-- to the edge with a car, he sent it off a cliff just for the spark
It's late, well past dark, but it's not like there aren't liquor stores open this late, or bars if all else fails, and even out here in middle of goddamn nowhere, Missouri, he manages to find a place. The whiskey's cheap and burns like hell, but it's not like he cares about more than the buzz just then. After what Sam had said, what he'd found out--
Dean shook his head, tried to forget about it, but the blood-to-liquor ratio wasn't really good enough for that yet. Not that he had any illusions that booze was going to make this actually better, he could just do with not thinking about it for a little while. Not to think about the fact that his little brother was addicted to fucking demon blood, that he'd been lied to for months, that none of it mattered anymore because whatever happened, this was going to end messy and there was no stopping that.
He moved, leaning against the side of the Impala and smacking her just above the door handle, hard, not really intentional, but he had no way to get out what he was feeling, running around in circles in his own mind. He took another swig of the whiskey, let it calm him a little. Defense mechanisms. And Sam thought his drinking habits were unhealthy. Fuck, they were practically the only thing keeping him sane.
He wasn't going to think about it. Not about Sam's lies or the way he thinks they won't both come out of this, the way he fears what's going to happen next like it's already over.
He wants out, but there's no getting out, so he seeks the bottom of the bottle like it's something he can hide in, in a parking lot in Missouri at two in the morning.
Dean shook his head, tried to forget about it, but the blood-to-liquor ratio wasn't really good enough for that yet. Not that he had any illusions that booze was going to make this actually better, he could just do with not thinking about it for a little while. Not to think about the fact that his little brother was addicted to fucking demon blood, that he'd been lied to for months, that none of it mattered anymore because whatever happened, this was going to end messy and there was no stopping that.
He moved, leaning against the side of the Impala and smacking her just above the door handle, hard, not really intentional, but he had no way to get out what he was feeling, running around in circles in his own mind. He took another swig of the whiskey, let it calm him a little. Defense mechanisms. And Sam thought his drinking habits were unhealthy. Fuck, they were practically the only thing keeping him sane.
He wasn't going to think about it. Not about Sam's lies or the way he thinks they won't both come out of this, the way he fears what's going to happen next like it's already over.
He wants out, but there's no getting out, so he seeks the bottom of the bottle like it's something he can hide in, in a parking lot in Missouri at two in the morning.