Dear Addiction

Chapter thirty five

Trigger warning: mention of suicide

"How do you do it?" Dean whispered, eyes not going to Charlie, and instead staying on the large floor length windows, that covered the seating rooms one wall. The sky had become black long after Castiel had left, blanketing the courtyard in darkness, leaving only outlines of trees visible.

"Do what?"

"Talk." He finally looked to Charlie, who was sat on the other end of the couch facing him.
He could still hear Castiel's words ringing through his head, how have been, why are you lying to me, take care of yourself. Why couldn't Dean admit to how fucked up he was. More importantly why was he so fucked up, why did everything hang on him so heavily. Why wasn't he high.

Charlie brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, "It was hard at first," she whispered. "I felt like everyone was judging me, like- I don't know, it was just hard."

Dean didn't move as Charlie spoke, lips pressed in a tight line, eyes never leaving hers, as if the moment he looked away she'd be gone.

"After a while it got easier, and easier, and," Charlie let out a sigh, gaze dropping to her knees. Her voice had become low, and for a moment Dean almost reached out, wanting to comfort her. "I wanted to do it. I needed to. It was nice to have someone tell me everything was okay, that I'd be okay."

Charlie took another deep, "It was nice not to be strong."

The words hung in the air, and for a moment Dean could do nothing but stare back. Breath barely parting his lips, cravings bursting across his tongue, heart ringing through his ears, mixing with Charlie's words.

"Dean?" Charlie asked, when the silence had drawn on, "Is there something you want to talk about?"

For a moment Dean's lips parted and he thought the words would fall, help me, save me, I can't do this anymore, though nothing came. Even if they'd known each other for a little over a week, he cared too much about her, he couldn't bring himself to pile his problems onto especially since she had her own alcoholism she was battling.

He pressed his lips back into a tight line, before shaking his head.

"Dean-"

"It's getting late," Dean interrupted, "We should get to bed."

He stood from the couch, stretching slightly, as Charlie followed suit. "Dean," she repeated, getting his attention, she looked at him with worried eyes, her usual smile, dropped. "You know you can talk to me."

"Yah, I also know your cranky in the morning."

Charlie rolled her eyes, but the comment was enough to get a small smile across her lips. "Night, bitch." She hummened.

"See yah in the mornin'."

Dean watched her disappear down the hallway before turning down the opposite one that led to his own room, getting half way before stopping. He turned around and went back the way he'd come, then down another hallway, stopping outside a slightly opened door.

His gaze went to the wooden door, staying there for a moment, a breath filling his lungs, then parting his lips.

He could feel the twist of his stomach.

The anxiety of opening the door.

The withdrawal from cocaine.

The sweating of his skin.

Everything crumbling as he watched, giving him no other choice but to open the door.

Slowly he brought his hand to the handle, and pulled it open. "Billie," Dean began, his voice low, sounding weak even to himself. As he stepped in the room, his gaze met the women who sat behind her desk, looking up from her computer and to Dean. "Could we-" the last word wouldn't come and instead Dean raised his arm, scratching the back of his neck.