Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean’s drunk again.

Though, honestly, he doesn’t know if “again” is the right word to be using. Does it count as again if his blood is never truly clear of alcohol? For a long time, he thought he couldn’t actually get drunk – turns out he just wasn’t drinking enough. If you try hard enough, grimace through enough shots, or doubles hastily ordered from a pretty bartender – you know she’s flirting with you, you can’t look her in the face – it’s pretty damn easy to get wasted, even after years of drinking all day, every day.

Sammy’s worried about him, he can tell by the pinched look on his face as he watches Dean slowly walk to the bar, his eyes trained on his feet, desperately trying not to stumble as he shifts out of the way of other patrons. He’s a little wobbly, and the pretty bartender doesn’t seem to want to sell him another drink. He flashes her a flirty grin – it feels foreign, alien on his face – and it works like a charm. It’s always been easy to get what he wants by flirting; it just didn’t feel so forced before.

He walks back to their table, two glasses in his hand (“Two double scotches, neat.”) and frowns at Sam, who is still looking at him like he just killed his dog and maybe said Dean himself would be next.

“Dean,” he sighs. He’s always sighing these days, his eyebrows furrowing over worried eyes.

“Shove it, Sammy. You want the drink or not?” Dean grimaces as Sam’s eyebrows come down further – he looks just like John like this, not that Dean would ever tell him that. He shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak.

“More for me,” Dean grunts, cutting him off by downing one of the drinks quickly. He used to like to sip his drinks, savoring the flavor as it coated his tongue. He hasn’t done that in a year now. Drinking isn’t for the taste or celebration – it’s for drowning out the thoughts that constantly flutter around his head, the things Cas had said to him that day.

He avoids Sam’s eyes as he picks up the second glass, bringing it to his lips and taking a strong pull. It burns going down, setting fire to the memory of blue eyes filled with tears that seem to haunt him at every second.

Sam purses his lips and looks back down at his laptop. He promised Eileen that he’d talk to Dean about his drinking, but really, what is he supposed to do if Dean won’t even look at him longer than a few seconds at a time?

Not that he really wants Dean looking at him these days. When Dean does focus on him, all Sam sees is a face that’s grown thin and rough, eyes that seem flat and empty where they used to be so full – so full of laughter, and intelligence. Sam would kill to see Dean like that again. All he has now is this shell of a man who is so full of booze at the end of the day that he doesn’t even seem human.  He gnaws at the inside of his cheek, scrolling through news sites, not reading a word that flashes before him. He needs to be looking for a case, he needs to be talking to Dean, he needs to be doing anything, but instead, he’s just… sitting there. He feels so damn useless, but what the fuck is he supposed to do? They couldn’t save John from his alcoholism, nor Bobby. How is he supposed to do it for Dean? Especially when Dean doesn’t even want to try. It’s like he’s trying to kill himself.

Sam bites down harder on his cheek at that thought, his mouth flooding with blood. He curses and slams his laptop shut, running his hands over his face. He presses his tongue to the wound, grimacing slightly as he notices Dean watching him from under his eyebrows, trying and failing to pretend like he isn’t.

“Are you trying to drink yourself to death?”

Dean flinches at the accusatory tone in Sam’s voice, his face open and sad for just a second before it slams closed, a glare firmly in place. “Where the fuck did you get that idea from, Sam? That’s stupid.”

Sam leans in over the table, slamming his palms down on the sticky wood. “Is it, Dean? Because I’ve watched you drink yourself sick every day for a year now!” He shakes his hair from his eyes and scowls at his older brother. “I get that you miss Cas, okay? I do too! But I can’t fucking watch you do this anymore.” He shoves back from the table, his eyes sad as he looks away from Dean. “I miss my brother, man. It’s like I lost you both that night.”

Dean blusters for just a second, the alcohol in his system making him angrier than he has any right to be, before he slumps in his seat. “Can we just get out of here?”

“Dean -”

“Please, Sam? I want to go back to the bunker.” Dean looks so pathetic in that moment that the anger seems to drain out of Sam, a long sigh leaving him.

“Yeah, man. I’ll go pay the tab. Meet you at the car.” He shakes his head and walks over to the bar, wallet already in hand.

Dean throws back the rest of the drink, and it tastes dirty and sour on his tongue. Sam thinks he’s trying to kill himself. Is he trying to kill himself? He shakes his head roughly and fumbles around in his pocket for the Impala keys, huffing softly as his hand brushes against the new flask in his pocket. He has the sudden urge to pull it out and take a drink, but the older couple at the table across from him are staring at him, whispering to one another. Maybe he’s a bit wobblier than he thought he was. He sneers at them for a second, rejoicing at the scandalized face the old lady makes before turning away from him. He grins triumphantly as he pulls out his keys, gripping them tighter than necessary as he stumbles out of the bar, the cold metal biting into his palm grounding him as he searches the parking lot.

With a self-satisfied sigh, he spots Baby, shining softly under a yellow light. She’s the one thing he’s put care into the last year, keeping her pretty and waxed. He unlocks the door carefully, going slow to ensure that he doesn’t scratch her paint with his drunken trembling. He lowers himself into the soft leather seat, resting his head against the cold window when the door closes.

