The grief lingered. The anger simmered. The emptiness was consuming. Every emotion cut like a knife inside of his gut and shredded his soul. Emotions were hot, heavy blankets that wrapped so tight they suffocated you. So he drank. He worked on his car. He numbed the pain. He ignored Sam's persistent hovering. He fought back the rage. He fought back the tears. He climbed deeper into the hole he had dug for himself. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Dad was dead.
It had happened a few months ago. In a hospital. He had been fine one minute. Gone the next.
Like a flash of fire. A light switch. Fine. Gone. Fine. Gone. Breathing. Not breathing. Heart beating. Heart stopping. Gone. Dead. Dad.
No.
The gut-wrenching pain was like acid being poured into already open wounds and Dean's breath hissed through his clenched teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around his middle.
"Son of a bitch," He whispered, his words clipped and broken. The empty bottle of whiskey that sat on the nightstand had helped for a short time. Dean had slept through drunken nightmares and had awakened before dawn, gasping for breath, exhausted and sick. He sat hunched over the bed, willing himself not to throw up. Life was not fair. But then again it never had been. Gritting his teeth, Dean got to his feet and braced his hand on the edge of the nightstand. His vision swam. He took a step forward. His stomach lurched. He groaned. There was no use ignoring the inevitable. Half stumbling towards the bathroom, Dean didn't even bother to close the door as he hit his knees in front of the toilet and retched until he saw stars.
He didn't know how long he hung over the porcelain bowl trying to stop shaking and heaving. He swallowed several times trying to settle his stomach. He wanted to be off of the floor before Sam or Bobby found him lying on the tile, weak and vulnerable. He wanted to get a grip on his emotions and his stomach and be outside working on baby before he was seen like this. But that wasn't going to happen any time soon. He retched again as his stomach heaved and the whiskey burned worse coming up as it did going down.
"Dean?"
Damn.
"Dean, you all right?"
Sam was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his worried eyes staring straight into Dean's shredded soul. Dean leaned back and wiped his mouth. He glanced up at his brother. The room didn't tilt and Dean thought that was a good sign.
"I'm fine," Dean replied. His voice sounded like dried leaves being stomped on. Sam's eyes narrowed.
"You don't look fine," Sam said evenly.
"Something just didn't agree with me," Dean snapped. He slowly started getting to his feet.
"You mean this entire bottle of whiskey?" Sam waved the empty bottle of whiskey in front of Dean's ashen face.
Dean stood upright, wobbled for just a second and then pushed the bottle and Sam out of his way, albeit weakly, so he could leave the bathroom. Sam followed him down the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen. He was silent as he watched Dean go for the half empty pot of coffee on the kitchen counter. A crinkling of paper had both boys turning their heads to see Bobby sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and cup of coffee. He raised an eyebrow in question.
"I miss something this morning?" Bobby asked gruffly.
"You didn't miss anything," Dean mumbled.
"Breakfast is there on the stove," Bobby said. Dean's face paled.
"I don't think Dean will be eating breakfast this morning," Sam replied and there was a slight edge to his tone. Dean slammed down his coffee cup on the counter and glared at his brother.
Bobby sighed and put the paper down.
"You two idjits want to tell me what's going on here?"
"Ask Sam," Dean muttered, "I'm going to work on the car."
"It's not even daylight Dean," Sam said.
"A little sunrise never hurt anyone Sam," Dean shot back. He dumped his coffee down the sink and stalked outside, slamming the door behind him. Sam watched him go, torn, his eyes deep with concern, his mouth twisted with pain and anger.
"Sit down Sam," Bobby said.
Sam made himself a cup of coffee and then lowered himself into a chair opposite the man they would come to call a second father. His shoulders slumped as he took a sip of the hot black liquid.
"Want to tell me what that was all about?"
Sam was silent for a moment before he swallowed and shook his head.
"He won't talk to me. When we go hunting he's reckless. That's why I dragged him back here and now he's back to working on that car all day like before. If he does talk to me he's biting my head off. I'm worried Bobby. He was puking this morning. Hungover. An entire bottle of whiskey empty. I caught him and now he's pissed."
"He's grieving."
"It's been months Bobby. Months. I know how he felt about Dad. And if he wants to grieve and talk then fine. That's healthy. But the drinking, the silence, the walking around with an empty look…" Sam's voice trailed off and he took a deep shuddering breath.
"Dean bottles everything up inside. You know that," Bobby said quietly, "Eventually he will let it out. He has too."
"But at what cost Bobby?"
"That's his decision."
Sam shook his head.
"No. I can't accept that. I won't have my brother killing himself with grief. I won't allow it."
"Sam-"
"I'm going to take a shower." Sam stood abruptly and pushed back his chair. He left the room without a word. Bobby gazed around the empty kitchen and sighed heavily. Two grieving brothers who needed each other now more than ever; they were avoiding each other and the heavy blanket of grief they each dragged behind them. And now Dean was hiding outside and Sam was hiding upstairs. And nobody was going to eat the damn breakfast he had made early this morning.
"Balls," Bobby grumbled.