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Dean grinned at the bartender across from him as she poured him a shot. Definitely hot, even at a quick glance he could tell that she was good for business. He knew he looked like a mess (because he was one, he reminded himself), yet she gave him a confident smile back. This week had sucked for him, to say the least, and so he had come to the bar to do what he did best: forget about everything. Well, he tried anyways. It didn’t always work but he’d be damned if he didn’t at least try. Without a second thought he gulped back his first shot of the night, and the bartender refilled his glass almost immediately.
Staring down at the amber liquid, he contemplated how best to spend his night. He was extremely tired, which wasn’t too surprising for him. He was usually always tired, but that was more of an emotionally exhausted thing, not ‘my body is going to fail if I don’t get more sleep’ thing. Dean was used to getting a maximum of four hours each night, so his body never needed more. Tonight however, Dean swore he could feel the numb of exhaustion in his bones.
Maybe that was because he didn’t sleep last night.
He also only got two hours the night before that, but who’s counting. Not Dean. Nope, he’s deliberately NOT counting because that would be admitting to being affected. Which he wasn’t. Not this time. Not this damn time.
Slamming back his second shot, Dean weighed his options. Pool was out of the question. He didn’t need the money, this time, and if he was honest with himself he just wasn’t feeling like it. He glanced up at the bartender, assessing his chance of getting lucky. She had fiery red hair, and held herself with such confidence that Dean couldn’t help but feel out of his element. This entire week had him feeling unworthy. Besides, her hair reminded him of Anna, and he couldn’t do that to himself. Not tonight.
Not that there was anything wrong with Anna. No, Dean had quite fond memories of her after their night in the impala. That was before him though. Before Dean realized. Before everything changed.
An ache bloomed in his heart, and he pretended that it was because of the shots, even if he knew that was a lie. That the ache would be there regardless of how much, or how little alcohol was in his system. He never could lie to himself.
Still, Dean was nothing if not stubborn, so he waved the bartender over again. She refilled his glass easily, and he forced it down. It burned the entire way, and he must have winced because when he looked back up the bartender had an eyebrow quirked at him.
“Rough night?” she grinned at him, and the ache in his chest got worse. Dean chose to ignore it.
“More like a rough week.” He tried to smile back, but it wouldn’t come. At least he had tried.
She frowned at him, noticing for the first time exactly how rough he looked.
“Look hun, tonight doesn’t look like it’s going to be your night, I’m sorry for whatever you’re going through, but I really think you should just go home.” She gave him a small smile, placating him, and reached over to take his glass. For a second Dean considered arguing and tightened his grip on the shotglass, but then the ache in his chest throbbed and he released the glass with a sigh. “Do you have a ride back home? Money for a cab? You shouldn’t drive, not in your condition.” Dean chuckled mirthlessly. He was no stranger to these nights. He had done this countless times. He was basically the master of it now.
“Yeah, ‘m good, thanks,” Dean mumbled and handed over money for the shots. The bartender, who he never got the name of, stashed the money in her pocket as she watched him stand from his stool. Dean doesn’t check to see if she watched him leave.
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Half an hour later Dean arrives at the hotel he and Sam are staying at. He ignores the check-in, flashing his keys as he heads towards the elevator, pretending that he’s not as desperate as he is. He stumbles only slightly when the elevator lurches up. Dean just wants to lay in bed and get his four hours. Shove his face in the pillow and forget about the week. He thinks he’s tired enough to pass out once he falls into bed.
He’s counting on it.
The elevator doors ding open, letting him out, and he makes his way to their room. The keys don’t seem to want to cooperate with his hands, and he realizes that he’s fumbling in his haste. Dean frowns down at his hands. He shouldn’t be this eager. He didn’t drink enough. Cursing the bartender for convincing him to leave earlier than he had planned, Dean finally succeeds in getting the key in the lock.
Turning the key, he hears the lock move out of the way, and he takes a moment. It’s not too late, he could easily go back down and find another bar. If he was confident that his body could carry him there, he would go, but he knows that he’s too far gone.
