Dean wasn't exactly mobile at the moment. He could make it from the bed to the couch and back to the bed again but any more than that, and he was pushing it. The physical therapy was helping, slowly but surely, but the emphasis was on the slow part of that statement. At the moment, he was stretched out on the couch with a blanket over his lap, watching TV aimlessly.
His fingers were itching for a bottle. Itching in a way that he hated, because he couldn't do anything about it. He was on the pain meds, for one -- not that that would have stopped him to begin with -- but he also knew that Cas had tossed all of his booze done the sink, and going out to buy some more? Not an option. The only thing coming in to the house was whatever Cas brought him, and Cas was planning on keeping him sober.
Needless to say, it sucked.
But he was sticking with it for the time being, flipping through the channels, looking for something that would at least be remotely interesting and not bore him to tears.
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His fingers were itching for a bottle. Itching in a way that he hated, because he couldn't do anything about it. He was on the pain meds, for one -- not that that would have stopped him to begin with -- but he also knew that Cas had tossed all of his booze done the sink, and going out to buy some more? Not an option. The only thing coming in to the house was whatever Cas brought him, and Cas was planning on keeping him sober.
Needless to say, it sucked.
But he was sticking with it for the time being, flipping through the channels, looking for something that would at least be remotely interesting and not bore him to tears.