Dear Addiction

Chapter fifty

"I never thought of you as a homewrecker," Crowley hummed twenty minutes into what had once been their completely silent drive. His tone was light, almost teasing, though still Dean didn't glance to the other, instead continuing to stare out the passenger window, watching as the city streets blurred by. The city lights bright against the evening sky.

His breath stayed stuck in his throat, lungs burning, begging for even a breath.

He hadn't been breathing properly since they'd left Lee's. The cocaine still burning against his leg as his fingers would trace it then fall back to his side when he realized what he was doing. Only for the action to be repeated seconds later.

He should have taken the few more steps when he was going to get dressed, the few more steps to Lee's billiard room where the clothing he'd arrived in scattered the floor. That thought ticked at his mind. Over and over. If he'd just taken a few more steps. That thought laced with every other ticking thought. When had it ended up in his pocket, months ago possibly, sometime before he'd left to New York. Maybe Lee had borrowed his jeans and forgotten about it. Maybe- Dean wasn't sure, every racing possibility blurring with the next.

It didn't matter, it was with him now, it was in his pocket.

How much more was still in his clothing at his own home. How many pockets had forgotten bags, and unused needles. Suitcases, flannels, jeans. He had meant to clean, to find anything he may have laying around, but between Cas, Jack, and being busy at the studio, he hadn't found the time.

He didn't have the time, or maybe he was scared, Dean wasn't sure.

Scared to throw out something he'd spent so long relying on.

He should throw it out now, he should have dropped it the moment he'd felt it against his finger tips.

He should have.

He couldn't

"Dean." His hand jolted back to his side from his pocket he'd been unintentionally tracing, while his gaze immediately went to Crowley, the other not meeting his stare and instead looking out the window as he drove.

"I don't think it counts as homewrecking if they break up every second month," Dean snapped. "They'll fuck and be fine."

Crowley's lips pressed together, his gaze darting to Dean for a moment. A moment that was much too long for Dean's liking. "Are you sure you're alright?"

Dean's lips parted, hesitating before he spoke. "Yah," He forced himself to take a slow breath attempting to steady his racing heart. "I'd be better if I didn't have to go to the bullshit meeting."

"I don't think you realize," Crowley replied, the once light tone gone, replaced with something closer to a warning. "how absolutely done Dick is with your crap."

"Done? Please he loves me."

"As far as I'm aware," Dean's fingers itched closer to his jean's pocket, fingers trailing against the rough material, "in the past few months you've been arrested for having cocaine on you, missed an interview meant to fix that, were arrested again for having heroin on you, had an overdose, and are now been accused of relapse." Crowley paused for a moment, the silence hanging heavy in the car. "The money you make them is starting to become not worth the trouble you cause."

Dean clenched his jaw. Part of him knew Crowley was right, and part of him knew he should care, this was his career, yet he couldn't. He was too exhausted, too abused, too numb. Did it really matter whether he was selling out stadiums, or on the side of the street dead.

Instead of replying Dean turned his head, looking back out the window, any day light that had once tinted the sky now rapidly fading. Fingers once again on his pocket, outlining the bag.