Synopsis: Dean tries to deal with his drinking habits.
Notes: I'm definitely fighting a losing battle against the clock so I doubt I can get anything else out before S6 hits the airwaves. This story was actually the main backbone of a bigger epic. I've cut an unbelievable amount from the story to make it a one shot but the essence of the theme is still there.
All spelling and grammar mistakes are mine.
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Nobody likes to admit to addiction. Nobody likes to wake up and realize with startling certainty that they are, by every definition of the word, firmly entrenched in an addiction that sees them compulsively needy for a substance that is destroying them.
But people are addicted for good reasons. They're addicted because it's better than facing the gaping maw that leads to the emptiness inside. A void that cannot be filled and cannot be satisfied. It hurls abuse and lists every flaw and inadequacy and worst of all it makes it very clear that you do not deserve to be here.
Dean has never considered his love affair with the bottle as an addiction. He had more pressing concerns and if the warm hug of an alcohol fuelled binge took the edge off the prospect of the whole world going to hell or Dean being used as an angel condom or just simply helped him sleep without nightmares then he was all for it. If it shut up his internal voice - the one that sounded like his father - then that was even better.
But in Normal Land with its fairground attractions of shopping malls and family meals and picnics in the park, knocking back shots is not considered polite. Or constructive.
Besides, like all addicts he's very good at finding someone who's worse. You can always look over at that other person and say, "Well, I may be bad but I'm not nearly as bad as that person over there." He could always look over at Sam, his demon blood addicted brother, and his drinking habits paled in comparison. It was probably why Sam didn't nag him about it that much because an addict sucking down demon blood telling a border-line alcoholic to quit drinking was verging on a really bad joke.
After a month Lisa makes her opinions about his drinking habits perfectly clear. He's not to drink in front of Ben. And hey, he's all for it because he can understand it. It's not a good thing for a kid to see some guy getting drunk in front of the TV. Besides, the apocalypse is over and he's supposed to be having an apple pie life and he's always told himself that his drinking was a result of stress from the hunter's life. The stress of trying to keep himself sane.
But now those concerns are gone and he finds he doesn't give up drinking. He cuts back a little but he doesn't give it up. He finds that the simple life weighs on him.
He gets very good at hiding the fact that he's still drinking. He's been aiming for helpful and although he's bewildered by house work he's pretty good at laundry and fixing things. Lisa's house goes from slightly neglected to exceptionally maintained. Holes are fixed, faucets are no longer dripping and the paint is fresh. In between fixing things and applying for jobs he also likes to sit in the Impala and take a few well-earned swigs with his friend Mr Jack Daniels.
The Impala is in the garage and he doesn't drive it much these days because it reminds him of his old life – the one he promised Sam that he'd give up – so instead he just sits in it with the radio on and drinks.
He justifies it very well. He's still in mourning and he's trying to adjust to his new life. All perfectly true. Besides, he likes to drink.
He keeps drinking through the second month and then the third month as well and then it's not just the Impala, it's in the bathroom before he steps into the shower or in the middle of the night or just before Ben gets home from school or when he goes into a place to grab some lunch and the place happens to be a bar and he spends the money on booze and nothing on food.
Then one day he never bothers to take a break from his drinking during the day and he winds up blindingly drunk on the back porch.
Ben finds him, and a puddle of vomit, out on the back steps. He wakes up enough to be semi-aware of Ben telling him it's okay and that Ben is going to his Mom for help.
Dean takes two Tylenol the next day and drinks a lot of water and manages to eat some bacon and eggs. Something about grease seems to always help out on the epic hangover front. At the table he takes a look at Ben's face and it hits him like a ton of bricks. Ben is wearing the same expression Dean used to wear after John Winchester had done a face plant as a result of a night downing cans of beer in quick succession. The next day Dean would cook breakfast, tell his Dad it was okay, take care of Sam.
Shit. He's turned into his father and not in a good way.
Ben is sent to his room to play computer games. After the Tylenol kicks in Dean has no choice but to sit down in the living room with Lisa. She tells it to him straight. She understands he has problems but she won't put up with Dean being drunk. If he drinks again in her house he can leave and not come back. She's not about to become that mother. The one that puts up with her drunken boyfriend and ignores the harm being done to her own child.
Her final grown up thing is to suggest that he goes to AA and get some help.
He wants to deny it, he really does but he also wants to please her. AA is for alcoholics and he's not an alcoholic. Deep down the void kicks its heels and tells him that alcohol is the only thing keeping his sanity intact.
Except... Except for the fact that he's living a normal life and he's still drinking. All the time. He sees her face and reluctantly agrees to get help.
He goes online and does some research and the next night Lisa finds a babysitter for Ben and drives 45-minutes to get him to an AA meeting in Indianapolis.
He makes himself go down to the church basement, sit on the folding chairs, nervously drink coffee and try to control the jiggling of his right leg. Someone asks if there are any newcomers in the meeting. Dean doesn't raise his hand, he's too terrified. To his surprise no one asks him anything, or why he's there. Other people get up and share but he's left to quietly observe. When people laugh as someone relates some God awful story about spending three days puking and shitting themselves, he really can't see the joke.
