Dear Addiction

Chapter forty eight

The moment Dean heard Crowley's line go dead he placed his phone back onto the bar counter, eyes squeezing closed, as if that would shut out the world for a few more minutes. He brought his hands to his head, rubbing them across his face as he tried to process the past few hours, or even minutes, though through his hangover it seemed almost impossible.

He could clearly remember his panic attack on the side of the street that had happened yesterday, all because of the sound of screeching tires.

He remembered falling asleep, heart still slightly faster than normal, then the nightmares that had followed.

Sam at the edge of the bridge.

Himself at the edge.

Then almost cocaine, and instead drinking. Lot's of drinking.

He ran his hand through his hair, roughling the strands as if that would bring some kind of ease to the pain that seemed engraved in every inch of his skin.

Shit.

That's what he felt like; complete and utter shit.

Crowley's call was still clear in his foggy mind, the press thought he was back on drugs. He wished he was back on drugs, wished he could feel the stability that cocaine brought. The euphoria that would cloud his mind. The way, that when the shitty feeling came as reality fell back into place, he could just take another dose.

Fuck he wished he was high.

Just one dose, nothing more.

One reminder of what it felt like.

Finally his eyes fluttered open, and Dean slowly stood from the bar stool he had passed out in, his feet staggering slightly. He could feel his legs shake, weak under his weight, threatening to give out as he made his way through the dark billiard room, and into the lit hallway. The lights burning against his vision, sending his stomach twisting.

He took a step up the staircase, his stomach only worsening with each step he took. With each slow drawn out movement. His hands swinging at his sides, his stomach twisting. The blinking of his eyes, his stomach twisting. A step forward, his stomach twisting, and then the sudden burning of vomit coming up his throat.

"Sh-," Dean barely gasped before a hand was at his mouth, footsteps no longer quiet, but heavy as he ran through the second floor of his house, and into the bathroom. He didn't care to close the door, instead falling in front of the toilet, barely getting a chance to breathe before the vomit was coming up.

He could taste it against his throat, burning through and his nose, as he threw up the alcohol. Eyes squeezed shut with each retched noise that fell from his lips.

He could barely hear it over the hammering of his own heart.

The taste burning.

The exhaustion tearing at his skin.

Throwing up, then for a moment heavy breaths, before he was once again throwing up. His hands stayed firmly to the sides of the toilet, grip so hard his hands began to ache, even as he no longer threw up.

Instead Dean kept his head hung down, eyes still shut, heart still hammering. Part of him wondered what would happen if he never moved.

He'd die. He knew that much, though Dean couldn't seem to find the problem in that.

Dead was easier. Dead didn't have withdrawal, it didn't have nightmares, or annoying press. Dead was almost as consistent as cocaine.

At least dead he'd maybe get a few seconds of sleep.