With and Without (Destiel)

A Little Too Much To Drink, aka Threats Against Harming Genitalia Aren't Needed

        Dean’s hands still hurt. Not that he would admit to the pain – he was a macho guy, after all – but they did ache and the bandages were becoming a nuisance.

        But, whatever. It was Dean’s own damn fault to begin with. Always Dean’s fault. He knew it, he accepted it.

        And his depression was stronger than ever.

        It had been a few days since the Game of Thrones marathon, and while Dean had felt better in the company of Sammy and Charlie, it hadn’t been enough to make the emptiness go away.

        Dean rubbed a covered-in-grease hand against his forehead (carefully, as to avoid the sting), and took a good look at the car he had recently repaired. Bobby still wasn’t back yet from visiting Rufus, and had offered Dean longer hours, to which were gratefully accepted. Dean needed work – to pour himself into, to immerse himself in so deeply that he could maybe forget about the hole gnawing inside of him. Of course, Dean knew it didn’t really work – he didn’t find happiness in working on the cars anymore either. Still, it did work to help Dean from pining and drowning in his own thoughts, which was even worse.

        He checked his watch. His heart sunk immediately when he realized his shift was over. Course, Dean could continue to work on the cars, but he didn’t want to arise any suspicion in Bobby’s mind. Bobby might be leaning towards older age, but he was as perceptive as ever. Dean couldn’t risk it.

        Yet Dean didn’t want to go home, not quite. Even though it was later – bordering on ten-thirty (and yes, Dean had a reputation for going to bed much later than that, but usually he was at home with Sam), Dean couldn’t shake the need of still having to let things go. Of course, there was always a bar or two or something.

        He thought briefly of the gym. But that only succeeded in bringing memories back of flesh against brick and –

        Stop it, Dean snapped himself out of it. His hands ached with past and present pain. Dean could feel it calling to him – the urge to beat the hell out of anything and himself in the process.

        No. He couldn’t. He had to be strong. Like Sammy.

        “The bar it is, then.” Dean muttered to himself. He dropped the wrench off in the toolbox with a clang and carried the cooler into the garage. Then, cleaning up a bit, he washed the car grease off of his face, changed his sweaty t-shirt for a new one and threw some old flannel over it, and then climbed into his Baby. “Better call Sam to let him know, wouldn’t want him to be a worry-wart all night and then mother-hen me when I get home,” Dean thought aloud.

        Sam answered after a few rings. “Yeah, Dean?”

        “Took you a bit there, Sammy. With some friends or something? Maybe a girl?” Dean teased, trying to mask his brooding behavior.

        Dean could practically hear the eye roll Sam was giving over the phone. “Dean, it’s called homework. Something I know you couldn’t possibly know a thing about, ‘cause you never did it. Why’d you call?”

        “Well, I’m all done with working on Bobby’s cars over here for tonight, but I think I’ll stop by at a bar on the way home.”

        “Sure.”

        “I could pick you up a purple nurple, you know, if you’d like.” Dean offered, not wanting to downplay his act.

        “Ugh, no. I think I’ll pass.” On the other end, Sam wrinkled his nose in amused disgust.