Fic: Smoke and Mirrors | PG | Gen
Title: Smoke and Mirrors
Author: girlguidejones
Pairing: Gen
Rating/wordcount: PG | 1300 words
Author's Notes: Thanks to my trusty beta, poisontaster. Any remaining shortcomings are mine. Written for the lovely roque_clasique, for her spn_summergen prompt: "When Sam and Dean finally quit hunting and settle down, Dean's drinking problem gets even worse. Life now involves a lot of sitting on the couch/porch and getting shitfaced."
Dean looks around in surprise. Waking up in an unknown bar wearing yesterday's clothes is pretty much status quo for him these days. But he expected to have a headache and a fuzzy tongue, or maybe some stains of questionable origin on his shirt. Instead he feels-smells-recently showered and no one seems to be paying him any attention.
He checks his phone, expecting to find a string of texts from Sam, but maybe he hasn’t been out of it as long as he thought because there aren’t any. Yet. Sam usually starts out with poorly disguised attempts to find out where Dean is and ends up making flat-out accusations that Dean’s left for good. If only Sam’s paranoia was justified, and Dean had the spine to walk away from his brother. Of all the consequences of Dean's drinking, what it was making Sam into was the worst.
On Dean's bad days, Sam’s a shadow of his former self, sapped of all energy as he pours Dean into bed and forces water and vitamins into him. On Dean's good days (which, to be honest, are not in any way alcohol-free, just alcohol-dipped instead of alcohol-marinated) Sam just sorta exists, resting up for Dean’s next bender and faking normality without any real hope of Dean changing or life of his own.
As often as Dean avoids getting help (never actually refusing, just avoiding the topic with talent born of long practice, because Heaven and Hell both know he's incapable of outright refusing Sam anything), he always secretly wishes that Sam would go be Al-Anonymous. He can even picture Sam at a meeting, huge hands cupping bad coffee in Styrofoam, giant body threatening to flatten a flimsy metal folding chair.
"Hi, I'm Sam. My brother calls me Sammy, when he's not too drunk to remember my name."
Dean's mind skitters away from thoughts of Sam, a roach fleeing the painful light of reality, desperate for a dirty seam in which to hide from the world. He doesn't want to-can't-think about Sam right now.
The bar is a step up (maybe two steps) from those he usually finds himself in after a blackout. There's a gorgeous antique pool table (Dean figures he's supposed to call it billiards, when it's that old and that fancy) hosting a game in the corner. The men are in slacks with loosened ties and the ladies are wearing date-night dresses. It’s a big change from rednecks and women with cut-offs that left nothing to mystery which were his usual whiskey neighbors.
No one is smoking, of which Dean approves. He supposes two addictions (booze and Sam) are all any one man can handle, and he's never developed a taste for cigarettes. But he's smelled smoke on Sam more than once recently, noticed how Sam's hands shake a little less after one of his "walks".
Dean wishes he could unsee it; watching Sam crutch along behind the bitch-queen Nicotine is too much like looking in a mirror. Dean hates it, hates the thought of Sam's lungs blackening inside, the smoke like a demon creeping into Sam’s throat and just as deadly, only slower to kill.
Dean never says anything. Pot and kettle, after all, and he doesn't want to bring up the inevitable "I'll quit if you will" discussion that is sure to happen the moment Dean mentions the cigarettes.
Because Sam could, of course.
Sam’d go cold turkey like flipping a switch; nicotine’s no real match for that stubborn, massive will of his. Dean doesn't have that. He'll fail, he knows it, cowardly and crawling back into the bottle.
That, right there, is probably the best indicator of how far Dean has fallen. He saved his little brother from poisonous smoke when he was still just a baby himself, but now Dean's willing to let it kill Sam just to avoid admitting that Dean's a drunk and doing something about it. It makes him sick with shame, that four-year-old Dean was a hero and thirty-four-year-old Dean is just an addict.
His drink stays full without the bartender topping it off. Dean knows because he sips and watches as the brown liquid level never drops, like those little toy coffee pots from when he and Sam were kids.
Sammy had been obsessed with one, running to find it every morning when he heard the gurgle of Dad's coffeemaker. His toddler feet in his footie pajamas would smack across whatever cracked linoleum they were living with at the moment, and he'd clamber up to the kitchen table with it. Dean would set out an empty toy mug alongside Sammy's sippy cup of milk, and no matter how beat up-or hung-over-he was, Dad could be counted on to ruffle Sammy's hair and smile when he "poured" his coffee. Sammy emulated Dad completely, blowing across the top of his mug and closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure as he crunched his Fruit Loops and air-sipped his brew.
Maybe Sam's near-worship of coffee now is no coincidence; one of the few connections to Dad that Sam’s never tried to run from or deny. Dean supposes it only makes sense that he would be the one to pick up Dad's other liquid obsession.
