Part 2/2
He was pretty much dealing with it the same way as he had last time, too. Pasting on a grin that was only halfway fake, ignoring the ache and the occasional burning in his eyes that never turned into anything; his eyes stayed dry because he was Dean Winchester and Dean Winchester was not going to cry at a wedding, thank you very much. He was dealing fine. You didn’t need proverbial kidneys, anyway, right? Whatever.
Of course, part of the dealing well was probably down to how he’d managed to stay just to the barest edge of ‘drunk’ since the party last night, not going too far that he’d be stumbling or slurring or anything during the wedding itself, but enough that he didn’t feel like getting the hell out of there in the middle of the service. He was pretty sure Sam would have killed him for that. Now, though, it was over, and he was enjoying all the free-flowing alcohol, and he’d already fallen from ‘appropriately drunk’ into ‘getting slightly obnoxious’ about ten minutes ago. He’d even managed to get his own bottle of champagne, shook it and let the foam explode all over while he laughed, and then drank it straight from the bottle, during the beginning of the party.
And damned if that missing piece didn’t feel a little further away, if the wound left behind didn’t feel a little more jagged and sharp every time someone said isn’t this great? or you must be so happy or any of the other typical family-of-the-wedding-party things he was supposed to beam and nod and make some kind of mini speech about how this was a wonderful day and he couldn’t be happier when all he wanted was to curl up somewhere and forget about how stupid and selfish he was being.
Now he was sitting off to the side, collecting random abandoned glasses as people left them on the table near him, easier to dance without a glass in hand, and downing whatever they held - wine, champagne, beer, liquor, whatever. His slice of cake was mostly untouched - well, no, not ‘untouched’, because he’d been jabbing it with his fork until it resembled a strange blob of icing and cake-particles, but he’d only eaten about two bites of it, which was kind of weird, but whatever. He wasn’t in the mood for cake, okay? Wasn't in the mood for company, either, shooting sharp glances up every time someone came near, practically bristling with just how much he did not want to have to talk about how happy Sam must be today, 'cause all that did was remind him that he was being a selfish douchebag and that didn't help anything at all.