Chapter Text
Have you got color in your cheeks?
Do you ever get that fear that you can't shift the type
That sticks around like summats in your teeth?
It was around 6 AM when Dean came back home, barely keeping himself standing. After struggling to open the door of the bunker, and to climb down the stairs, he tried to take a sip at his bottle of whisky as a reward. Sadly, there was none left.
What a mess of a night. He was having a week alone in the bunker, 'cause Sam had left to help a friend of his that Dean couldn't stand. It was an easy case, but the disguises the guy had chosen were making them lose time during the investigation. The guy was such a moron. After two days alone, Dean went on to buy some groceries. On the way back, he pulled up next to a bar to take a drink and chat with some folks.
He stopped counting the drinks after the first ten shots. It's hard to keep tracks when you're drinking tequila on someone's stomach. One thing leading to another, he found himself in a bedroom, kissing a beautiful woman. Was she the barmaid or the tequila girl ? He couldn't remember. But she didn't seem to mind, given the way she was pulling at his plaid. She left to go get undressed in the bathroom ; when she came back a minute after, Dean was snoring heavily on her bed.
Are there some aces up your sleeve?
Have you no idea that you're in deep?
I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week
He had kinda felt relieved when she kicked him and his whiskey bottle out. He found his way back to the bar's parking after a few bad turns in creepy alleys, and after some hesitations got into his car. He didn't really remember the drive, or how he had managed not to throw Baby into something.
And now here he was, sitting on his bed, his headphones blasting music into his ears, staring blankly at his phone with a haunted look in his face. And a new bottle on his nightstand.
Well, not that new anymore, he thought while glancing at it.
Dean took a sip while wondering what was the point. His tongue felt numb, hell his entire body felt absent. He could be drinking apple juice and would not even notice. He closed his eyes and drank again. If he could still ask why he was drinking that much, then he wasn't drunk enough.
How many secrets can you keep?
'Cause there's this tune I found
That makes me think of you somehow and I play it on repeat
Until I fall asleep, spillin' drinks on my settee
A buzzing in his hand shook him awake. He darted his eyes across the room, searching for an assailant, his free hand grabbing at his gun under his pillow by reflex. He barely realized it was his phone that woke him up before his head exploded.
Or at least that's what it felt like.
He groaned and pressed his hands to his eyes, nearly knocking himself out with the barrel of his gun. Groaning some more, he threw his gun on his nightstand, right against the bottle of whiskey.
"Shit!" He sat rapidly, fumbling in his blankets to try and pick the bottle up to stop the damage. Sadly, he seemed to not have drank enough out of this one 'cause he could already feel his sheets getting wet. The sudden move up and the entetant smell of alcohol made his stomach twirl.
His ears were buzzing, his brain seemed to have turned into a construction site, sending painful vibrations to his eyes. His hands were trembling. He looked at the almost empty bottle he had finally retrieved and took a big sip. "Might as well fight fire with fire." he thought, a pained smile on his lips.
(Do I wanna know) If this feelin' flows both ways?
(Sad to see you go) Was sorta hopin' that you'd stay
(Baby, we both know) That the nights were mainly made
For sayin' things that you can't say tomorrow day.
The morning went fast, in a blurry haze. He'd slept a few hours in a pool of alcohol before being woken up by an insistent ringtone. He then had to deal with a very angry sheriff yelling on the FBI fake phone, for an unknown hunter, while dealing with the most painful headache ever. After that, all he could think of was to cure his hangover with a lot of water and bacon. He was still wondering who was running around pissing off New Jersey cops. Maybe Sam would know ?
Dean went back to his room, wincing from the whiskey fumes. He should probably start cleaning his mess. After retrieving the empty bottle, he took off the smelly sheets from his bed and threw them in the alleyway. The sound they made while touching the ground was not good. He checked and obviously, here was his phone. On the floor, where it bounced after flying in the middle of the sheets. Screen shattered in half. Jeez. Was it still working ?
Crawlin' back to you
Ever thought of callin' when
You've had a few?
'Cause I always do
He turned on his phone and felt his heart stop after making a big leap in his chest. He had a missed call from Cas.
They didn't talk since their fight a few months ago, when Cas had given up on their friendship and Dean had not made a single move to hold him back. He didn't even looked at Cas in the eyes as the angel was telling him he was done putting up with Dean. He knew he deserved it.
He didn't know where the angel was. Cas didn't even answer to Sam's calls for fuck sake. Not like Dean asked. Not like Dean cared at all. His hands trembling again, he dialed the voicemail and listened to the low voice.
"Hello Dean. I... Got your messages. Are you okay ? You seemed... Quite drunk. About what you said..." There was a big pause here, enough that Dean could hear the blood running to his head. "Did you mean that ?"
Maybe I'm too
Busy bein' yours
To fall for somebody new
Now, I've thought it through