thin t-shirt so hard it might tear.
Dean bumps his nose against Sam's shoulder, feeling it shake against the tip of his nose, braids his fingers into his little brother's long hair. It's warm and soft against his palms, and he massages the scalp carefully. He closes his eyes and inhales, says the words that he's been telling Sam since they were just kids.
"It's okay. It's okay, Sammy."
It's not okay, it's not, it really isn't.
Dean is too tired. Everything is worthless and slow and grey. He can't remember if it's night or early morning, but he knows that his parents are sleeping across the hall. He knows that Sam is sleeping in his old room next to his. It should feel good; familiar and reassuring, but it's just constricting and suffocating.
He just wants this to be over with. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want his old life, but this is much worse.
He dreams of a rusty Chevy Impala, year '67, driving it down a wide road until it transforms into the shiny, restored beauty it is. He knows that, when she goes beautiful, he isn't the one driving anymore.
Dean sits in the sofa, next to his mom, watches his father through the corner of his eye and thinks that this is the most normal day so far. It is far from the normal he has had the last couple of years – no ingrained smell of sweat in the furniture, no fat fingers travelling over his body as he pays the rent in kind, no lines on the coffee table.
The living room is dimly lit, a few scented candles burning and mixing with the salty smell of popcorn. The TV is large and flat, not the tiny clump he used to have in NYC, and it's showing some kind of action movie. Dean can't really concentrate, just finds his mind wandering away.
He wonders if life was like this before. If this was what it was like, but with a young Sam next to him, just sitting around and relaxing. Thinking of nothing but the movie and homework and maybe some cute girl in class. It is rather peaceful, even if he's unable to follow the storyline and eat popcorn without wanting to throw up.
He wonders what made him change. He thinks and thinks and thinks, tries to come up with a reason. He just can't find it, can't find anything logical that made him turn to the drugs. He must be pathetic (even if Deacon says no, no, you're going to remember the reason one day). Dean just can't understand why he exchanged this for the addiction in the first place, but he knows that he must be a moron.
He can't decide if it's a good day to die or not. He doesn't know what kind of weather is appropriate suicide-weather – he hopes that a cloudy summer day is ideal for what he has planned. Going out with his baby seems like a wonderful idea. It might be the best idea he has ever had, in fact.
This way, driving far away from civilisation – where it might take days for someone to find him – his parents are only going to think that he has run off yet again. He won't hurt them anymore, he won't disappoint or embarrass them any further.
In just a couple of hours he's going to be a limp body, slowly growing stiff and cold. All he's going to see is darkness and he isn't going to know anything but the dark.
Dean starts the car and she rumbles to life. This is going to be the best, and last, ride of his life.
The End