One shot, two shot, three shot, floor
Title: Pour one for Me
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, Angst
Warnings/Spoilers: S6 spoilers, Alcohol consumption
Characters: Dean
A/N: Much thanks to xdarlingnickyx for the beta!
Summary: Some rituals must be observed.
He's never lent much credence to rituals, unless they're saving his life, but he lines up the shot glasses in a rigidly precise line. He's drinking alone, Sam already passed out back at the motel with no idea Dean's gone. It's not unusual, of course, but tonight he had just felt the need to get out, spend a little time truly alone.
It's November 2nd.
It's November 2nd and there's no one left to remember what that means but him. For Sam, it means a day when Dean and Dad are very quiet and drunk, or very loud and drunk, but all that means is that Sam spends the day hidden away in his room, and Sam hasn't had to do that since he left for Stanford more than ten years ago. He's forgotten what it means.
Dean never forgets.
November 2nd means the end of innocence for Dean (the first shot glass is empty). It's the night that his eyes were first opened to loss, and those losses have just kept coming. Mom's death (the second shot glass joins the first) was the first, the biggest, the one that opened the door to all the things that followed. Not that he minds the way his life has gone, just the way it's ended up.
Dad should be right here with him, remembering the good times and raging against the bad, but he's not (the third doesn't burn at all), and even if he didn't actually die on this date, it serves as good an anniversary as any for the death of the man that Mary Winchester knew. Dean has finally, after twenty-four years, made peace with the fact that the man the fire left in its wake was damaged and grief-stricken and relied far too heavily on his sons. He'll never not love his dad, but now Dean can acknowledge that at the very least, the man's obsession had cost Dean and Sam their chance at a real home (the fourth shot is sipped slowly, the taste wrapping around the word “home” in Dean's mind).
At least Bobby had tried to give them that back, in his own way. He'd never invited the boys to live with him or intimated disapproval of their lifestyle, allowing John the freedom to come and go and leave them at the junkyard without worrying about Child Services knowing where to pin him down. It was Bobby who'd coaxed a five-year-old Dean back into speech, not with strained impatience and thunderous silences, but by baking him pie after pie (swearing the mute child to secrecy with a wink) and only letting him have a slice when he confessed in a whisper which his favorite was (five, six, seven shots, Dean blinking at the rapid intake of liquor, and definitely not to forestall any tears).
Dean can count the constants in his life on both hands with fingers to spare. He's hesitant to accept any new additions to his list, and he'd been more surprised than even Sam was when Cas became one of them. Somewhere between the whole awkward eye-staring and his increasing loyalty to the brothers against his own, Cas had slipped under Dean's guard. Dean had been willing to vouch for him against any evidence, and... (eight shots, and Dean was beginning to feel the almost hot tingle spread through his limbs) Dean steers his thoughts away purposefully. No thoughts of a traitor will foul this anniversary.
What can Dean remember about his home? Pies, like Mom and Bobby used to make. The smell of beer and the lemonade his mom drank instead when she was pregnant with Sammy. Sunshine and suds gleaming on the hood of the Impala, back when his Dad washed their baby in the driveway while Dean “helped” by wiping the wet sponge over the tires and splashing in the puddles. Dad would never, had never allowed the classic beauty to be hidden away in the dark of a garage, caged under a tarp like Dean has done (nine, he's so sorry, Baby).
Dean considers his tenth and final shot. Tall, gleaming and golden, just like the last piece of home Dean has. Not so gleaming or golden anymore, but Dean'll take it. He'll take anything he can get.
“All right, buddy, here's to me and you. Here's to Dean 'n' Sam. Don't you disappear on me, too.”
The last shot glass lands back on the table too hard, falls on its side and knocks the straight line askew, and then they're all pushed back as Dean lays his head on his arms.
God, it's been such a long time since he's been home.
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen, Angst
Warnings/Spoilers: S6 spoilers, Alcohol consumption
Characters: Dean
A/N: Much thanks to xdarlingnickyx for the beta!
Summary: Some rituals must be observed.
He's never lent much credence to rituals, unless they're saving his life, but he lines up the shot glasses in a rigidly precise line. He's drinking alone, Sam already passed out back at the motel with no idea Dean's gone. It's not unusual, of course, but tonight he had just felt the need to get out, spend a little time truly alone.
It's November 2nd.
It's November 2nd and there's no one left to remember what that means but him. For Sam, it means a day when Dean and Dad are very quiet and drunk, or very loud and drunk, but all that means is that Sam spends the day hidden away in his room, and Sam hasn't had to do that since he left for Stanford more than ten years ago. He's forgotten what it means.
Dean never forgets.
November 2nd means the end of innocence for Dean (the first shot glass is empty). It's the night that his eyes were first opened to loss, and those losses have just kept coming. Mom's death (the second shot glass joins the first) was the first, the biggest, the one that opened the door to all the things that followed. Not that he minds the way his life has gone, just the way it's ended up.
Dad should be right here with him, remembering the good times and raging against the bad, but he's not (the third doesn't burn at all), and even if he didn't actually die on this date, it serves as good an anniversary as any for the death of the man that Mary Winchester knew. Dean has finally, after twenty-four years, made peace with the fact that the man the fire left in its wake was damaged and grief-stricken and relied far too heavily on his sons. He'll never not love his dad, but now Dean can acknowledge that at the very least, the man's obsession had cost Dean and Sam their chance at a real home (the fourth shot is sipped slowly, the taste wrapping around the word “home” in Dean's mind).
At least Bobby had tried to give them that back, in his own way. He'd never invited the boys to live with him or intimated disapproval of their lifestyle, allowing John the freedom to come and go and leave them at the junkyard without worrying about Child Services knowing where to pin him down. It was Bobby who'd coaxed a five-year-old Dean back into speech, not with strained impatience and thunderous silences, but by baking him pie after pie (swearing the mute child to secrecy with a wink) and only letting him have a slice when he confessed in a whisper which his favorite was (five, six, seven shots, Dean blinking at the rapid intake of liquor, and definitely not to forestall any tears).
Dean can count the constants in his life on both hands with fingers to spare. He's hesitant to accept any new additions to his list, and he'd been more surprised than even Sam was when Cas became one of them. Somewhere between the whole awkward eye-staring and his increasing loyalty to the brothers against his own, Cas had slipped under Dean's guard. Dean had been willing to vouch for him against any evidence, and... (eight shots, and Dean was beginning to feel the almost hot tingle spread through his limbs) Dean steers his thoughts away purposefully. No thoughts of a traitor will foul this anniversary.
What can Dean remember about his home? Pies, like Mom and Bobby used to make. The smell of beer and the lemonade his mom drank instead when she was pregnant with Sammy. Sunshine and suds gleaming on the hood of the Impala, back when his Dad washed their baby in the driveway while Dean “helped” by wiping the wet sponge over the tires and splashing in the puddles. Dad would never, had never allowed the classic beauty to be hidden away in the dark of a garage, caged under a tarp like Dean has done (nine, he's so sorry, Baby).
Dean considers his tenth and final shot. Tall, gleaming and golden, just like the last piece of home Dean has. Not so gleaming or golden anymore, but Dean'll take it. He'll take anything he can get.
“All right, buddy, here's to me and you. Here's to Dean 'n' Sam. Don't you disappear on me, too.”
The last shot glass lands back on the table too hard, falls on its side and knocks the straight line askew, and then they're all pushed back as Dean lays his head on his arms.
God, it's been such a long time since he's been home.