(no subject)
Title: Streams of Whisky
Author: toolazytowork
Rating: PG, PG-13, somewhere in the range of tame
Genre and/or Pairing: partially pre-series, Dean, Sam, Gen
Spoilers: small mention of super major plot point of the last 2 yrs or so
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2203
Summary: Dean estimated his average weekly drink totals fall somewhere in the mid-fifties. That sort of dedication takes practice. He had to start sometime.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: Title from the Pogues song Streams of Whisky. This is my first go round with SPN fic and the first thing I've written in almost 3 yrs. Concrit much appreciated.
The longest journey started with a single step. Every drinker started with a single drink.
He was 14. Dad was gone on a hunt and had left Dean with $50 for groceries, the same list of phone numbers he always left (save the constantly changing number for the local pizza delivery place, essential for when Sammy started complaining about Dean's cooking skills), and an unlocked liquor cabinet. To be fair, calling it a 'liquor cabinet' was just giving into romanticism. The bottles were in the highest kitchen cabinet, the one over the refrigerator. The same place the liquor was always kept, in every house, apartment, and rundown cabin they stayed in. If there was a cupboard over the fridge, the cupboard held booze. It was one of the few consistencies in their lives. Right next to Dean demanding the bigger bedroom, Sammy sulking every time he had to leave a school just when he started getting used to it, and Dad disappearing.
The idea had crossed his mind. Of course it had. He was a teenage boy, and teenage boys think about drinking. They think about drinking and girls and smoking and cars and more about girls. And doing all of those things with Olivia Whatever-her-last-name-was from Bloomington, Indiana, who would've gone all the way with him, he was sure of it, if only that damn succubus hadn't turned up in Iowa. Dad had thrown their stuff into the back of the car, and they'd hauled ass from Bloomington, IN, a flat, Midwestern state with an over-investment in college basketball to another Bloomington, in Iowa, another flat, Midwestern state that was over-invested in college basketball. It must be something in the water. Or the corn. Maybe if things had been different--maybe he and Dad and Sammy would play hoops every night after school. Maybe he'd be dreaming of getting into KU, and spend his weekends shouting "Rock Chalk Jayhawk!" at the top of his lungs. It was a lot of maybes, none of which made him feel any better about being uprooted yet again, and left to take care of his rotten little brother yet again, while Dad went off and fought evil. Dammit, he'd seen evil. Hadn't he been the good soldier since the day he was born? Always listening to Dad, following him, worshiping him, practically. What did he get for it? Fifty bucks and the number to a pizza place.
If TV was to be believed (and why not? demons exist, there's got to be at least a few happy families with well-adjusted precocious kids) the teen years were wild and fun and full of learning experiences, easily wrapped up with a heart-to-heart talk and a hug. All right, he didn't believe that anything was easy and heart-to-heart talks aren't exactly his idea of a good time, but fun...there has to be some fun, right? He couldn't stand the episodes when "the gang" (whatever gang, every show had a damn gang) went on a road trip. His life was one long road trip and there sure as hell wasn't a laugh track. Still, he wanted to date, part of him even wanted to introduce them to Dad, just to see if it was as uncomfortable and horrifying as he imagined it would be. He wanted to have a hangout where he met all of his friends and shared witty one-liners over fries and milkshakes. He wanted to be a teenager, but Dad insisted on making him into an adult.
Well, if Dad wanted Dean to put up with the bullshit of being grown up, he might as well get at least a few of the perks. He pushed himself up onto the counter, turned around so that he was kneeling, facing the cupboards, his back to the kitchen door.
"Dean, I need dinner," Sammy said as he walked into the kitchen. "What're you doing up there?"
Damn kid. "Just getting down bowls, that's all." He grabbed two of the blue plastic bowls they usually used for soup. They were heavier on the bottom than the other bowls, less likely to tip over while they sat on the couch, spooning soup absentmindedly while they watched TV. "How about beef stew for dinner?"
"How about I just puke?"
That was just the kind of line that would get a big laugh on the Friday night sitcom block on TV. Dean wasn't amused. His rebellion was being sidetracked. "You got a better idea?"
"I'll make something." Sammy opened the fridge door and pushed aside the milk and orange juice to get to a block of cheese and a couple of eggs. "How 'bout an omelet?"
