Dean drank at the bar until John showed up, clapping a hand on his drunk shoulder and pulling him off the barstool. John shouldered his bag, and threw one of Dean’s arms around his shoulders, walking him out of the hotel. He hadn’t seen his son such a mess, since Mika’s attack, which worried him.
Dean was a wreck. His t-shirt was damp, his hair disheveled and there was still a stain of lipstick smeared around his mouth and nose. John sighed as he practically drug his oldest son to the car, dropping him heavily in the passenger seat of his 1967 black Impala. Dean groaned, instantly leaning his head against the seat, and closing his eyes.
“I don’t know what the hell has happened in the last few days, but I’m hoping it’s not what I think.”, John muttered as he sat down in the drivers seat, and slammed the door. Dean groaned at the loud noise, and then let out a loud drunken laugh.
“It’s ex…actly what you think…”, he slurred, as a sad look took over his features and he started to drunk cry, “Dad…am I a bad person? Like…do I deserve the shit I get?”
John didn’t answer, letting the question linger in the air as he listened to Dean’s breathing slow, as a tear fell from his chin and onto the leather seat. After a few seconds, Dean was fast asleep, causing John to sigh again, and start the car.
——
When Dean finally opened his eyes, he smelled the familiar smell of Bobby’s house, jolting from the pillow as if he was electrocuted. He peered around the room, not recognizing this particular part of Bobby’s house, but quickly realized it was Bobby’s bedroom. He narrowed his eyes. Why the hell was he at Bobby’s house?
He stayed on his back, staring at the dusty ceiling as he processed why John would leave him here, after what had happened. Then, he slightly caught a glimpse in his mind of the night before and his stomach cramped violently. He rolled over, falling from the bed with a ‘thud’ and scrambling to run to the bathroom, outside the bathroom door. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, without shutting the door, and emptied his stomach of the contents leftover from the night before.
His nausea wasn’t helped by the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen.
Dean was a wreck. His t-shirt was damp, his hair disheveled and there was still a stain of lipstick smeared around his mouth and nose. John sighed as he practically drug his oldest son to the car, dropping him heavily in the passenger seat of his 1967 black Impala. Dean groaned, instantly leaning his head against the seat, and closing his eyes.
“I don’t know what the hell has happened in the last few days, but I’m hoping it’s not what I think.”, John muttered as he sat down in the drivers seat, and slammed the door. Dean groaned at the loud noise, and then let out a loud drunken laugh.
“It’s ex…actly what you think…”, he slurred, as a sad look took over his features and he started to drunk cry, “Dad…am I a bad person? Like…do I deserve the shit I get?”
John didn’t answer, letting the question linger in the air as he listened to Dean’s breathing slow, as a tear fell from his chin and onto the leather seat. After a few seconds, Dean was fast asleep, causing John to sigh again, and start the car.
——
When Dean finally opened his eyes, he smelled the familiar smell of Bobby’s house, jolting from the pillow as if he was electrocuted. He peered around the room, not recognizing this particular part of Bobby’s house, but quickly realized it was Bobby’s bedroom. He narrowed his eyes. Why the hell was he at Bobby’s house?
He stayed on his back, staring at the dusty ceiling as he processed why John would leave him here, after what had happened. Then, he slightly caught a glimpse in his mind of the night before and his stomach cramped violently. He rolled over, falling from the bed with a ‘thud’ and scrambling to run to the bathroom, outside the bathroom door. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet, without shutting the door, and emptied his stomach of the contents leftover from the night before.
His nausea wasn’t helped by the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen.