Chapter 3 to The Mark
"The Spins"
Author: Wakingsparrow
Author's Note: I apologize this is the tiniest of chapters ever, but I needed to get it out of my system as well as out of the way before I could move on. I swear the next chapter will be longer, and may include a fresh face and road trip action to switch it up.
Also, thanks goes out to all the reviews, you guys are great! And Ronisoomine, of course I take it as a compliment ;)
Per usual, review and critiques make my day, so don't be stingy!
Chapter 4, coming soon.
Dean chucked the recently emptied bottle of Old Crow as far as he could and bumped back against the side of the Impala. It took at least 15 seconds for the satisfying sound of glass decimating on the black quarry bottom to reach him from far below, but who was counting anyway? He greedily sucked in the chilly air around him. The first storm front in what seemed like forever had soaked the parched fields for only a few minutes tonight, but behind it came cooler temperatures.
That reminded him of dinner, though a better choice of words in place of 'cool' might be 'frigid'.
Dean cursed and swigged up his flask to his mouth. My list of things I'd rather not think about is getting too damn long. Alcohol bit at the back of his throat and forced him to cough slightly before he could swallow again.
The idea of being at the salvage yard right now only agitated him and he figured it was good that other hunter and he have some time apart. They both had been cooped up together in that boiling house, and while Bobby was used to it, Dean was probably driving him crazy vicariously.
He had sat there in silence for twenty minutes after Bobby'd finished his rant before he cleared his bowl from the table, grabbed his jacket and keys, and roared off. A quarry outlying off the road and long abandoned after the minerals were tapped out was the best location he could think of. I need to clear my head…and then unclear it with something to drink. Drink he did.
...
A strong hand seized his shoulder and yanked him around from the bar before Dean could scarcely register it. The lights danced in his vision, leaving little comet trails in their wake.
"Git 'ff' me." He sloppily tried to shake loose the vice grip, but in his effort it became the only thing that kept him from tumbling off the stool.
"God, Dean, this is pathetic. Do you even have a clue how much you've drank?"
Sam.
Oh great, that's right. He'd found him. Fan-fucking-tastic.
He took in a lungful of air to sober himself up, but it only made him aware of the reek of liquor on his breath. Dean staggered to his feet and pried his younger brother's fingers from his leather jacket.
"Whatssit to you? If I'd wanted a woman to nag me, I'da got one."
He didn't even have to look at him to know that Sam existing bitch face had grow oh-so much more bitchier at the comment. The actual sight of it made him let out a low snigger he couldn't possibly restrain.
That might have been a mistake.
"What's so funny?" The man hissed dangerously. "You being plastered seven ways to Sunday while we're in the middle of a job?" Sam hushed his voice faintly and locked eyes with him; Dean yet again internally cursed genetics as he was dwarfed. The buzz kill leaned closer to other man's flushed face and grimaced at the stench of well whiskey. "What's funny? Innocent people probably being killed right now and you've decided to ignore it as usual?"
"'Nore it?" With that, Dean shoved the taller man away sharply causing a few of the scattered bar patrons to take notice. "What the fuck am I s'post to do? Tell me Sammy, what's you genius Stanford plan!"
"Oh don't even start with that one again." Sam laughed out incredulously. "I'm trying to figure out a solution to this crap situation before the body count racks up even higher! And what do you do?" He brushed a wrinkle out of his shirt where his brothers hands had made contact and broadened his shoulders. "Drink it all away like it doesn't matter."
Dean's fists clenched at his sides and he hazily considered taking a swing for the jaw. He knew, however, his arm would be wrenched up behind his back long before it would make contact. As much false bravado as whiskey gave him, he knew he was no match for Sam this drunk.
"I don't haveta' fucking listen to this."
Dean slammed a fifty on the bar and stumbled toward the illuminated exit sign. His head throbbed and he wanted to throw up, but it was less from the alcohol and more from the words thrumming around between his temples.
...
Dean abruptly gasped for air as if he had just been held under water and shook his head as if to empty it. He established by sensation he was now sitting on the gravel with his back against the Impala, and saw another fifth of Crow opened and a forth gone. So much for not thinking about it, he'd completely lost track of time reliving it.
It took some effort to jerk open the back seat door in his condition, but he knew he wasn't returning to the car lot tonight. He clumsily threw himself onto the leather and dragged up a blanket from under the passenger seat.
Sweet dreams, you murderer. He peered up through the window at the spinning scattered stars and prayed he wouldn't feel like hell in the morning.