Sam was sitting at the one end of the long table surrounded by pieces of paper and manila folders from the Men of Letters file room, shuffling and huffing and pushing his hair behind his ears constantly. Dean was staring at him from the other side of the table. His mind was doing the thing it had been doing lately where it felt saturated rotten with black, thick sludge and everything slowed down with an agonising weight as he felt the brand on his arm pulse with incongruous fear and desire….

Actually, talking about desire… He turned towards his duffle bag sitting on the seat next to him, where he knew a brand new, full bottle of whisky was stashed. He wasn't hiding the bottles because he felt guilty about how much he was drinking. He was hiding them so that Sam wouldn't feel obliged to ask him if he was ok. He didn't really care if Sam secretly knew; he just cared if he knew that Sam knew… if that makes sense. See the real problem was that deep down he worried that Sam wouldn't push to find out if he was ok, or even worse than that, that he would feel obliged to ask, which isn't really the same thing as caring. We're not supposed to be brothers anymore, remember?

He wasn't sure exactly how much he was drinking anymore; it didn't really matter, he just drunk when he felt like it and then again in the evening until he fell asleep, as he had always done. But the amount that it took had just increased over time. A whole bottle of whisky today, 8 beers, two shots and three fingers the next, it just depended on the day. He knew it was probably starting to affect his body by now but the Winchesters had always had a bad habit of laughing in the face of death. And when he looked down at the raised, red mark on his forearm, like an angry, red brand, he knew he wouldn't live long enough to have to worry about a failing liver anyway.

"Dean your hands are shaking," Sam said. The piece of paper Dean was holding up in front of him was trembling violently. He slammed it down on the table in defiance against his own body giving away his subterfuge.

"I uh… I just haven't eaten yet today," he stammered. He pushed his chair back with a loud scrape, "gonna get some grub."

Sam nodded and watched Dean stumble towards the kitchen. Dean was not nearly as good at lying as he thought he was; they had spent enough time in close quarters together (and shared enough lies) to know each others tells. But Sam was trying to make Dean think he didn't care. He was angry with him, furious in fact, and he didn't want to give Dean the satisfaction of addressing the issue. After all these years he had finally figured out that the best way to punish Dean was to make him think he didn't care enough even to get mad at him. This technique extended to also pretending he didn't care enough to ask him if he was ok. So he had to develop new, subtle ways of checking on him without coming across like 'old Sam', Sam who needed Dean to be ok. Instead of badgering him about talking things out like old Sam would, now he would just call to ask (all indifferently) how research was going in order to assure that Dean was still where he left him last and that he was still vertical. He pretended he didn't hear the clinking glass sounds that came from his duffle or the constantly refreshed supply of empties in the trash or the stench of whisky on his breath… or even the shaking hands in the mornings. Even though Dean had a problem with drinking for years Sam knew that each spike in intensity had a correlating emotional trigger and if Dean knew he cared about his drinking then he would think Sam wasn't totally fuming about the trigger. So he decided to carry on pretending.

He got up and strode towards the kitchen. He could hear Dean opening and closing the cupboards frantically.

Dean rummaged around in the cupboards looking for what he needed, and he wasn't sure it was food. His appetite had been non-existent of late. He was too tired to sleep and then too tired to eat and when he tried to, his stomach felt like it was flipping inside out anyway so what was the point. The only way to feel better was to sleep and the only way to sleep was to drink. In the back of the cupboard above the sink he reached in for the large bottle of Jack that was hidden in the back like a frightened captive. Even though it still felt like drinking petrol as it burnt its way down his oesophagus, he didn't wince anymore. He knew that once it sat in his stomach for a moment, everything would start feeling a bit better. It's a weird thing really - the contradictory nature of alcohol. All at once it feels incredibly shit and yet incredibly amazing. As he threw back a third glass he caught a glimpse of the red mark newly adorning his arm and laughed bitterly at its own contradictory nature – the terrible, horrific yet amazing feeling of holding the blade. He coughed down a fourth glass.

Sam had slowed his pace as he approached the kitchen door and then paused just before the opening so that he could focus on listening. He could hear the distinct clank of glass and the tell tale sigh of a painful gulp of straight liquor. Sam looked at his watch, 11:00 am... Breakfast of champions, he thought bitterly. Sam waited for Dean to tighten the lid of the bottle and listened for the shut of the cupboard again before making his entrance.

Dean gasped, "Shit, don't go creepin' around like that"

Sam shot him a questioning look as if to highlight his ignorance of what Dean had just been doing. Dean let out a ragged breath and thanked Obama that Sam hadn't come in just seconds earlier.

"I'm kinda hungry myself," Sam said, even though he wasn't, "I'm gonna whip up some eggs – I've got to use the rest of them before they go off so don't worry about making anything." He had to get something in Dean's stomach other than whisky (but he wasn't about to tell him that out right).

Dean nodded. Sam felt quite satisfied with his nonchalance – such was the way he now was able to simultaneously punish Dean and take care of him. He grinned silently to himself as he searched for a pan.

