Straddling Fences
It's a really fine line. The line between oblitteratingly drunk and throwing up on your shoes. It's usually a one drink difference. Trouble is you may have already had that drink and you just don't know it yet.
Dean's good at this game. The balance on one foot game. He plays it all the time. He's been playing it since he was sixteen. Bartender give me another, no thanks that's it for me. Three hundred bucks in his pocket, a pool cue across his skull. Blonde screaming in the backseat, blonde's boyfriend giving him a black eye in the alley. Come to think of it, he's been playing it since he was four. Yes sir, no sir. Sammy, Sam. Zig and get the freak of the week between the eyes, zag and get sutures.
The cold bathroom tile against his face is nice. He's pretty sure he's on the wrong side of the line tonight, but there are these next five minutes where his world is narrowed to concentrating on not heaving. No heaving. No monsters, no yelling, no any one leaving.
And then the blackness and quiet.