SPN Fic: Gotta Have You (1/5)
Title: Gotta Have You (1/5)
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. But I do have a unicorn on back order, so that must count for something, right?
Summary: This is the first in a series of short fics that will follow Dean through his first days without Sam.
Notes: This is dedicated to the lovely dove95 who sent me the song that inspired me to write this fic in the first place. If you've never heard 'Gotta Have You' by The Weepies, you have no idea what you're missing.
On the first night, Dean got drunk.
It had been hours since he'd left Sam at the bus station and the dark road stretched ahead of him, endless, soulless, lacking any of the freedom or comfort to which he had grown accustomed. The knowledge that Sam would leave him again wasn't new, but no amount of time would have been adequate to prepare himself for the raw, empty ache that bled through his chest at the repeated abandonment. While Sam was off picking up the life he'd left behind, Dean was fighting every second simply to go on existing in a life he was no longer certain he wanted.
Rising up from the shadows of the night, the flickering neon of the bar's sign had seemed like a message from some benevolent deity, a moment's reprieve from his own mind. On the inside it was no different from the thousands of others that he'd frequented in his life, the haze of smoke and stale beer that surrounded him at the door a welcoming bit of home. Hank Williams wailed on the jukebox, lamenting the state of love and life as Dean made his way to the bar.
He could feel the eyes on his back, harsh and suspicious as they took measure of the dangerous looking stranger in their midst who was so obviously primed for trouble. By the time he'd downed his fourth shot, the atmosphere of the room had changed, the level of threat growing with each successive swallow as the alcohol burned through his blood. Dean had reached his point of no return and he knew it, the whiskey working to lower his inhibitions just enough without dulling his reflexes. Taunting smirk teasing at his lips, Dean unerringly chose the biggest, baddest, meanest motherfucker in the place and called his mother a whore.
The mechanics of a bar fight were as familiar to Dean as breathing, the dull thud of fists hitting flesh and the metallic copper tang of blood coating his tongue a cold comfort. When the final opponent had been dispatched, body striking the dusty floor with a groan, he took a bottle from the bar and stalked out the door, lethal grace daring any who were stupid enough to follow.
On the first night, Dean faced down the darkness in a blaze of speed and music that screamed out all of the rage and pain that he couldn't. He drank until the road blurred in front of him, then pulled over and drank some more, drowning all of his pains on a flood of cheap booze.
Finally, as the first night gave way to the insistent press of dawn, Dean passed out in the backseat of the Impala. There was a little motel, clean and cheerful, only minutes down the road. Of this fact, he was fully aware, but the effort of reaching it was just too much. And really, what was the point when he would be alone there anyway.
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. But I do have a unicorn on back order, so that must count for something, right?
Summary: This is the first in a series of short fics that will follow Dean through his first days without Sam.
Notes: This is dedicated to the lovely dove95 who sent me the song that inspired me to write this fic in the first place. If you've never heard 'Gotta Have You' by The Weepies, you have no idea what you're missing.
On the first night, Dean got drunk.
It had been hours since he'd left Sam at the bus station and the dark road stretched ahead of him, endless, soulless, lacking any of the freedom or comfort to which he had grown accustomed. The knowledge that Sam would leave him again wasn't new, but no amount of time would have been adequate to prepare himself for the raw, empty ache that bled through his chest at the repeated abandonment. While Sam was off picking up the life he'd left behind, Dean was fighting every second simply to go on existing in a life he was no longer certain he wanted.
Rising up from the shadows of the night, the flickering neon of the bar's sign had seemed like a message from some benevolent deity, a moment's reprieve from his own mind. On the inside it was no different from the thousands of others that he'd frequented in his life, the haze of smoke and stale beer that surrounded him at the door a welcoming bit of home. Hank Williams wailed on the jukebox, lamenting the state of love and life as Dean made his way to the bar.
He could feel the eyes on his back, harsh and suspicious as they took measure of the dangerous looking stranger in their midst who was so obviously primed for trouble. By the time he'd downed his fourth shot, the atmosphere of the room had changed, the level of threat growing with each successive swallow as the alcohol burned through his blood. Dean had reached his point of no return and he knew it, the whiskey working to lower his inhibitions just enough without dulling his reflexes. Taunting smirk teasing at his lips, Dean unerringly chose the biggest, baddest, meanest motherfucker in the place and called his mother a whore.
The mechanics of a bar fight were as familiar to Dean as breathing, the dull thud of fists hitting flesh and the metallic copper tang of blood coating his tongue a cold comfort. When the final opponent had been dispatched, body striking the dusty floor with a groan, he took a bottle from the bar and stalked out the door, lethal grace daring any who were stupid enough to follow.
On the first night, Dean faced down the darkness in a blaze of speed and music that screamed out all of the rage and pain that he couldn't. He drank until the road blurred in front of him, then pulled over and drank some more, drowning all of his pains on a flood of cheap booze.
Finally, as the first night gave way to the insistent press of dawn, Dean passed out in the backseat of the Impala. There was a little motel, clean and cheerful, only minutes down the road. Of this fact, he was fully aware, but the effort of reaching it was just too much. And really, what was the point when he would be alone there anyway.