"You know how to make an omelet?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Remember the place with the TV that only got PBS and the religious channel? Watching Julia Child was more interesting than watching someone who wanted to save my soul. I'm pretty sure I can beat an egg and grate some cheese. If we have it, I could probably even fry some bacon."
Mmmmm, delicious bacon. Everything was better with bacon. "Do we have any?"
Sam opened and inspected the crisper drawers. He shook his head, opened the freezer and pushed aside some freezer burned mystery stuff before pulling out a slightly gray slice of ham. "Closest we've got appears to be this item formerly known as ham."
">"Still looks better than canned soup. Have at it. Just be careful."
"I can work a stove. It takes the same amount of expertise to boil soup as it does to cook anything else. Now, let me cook."
"Are you kicking me out of the kitchen, Sammy?"
"No, I'm telling you to stop treating me like I'm too young to do anything for myself."
"Call me when dinner's ready, honey," Dean smirked. "I'll be in the den watching TV."
Fifteen minutes later, Sam walked into the living room with two plates that looked more like real food than anything they'd eaten in about a week. He handed Dean his plate and sat down next to him on the couch. A rerun of Happy Days was on, the Fonz had a date with twins. For a guy who seemed to have fucked every woman in Milwaukee, he was awful well liked by Mrs. C and the rest of the adults in the area. Dean made a mental note to be more Fonz-like in his dating endeavors.
"Y'know, this is pretty damn good. I think dinner should be your responsibility from now on."
"Thanks." Sammy's smile surprised him. It was rare to see his brother happy. It made him happy, made all the shit he put up with almost worth it, just to see his kid brother smile.
Sammy went to bed a little after 9. He had school tomorrow. Dean wasn't sure if he'd bother, but the kid got something out of it, so more power to him. He took the plates into the kitchen, dropped them into the sink and ran some hot water over them so the eggs wouldn't be impossible to scrape off. He'd wash them tomorrow. It was too late for housework, anyway.
He looked up towards the cupboard. Did he really want to bother? He'd had a good enough night. He was in a much better mood than he'd been in awhile. But that didn't change anything. Not really. One decent evening didn't change the fact that his life was not fair. So, he crawled back up onto the counter, opened the cupboard, scanned the bottles and settled on whisky, because it seemed like the most badass choice. He slid down off the counter and sat the bottle on the kitchen table. He thought about swigging it, but then he thought about how he'd have to explain to Sammy why he was passed out on the floor in a puddle of whisky and vomit the next morning so he decided he'd just go for something a little less Metallica. The booze made a pleasant plinking sound as he poured it out into the plastic tumbler. He poured a couple of glugs, got an ice cube from the freezer and dropped it into the glass, enjoying the cracking sound and the way the scent of the alcohol seemed to billow as the ice melted.
The TV was still on in the living room. A rerun of the the old Bob Newhart show had started. He'd heard of "Hi, Bob!" Everyone's heard of "Hi, Bob!" You take a drink every time someone says, "Hi, Bob." Easiest game in the world, really. He'd heard that you could get pretty trashed pretty fast, especially if it was a holiday episode. Dad had raised him to be ready for any challenge, and he was ready for this one. Ten minutes later, he had already had to go into the kitchen to refill his glass. By the second commercial break, he had decided maybe he should sip instead of drink. By the time the second episode had started he was pretty sure Bob Newhart was the greatest comedian of all time. By the time the Andy Griffith show came on, he was passed out on the couch.
Sammy was used to finding Dean asleep on the couch. He'd asked him if he was going to go to school and Dean had mumbled something that must've sounded like no, because Sam was gone when he finally woke up. He felt like shit, but he didn't really care. No swearing never to drink again for Dean Winchester. No sir, he might not like the aftermath, but there was bound to be a way around that. He'd figure it out in time.
Greasy breakfasts. Greasy lunches. Cokes and Gatorade and respecting his body's subtle (and not so subtle) hints that he should move slowly and avoid loud noises. And when it was really shitty, when things were just too damned fucked up for words, there was the flask. He always had his flask and boy had that thing come in handy over the years. Hell, he didn't even hide the drinking from Dad after awhile. Long before he was legal, Dean was drinking with Dad and Uncle Bobby at the end of a hunt.