Sam pushed the eggs around the pan until they scrambled as Dean sat in the corner, rubbing his face and then his arm alternately. Sam dropped the plate of eggs in front of Dean and then took his own serving back out to the library. He was getting surprisingly good at keeping things frosty between them… he was starting to worry that he would become so good at it that he would forget how to go back.

Dean looked at the huge pile of yellow mush in front of him for so long he was sure that it would be cold before it ever touched his mouth. He finally gave in to the instinct that said 'you should really eat something' and tried a mouthful. He chewed it slowly fighting the urge to gag and drool it out. He swallowed it like a mouthful of rusty nails and then dropped the fork,

"Oh hell no" he muttered as he pushed it away. Instead he sat in silence staring at the doorway like he could see a ghost of Sam's presence and nodded to himself as if to say, you deserve it, you stupid ass.

"Fuck it" he said as his stood from his seat and patted his back pocket for the Impala keys.

As he passed Sam on the way to the garage, Sam yelled, "Where you going?"

"Supply run" Dean shot back, "you said where out of eggs right?"

Sam didn't push any further; Dean was gone too quick anyway. He rolled his eyes and went back to the kitchen to take his plate. Still sitting on the counter were Dean's barely touched eggs.

"Shit," Sam whispered.

Dean took the Impala even though he knew he was already too sauced to drive and would only get worse, he reckoned he'd figure something out…. Maybe he'd pick up some midday drinking chick, go back with her and come pick up the car later. Not that he was bothered with sex that much anymore. He stopped at the first dive bar he could find. It was dark and empty save a handful of pathetic souls riding the bar stools like lovers. Dean leant over the bar and was pleased to see that the bartender was a pretty girl in her late twenties with a tight arse like a peach.

"'Scuse me miss" he drawled, tapping twice on the bar with his knuckles, "Whisky, neat… double"

"No problem" she smiled as she turned and bent over to put away her wash cloth, purposefully showing her perfect round rump stretching into her tight jeans. Dean sighed.

"Rough day?" she asked as placed the glass in front of him.

"One of many" he muttered, gesturing for another already.

She considered him for a moment as he watched her pour another glass enthralled by the anticipation, "This is probably a weird question but are you a vet?" she asked when she returned with the whole bottle, "my old boyfriend had two tours and he had the same face."

The question was one he had heard many times before, (usually followed by "where'd you serve?" hell) but it was being asked more and more recently. He wondered if he really looked that war weary.

"Yeah uh you could say that" he said, he ran his hand down his face and let out a bitter, melancholy laugh, which made the girl step back and turn away from him to tend on her other customers who didn't need anything anyway. You deserve everything that's coming to you, he thought as he watched her face change from interested to nervous. It was a change in expression that he was also seeing more and more of recently. He rubbed the burning scar on his arm and pressed his eyes shut against the memories of the primal evil coursing through him as he held the blade. He could feel his foot holds onto life pulling out from under him as the goodness drained out of him. You piece of shit, he thought, you savage fucking dog, you need to be put down.

A blur of shots later he staggered to the toilet clutching his stomach. It felt like he'd drunk a tub of acid, like his internal organs were being ripped apart, like Alistair with his favourite razor slicing out each organ before cramming them down Dean's throat.

"Ahh fuck" he growled as he sunk to his knees by the toilet – the cold, white face that welcomed him with its mocking, open-mouthed grin. He could already smell the bile before he coughed it up with loud, ungraceful gags. What he didn't expect was for it to smell coppery. He opened his eyes, which had been squeezed shut in a grimace, and stared into the toilet. The last thing he remembered was the distinctly familiar, yet out of place, sight of blood.

Yelling. People were frantically yelling things around him blaring sounds like shards of glass in his eardrums. He was facing upwards and moving, which felt weird and his head was spinning red, blue, red, blue. Then flashes of ceiling lights, those long fluorescent ones that are only ever in official type places, were searing through his state of semi-consciousness. Faces of people he didn't recognize hovered over him talking like they were under water. Then his chest tightened with an awful cramping, burning pain in time to robotic screaming coming from something close to him. The rest was blackness.

He blinked his eyes open, slowly adjusting to whiteness of the room. Am I dead? He thought for a moment, but the familiar scratchiness of the hospital sheets told him otherwise.

"No, you're fine" a voice replied. A tiny nurse was standing beside him adjusting his IV. She was old and mousy; she almost looked like a spirit.

"Did I say that out loud?" he said.

"mmhmm" she replied, "the doctors gonna wanna talk to you son, so wait right here"

He contemplated escape but the doctor arrived too quickly to execute any of the viable routes out that he had formulated.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked, he looked as though he had noticed Dean was tensed up in a position that suggested he was about to attempt escape. He smiled knowingly, making a pair of dimples appear beneath his speckled stubble. He picked up the chart at the end of the bed as Dean read his nametag, Doctor Epstein.

"Whuh… what happened?" Dean asked.

"You were found passed out in the toilet of a bar… you had severe alcohol poisoning so we had to pump your stomach" he nodded trying to gage Dean's response, so far he looked like he knew that part already, "how many drinks do you ordinarily have in a week and when you do drink how many do you have in any one sitting?" the doctor asked.

