Handling It
The room isn't spinning, everything is in focus. Words make sense the first time he says them. Dean should be relieved, he should be happy that everything is clear; but he feels the exact opposite. His head is pounding and his fingers are shaking, begging to wrap around a cool, hard glass. He doesn't know how many times he has walked to the fridge to retrieve one of the beers he bought last night- a moment of weakness that still makes him cringe. He needs to think about something else. He decides to heat up one of Cas's pre-made meals, a weak distraction from the task at hand. It's a simple rosemary chicken and rice. It tastes good, too good. Dean tries to remember the last time he ate something besides bar food. Nothing comes to mind.
Only a few minutes pass before he is scarfing down the last grains of rice and shreds of chicken. He sneaks a glance at his phone on the other end of the table. The rest of the house loses focus as the usually, meager flip phone seems to double in size. It looks heavy- threatening. Dean doesn't dare to touch it. He doesn't want to.
His fork scrapes the bottom of the plastic container. He hopes more food will appear, to divert him from his inevitable call to Castiel. Nothing happens—nothing appears. Nothing will save him. The phone just looms at the top of his eye-line. Dean sighs before finally reaching out to pull the phone from across the table.
The cell flips open easily enough, and Dean wishes that the rest would occur just the same. He opens the menu and selects his contacts. Castiel's name appears all too quickly. Dean doesn't have too many people listed in his phone—something he used to pride himself on; Only the people who matter, matter enough to call, he used to say. Now, he prays for instant, careless popularity. Maybe then he wouldn't even be able to find his friend's name in the mess of other numbers.
Dean's finger hovers over the "send" key. He wills it down but his hand doesn't budge. All his strength has drained from his muscles and down through his toes. The weight of his body is nearly unbearable. He almost feels like vomiting again—the hundredth time this past week.
With a grunt, Dean drops his fork and pinches the phone shut. He wants a drink, no, he needs a drink. He knows a stupid little phone wouldn't put up much of a fight then. He begins to talk himself into it. He begins to taste the sweet burn that slides so easily down his throat. His tongue traces sloppily over his dry lips; and he peers into the distance, as if a bottle of rum was going to come galloping over the horizon. He stares and thinks about icy vodka and dark, long necks and the corrosive liquid within. He stares until his eyes blur, forcing him to focus again- back into reality . . . back onto the wall in front of him. The same wall he pushed Castiel into.
No! No drinks.
He has to be sober for this. He can't let anything go wrong; this isn't about him after all. It's about Castiel, it's about trying, desperately trying to make up for what he did. If Cas would even listen. Dean has a feeling he will though; his spotless house and full belly are proof of that. That poor, socially-awkward bastard thinks that this is his fault, a thought that Dean still can't comprehend. Although, he never could really handle the idea of taking blame for anything—not until Ben and Lisa. Even then, he's not really handling it.
His fists dance a few light punches on the table, before Dean valiantly flips open his phone once more. Not wasting a second, he finds Cas's name and takes one last deep breath in preparation. He has to do this. He pictures, Cas's wounded expression once more; and the way his jaw seemed slightly offset as he lay on the floor of Dean's living room. He thinks about how small his friend seemed as he carried him and tucked him into his bed. He thought about how soft Cas's hair felt when he smoothed it to the side across his forehead. The gentle, earthy smell, twisting up from the tousled locks, making Dean, in spite of everything, want to fall asleep right there, in a sea of calm.
He has to make this right. He has to try to make this right.
Dean presses the call button and lifts the phone to his ear, expecting to hear a ring, but getting jarred by a loud knock on the front door instead. "Ahh!" Dean growls; frustrated that anything dare interrupt his one moment of motivation. He snaps the phone shut and storms to door, whipping it open, spitting out a "What do you want?" before he even bothers to see who is on the other side.
"Well, don't be rude now, honey—not after you were so sweet to me the other day."
A tall bony woman stands, curved like the letter S on his porch, fingers twitching along the exposed skin of her midriff. Her patchy red lips curl into a smile, revealing nicotine stained teeth.
"It ain't my fault you passed out before you got to know me better."