Supernatural - As the Miles Grew Thick.
Title: As the Miles Grew Thick.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Warnings: Slash, some mentions of Wincest. Spoilers for season 2.
Characters/couples: Dean. Mentions of John and Sam (and some Dean->Sam.)
Summary: When the tequila starts losing its taste, Dean realizes it's time for him to stop drinking.
Rating: R.
As the Miles Grew Thick.
When the tequila starts losing its taste, Dean realizes it's time for him to stop drinking. He's still concious enough, but he knows that very soon he won't be. Despite everything - and he's made sure that Sam knows nothing about it - Dean rarely gets drunk.
He's been drinking since he was fifteen and he managed to hide the fact from their dad for about four months. He never was able to hide it from Sam. John didn't quite mind that much despite everything. Told him not to be an idiot about it, mostly, and that if he was hangover for practice, he was still going to practice.
Still, he rarely gets drunk. Too dangerous to lose his mind like that, to relax like that, when a part of him is always going to be waiting for something to crawl out of the dark. Sure he drinks: it chases the cold after some hunts and with the taste of booze burning in his throat, it's easy to excuse the way that sometimes it's hard to draw breathe, even easier to put on a smile and wink to the leggy brunette and make up some story about traveling. But it's different.
He got drunk when Sam went to College, not so much because Sam was going away but because he didn't tell him. Dean had had to guess when Sam was going to do it, had seen him trace roads against a map when he thought they were distracted, he had seen Sam saving as much money from their scams as he could. Dean had guessed that Sam'd wait for the first chance Sam got, the first job that their dad'd go alone, Sam'd be gone too.
It still hurt to walk back inside the motel room they'd been staying and find both beds untouched. Sam didn't even let a goodbye note, nothing but for his lack of clothes.
Even if he had gone out the night before to make things easier for Sam (the least he could do, even if he was still pretending to be oblivious, as if he hadn't spend twenty years taking care of Sam), it still hurt.
So he got absolutely, completely shitfaced drunk until the world stopped making sense and the whisky had numbed the sharp edge of the loneliness that had settled there. He had puked and then gone back to the motel with a trannie and he had let the trannie fuck himself over his dick, thinking SamSamSamSam. He hadn't remembered much of that night except that, which made his hangover much more worse.
He's not good at getting drunk. He isn't a happy drunk and ages ago he decided that he's lousy brooding. So he drinks - constantly, yeah, until there's a buzz of almost-courage beating inside - but he knows where to stop, he knows exactly the point where he'll have troubles handling a gun and a fight.
He didn't get really drunk for years after that. Until John died. Until he was spared with no fucking reason why. If the world was not making any sense, he was just joining it.
And now this and Dean knows he needs to stop drinking, even as he's downing another shot. There are things to be done, the important things that Bobby is talking about. Sam is dead. The world isn't. It should be.
Fuck it all. Sam is dead on the other room; there's no reason why he shouldn't get as drunk as he can.
Fandom: Supernatural.
Warnings: Slash, some mentions of Wincest. Spoilers for season 2.
Characters/couples: Dean. Mentions of John and Sam (and some Dean->Sam.)
Summary: When the tequila starts losing its taste, Dean realizes it's time for him to stop drinking.
Rating: R.
As the Miles Grew Thick.
When the tequila starts losing its taste, Dean realizes it's time for him to stop drinking. He's still concious enough, but he knows that very soon he won't be. Despite everything - and he's made sure that Sam knows nothing about it - Dean rarely gets drunk.
He's been drinking since he was fifteen and he managed to hide the fact from their dad for about four months. He never was able to hide it from Sam. John didn't quite mind that much despite everything. Told him not to be an idiot about it, mostly, and that if he was hangover for practice, he was still going to practice.
Still, he rarely gets drunk. Too dangerous to lose his mind like that, to relax like that, when a part of him is always going to be waiting for something to crawl out of the dark. Sure he drinks: it chases the cold after some hunts and with the taste of booze burning in his throat, it's easy to excuse the way that sometimes it's hard to draw breathe, even easier to put on a smile and wink to the leggy brunette and make up some story about traveling. But it's different.
He got drunk when Sam went to College, not so much because Sam was going away but because he didn't tell him. Dean had had to guess when Sam was going to do it, had seen him trace roads against a map when he thought they were distracted, he had seen Sam saving as much money from their scams as he could. Dean had guessed that Sam'd wait for the first chance Sam got, the first job that their dad'd go alone, Sam'd be gone too.
It still hurt to walk back inside the motel room they'd been staying and find both beds untouched. Sam didn't even let a goodbye note, nothing but for his lack of clothes.
Even if he had gone out the night before to make things easier for Sam (the least he could do, even if he was still pretending to be oblivious, as if he hadn't spend twenty years taking care of Sam), it still hurt.
So he got absolutely, completely shitfaced drunk until the world stopped making sense and the whisky had numbed the sharp edge of the loneliness that had settled there. He had puked and then gone back to the motel with a trannie and he had let the trannie fuck himself over his dick, thinking SamSamSamSam. He hadn't remembered much of that night except that, which made his hangover much more worse.
He's not good at getting drunk. He isn't a happy drunk and ages ago he decided that he's lousy brooding. So he drinks - constantly, yeah, until there's a buzz of almost-courage beating inside - but he knows where to stop, he knows exactly the point where he'll have troubles handling a gun and a fight.
He didn't get really drunk for years after that. Until John died. Until he was spared with no fucking reason why. If the world was not making any sense, he was just joining it.
And now this and Dean knows he needs to stop drinking, even as he's downing another shot. There are things to be done, the important things that Bobby is talking about. Sam is dead. The world isn't. It should be.
Fuck it all. Sam is dead on the other room; there's no reason why he shouldn't get as drunk as he can.