After the meeting there's a stampede to the exits so that most of the meeting can finally light up and smoke. Dean is about to slip away when a big guy in his late fifties who looks like he should be hanging out in a biker gang comes over and introduces himself.
"I'm Bowser." He reaches out to shake Dean's hand.
"Uh, hi. Um, Dean," says Dean and awkwardly returns Bowser's hand shake.
Bowser's grip nearly crushes all of his knuckles.
"First timer?" Asks Bowser with a voice that oozes warmth.
"Yeah," is all Dean ends up saying. Bowser keeps going.
"A lot of people don't get this far."
Dean doesn't reply because he can't think of anything to say.
"Pretty damn brave of you," says Bowser.
Dean shrugs, stamps hard on his impulse to run away. Funny how going to an AA meeting is sending his heart rate through the roof faster than hunting ghosts.
"Yeah, so, I have to get going," he says. It's kind of pathetic but his automatic reaction is to flee before Bowser can corner him in a conversation. Then Dean tells a little lie. "My wife is gonna worry if I'm late."
Bowser nods, keeps smiling. "Sure. Hope to see you at the next meeting. In the meanwhile, if you want to talk, gimme a call."
The man takes out a business card, thrusts it into Dean's hand and Dean has no choice but to nod and make sure he sticks the card in a pocket.
He walks quickly out into the night air. Lisa is waiting for him. She's inside her fuel efficient Toyota, sipping a coffee. She smiles at him as he gets in to the passenger seat and she hands him his own coffee.
He's grateful that she doesn't ask him for details.
On the drive back he wonders if he can do this. Because his drinking helped define his life as a hunter. It keeps the nightmares at bay. But there's that whole Promise-to-Sam thing so he knows he has to try. Normal people don't down shots like they're a Coke on a hot summer's day.
When they get back home Dean decides he's going to throw out his stash. That seems like a good way to start. He gets Lisa to help him. Lisa is in charge of pouring the alcohol down the sink and Dean is in charge of placing the empty bottles into a sturdy garbage bag which they then put into the garbage bin.
Dean doesn't tell her about the one bottle that he has hidden in the old weapon's compartment in the trunk of the Impala.
\\SN/
He can't sleep and when he closes his eyes its literal hell. Darkness and fire and screaming and begging and painpainpain. There's the sudden slam back to consciousness and then he craves, he desires, he damn well needs it and his brain won't shut up. So he caves and he sneaks out of bed at three in the morning and gets the bottle out of the Impala so he can knock back a few at the kitchen table.
For some reason as he sits there and debates with himself about starting the process of getting himself nicely toasted, he gets a vision of Chuck - of all people. Chuck; sitting there in his bathrobe drinking like a fish while writing bad novels and trying to order phone sex. Dean's brain adamantly insists he's not like Chuck at all because Chuck was a high-strung loser. But his brain also reminds him that he's as happy to isolate himself as Chuck was and he was just as happy visiting brothels.
He thinks about those stupid 12-steps he read online and heard about at the meeting. They are a complete mystery at this point. He doesn't really understand any of them. He's even struggling with the first step because part of him still doesn't believe that he's powerless in the face of alcohol. He's not powerless, it's just that he's had to have some method for getting through the day and alcohol just happened to be it.
Time ticks by and he remains at the table, staring at the bottle and realizes that this is what it means to be powerless. It's three in the morning and he's secretly prepared to drink himself into a stupor.
It upsets him because he's fought creatures from hell, refused to be a pawn of heaven and for all his bravery he's buckles when confronted with the possibility of his coping mechanism being taken away.
Slowly he makes himself push back from the table, pour the contents of the bottle down the kitchen sink and throw the bottle away.
Now he has no idea what he's going to do.
He takes a deep breath and goes upstairs. Lisa is fast asleep and he's never once slept in her bed because it always felt like it was too soon and he doesn't want to freak Ben out. He's normally in the spare bedroom which has been the perfect sleeping arrangements for enabling his drinking. Bending down he gently puts a hand on her shoulder. She slowly wakes up.
"Dean?" Her voice is sleepy and her hair is a mess. She's unbearably cute.
"Is it okay if I sleep with you?"
She nods, a small smile, pats the empty space beside her. He's dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt so he just climbs in beside her. She's already fast asleep. He doesn't sleep much at all but it seems fractionally safer with Lisa.
It strikes him that this is what normal is probably supposed to feel like. Being able to be in the dark without a crushing sense of fear. That his family is safe, that he will do this every night for the rest of his life. He'll go to bed in the same house, with Lisa by his side for years and years.
This thought makes him happy.
He summons his world famous Winchester resolve and knows that he's going to do this but it's the toughest thing he will ever do. Everything else is going to be tame by comparison.
Dean lies awake and his entire body wants a drink. The smoky taste is on the back of his tongue and he can almost smell the perfume of whiskey right damn now.
He rolls over.
He tells himself he won't ever take another drink again and he'll tell himself that same thing every day for the rest of his life. He's not going to join the list of hunters that go crazy or wind up homeless drunks. That's not going to be his fate. He won't do it.
So he doesn't.
The End.