When Dean was a kid sometimes he'd make a fuss about eating his food, sometimes because it was vegetables and he hated them and sometimes because he'd sneaked a cookie or chips earlier and had spoiled his appetite. And when he started whining about no more mommy please, his mother would ply him into eating. She would sit on the chair next to his and feed him, gently saying "One for mommy. One for daddy. One for uncle Bobby. You need to eat to be a big boy. Come on. Just one more for Sammy." That's how she used to get him to eat all of his food, because even then, Dean didn't want to disappoint no one. He ate everything for everyone he loved.
And now, when he sits in a seedy motel room with a bottle of cheap whisky in front of him, he'd do the same thing. One sip for everyone he loved.
One for mommy.
One for daddy.
One for Bobby.
One for Sammy. For each time he died. For each time he'd gone to hell. For each time that he'd screw up. For each time Dean failed him.
And there went almost half of the bottle.
One for Cas. For the times he'd died. For the times he'd betrayed him. For the times he hadn't show up. And three for the time he let his hand slip.
One for Ellen and Jo and for everyone he'd killed. For everyone he had put a round on. For everyone he had let die. For everyone that was dead and he felt responsible.
One for. . .
The bottle was empty now. Dean looked at it for a while before dragging his ass up from the bed and letting himself fall in bed, full clothed only taking off his shoes.
His eyelids felt heavy and the effects of the alcohol would be hitting him full force in the morning. He turned his head and saw Sammy sleeping. It was the last thing he saw before he fell asleep.