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The beer’s almost empty, which is annoying.
The bottle dangles in one hand, the knife in the other, and Dean stalks down the hall, heading back to the kitchen. He should tell Sam, let him know the stupid kid’s gone all stab-happy-Bukowski. Then Sam can rush in with his Dr Phil crap and smother the kid in stupid platitudes about rock bottom and getting through it. The two of them will probably have a good cry, listen to some fucking Enya, then start moving on, in all the ways that Dean can’t.
There’s nothing to move on to. Dean’s future is lost in gritty, greasy, black smoke.
Dean stops, braces a hand on the cold, stone wall, and chugs the last of the bottle. Screw telling Sam. He’ll figure it out. Kid wears his damn heart on his sleeve, like an idiot.
He’ll learn.
The beer’s gone now, and Dean’s already had four, but they’re not really doing anything. Big surprise. He’ll have to make a detour to his stash in the library on his way to his room.
Mercifully, there’s an unopened bottle on the little table in the corner. It’s cheap-ass whiskey, and it’s probably not gonna do much either, but it’s what he’s got. He grabs the bottle by the neck and turns to go, but the corner of the table catches his eye.
Two sets of initials, carved with a pocketknife, only a few weeks ago. Feels like a decade.
The bottle thunks down on the table and Dean pulls back a chair. He collapses, slumps back, and then realizes he’s still holding the knife.
There’s a lot of things he could do with the knife. But he’s a coward – always has been – so he drops it on the table and starts sucking down the whiskey.
Gotta give Jack props on that score. He at least tried – just went for it.
Given the option though, Dean will always choose the slow suicide.
He swallows, swig after swig, 40-proof burning the back of his throat like the acrid smoke of the pyre.
He’d wanted to fling himself onto it. How fitting it would’ve been, to end their story the way it had begun: one of them diving headfirst into fire, searching for the other.
But he hadn’t moved, couldn’t summon the energy. And before he knew it Sam was there, using the same tone he always used with grieving widows, the bastard.
It’s been a half hour and the bottle’s half-empty. He tries to focus back in on the table, but his vision’s a little blurry. He can’t decide if it’s his head or his eyes that are swimming.
Probably both. Score one for the slow suicide.
Dean’s always played it slow, though. Always assumed there’d be time.
Time to talk, work it all out together. Time to finally spit out the words, instead of making a dumbass mixtape and hoping Cas has a decoder ring for Dean’s cryptic fucking feelings. Time for Cas to carve his own initial into the table next to Dean’s.
The knife’s in his hand in he next instant, the point digging into the wood. It’s too large, unwieldy, and it’s still covered in Jack’s drying blood.
Dean only gets halfway through a squarish-looking ‘C’ before it slips, slicing into the meat of his palm.
“Fuck.” His hand flies to his mouth and he sucks on the cut. But it’s not too deep, and the booze is dulling the pain, so he just leans across the table and yanks a few tissues from the box. He crumples them in his fist, squeezing tight, then looks up at the library’s high ceiling.
“You can’t hear me. I know you can’t. ‘M not trying to pretend.” Dean’s keeping his voice low, but in this space, it still sounds too loud. “‘Kay, maybe I am.”
He takes another pull from the bottle, then picks the knife back up to keep carving.
“But I prayed to God, to Chuck, and that was stupid. When has he ever actually answered one of our goddamn prayers? I shoulda prayed to you. You always hear me.”
The ‘C’ is finished now. Dean didn’t do a good job; the lines are jagged and rough. He probably should’ve waited until he was sober.
“I need you to come home. I can’t do this. I’m trying, and I can’t. I just – I can’t. So come back to me.”
The knife drops from his hand again, clattering against the table. He’d gotten halfway through the ‘W’ without even realizing what he was doing.
He stands abruptly and reaches for the bottle, but it’s empty now. Maybe this suicide’s not that slow after all.