So I was listening (You are NEVER gonna believe this) to Taylor Swift (Ducking all objects thrown at her) her song back to December and it got me to thinking. The result is what follows.
Okay guys first fic EVER so be gentle. I love to read y'alls work so I thought why not take a stab at it. This was supposed to be a one shot, but it has a mind of its own I think. Most of the time a very dirty mind.
Deans got a foul mouth so this chapter is rated M.
Disclaimer: I don't own drunk Dean, if I did I am sure I could take his mind off his problems. Nor do I own any of Kripke's toys…
Dean Winchester was drunk. Not buzzed, not tipsy, but full on trashed. He's been this way for awhile now. Maybe weeks. Every craptastic day just seems to bleed into the next. So it just feels like one really long torment. Kinda reminds him of…Hell.
Dean snorts at this. He's not saying hell was a picnic by a long shot, but at least in the pit you could come to expect the pain. Not like now, where pain snuck up on you and blindsided you with out even saying hello. Each thought like the twist of Alistair's expertly placed blade. Not enough to kill you; just enough to make you want to die.
Thinking of hell brings his thoughts around to his brothers. Still rotting, fighting for eternity in some literal hell hole.
For what? Dean thinks to himself, taking another shot of whiskey straight from the bottle. He had thrown his sophistication along with his last highball glass into the wall in a fit of unbridled rage awhile ago.
He had lost EVERYTHING.
Sam, Adam, Bobby-well Bobby was still alive thanks to someone, but Dean hadn't-couldn't talk to him. Talking to Bobby brought up the past. And Dean was effectively trying to drown the past. So talking to Bobby seemed a little counter productive to the last remaining Winchester.
Dean took another swig fire slowly making its way down his throat. Yeah talking to Bobby would make him think of things he'd rather not.
Like Sam, Adam….Cas.
"Dammit!" Dean exclaimed kicking over the coffee table in his make shift bedroom in the garage. He hadn't slept in Lisa's house let alone her bed in a long while.
Cas. That is the last Douche nozzle Dean wants on his mind right now. Should have known he would leave. In the end everyone did. How he had managed to be duped by a feather duster he will never know. But he knows better now. Dean swears he will never get close to anyone again.
Dean begins to shake angrily at the thought of his-No not his-Never his, angel's betrayal.
Dean hurls the bottle of whiskey across the room, hitting the Impala in a loud crash clipping the front fender and breaking into a million pieces.
"Not even here and still manages to wreck my good time!" Dean screams loudly.
He walks over to the Impala lifting up the tarp she's been under for the last six months whispering an apology.
"Oh baby, I am so sorry." He says running his hands over the hood looking for any signs of damage.
His slurred mind drifts back to a time when there were two sets of hands running over the hood. And each other.
Dean struggles with the rage boiling inside him.
"Dumbest thing I have ever done." He laments drunkenly.
Thoughts run over him like calloused hands and he shudders.
"But holy Christ it was fuckin worth it."
Stumbling over to the tool box laid against the concrete wall reaching in "Still."
Dean says, Pulling a fresh whiskey bottle from inside the tool cache.
"Never should have let it happen."
A strangely familiar voice chuckles gravely in his head.
As if you had a choice.
Well how am I doing so far? Does it suck beyond the telling of it? I think I love reviews. I know I love writing them so I guess I will love receiving them.