For the second time since he woke up, something inside him pushes his mind away from Sam, like when you feel that odd air buffer between your nose and the wall in a pitch dark room and know you don’t want to go any further in that direction. Searching for any focus other than Sam, Dean catches a movement from the corner of his eye and realizes with a start that he's had a companion for some time now. He swings around on his bar stool, at once shocked and not when he sees who sits beside him.
Dean clears his throat, tossing back the slow burn of smokey, peaty scotch. It’s smoother than his usual cheap bourbon, clearly something he can’t afford. Dean wonders what he did to get the money for it. The clink of a single square cube of ice in his drinking partner’s glass rattles in the tumbler more loudly that it should in the busy bar scene.
The occupant of the other stool says nothing.
"So. A man really can drink his way to you, huh? Literally? Would have saved me a lot of research back in the day if I'da known," Dean ventures.
There's a fancy basket of some sort of gourmet French fries on the polished brass bar-top between them; one of those ones where they roll up paper like a dunce cap and stick it upside-down in a little metal stand. Dude's gone upscale in his old age, Dean thinks.
"Only those who truly make it their passion," says his companion by way of reply.
"Well, you know I've always been all about the mission." Dean shrugs.
The noise around him is a steady buzz; no shouts of victory at the pool table or groans of disappointment when the karaoke starts up, just a flat hum of activity that never seems to vary. And no one looks at Dean, which--objectively--he has to say is unusual.
Normally at this point in the night, at least one or two women (and maybe a guy) would have tried out the empty stool on Dean’s other side. The only explanation is that maybe they thought he was with the man beside him, which is just, eww. Except that no one seems to notice the old guy in the undertaker's suit, or the butler's cane dangling from the purse hook under the edge of the bar. No one but Dean.
"Indeed," Death dips his chin in agreement, and holds out a little ceramic dish toward Dean. "More truffle butter?"
Dean chooses a long, golden-brown fry from the paper cone. The steam puffs out as he snaps it in half; the sound of the perfectly crisp potato breaking is inexplicably audible over the hubbub of a happy hour that seems never-ending. May as well, Dean thinks.
Cholesterol is clearly no longer a problem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's note: It's my personal fanon that when the time finally, REALLY comes for Dean, Death will pay him the honor of collecting Dean personally. No one--including the writers' room--will ever convince me differently!
Author: girlguidejones
Pairing: Gen
Rating/wordcount: PG | 1300 words
Author's Notes: Thanks to my trusty beta, poisontaster. Any remaining shortcomings are mine. Written for the lovely roque_clasique, for her spn_summergen prompt: "When Sam and Dean finally quit hunting and settle down, Dean's drinking problem gets even worse. Life now involves a lot of sitting on the couch/porch and getting shitfaced."
Dean looks around in surprise. Waking up in an unknown bar wearing yesterday's clothes is pretty much status quo for him these days. But he expected to have a headache and a fuzzy tongue, or maybe some stains of questionable origin on his shirt. Instead he feels-smells-recently showered and no one seems to be paying him any attention.
He checks his phone, expecting to find a string of texts from Sam, but maybe he hasn’t been out of it as long as he thought because there aren’t any. Yet. Sam usually starts out with poorly disguised attempts to find out where Dean is and ends up making flat-out accusations that Dean’s left for good. If only Sam’s paranoia was justified, and Dean had the spine to walk away from his brother. Of all the consequences of Dean's drinking, what it was making Sam into was the worst.
On Dean's bad days, Sam’s a shadow of his former self, sapped of all energy as he pours Dean into bed and forces water and vitamins into him. On Dean's good days (which, to be honest, are not in any way alcohol-free, just alcohol-dipped instead of alcohol-marinated) Sam just sorta exists, resting up for Dean’s next bender and faking normality without any real hope of Dean changing or life of his own.
As often as Dean avoids getting help (never actually refusing, just avoiding the topic with talent born of long practice, because Heaven and Hell both know he's incapable of outright refusing Sam anything), he always secretly wishes that Sam would go be Al-Anonymous. He can even picture Sam at a meeting, huge hands cupping bad coffee in Styrofoam, giant body threatening to flatten a flimsy metal folding chair.
"Hi, I'm Sam. My brother calls me Sammy, when he's not too drunk to remember my name."
Dean's mind skitters away from thoughts of Sam, a roach fleeing the painful light of reality, desperate for a dirty seam in which to hide from the world. He doesn't want to-can't-think about Sam right now.
The bar is a step up (maybe two steps) from those he usually finds himself in after a blackout. There's a gorgeous antique pool table (Dean figures he's supposed to call it billiards, when it's that old and that fancy) hosting a game in the corner. The men are in slacks with loosened ties and the ladies are wearing date-night dresses. It’s a big change from rednecks and women with cut-offs that left nothing to mystery which were his usual whiskey neighbors.