Not long after Sam had taken off, when Dad wasn't talking much and Dean wasn't exactly lovin' life himself, he had gone into the restroom in some diner, locked himself in, just to feel some peace and quiet and rest his pounding head on the cold cement wall. He had rules. They weren't hard and fast rules, but they were good rules and he tried to stick to them. Don't drink until the work's done, that was one. Don't let Dad think you're weak. That was another. Dad's wrath was worse than doing a little hunting with a buzz on. He pulled the flask out of his coat pocket, twisted off the cap and downed a swig. The whisky burned all the way down to his belly, sent a shiver through him that made him snap his neck and shake his head with surprise. After he'd splashed a little water on his face, he'd gone back out and sat down at the booth just in time for their food to arrive. Dad might have suspected something. Or maybe he didn't give a damn. Either way, he didn't say anything. They ate in silence, went out, burned a few bones of a few restless, vengeful ghosts and spent the night at a bar drinking beer, hustling pool and trying not to talk about Sammy. It was just part of the natural order of life. So much easier than fighting off the urge to run off behind a tree and revisit lunch. So much easier than saying that he was hurting. It was so much more pleasant to numb the pain than to work through it in a mature, thoughtful manner. Thoughtful was for pussies, anyway.
Such was life. He fought. He drank. He dug up graves. He spent a lot of time buying huge amounts of salt. He drank again. He and Dad didn't talk much, but they drank together, in silence. It was amicable silence at least. Then Dad was gone and Sammy was back and now he had to talk sometimes, but it was easier over a couple of beers and a burger. It was almost possible, after a beer or four to pretend that he and Sam were just normal guys, normal brothers, hanging out, doing normal brother stuff and not at all busy with all that messy end of the world crap. It was nice, just the two of them, sitting in a hotel room, watching TV, just like they had when they were kids.
Only, it wasn't easy anymore. There was too much shit between them. Too many things had happened, and yes, he trusted his brother...more or less. He knew he didn't have a choice, so he pushed aside his doubts and did what he knew was right. Just like he knew he had to drink or the time he spent alone inside his head would be so much worse. Whisky bottles and dingy old hotel rooms. Unleashed hordes of demons and pissed off angels and monsters and things that go bump in the night. Nothing ever changes, except what's on TV.
Author: toolazytowork
Rating: PG, PG-13, somewhere in the range of tame
Genre and/or Pairing: partially pre-series, Dean, Sam, Gen
Spoilers: small mention of super major plot point of the last 2 yrs or so
Warnings: none
Word Count: 2203
Summary: Dean estimated his average weekly drink totals fall somewhere in the mid-fifties. That sort of dedication takes practice. He had to start sometime.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Note: Title from the Pogues song Streams of Whisky. This is my first go round with SPN fic and the first thing I've written in almost 3 yrs. Concrit much appreciated.
The longest journey started with a single step. Every drinker started with a single drink.
He was 14. Dad was gone on a hunt and had left Dean with $50 for groceries, the same list of phone numbers he always left (save the constantly changing number for the local pizza delivery place, essential for when Sammy started complaining about Dean's cooking skills), and an unlocked liquor cabinet. To be fair, calling it a 'liquor cabinet' was just giving into romanticism. The bottles were in the highest kitchen cabinet, the one over the refrigerator. The same place the liquor was always kept, in every house, apartment, and rundown cabin they stayed in. If there was a cupboard over the fridge, the cupboard held booze. It was one of the few consistencies in their lives. Right next to Dean demanding the bigger bedroom, Sammy sulking every time he had to leave a school just when he started getting used to it, and Dad disappearing.
The idea had crossed his mind. Of course it had. He was a teenage boy, and teenage boys think about drinking. They think about drinking and girls and smoking and cars and more about girls. And doing all of those things with Olivia Whatever-her-last-name-was from Bloomington, Indiana, who would've gone all the way with him, he was sure of it, if only that damn succubus hadn't turned up in Iowa. Dad had thrown their stuff into the back of the car, and they'd hauled ass from Bloomington, IN, a flat, Midwestern state with an over-investment in college basketball to another Bloomington, in Iowa, another flat, Midwestern state that was over-invested in college basketball. It must be something in the water. Or the corn. Maybe if things had been different--maybe he and Dad and Sammy would play hoops every night after school. Maybe he'd be dreaming of getting into KU, and spend his weekends shouting "Rock Chalk Jayhawk!" at the top of his lungs. It was a lot of maybes, none of which made him feel any better about being uprooted yet again, and left to take care of his rotten little brother yet again, while Dad went off and fought evil. Dammit, he'd seen evil. Hadn't he been the good soldier since the day he was born? Always listening to Dad, following him, worshiping him, practically. What did he get for it? Fifty bucks and the number to a pizza place.
