Dear Addiction

Chapter nine

Trigger warning:
Drug use

Addicted, to be physically or mentally dependent upon a particular substance, and to be unable to stop taking it without experiencing harsh side effects. Dean wasn't addicted. He didn't need to feel the drug take over his mind, wash away all his worries, and fears, replaced only with euphoria. He didn't need to feel the high like no other. The way the syringe felt in his hands, the taste that would come with each injection. He didn't need the drug, he wasn't addicted, no matter how much Sam liked to insist he was. He liked the feeling, he didn't need it. He used the drug for fun not because without it he was a crumbling mess that could barely stand, so desperate for another dose he would be willing to slit his own throat.

No, he wasn't addicted, Sam was being paranoid. Making a bigger deal out of things like he always had.

That's what Dean told himself throughout the week after Sam had dragged him from the club, in an attempt to calm his nerves. Sam was being foolish. Sam was being over protective. Sam was pushing his grief for Jess onto Dean. Dean was fine. And he continued to tell himself that until the Sunday before the kids first day back to school, when he was prepared to once again break his promise to Sam, without a second thought.

He was sat on the bathroom floor, a bag of cocaine at his feet, while his key was gripped in his hand,white powder filling the divit. He stared at it for a second, the contrasts of colour, the powdery drug, that he'd been so careful not to get anywhere else in the bathroom. He continued to stare, until he pressed his left thumb to his nose, closing one nostril, while he brought the key to the other. A breath parted his lips before with scrunched eyes he snorted the powder.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He rubbed the palm of his hand against his nose, in a weak attempt to stop the burning that had immediately began through his nostrils and down his throat. He kept his hand pressed to his nose, until the burning had gone away, replaced by a numb feeling.

He then prepared a second line. The key had just been brought to his nose, when a hard knock came from the door, "Dean, we've got to get going!" He froze watching the door in fear, he'd locked it. He had to have, he wasn't that stupid. Unless Sam had a key. Could Sam get in, would he? "Cas's waiting for us!"

"Hold your horses, I just need to brush my teeth."

A shift came from through the door, and Dean's breath halted, glancing down to the bag at his feet. "We'll meet you at the car."

"Sounds good!"

Dean didn't move until he heard the slam of the front door. He then quickly brought the key back to his nose and snorted the second line.

He rested his head back, only breathing as he felt the smallest burst of energy, the slightest change. That was the thing about snorting it was never enough. The high always shorter, and much weaker, to the point that Dean might as well have just drunk a few cups of coffee, nothing like injecting. But it was enough to get him properly functioning, and most importantly without Sam being able to notice.

Shakingly Dean pushed himself from the bathroom floor, grabbing the bag of cocaine which he shoved back into his pocket. He gave himself once last glance into the mirror before he pulled his sunglasses on and walked out of the bathroom, and through the apartment.

He practically ran through the apartment halls, down the staircase and through the door that led to the apartments underground parking lot. The cocaine had begun to set in and with it the paranoia, though usual at home it would be for the cops, now it was for Sam, worried his little brother would know what Dean had done if he spent another second alone.

"Hey!" Dean greeted when he finally reached Sam's car, an ugly white van, with chipping paint, and an even worse inside, frankly Dean preferred Crowley's ferrari. Sam was reseted against the drivers door, while Cas stood a foot or so away,