No one is smoking, of which Dean approves. He supposes two addictions (booze and Sam) are all any one man can handle, and he's never developed a taste for cigarettes. But he's smelled smoke on Sam more than once recently, noticed how Sam's hands shake a little less after one of his "walks".
Dean wishes he could unsee it; watching Sam crutch along behind the bitch-queen Nicotine is too much like looking in a mirror. Dean hates it, hates the thought of Sam's lungs blackening inside, the smoke like a demon creeping into Sam’s throat and just as deadly, only slower to kill.
Dean never says anything. Pot and kettle, after all, and he doesn't want to bring up the inevitable "I'll quit if you will" discussion that is sure to happen the moment Dean mentions the cigarettes.
Because Sam could, of course.
Sam’d go cold turkey like flipping a switch; nicotine’s no real match for that stubborn, massive will of his. Dean doesn't have that. He'll fail, he knows it, cowardly and crawling back into the bottle.
That, right there, is probably the best indicator of how far Dean has fallen. He saved his little brother from poisonous smoke when he was still just a baby himself, but now Dean's willing to let it kill Sam just to avoid admitting that Dean's a drunk and doing something about it. It makes him sick with shame, that four-year-old Dean was a hero and thirty-four-year-old Dean is just an addict.
His drink stays full without the bartender topping it off. Dean knows because he sips and watches as the brown liquid level never drops, like those little toy coffee pots from when he and Sam were kids.
Sammy had been obsessed with one, running to find it every morning when he heard the gurgle of Dad's coffeemaker. His toddler feet in his footie pajamas would smack across whatever cracked linoleum they were living with at the moment, and he'd clamber up to the kitchen table with it. Dean would set out an empty toy mug alongside Sammy's sippy cup of milk, and no matter how beat up-or hung-over-he was, Dad could be counted on to ruffle Sammy's hair and smile when he "poured" his coffee. Sammy emulated Dad completely, blowing across the top of his mug and closing his eyes and sighing with pleasure as he crunched his Fruit Loops and air-sipped his brew.
Maybe Sam's near-worship of coffee now is no coincidence; one of the few connections to Dad that Sam’s never tried to run from or deny. Dean supposes it only makes sense that he would be the one to pick up Dad's other liquid obsession.
For the second time since he woke up, something inside him pushes his mind away from Sam, like when you feel that odd air buffer between your nose and the wall in a pitch dark room and know you don’t want to go any further in that direction. Searching for any focus other than Sam, Dean catches a movement from the corner of his eye and realizes with a start that he's had a companion for some time now. He swings around on his bar stool, at once shocked and not when he sees who sits beside him.
Dean clears his throat, tossing back the slow burn of smokey, peaty scotch. It’s smoother than his usual cheap bourbon, clearly something he can’t afford. Dean wonders what he did to get the money for it. The clink of a single square cube of ice in his drinking partner’s glass rattles in the tumbler more loudly that it should in the busy bar scene.
The occupant of the other stool says nothing.
"So. A man really can drink his way to you, huh? Literally? Would have saved me a lot of research back in the day if I'da known," Dean ventures.
There's a fancy basket of some sort of gourmet French fries on the polished brass bar-top between them; one of those ones where they roll up paper like a dunce cap and stick it upside-down in a little metal stand. Dude's gone upscale in his old age, Dean thinks.
"Only those who truly make it their passion," says his companion by way of reply.
"Well, you know I've always been all about the mission." Dean shrugs.
The noise around him is a steady buzz; no shouts of victory at the pool table or groans of disappointment when the karaoke starts up, just a flat hum of activity that never seems to vary. And no one looks at Dean, which--objectively--he has to say is unusual.
Normally at this point in the night, at least one or two women (and maybe a guy) would have tried out the empty stool on Dean’s other side. The only explanation is that maybe they thought he was with the man beside him, which is just, eww. Except that no one seems to notice the old guy in the undertaker's suit, or the butler's cane dangling from the purse hook under the edge of the bar. No one but Dean.
"Indeed," Death dips his chin in agreement, and holds out a little ceramic dish toward Dean. "More truffle butter?"
Dean chooses a long, golden-brown fry from the paper cone. The steam puffs out as he snaps it in half; the sound of the perfectly crisp potato breaking is inexplicably audible over the hubbub of a happy hour that seems never-ending. May as well, Dean thinks.
Cholesterol is clearly no longer a problem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author's note: It's my personal fanon that when the time finally, REALLY comes for Dean, Death will pay him the honor of collecting Dean personally. No one--including the writers' room--will ever convince me differently!