If TV was to be believed (and why not? demons exist, there's got to be at least a few happy families with well-adjusted precocious kids) the teen years were wild and fun and full of learning experiences, easily wrapped up with a heart-to-heart talk and a hug. All right, he didn't believe that anything was easy and heart-to-heart talks aren't exactly his idea of a good time, but fun...there has to be some fun, right? He couldn't stand the episodes when "the gang" (whatever gang, every show had a damn gang) went on a road trip. His life was one long road trip and there sure as hell wasn't a laugh track. Still, he wanted to date, part of him even wanted to introduce them to Dad, just to see if it was as uncomfortable and horrifying as he imagined it would be. He wanted to have a hangout where he met all of his friends and shared witty one-liners over fries and milkshakes. He wanted to be a teenager, but Dad insisted on making him into an adult.
Well, if Dad wanted Dean to put up with the bullshit of being grown up, he might as well get at least a few of the perks. He pushed himself up onto the counter, turned around so that he was kneeling, facing the cupboards, his back to the kitchen door.
"Dean, I need dinner," Sammy said as he walked into the kitchen. "What're you doing up there?"
Damn kid. "Just getting down bowls, that's all." He grabbed two of the blue plastic bowls they usually used for soup. They were heavier on the bottom than the other bowls, less likely to tip over while they sat on the couch, spooning soup absentmindedly while they watched TV. "How about beef stew for dinner?"
"How about I just puke?"
That was just the kind of line that would get a big laugh on the Friday night sitcom block on TV. Dean wasn't amused. His rebellion was being sidetracked. "You got a better idea?"
"I'll make something." Sammy opened the fridge door and pushed aside the milk and orange juice to get to a block of cheese and a couple of eggs. "How 'bout an omelet?"
"You know how to make an omelet?" Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Remember the place with the TV that only got PBS and the religious channel? Watching Julia Child was more interesting than watching someone who wanted to save my soul. I'm pretty sure I can beat an egg and grate some cheese. If we have it, I could probably even fry some bacon."
Mmmmm, delicious bacon. Everything was better with bacon. "Do we have any?"
Sam opened and inspected the crisper drawers. He shook his head, opened the freezer and pushed aside some freezer burned mystery stuff before pulling out a slightly gray slice of ham. "Closest we've got appears to be this item formerly known as ham."
">"Still looks better than canned soup. Have at it. Just be careful."
"I can work a stove. It takes the same amount of expertise to boil soup as it does to cook anything else. Now, let me cook."
"Are you kicking me out of the kitchen, Sammy?"
"No, I'm telling you to stop treating me like I'm too young to do anything for myself."
"Call me when dinner's ready, honey," Dean smirked. "I'll be in the den watching TV."
Fifteen minutes later, Sam walked into the living room with two plates that looked more like real food than anything they'd eaten in about a week. He handed Dean his plate and sat down next to him on the couch. A rerun of Happy Days was on, the Fonz had a date with twins. For a guy who seemed to have fucked every woman in Milwaukee, he was awful well liked by Mrs. C and the rest of the adults in the area. Dean made a mental note to be more Fonz-like in his dating endeavors.
"Y'know, this is pretty damn good. I think dinner should be your responsibility from now on."
"Thanks." Sammy's smile surprised him. It was rare to see his brother happy. It made him happy, made all the shit he put up with almost worth it, just to see his kid brother smile.
Sammy went to bed a little after 9. He had school tomorrow. Dean wasn't sure if he'd bother, but the kid got something out of it, so more power to him. He took the plates into the kitchen, dropped them into the sink and ran some hot water over them so the eggs wouldn't be impossible to scrape off. He'd wash them tomorrow. It was too late for housework, anyway.