“Damn it, Dean. Just go in there,” Dean mutters to himself, turning the knob. He pushes the door open, and the ache in his chest, the one that he had successfully ignored on the way here, throbs with a new life.
He never could lie to himself. That’s why he drank.
Well, it was too late now. He takes heavy steps into the room that he shares with Sam, determined to ignore his bed until he takes a shower. It was the least he could do; be presentable. For tomorrow, of course. Yeah. Tomorrow. Not tonight. It had nothing to do with tonight. No reason for him to be clean. No it was all for tomorrow, so Sam wouldn’t bitch at him when he got back. His bed wouldn’t care if he was clean or not. It was for Sam.
He never could lie to himself. That’s why he had been drinking.
Dean sighs, cursing the bartender once again before letting it go. Searching through his duffel, Dean finds a clean shirt and jeans. He heads to the bathroom, and turns on the shower. He doesn’t look in the mirror. He can’t stand to see himself. To see the pain in his eyes that he can’t hide.
When the shower is ready, Dean strips and gets in. He increases the temperature until it stings against his skin, desperately trying to forget about the week, though he knows everything will be in vain as soon as he gets in bed. As soon as he gives in to the ache in his chest. Once the shower curtain is covered in steam, Dean leaves the shower. He glances at the mirror, making sure that it’s incapable of reflecting anything except a blur back at him. He pretends that he can’t feel the throbbing in his chest.
Dean towels himself off and gets dressed quickly, equal parts eager and terror. Terror that the mirror will reveal his lies to him again. Eager to pass out in his bed. Terror that he’s going to give in again. That he knows he’s already given in. He tries so damn hard every night, and yet he always loses. He tries though. He does.
He never could lie to himself, no matter how hard he tried.
Gathering his dirty clothes, Dean leaves the bathroom. It’s not too much cooler in the room than the bathroom, despite the fact that he had taken one of the hottest showers in his life. He shoves the clothes into his duffel, not bothering to put them away properly. He’s too tired now.
Turning towards the bed, Dean glances at the pillow. He can only pretend for so long. He knows damn well he’s not clean for that stupid hotel pillow. However he can pretend for every single moment up until he gives in, so he’s damned well going to. He pretends with each step he takes towards the bed. He ignores the fact that the ache has been a constant in his chest since the beginning of the week. He pretends that he drank more than three measly shots of whiskey. Dean continues to pretend as he sits down on the hotel bed. As he turns towards the pillow. He pretends that he didn’t fuck up. That he isn’t a fuck up.
Lifting the pillow off the bed, Dean feels all of his lies crumbling down around him. With one glance he destroys any hope he had of getting through this night, which admittedly was a very slim chance. He sets the hotel pillow to the side and stares at his real pillow. As soon as his eyes lock on the trench coat, he feels his heart break again, just like it had the first day. The day Cas waded out into the water. Dean leans down and buries his face into the trench coat, inhaling deeply, pretending that tears aren’t gathering in his eyes and being absorbed by the fabric.
Dean only lasts that first breath before he’s sobbing into the coat. Cas’s coat. The coat that floated to him. The coat that should be wrapped around a stubborn angel. The angel that changed Dean’s life. The ache in his chest won’t let go of his heart. The heart that’s breaking as it beats faster and faster with each sob. With each memory. With each lie. Dean pretends that Sam hasn’t known all week. That he didn’t hear Dean the first night. That he’s not giving him space to grieve. Dean doesn’t grieve. He drinks. He drinks until he can pretend that he forgets. That everything is fine. That he’s fine.
He didn’t drink enough tonight.
Dean remembers everything, and it catches up with him tonight. Every night, if he’s being honest with himself. Which he’s trying desperately not to be. He remembers each time he gets his hands on the trench coat, clutching it to his face as he cries himself to sleep. He can only pretend for so long. Pretend that he can’t still smell Cas. That the trench coat doesn’t hold onto the scent of the angel. That he can’t still see those eyes staring into his soul. That he doesn’t have the most vivid dreams when he sleeps with the trench coat. Dean pretends that they’re all nightmares. He pretends that he doesn’t cry harder when they’re not. That he doesn’t clutch the trench coat closer on those nights.
He never could lie to himself.