Title: Smashed
Characters: Dean
Rating: T (language)
Genre: Angst
Notes: Well, I just made myself sad. A bit of angsty!Dean post 9x12.
Summary: He was smashed, literally and figuratively. Getting drunk might not have solved his problems but it sure numbed the pain.

Look who's digging their own grave
That is what they all say
You'll drink yourself to death

Look who makes their own bed
Lies right down within it
And what will you have left?

Icarus – Bastille

For the first time in a long time, Dean was actually drunk. Like, laid out on his ass, stone-cold drunk. The sixty year old scotch had gone down harsh and damn wasn't he going to pay for that in the morning; but lying on the floor in the library, staring up into the high ceilings with the lights that wouldn't quite focus, he couldn't find it in himself to give a fuck.

The past two weeks had been an emotional rollercoaster and he just wanted to get the hell off. If only for a few hours. The alcohol was a welcomed friend, an attempt to staunch the thoughts, the pain and guilt. God, the guilt. Never really leaves, just lives in the corners of his mind he keeps locked up in remembrance of all the mistakes he's made. Not that he's learned from them.

Dean snorts, a bitter smile on his face. If he would have learned anything, he wouldn't be lying on the ground drunk-alone anyway-while Sam was in his room avoiding him. Their relationship so strained that the kid couldn't even call him brother anymore, couldn't trust him. Thought that they were broken.

This time a slight hysterical laugh falls from his lips as he presses his palms into the floor, trying to stop the spinning and nausea. He couldn't deny it, they were broke in every sense of the word. Trust smashed into little pieces, companionship tossed out the window. Were they even family anymore? Hell, after Sam's speech he couldn't make sense of it, even now. 'Course that could be the alcohol, but everything is so fucking wrong and he doesn't know how to fix it this time.

His good intentions always turned sour, twisted into ugly and deceitful actions. It was never enough, nothing was ever enough. He tried so hard, but nothing ever turned out the hell was he going to do?

Blinking a few times, Dean took a deep breath and could feel his eyes start to burn. Fucking wonderful. That's all he needs right now, to have a complete meltdown. After the past few weeks, he feels entitled to one, the anguish and exhaustion tearing him apart inside. It would be selfish though, he knows that. He has to keep going, can't quit now. Not with Gadreel and Abaddon still at large; plus there's Kevin-god-he has to get revenge for the kid, for Sam. But, lying drunk on the floor in self-pity, he still couldn't make himself care enough, not now.

He's too fucked to even stand up. Mentally. Physically. Knows his legs would give out the moment he stood up and he'd fall. Crumble into a million pieces.

Dean lifted a hand to his face and could feel the evidence of tears streaming down past his cheeks. But he's still got that goddamn smile on his face, etched deep. Smiling through the pain; another thing that's been etched into him since forever. Smile like everything's alright, like it's going to be okay and the world won't fall from beneath your feet. Yeah, right. From his position on the floor, it didn't seem very effective.

He always pushed things deep down inside, never allowed himself to show emotion, at least none that could be used against him. Which was why he was now a blubbering mess on the floor, having a long overdue breakdown. After repressing the emotions of watching Kevin die, Sam on his deathbed and now currently feeling like he couldn't even trust the one person he was supposed to count on, it poured out. Sorrow leaking from his pores, the pure exhaustion of holding everything in seeping from his bones.

But he clamped a hand over his mouth, wouldn't let a sound pass through his lips. Couldn't let Sam see or hear him break. How weak he was at the moment. Body wracked with sobs, hands clenched into fists.

Dean knew getting drunk wasn't a good solution to his problems; plus scotch always did make him more emotional, but it numbed the pain, at least for a little while. He could pass out cold and would actually sleep, instead of facing everything in his nightmares.

Trying to calm down, he took a few deep breaths and removed the hand from his face. He felt shattered, worn and pierced with unimaginable pain. But the feeling passed as he closed his eyes and slowly faded into oblivion.