He looked up towards the cupboard. Did he really want to bother? He'd had a good enough night. He was in a much better mood than he'd been in awhile. But that didn't change anything. Not really. One decent evening didn't change the fact that his life was not fair. So, he crawled back up onto the counter, opened the cupboard, scanned the bottles and settled on whisky, because it seemed like the most badass choice. He slid down off the counter and sat the bottle on the kitchen table. He thought about swigging it, but then he thought about how he'd have to explain to Sammy why he was passed out on the floor in a puddle of whisky and vomit the next morning so he decided he'd just go for something a little less Metallica. The booze made a pleasant plinking sound as he poured it out into the plastic tumbler. He poured a couple of glugs, got an ice cube from the freezer and dropped it into the glass, enjoying the cracking sound and the way the scent of the alcohol seemed to billow as the ice melted.
The TV was still on in the living room. A rerun of the the old Bob Newhart show had started. He'd heard of "Hi, Bob!" Everyone's heard of "Hi, Bob!" You take a drink every time someone says, "Hi, Bob." Easiest game in the world, really. He'd heard that you could get pretty trashed pretty fast, especially if it was a holiday episode. Dad had raised him to be ready for any challenge, and he was ready for this one. Ten minutes later, he had already had to go into the kitchen to refill his glass. By the second commercial break, he had decided maybe he should sip instead of drink. By the time the second episode had started he was pretty sure Bob Newhart was the greatest comedian of all time. By the time the Andy Griffith show came on, he was passed out on the couch.
Sammy was used to finding Dean asleep on the couch. He'd asked him if he was going to go to school and Dean had mumbled something that must've sounded like no, because Sam was gone when he finally woke up. He felt like shit, but he didn't really care. No swearing never to drink again for Dean Winchester. No sir, he might not like the aftermath, but there was bound to be a way around that. He'd figure it out in time.
Greasy breakfasts. Greasy lunches. Cokes and Gatorade and respecting his body's subtle (and not so subtle) hints that he should move slowly and avoid loud noises. And when it was really shitty, when things were just too damned fucked up for words, there was the flask. He always had his flask and boy had that thing come in handy over the years. Hell, he didn't even hide the drinking from Dad after awhile. Long before he was legal, Dean was drinking with Dad and Uncle Bobby at the end of a hunt.
Not long after Sam had taken off, when Dad wasn't talking much and Dean wasn't exactly lovin' life himself, he had gone into the restroom in some diner, locked himself in, just to feel some peace and quiet and rest his pounding head on the cold cement wall. He had rules. They weren't hard and fast rules, but they were good rules and he tried to stick to them. Don't drink until the work's done, that was one. Don't let Dad think you're weak. That was another. Dad's wrath was worse than doing a little hunting with a buzz on. He pulled the flask out of his coat pocket, twisted off the cap and downed a swig. The whisky burned all the way down to his belly, sent a shiver through him that made him snap his neck and shake his head with surprise. After he'd splashed a little water on his face, he'd gone back out and sat down at the booth just in time for their food to arrive. Dad might have suspected something. Or maybe he didn't give a damn. Either way, he didn't say anything. They ate in silence, went out, burned a few bones of a few restless, vengeful ghosts and spent the night at a bar drinking beer, hustling pool and trying not to talk about Sammy. It was just part of the natural order of life. So much easier than fighting off the urge to run off behind a tree and revisit lunch. So much easier than saying that he was hurting. It was so much more pleasant to numb the pain than to work through it in a mature, thoughtful manner. Thoughtful was for pussies, anyway.
Such was life. He fought. He drank. He dug up graves. He spent a lot of time buying huge amounts of salt. He drank again. He and Dad didn't talk much, but they drank together, in silence. It was amicable silence at least. Then Dad was gone and Sammy was back and now he had to talk sometimes, but it was easier over a couple of beers and a burger. It was almost possible, after a beer or four to pretend that he and Sam were just normal guys, normal brothers, hanging out, doing normal brother stuff and not at all busy with all that messy end of the world crap. It was nice, just the two of them, sitting in a hotel room, watching TV, just like they had when they were kids.
Only, it wasn't easy anymore. There was too much shit between them. Too many things had happened, and yes, he trusted his brother...more or less. He knew he didn't have a choice, so he pushed aside his doubts and did what he knew was right. Just like he knew he had to drink or the time he spent alone inside his head would be so much worse. Whisky bottles and dingy old hotel rooms. Unleashed hordes of demons and pissed off angels and monsters and things that go bump in the night. Nothing ever changes, except what's on TV.