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Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
If Dean still slept with his .45 under his pillow, he would have put a round through that damn clock hours ago.
Instead, he tries to focus on the golden shimmer from the turtle-shaped night light on the dresser across the room. Dean laughed his ass off when Cas brought it home from Ikea. He stopped laughing when Cas bitterly explained he couldn't stand the dark anymore. Not after the months he spent in the empty. So now the plastic turtle illuminates their bedroom, and Cas sleeps soundly through the night.
Unlike Dean.
He has tried frikkin' everything. Counting sheep. Doing the stupid breathing exercises Cas found on the internet. Picturing himself in his happy place. Except his happy place involves a fucking drink in his hand.
Dean looks at Cas, curled up next to him, snoring lightly, and Dean hates him a little. Which isn't fair because it's not like it's Cas' fault Dean can't sleep.
The restlessness makes his skin crawl, and there's a void inside him that aches to be filled with the sweet burn of whiskey.
He heaves himself out of bed, his bad knee pops loudly, and he lets out a pained grunt. If Dean had known he would live this long, he might have made sure he didn't get thrown into walls every other day. But then, Dean never believed he would make it past thirty and absolutely not to forty-fucking-three.
He sneaks down the stairs, careful to skip the steps he knows creak loud enough to wake the dead. Even though Cas is out like a light right now, he's still a light sleeper. They all are.
Dean walks into the kitchen and, out of habit, goes straight to the fridge. But that's right, no more beers in there. Just sodas and Cas' disgusting fermented tea. He slams it shut and runs a hand through his hair.
Dean has been sober before. He was clean for a whole year in purgatory. Not that he had that much choice, liquor is unsurprisingly hard to come by in monster heaven. And he managed a few weeks when The Mark was at its worst. He can do it again. No, he has to do it again. Because just thinking about the alternative makes his stomach swoop with dread.
Dean is perfectly aware of the half-full bottle of Vodka still left in the Impala's makeshift first aid kit. It would be so easy to just sneak out, down a few mouthfuls, and go back to bed. But Cas would find out. He always fucking does. And then he would-
Everything Dean has read about addiction – yes, he’s done research, sue him – says you have to get sober for yourself, but that’s a fucking lie. Or maybe not. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. The point is if Dean wants to keep his family, he needs to stay put on the damn wagon. He has lost Cas and Jack more times than he can count, and he won’t do it again. Not when he finally has gotten them back.
Dean draws a sharp breath and leans over the kitchen island, dropping his head to rest on his crossed arms. It's almost like he can taste the booze on his tongue, and feel the burn in his throat. There's an itch underneath his skin that can't be scratched and it feels like he is losing his goddamn mind. His hands tingle with the urge to throw a punch. He wants something to break and crumble the way he is.
Get yourself together, Winchester.
“Are you okay?”
Dean jumps, his heart starts thundering in his ears, and he reaches for his gun. Except there is no gun, he hasn't walked around with a gun on him in almost a year. Old habits die hard.
“Jesus fucking christ . You scared the livin' shit outta me.”
Dean adores how much Jack has taken after Cas, but how they both tend to sneak up on him with the sole purpose of giving him a heart attack, he could definitely be without.
Jack looks at him with bleary eyes and stifles a yawn. They're wearing a pink shirt with a band name Dean has never heard before printed on the front.
“Why are you up?” Dean asks, and Jack shrugs, “Couldn't sleep.”
“Well, you and me both, kid.”
Jack slumps down on one of the rickety kitchen chairs Cas bought at a flea market. None of them match, and they are all painted in different colors. The bright pink one Jack is currently sitting on is a real eyesore.
“So…” Dean tries to come up with something to say, desperate to fill the almost palpable silence. Things are better between him and Jack. Good even. But the memories of what Dean has done to the kid still hang like a dark cloud over them. “You want some hot chocolate?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before getting the cocoa powder and sugar from the pantry. “I always made hot chocolate for Sam when he was a kid, he could drink gallons of it, and then Dad would be pissed because the kid was too hopped up on sugar to sleep,” Dean chuckles as he pours milk into a pot.
“Why did you stop drinking?” Jack leans forward over the table, resting their chin in their palm. There’s no anger or resentment in their voice, just innocent curiosity.
Dean blinks. “What? Why’re you asking?”
“You just stopped, from one day to another. And now it’s making you feel bad,” Jack looks at him with the same intensity Cas does, like they can see right through Dean.
“Thought I’ve told you not to snoop in people’s heads. It’s rude,” Dean mutters and stirs the milk with more force than necessary.
“I don’t snoop!” Jack exclaims, “You’re just not that subtle.”
Dean goes cold. He’s been trying his goddamn best the past two months not to show how fucking miserable he is. He doesn’t want Cas and Jack to know that quitting feels like he has cut off one of his limbs. Like he has lost one of his best friends.
“Well, I didn't want you and Cas to have to deal with that,” Dean gruffs.
“Like you had to?”
Dean stops stirring, turns his head slightly to the left, and meets Jack’s eyes.
“Your father was an alcoholic too, right?”
Dean curls his fingers around the edge of the countertop until they whiten. This conversation is entering dangerous waters, and Dean is about to drown. The ' too' makes the hair on his neck stand up. Jack sees him as a drunk. Another failure on top of all the others. The craving to get blackout drunk hits again with full force.
“Who told you that?” Dean croaks.
“Sam." Jack takes a deep breath, “after Cas died. When you…” went batshit crazy and almost drank yourself into liver failure, is what Jack doesn't say, but the words still hang unsaid in the air between them. Dean picks out two cups from the cupboard and pours the hot chocolate, frantically trying to come up with something to say to steer the conversation in another direction.
C’mon,” Dean takes the cups and nods towards the living room, “I need to sit on something more comfortable than those death traps.”
Jack wraps one of the fuzzy blankets around their shoulders and blows lightly on the steaming cocoa. With a theatrical groan, Dean sits down next to Jack on the couch and wraps his hands around the mug Cas made during the pottery class he took last month. It’s quiet, all that can be heard is the wind dancing through the leaves outside.
“Sam was right, ya know? Our dad, he, uh, he did drink too much. And I don’t want to turn into him.” Not more than I already have. “You deserve better,” Dean’s voice cracks on the last word and he clears his throat.
“I think we all deserve better than how it was before we took down Chuck. Don’t you think?” Jack says and takes another sip of cocoa. Warmth spreads in Dean’s chest, which has nothing to do with the warm drink.
Dean smiles, “Yeah, kid. I think we do.”