therapy | destiel

Chapter Nine

Sam's POV

I wake up to find Dean and Jack in the other bed, which is shocking enough. Even more troublesome is the fact that Dean's gun is lying, disassembled, on the table. Another unsettling factoid: Dean's right hand is bandaged up.

What the hell happened last night?

I decide to wake Jack instead of Dean. He's an angry sleeper.

Gently, I shake the nephilim awake. "Jack," I say softly, "wake up."

His eyes flicker open and he sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. For a moment, he looks puzzled. Then realization dawns. "I suppose you'd like to know about last night," he says.

—

I can't believe it.

I mean, I can. It's totally a Dean thing to do. I mean, what with his obsessive need to save everybody and his almost paralyzing fear of commitment and settling down, I should've seen this coming.

But I didn't want to.

That's all it boils down to. My own selfishness. I wish it was surprising.

Hearing Dean stir, the two of us turn to look. Hd unearths himself from a pile of blankets and immediately goes for the fridge, grabbing a beer and popping off the cap.

"Already?" I ask. "Dean, it's nine o'clock. Don't you think it's a little early?"

He chuckles, but not with humour. "Don't worry, Sammy, it's seven p.m. somewhere."

Ah, the five stages of Winchester grief: booze, booze, booze, booze, and finally, booze. Of course, by the time all the stages are complete, the mourner has suffered massive liver failure and alcohol poisoning.

So yeah. That's extremely healthy.

"Dean, I really think you should go for coffee," Jack says, shocking us both.

Dean speaks, after a minute of silence, and says, "I appreciate the concern, kid, but really, I'm fine."

Which only shocks me more.

What the hell happened to Dean last night?