November 14, 2007

People generally don't spare much thought on how fragile the structure of a life can be, how easily it can be laid to waste. One domino falls and before surprise can be stirred into response the chain reaction has carried the destruction further than ever seemed possible at the beginning.

Dean didn't tend to think in quite so poetic of terms. His take was that currently, things sucked on ice.

It was going to be a late night at the garage. They'd been a man down, John not having shown up, something that was happening frequently enough now that it could rightly be called a habit. There'd been no answer when Dean had tried to call, which meant he was going to have to swing by the house to check on him when he was finally able to finish up for the night. That, in turn, was going to mean another tense non-fight with Brenda.

She was trying to be understanding, but Dean knew he was pushing the boundaries of her tolerance. He hadn't been the easiest person to live with lately, his daily ration of patience usually exhausted well before he'd made it home. He was, frankly, not sure why she hadn't shown him and his hair trigger the door yet.

It would have been easier on him if she would just blow up at him. He'd feel less guilty. Instead, she persevered in the patient understanding of a loved one going through a tough time. It grew a little less genuine every time he tested it, but at least she was still making an effort, and that had to count for something.

He pulled himself out from under the hood of the Buick he'd just finished up with and spared a longing glance across the garage to where Charlene sat gutted, her innards scattered around her where they had lain untouched for weeks, no, more like months now.

There'd been a time when he looked at her, he'd seen her sleek and clean, looking and running like the showpiece that he was sure lurked under the rust and corrosion. Now, all he saw was a corpse, guts ripped out and ravaged by the elements.

Cars were easier. A car you could rip apart, replace whatever couldn't be fixed, put everything back in its proper place, and it would roar back to life as if there had never been a problem to begin with. The answers were simple. All the pieces fit where they went and did their assigned job. If something misfired or froze up, you rebuilt it, or got a new one, problem solved.

It didn't work that way when a life broke down. Dean wished fervently that he had some idea where to even start, but all he could do was keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep moving forward in hopes of getting out in front of the next inevitable crisis.

He was reasonably certain that it wasn't a question of if, but when, the next bombshell would drop. Nothing, not one god damned thing, had gotten better since the gut punch he'd taken months ago when Sam had first disappeared.

So many of the following nights had ended in alcohol induced sleep, an effort to drink away the anxiety. The days had passed slowly, each one diminishing a little more the chances that any news that came would be good. Then, the worst imaginable had happened. Sam was gone, and Dean had been left with a life damaged in a way that went beyond the potential for repair.

With a barely perceptible sigh, he tore his eyes away from the hulk that had so recently held all his future dreams. All he had left now was the struggle to keep the crumbling pieces of his present held together as best he could. He turned his back to Charlene's empty frame and went to retrieve the next work order.

XXXXX

Despite Dean's insistence that it was on him to take up his father's slack, Guenther refused to leave until they had caught up. Dean hadn't argued the point as vigoroulsy as he might have. Guenther wasn't just a business partner, but John's best friend for as long as Dean could remember. He was almost as concerned about John as Dean was himself, and the sooner they were finished, the sooner Dean could ensure that nothing worse than a binge had caused John's latest no show.

Dean, of all people, knew John's usual reaction to that sort of behavior, having been on the receiving end of it more times than he cared to admit to. As he wiped the bulk of the grease from his hands, he wondered what John would have had to say to himself, which inspired his tired brain to conjure an image of twin Johns, one lecturing the other. The idea was comical enough to actually bring a short lived smile to Dean's lips.

Grateful that Guenther had offered to lock up so that he could be on his way that much sooner, Dean slipped wearily into the Impala's driver's seat. A turn of the key brought her instantly rumbling to life, and he gave the dash an affectionate pat. "That's my girl," he praised her. "You're the only thing in my life that's working, you know that?"

XXXXX

"Dad?" Dean called out as he let himself into the house. He hadn't knocked. That had been a pointless effort enough times that he didn't bother with it anymore.

By now, he expected the sight that confronted him, but that didn't make it hurt any less. He'd had a lifetime of looking up to John Winchester, a man with pride, and reason to be proud, a dad a kid could admire. Seeing him as he was now, sprawled on the couch, empty glass on the floor where it had fallen from his hand, the room in disarray around him, made Dean feel things he didn't even know how to classify.

Anger, disappointment, pity, he wasn't sure. He just knew, he sure didn't like it. Like anyone else, he'd had his share of letdowns in life, but this was a whole new level. The rapid erosion of his family had taken a toll on the man that Dean had always seen as invincible and nothing in his experiences so far had ever prepared him for having to watch his father fall so far so fast.

