When Dean woke, the sun was shining weakly through the slits in the blinds, castling long, still shadows across the room.
His lips were chapped to the point of pain, his throat dry and sore with dehydration, and his stomach churned unpleasantly, sending waves of nausea through his whole body. He sat up, head pounding, and looked around. The walls were pale and bare, save for a framed letter of acceptance from Stanford Law. The furnishings were minimal. Desk in the corner. Bookshelf beside the desk. The only thing on the bedside table was a picture of smiling blonde woman, practically glowing with beauty. The room was clinically clean and organized, with a distinct air of underuse. Sam's room.
Dean's pants were crumbled on the ground, shirt balled up by his head. He stood, legs aching, and pulled his clothes on before crossing to the bathroom. The door was already open, boots abandoned in the doorway. His socks were several paces ahead. The toilet seat was up, his cell phone on the ledge above the bowl, and the room was heavy with the stench of stale sweat and fresh vomit.
For a moment, he thought he might be sick but it passed quickly. He grabbed his phone, slipped on his socks and laced up his boots.
He returned to the bedroom, taking care to pull the door shut. The previous night was a tangled blur of images and sensations, but he remembered coming in, body burning to high hell, stripping down to his boxers and making some sacrifices to the porcelain god.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a text message from Sam. He typed in the first three numbers of his pass code and felt his strength waver. He wasn't ready to face Sam. Sit through the lecture. The scalding. He wasn't ready to man up and accept the consequences of his actions. Not without a cigarette, at least.
There was a gas station across the street from the apartment. If he was quick enough, he wouldn't even have to lock the door.
He rifled through Sam's closet, looking for a jacket that wouldn't swallow him whole. He finally settled on a Stanford crewneck sweater that he suspected was Jess's. But the sun was rapidly setting, it wasthe middle of January, and his jacket was still hanging, unclaimed, in the coat check of the club from last night. If he had to wear a girl's jacket, it was his own damn fault.
Shivering against the cold, he climbed down the outer stairwell and crossed the street. The gas station was empty, the clerk bored, and the cigarettes far more expensive than back in Lawrence. That was the only thing that he missed from back home. Cheap smokes.
It was only once he was on the porch of Sam's apartment that he remembered he had left his lighter in his jacket pocket.
And then, it came back to him.
On his knees, teetering on the verge of an overdose, trying not to cry over spilled cigarettes. Weaving in and out of reality, of perception. The man. The angel. Had he imagined the whole thing? He didn't know how much he had drank, and certainly had no idea how much molly he had taken, straight to the head. It was possible. It was entirely possible that he had pushed his brain to the point of mania, of hallucinating. But, he had given him the book of matches. He shot to his feet, turning his pockets out. Surely enough, the matches were there.
He collapsed back into his seat, turning the matches over in his hands. It was a small, plain book. The kind you used to get in restaurants and clubs. But that was years ago. Back when smoking in public buildings was still legal. Dean had no idea why the man had had it, where he had gotten it, or how long he had been holding on to it for.
But it meant that he hadn't imagined a single thing.
He lit his cigarette, still gripping the matchbook tightly. Why was it so important? Why did it matter? Dean wasn't bothered by the idea that he had simply railed one too many lines and caused a few wires in his brain to short circuit. He almost would have preferred that. To know that none of it was real. But, there were no short circuits. And somewhere out there, there was a man in a trench coat that Dean could've sworn was angel. Dean, who had no interest in religion or God or angels or any of that bullshit. And he had his matches.
Hard as he tried, Dean couldn't think of anything else. Of anyone else. He couldn't be disappointed with himself for throwing away three endless, grueling months of sobriety in one fell swoop. He couldn't be angry for giving in to all the temptations that he had fought so hard against. And, probably worst of all, he couldn't even bring himself to think about what had happened the last time he had gone down the rabbit hole like this. He was too goddamn curious about the man with the matches to feel the horror he should have felt. No, he was too busy trying to find some remnant of this supposed angel to think about how the last time he had opened a bottle of whiskey, the last time he had snorted molly, his best friend ended up dead and it was all his fault.
He knew he should've felt terrible, but he couldn't bring himself to even think about it. He was just too damn fascinated by the man with the matches.
His cigarette was smoked down to the filter. He cast it off the side of the balcony, still burning, and lit another one.
His phone buzzed with another message from Sam. Right. He had forgotten. That was why he had come out here in the first place, wasn't it? To smoke a few cigarettes, steel his nerves, and see what Sam had to say.
There were 6 text messages, 4 missed calls and 3 voicemails. He played the most recent voicemail.
"Dude, seriously? It's almost 7 and you're still asleep. I can't believe you, Dean. I really can't. You come out here 'cause you wanna quit drinking but you can't do it alone, and you need me to help you. That's what you said. And as soon as you start making some fucking progress, you go and fuck it all up. Look, man. We gotta talk. Figure something out. I'll be back soon. You better still be here."
He glanced at the time of the voicemail. It had been just over an hour. He figured Sam would probably be home soon. And boy, was he in for it.
As soon as he finished his cigarette, he lit another one.
He shouldn't have listened to the message.
He already knew what the rest of the messages said. I'm so disappointed in you, Dean. All of them, different variations of Sam's immense disappointment. He didn't need to listen to the voicemails or read the texts to know. It's because he was a fucking disappointment. He should've just deleted them, waited it out, and continued to wonder about the man with the matches. Because the man with the matches wasn't about to show up and rip him a new one for shit he already knew he shouldn't have done. The man with the matches didn't know shit about him. Didn't know about the drinking. How out of control it had gotten. He didn't know what had happened and he didn't know that it was all Dean's fault. And he certainly didn't know about Dean's tangle with molly, with ecstasy. With just MDMA. He didn't know about all the money he had blown, and he had no idea just how cold the ground was when you hit rock bottom.
Not like Sam.
Sam knew it all. Because he had been there for it. Had tried to help Dean. Steer him away. Instead he had just watched him crash and burn.
Maybe, Dean figured, this was why he couldn't stop thinking about the man with the matches. To him, Dean could've just looked like a guy who had dropped his pack of cigarettes on the ground and was trying to pick them up. He had no idea – no possible way of knowing – what was really going on.
"How many times do I have to tell you, Dean? You can't smoke out here."
"Would you rather I do it inside the apartment?"
"Just don't do it at all, man."
Sam was behind him, standing in the doorway, and Dean wasn't sure he could do this. Wasn't sure he could turn around and face Sam and have this talk. He wasn't sure that he could admit he was in over his head and fucking own up to the fact that he had a goddamn problem. So, he didn't.
He dropped the cigarette on the ground, stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, and stood up to leave.
"Well, thanks for picking me up last night, Sammy. I gotta go."
He pushed past Sam and into the living room, but Sam wouldn't let him leave.
"C'mon man, we gotta talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"The fuck there is! You can't pretend like this didn't happen. I saw you last night, Dean. You were drunk and your pupils were so fucking dilated. How much did you take? How much did you drink?"
"I don't have time for this now, Sammy. I told you. I have to go."
And somehow, Sam backed down. Looking slightly hurt and completely defeated, he opened the door for Dean. Just so he could slam it as soon as he crossed over the threshold.