Supernatural Short Stories

Drowns the Whiskey

The amber liquid swirled in the glass, sloshing slightly over the side. Droplets formed on your hand, and you fought against the urge to lick it up, hating the waste. Signaling the bartender, you downed the shot, welcoming the slight burn as it slid down your throat, pulling in your stomach.

It was another run-down bar, in another no-name town. It didn't matter what the interior looked like. As long as it had some stools at the bar, and a never-ending supply of whiskey, you were content.

The whiskey had helped at first. Drowning the memories of a man who had been your everything. The strong liquid had taken the edge of the pain away. At first. And now? No matter how many sips of whiskey, those mossy green eyes still haunted you.

"Dean," you whispered, the pain cutting through the whiskey, stinging at the corner of your eyes. Closing your eyes, your hand grasping the shot glass so tight it could have cracked, you gave in to them. Dean, sitting in the driver seat of the Impala, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the rolled-down window. He smiled over at you, his eyes crinkling up. "This is nice, isn't it?" He had asked. "You, me, and the open road."

"Another," You told the bartender, pushing away the empty glass. He complied, and you waved at the bottle. "Keep that here."

He sighed, setting the bottle down in front of you. Tossing back the shot, you welcomed the numbness as it began to take a hold of you. But it faded away as the memory of Dean's lips against your skin had your hand trembling as you poured another round. Dean, and those plump lips had driven you to distraction more times than you could count. A tear slipped down your cheek as the liquid slid down your throat.

"Damn you whiskey," you muttered. It was why you were here. You were looking for a release, a way to forget because the memories were too much to bear.

"Excuse me?" The man sitting next to you asked. "Miss, are you alright?"

"Nope," you answered, taking another shot of whiskey.

He backed off, leaving you to the only thing you cared about. Whiskey. But even the strong alcohol wasn't your friend tonight. No matter how much you drank, or how much it burned, Dean was still there, at the front of your mind. Remind you of how much you missed him. How much it hurt that he was gone, leaving you alone.

You wished that fateful day could be burned from your mind. But it would take something stronger than whiskey. The day everything had been taken from you. Your love, your hope, your reason for going on. When that knife had slid into Dean's chest, you had been helpless to stop it. You had watched him die right in front of you, and now you couldn't sleep without seeing those mossy green eyes go glassy. Watching as he took his last painful breath.

Reaching for the whiskey bottle, you poured another shot of whiskey, trying to dull the tight ache around your heart. Wishing that it would take away the memories. The good and the bad. They both hurt right now, and you weren't sure you could stand to hurt anymore.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. No doubt Sam calling once again, trying to check up on you. But you couldn't talk to him. He reminded you too much of the good life, the life that you would give everything up for just to have Dean alive once again. His call went to voicemail, your mailbox probably full.

With the shot glass resting in your hand, you thought back to your last happy memory of Dean. Before the mark had changed him. When the two of you had slipped away for a night to yourself. Parked in the back row of the drive-in, more interested in the feel of his body against yours, you had spent the evening wrapped in his arms. It had been perfect, but now even that memory had tears spilling down your cheek, and you quickly raised the shot glass to try and push the pain back.

"What's a pretty girl like you got to cry about?" A deep voice, so familiar and haunting asked as a callused hand pushed the glass down.

Through the tears, you slowly peered up, your heart catching as a person you had never expected to see again stood beside you. "Dean?" You asked, wondering if he was a figment of your whiskey-fueled brain.

"In the flesh," he answered proudly. "With a few upgrades."

Your heart hammered as you looked him over. He seemed a little leaner, stronger than before. Wearing that soft maroon flannel shirt you loved so much. His hair seemed longer, wilder, but it looked good. Smiling, you let your gaze drop to his eyes, gasping when they flicked to black.