Dean glared at him suspiciously, "I dunno doc, does is matter?" he muttered.

"It certainly does I'm afraid…" The doctor kept pressing, assuring him that an accurate alcohol intake evaluation was literally a life or death matter. Dean felt sorry for the poor guy trying so hard to help him, so he gave in and told him the truth (it wasn't like it made much of a difference anyway). He answered the probing questions delicately but truthfully – that yes alcohol abuse did run in the family (the stench of dad's whisky breath was all too fresh in his memory), yes many people have already voiced concern about his drinking habits, he told him that he had been drinking since he was 17 then it escalated recently (after he got out of hell... but he evaded that detail of course) to having 50-60 drinks a week, which had progressively gotten worse in the past four years to a point at which now he couldn't even keep track of how much he was drinking.

The doctor did another of his knowing nods and frowned at him with his deep-set eyes as though he was reading his thoughts, "Alright well that definitely aligns with our findings," he said, Dean looked at him questioningly, "while you were out we carried out a number of tests…" the doctor explained.

Dean scowled, he hated the idea of people prodding and pocking at him without him knowing.

"You have alcoholic liver disease" the doctor added casually, "So what you are drinking has to be too much, too often and for far too long". He let a moment of uncomfortable silence drift between them for added emphasis.

"Uh right ok what does that alcoholic liver disease thing mean?" Dean said finally.

"It means that you have damaged your liver through long term alcohol abuse to the point at which it has become inflamed… you might have found that you feel nauseous, that your appetite has decreased, that you have pain in the abdomen, bleeding from your esophagus, fatigue, depression" he paused, "we have you hooked up to an IV with a vitamin B-complex and folic acid to help with your strength but really the only viable option for treatment is for you to desist drinking all together."

"Mhmm right-o doc I'll do just that, you gonna let me leave now?" Dean snapped with transparent sarcasm almost before the doctor had finished his sentence.

"Listen, you are already showing early stage liver cirrhosis and if you continue drinking… ok I am not going to be delicate about it - it is very likely that you will die… painfully might I add, in the near future… so it is my recommendation that you enter into a residential treatment program…"

"Nope, no way in hell am I gonna be Sigmund Freuded by you pill pushing ass-hats, uh-uh," Dean was preparing himself to make a quick exit but the doctor was staring at him so earnestly that it actually rather frightened him.

"Mr. Smith, Cirrhosis is irreversible… but luckily we've caught it so early on so if you were to stop drinking right away you would have an excellent prognosis… But if you let it get far enough along you will be very sick, unable to function, jaundiced" he paused, "… some patients even have their legs amputated"

"Ok, ok I get it" Dean said. He wanted to say, It doesn't matter anyway, I'm dead soon either way, but he knew that would just land him with a suicide watch and psych eval. He coughed out a laugh; maybe you do need a goddamn psych evaluation.

"It's fine I can do it myself," he said instead.

The doctor shook his head and let out a sharp exhalation of breath that signified his exasperation with his cause, he knew that addicts couldn't (and wouldn't) quit on their own, "Mr Smith, even if you were able to quit on your own, you need support and what's more, you could actually die during the withdrawal from the DT's and related seizures," Dean nodded and gave the doctor a half smile, "… but I'm not shocking you with that though am I? This is not the first time you've heard this I gather" the doctor said slowly.

"No, 'fraid not…" Dean muttered. He remembered when he was with Lisa, she had forced him to see a doctor who recommended he stop drinking. But Dean had opted for the 'I'll just cut down' option instead, despite Lisa's pleading. He had heard a similar speech about DT's then too… the alcoholic liver thing was new though.

Dean checked out of the hospital 'against medical advice' (who cares?) and staggered out to find a taxi to take him back to where he parked the Impala. The whole drive back to the bunker he fingered the pile of pamphlets about withdrawal that the doctor had forced on him. At the traffic lights he stared at his other arm, which was controlling the wheel, the mark exposed by his rolled up sleeve. Drop the blade Dean! Dean! He could still hear the fear in Sam's voice ringing in his ears. It had taken all of his control to concentrate on what Sam was saying and then even more to actually act on it. The surge of power that had thundered through him was intoxicating, so much so that it was terrifying; enough that he could force himself to let go… this time.

You're scared.

Dean cleared his throat distractedly, his mouth bone dry and closing over. Takes a junkie to know a junkie. Now this was true in more ways than one. He grimaced at the thought. You're weak Dean, pathetic, can't even control yourself. He glared at the burning mark and then at the pile of pamphlets and then at his shaking hands. His breath was becoming ragged. He ground his teeth furiously as he listened to his heavy heartbeat like a blood drum beat in his ears. If he couldn't stop drinking how the hell was he going to resist the urge to pick up the blade? No, no way was Dean Winchester so weak. This was a test. This was a way to prove to himself that he wasn't afraid, that he wasn't stalling because he was scared. This was the only way he could prove to himself that he could control himself.