Apologies

by worksbysenorajane

(AU) Dean tries hard to forget his demons down the neck of a bottle. Sam attempts to talk some sense into his brother but eventually gives up when Dean cuts him deep in a drunken rage. Exhausted, Sam calls a concerned Castiel to warn him of Dean's state. Unable to sleep, Cas confronts Dean, unknowing of just how he will respond to Cas's presence. (Posted chapters recently updated)

7. Chapter 7

A Note

Morning light tumbles in as Dean crashes through his front door. He looks around, half expecting someone to be there, although he can't quite remember who. He is amazed he even made it home. Everything is waving, sinking, dipping in and out of focus. He looks back to make sure his baby is safe in the driveway. She is, albeit, a little crooked.

Dean slides one numb foot in front of the other until he's inched his way through the living room and into the kitchen. He reaches out over the edge of the kitchen bar and drops his car keys, expecting to hear the usual ping as they hit the glass bowl that sits on his counter top. The keys crash onto the tile counter, the sound muted more quickly than the bowl normally allows. Dean looks up and sees the bowl pushed flush along the wall on the opposite end near the sink. He focuses his eyes and begins to notice an order amongst hist things that hasn't been present since he moved in two years ago—when Lisa helped him bring everything together.

He wrinkles his brow at the new arrangement, wracking his brain-trying to remember when he possibly could have been sober enough to clean. He quickly gives up on the thought and stumbles over to the fridge, looking for the familiar comfort of his stowed away beer. He opens the door, inhaling sharply when he finds vegetables, milk, bread and a few pre-made, marked, meals in tupperware where his beer normally would be.

Dean erects himself and rubs his eyes, feeling more sober by the second. He starts to recall who he thought might have been in his house, and who he suspects is responsible for his sudden appearance of civility. He turns and braces himself on the fridge, sliding against it until he's at the mouth of the kitchen. Dean rocks on his heels before turning to right once more, plopping his wavering body out into the hall that leads towards his bedroom.

The usually open door is now shut, leaving him to wonder if someone is still inside. He scooches down the hall, bumping the edges of pictures with his slouched shoulder, leaving a trail of crooked landscapes in his wake. He rests a shaky hand on the knob and twists, a task that seems far more difficult than it should be. As the door finally swings open, Dean is greeted by clean, smooth, turned down sheets, a vacuumed rug and neatly folded laundry on the end of his bed. The sight brings back memories of his mornings at Lisa's; she always had everything perfect. Dean's usual sloppiness was no match for her cleaning regiment. It was something he missed, not necessarily the order, but someone caring enough to try.

Dean turns around and slides back down the hall, his throat still aching for that beer—hoping maybe, it just got pushed to the back of the fridge and his tired eyes just failed to see it. He rounds the corner once more, facing the open, sparkling-clean kitchen.

As he inhales the fresh smell of lemon tinted with the burn of ammonia, he spots a piece of paper lain out on the counter next to the stove. Dean pushes closer, anticipation and worry starting to scratch at his ears. He takes another moment, trying to focus his eyes on the neat, tight writing he knows all too well.

"I'm sorry.

-Castiel"

Dean steps back, tipping over the fine line into the realm of sobriety. Blocked memories break through, eventually turning him round, making him dash into the bathroom that sits just across the hall. He falls to his knees and skids along the linoleum, smacking his chest against the rim of the toilet. He bobs his head down until his nose almost touches the water inside the bowl. The night's intake rushes out of him with all the fury a guilty conscience can muster. He rests his head on the porcelain and untangles his limbs, trying to find the most comfortable way to sit and wait for the next attack on his gut.

"He's sorry?" he sputters, grimacing at the smell of himself, "What the hell does he have to be sorry for?"

Dean's stomach roils again and he splatters stale beer all over the freshly cleaned bowl. He coughs and heaves, trying to ignore the burn of bile pouring out of his nostrils. His eyes water as a lump grows in his aching throat.

"What could that guy ever be sorry for?"

He chokes out another garbled yelp. His voice echos slightly from the putrid basin, just before arching forward again as his muscles roll out his insides.