Hello all! Thanks for coming back to check in on this story. Thanks to all who have stuck with me on this journey and for all the wonderful reviews and comments, it does the heart good. :) I hope as always that you enjoy this latest chapter. Thanks again!


Bobby stays where he is. Content to sit in his old, beat up, Archie Bunker style chair and wait Dean out. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to decipher the clues, to see the writing on the wall, the evidence that stares him right in the face. He can see the way Dean's eyes start to close for the briefest of moments. Can see how his head dips down every so often and stays there for a period of time. How he almost misses the table with his glass now and then. How the intervals between taking a drink are spread out more and more and the attempts progressively lessen in their frequency. Bobby can tell. The Winchester son is well on his way to a reprieve. To a welcome, brain numbing state of being. It won't be long until the poor kid passes out.

Woah. Almost totally missed the table on that one. Yup, there is no doubt in his mind, he is definitely drunk. Huh, that didn't seem to take too long. He watches in fascination as the glass in his hand appears to be in a constant state of flux. It stays still, then goes out of focus and multiplies, before it meshes back into a single form again. Ah, the wonders and powers of alcohol. A truly magical potion. He sends a silent word of thanks to whomever the genius was who discovered it. Maybe it was named after the dude. Mr. Alcohol. Has a certain ring to it. Okay. Brain is definitely on the fritz. It has officially left the building.

Bobby just sits there. He does not say one word. Because really, if he did decide to strike up a conversation what words would he use? I'm sorry? Or, everything will be okay? How about, you'll see things differently tomorrow? Hell, that bullshit might work if Dean's prom date had just stood him up, or may even take the edge off if the Impala wound up with a scratch on her beautiful paint job. But not for this. Not this. Those words would mean nothing, they would offer no comfort. No words can take the pain away. So, Bobby just sits there in a kind of silent vigil, far enough away to allow Dean some space, yet close enough if the young man needs him.

It gets more and more difficult to focus. He wants to drink more, wants to taste the burn of the whiskey in his mouth, down his throat, in the pit of his stomach. But it gets harder and harder to get his hand to move, to bring the glass to his mouth. He figures he has just about reached the third sheet to the wind stage of drunkenness. What a stupid saying. Shit. Great, now he feels another sensation flow through him. He really needs to take a leak. Oh well, it shouldn't be too hard, he's been shitfaced before and always managed right?

Dean begins to rise from the sofa and Bobby instantly reaches out to steady his wavering form. "Dean, what are you doing son? Maybe you should sit your ass back down before you fall down." Glassy eyes look to his and Bobby once again sees a ghost of a smirk cross his face.

"M good Bob'y. Need ta piss. That k?"

Bobby feels his cheeks flush slightly. Oh, well he supposes he can't deny the boy a trip to the can. "Oh. Okay, sorry. Just take it slow Dean, you are what we sober folks like to call drunk as a skunk."

"nother dum sayin...skuk druk..no sense B'by."

Bobby watches Dean's slow trek towards the bathroom. If it weren't for the circumstances of the day Bobby would be all over this. The young man can't even walk two paces before he fumbles and stumbles and is forced to steady himself on whatever happens to be around. The wall. A chair. Bobby actually does break out into a smile when he hears Dean mumble something, as he gives the latest obstacle in his way a good talking to. Like that particular item had no business being there in the first place.

He enters the room and weaves his way towards the toilet. He actually sighs when he is relieved of the liquid that had been sloshing around in his system. Mission accomplished, he leans his hands on the vanity and keeps his eyes closed as he tries try to wrangle in another round of alcohol induced dizziness. He hasn't felt this pissed since...since he got back from Hell. When the only way he could make it through the day, the only way he could get even a moment's peace was when he was flying so high that it would take years to tumble back down into the pit.

Bobby gets an uneasy feeling in the bottom of his gut as he watches the young hunter step inside and close the door. Sure, the kid may be floating high as a kite but Bobby does not want to leave him alone for any length of time. Not until he can get a read on where his mind is at. On what his intentions are. He has already seen first hand the emotional strain this whole pile of crap has put Dean in. God, the fact that he didn't want to be healed by Cas had sent a very clear message to Bobby. The boy had wanted to do nothing else but lay down and die. Right there on the dirt. Like some kind of wounded animal. And, no matter how many times Dean has tried to cover it up, Bobby knows the truth. He is hurt and very unstable. He is far from convinced that Dean would not try to off himself the first chance he gets. So, until his mind is in a better place, the older man is not gonna let him out of his sight for very long. And that last thought is what motivates Bobby to begin his own trek to the bathroom door.

Shit. Hell. Pit. Sam. Dean's eyes flicker up to the mirror and the sight that greets him there freaks him out. It's him. It's his face. But he doesn't see his usual brimming with brightness green eyes. They are black. Those eyes that stare back at him through the glass. They are demon eyes. His demon eyes. He turned into one of those bastards while he was there. He became the thing that he has hunted his whole life, that he hates with every part of himself. And now it stares at him through the mirror. Like a window into his own soul. He hates himself. For who he is. For what he has done. For how he has failed his brother.

A switch has been turned on and it's as if the alcohol has evaporated from his system in an instant. No more warmth. No more fuzzy feeling. No more fog. Just the cold, hard, and ugly truth. He stares straight at his own reflection and it stares back. To mock him. To taunt him. To remind him. Because no amount of alcohol will change the facts. He can not hide from it. From that part of himself. From the devil within. He winds up and sends a fist to fly into that damn face. The face that seems to smile at him, straight from Hell itself. The glass ruptures and splinters and as the face slowly fades from sight, piece by piece, Dean laughs. A mad, unhinged, on the brink of madness kind of laugh.

"Take that, you sack of shit! Not smiling anymore are you, you worthless, spineless dick! Just die already! JUST! DIE!" The fist pounds and pounds, relentless in its attack. It doesn't falter and it doesn't stop. Not until the very last fragment of glass breaks free from the wall and tumbles to the floor below.


TBC... Thanks for stopping by!