"Dad, hey Dad" he slapped lightly at John's cheek, "Come on, time to get up."

After a few moments, his efforts paid off and John's lid rose sluggishly to reveal bloodshot eyes. With an obvious effort, he brought his vision into focus and became aware of Dean standing over him. His unsuccessful effort to rise ended in a pained groan.

Dean watched, at war with himself. Half of him wanted to tear into his father, borrowing heavily from John's own playbook. The other half worried and just wanted to make it all right. "I'm gonna make some coffee," he announced emotionlessly, rejecting both options. It had been a long day already, and he just didn't have the energy for a bunch of drama.

He found the kitchen in a worse state than it had been in the last time he'd had to come the previous week. He was disappointed, in spite of not really being surprised. He'd been hoping that John would pull himself up out of this spiral.

It had been a vain hope, born of desperation. Between his own grief, increased workload, tense home life, Dean had felt like one more scoop on an already full plate would break him completely and so, he'd allowed himself to indulge in denial. He rummaged through the mess looking for the coffee and came to terms with the fact that denial had ceased to be an option.

XXXXX

"Three weeks," John slurred into the mug that Dean had pushed upon him. His head hung and the steam from the black liquid within drifted up into his face.

"What, Dad?" Dean looked up from his search of the kitchen for the last of the dirty dishes.

"Yesterday was three weeks since she called last." John elaborated.

"I know, Dad." Dean responded uselessly. He wasn't really sure what else to say. Mary leaving, without warning or explanation, had surprised him, but it hadn't cut him as deeply as it had John. He had his own place, and family. He hadn't been rattling alone around a suddenly empty house the way John had. He could even understand, under the circumstances, a desire to reconnect with lost family. If that's what she needed to heal, he could accept it. He did wish she'd end the radio silence. That was what had pushed John beyond just drinking too much to a full blown quest to find comfort at the bottom of a bottle.

"Her number's stopped working." John rambled.

"Yeah, I know that too, Dad." Dean was at a loss. He'd nursemaided a few buddies through sloppy broken hearts in his time, but this was different. In those cases, he'd just take the guy out to get hammered and wingman him into a new hook up. Worked like a charm, but was utterly useless now.

"Something's happened." John slurred morosely.

"OK, that's it!" Dean snapped. The pile of dishes he'd collected clattered as he banged them down on the table. "Dad, this has got to stop. You know how Mom is. When she can't handle something she pulls back. She's not calling because she's tired of fighting. You know that as well as I do."

John didn't dispute it, but neither did he look convinced.

"Look," Dean continued, grasping at straws, "if anything had happened we'd have heard something from this uncle she's with, or the cops, or somebody."

It was an inversion of the early May morning that had found a near frantic Dean rushing into the garage in search of his father's more level headed guidance. If Dean were the introspective type he might have noticed that his life had been flipped mirror image. Without any preparation, he'd gone from being the family rogue that never troubled himself with worrying about consequences to the head of the family, saddled with holding everything together while the worries continued to pile higher. Faced with an evasive absent parent, covering someone else's missed shifts, watching the relationship drama, it was as if all his built up karma had come home to roost all at once.

John absently watched the swirling patterns play across the surface of the coffee. "I want her home." he implored. "I need her to come home, and I can't even tell her because she won't call. I can't call her, and I don't know what to do."

Something in Dean shifted in that moment. Like a switch had been flipped, a steely resolve crept through his being, swatting the beaten down feeling that had held him captive for months aside. He was done letting fate kick him around. If fate wanted a fight, he'd damn well give it one. "First," Dean instructed, getting his feet under himself in his new role, "you're going to drink that coffee. Then, when I'm sure you can stay standing up on your own, you're going to take a shower while I make some dinner, because, no disrespect, you smell like a distillery."

Whether it was Dean's authoritative tone, or that John's state had left him that suggestible, maybe a bit of both, neither of them knew. It got results, and that was all that mattered. The coffee had been made extra strong, and John's face scrunched up into a grimace at the bitter taste of his first sip.

"Uh-uh," Dean headed off any incoming complaint, "if you can stomach off-brand scotch, you can drink that." He watched expectantly, intense eyes unwavering, until John obediently took a good sized gulp, shuddering as he forced it down.

"Good," Dean encouraged him, "Keep going. I'll be swinging by in the morning to pick you up. Be sober and ready." The odd role reversal threw him a little off balance, but to stop the forward march of the destruction, to keep the next domino from falling, whatever it took, Dean was going to do. He'd lost enough, and come hell or high water, he wasn't going to lose John too.