He thinks about nothing, and that’s just how he likes it.

Chapter Text

It’s been three days - no, four, he had just been up too long - since Sam had seen Dean. They had parked, and Dean - drunker than he had been in a while - had stumbled into the bunker. By the time Sam had unloaded the car, Dean was locked in his room, blaring AC/DC.

Four days since he had seen his older brother, over a year since he had seen the angel he had grown to care for. He huffs, shaking his head to clear the thought. All he needed to worry about were the people who were still alive.

He pushes back from the table, his laptop and beer rattling. He grabs his can, beelining to the kitchen for another, popping the tab in a nearly frantic way before heading to Dean’s room. He pounds on the bedroom door, beer sloshing over his knuckles at the intensity. He bites the tender skin of his cheek, reassuring himself that he’s just trying to be louder than the music; it’s not that he’s worried his brother won’t answer.

Something crashes against the door before the music cuts off with a screech - Dean’s using his record player, that’s never a good sign. The door swings open, the scent of old alcohol and food that had been sitting for far too long hitting Sam’s nose.

“Fuck, dude.” Sam gags, stepping back from the door.

“Fuck off, Sammy,” Dean grunts, a scowl etching deep lines into the beard he had grown recently - he hadn’t noticed it had gotten so long until this morning. He was choosing to ignore it; it didn’t matter much if people weren’t seeing him.

Though Sammy was at his door now. That was upsetting… and confusing. Of course, Sam was always at his door when they were kids, but when Dean got like this - solemn, withdrawn, a little depressed - Sam usually gave him a lecture and then found somewhere else to be. The lecture had already happened, so why was he here?
“Why are you even here?” He voiced that question aloud. It was annoying that Sam hadn’t responded past a scowl at the ‘fuck off’, but it wasn’t uncommon. Though now that scowl was morphing into something Dean didn’t care to see - something soft and sad. Dean’s face twists, and he moves to shut the door, grunting as Sam shoves his foot in, stopping it.

“Dean, you know why. It’s been four days since you’ve left this room. You have to come out.” Sam edges further into the room, not caring that Dean tries to push him back with the door.

“I do come out. There’s no restroom in here.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He pushes further into the room, causing Dean to huff and retreat to his bed. He sits down hard on the edge, his shoulders slumping almost immediately.

“Why do I need to come out? Have you found a case?” He looks up at Sam, the hallway light behind him obscuring his face in the dark room. Sam shakes his head, taking a slow sip of his beer. Dean notices, of course, that Sam hadn’t brought him a beer. Maybe he’d find the energy later to get upset about that.
“No, no case yet. I’ve been looking, but nothing has really stuck out. I just think you need to get out of this disgusting room.” Sam waves his hand, as if encompassing the piles of forgotten dishes, dirty clothes, and tipped-over beer cans covering nearly every surface. Dean sighs, looking around. Okay, yeah, it was gross in here, but it didn’t matter, did it? It was just him in there usually. He liked how dark and cramped everything felt.

“I like my room. My music is here.” He fumbles at the side of his bed before pulling up a half-full handle of whiskey. He swishes it around in the bottle before taking a deep pull, ignoring Sam’s wrinkled nose and the way he turns away.

“Just get up, Dean. Put on some clothes you haven’t been wearing for a week. We’re getting out of here.”

“No.”

Sam throws his arms up, his beer all but forgotten as it splashes onto the floor. “I wasn’t asking. Get up.” He shakes his head and turns, leaving the bedroom in a huff. Dean stares after him, blinking hard. Wasn’t he supposed to be the older brother?

Ten minutes later, he’s dressed in something that smells only slightly less dirty, whiskey bottle dangling from his fingers as he stands in the kitchen. He could hear Sam moving around a room away, and he listens quietly, taking slow dregs of the whiskey. Sam steps out, a small glossy book open in his hands. He looks up, a small smile on his face as he notices Dean. He waves the book, showing that it’s a travel atlas.

“Good, you’re ready. We’re going on a drive.” He pulls the keys from his pocket, the atlas cradled in one hand, his thumb marking the page he had turned to. “Leave the whiskey.”
Dean grumbles, anger flashing through him hot and quick before he swallows it down with more whiskey. He leaves the whiskey on the counter with a loud bang and trails behind Sam.

The anger comes back, slower and steadier this time, when he realizes that Baby’s backseat is filled with bags and Sam is in the front seat. “You said we were just going on a drive. I want to be the one that drives.”

Sam glowers at him from behind the wheel, sticking his head out the open window so Dean could hear him better. “You’re drunk. Just get in the car.”

Dean acquiesces, grumbling as he slides into the passenger seat, being as gentle as he can be with Baby’s door as he closes it. He stares at Sam as he pulls out of the garage, the shit-eating grin on Sam’s face making him nervous.

“Sam, what are the bags for?” Sam’s grin widens even more as he pulls out onto the road.

“I didn't say how long the drive would be.”