Dark Times
Dean was gone, and he wasn't coming back. Wherever he was, he was unreachable.
Robotically, Sam made his way down the elevators and out of the building. He walked over to the Impala and got in without thinking. He sat at the steering wheel, hands clenched around it.
Dean was gone. The words kept floating through his mind, trying to make a real connection.
Shakily, he started the car and began to drive. He didn't care where he went; he just needed to get away. He had to put distance between himself and the building where his brother was lost.
He needed to find a way to clear his head or fog it up even more. He pulled over at the nearest liquor store and went inside. He gathered a few bottles of whiskey and went to the register. He gave the man his ID and paid him for the bottles with cash.
"Celebrating or forgetting?" the older man asked.
Sam looked up at him. "Forgetting."
The older man nodded and put the bottles in a bag.
"Where's the nearest motel?" Sam asked.
"About five miles from here. Stay on the main road and you can't miss it."
"Thanks," Sam said as he grabbed the sack and headed out the door.
He got back into the car and put the bag on the seat beside him.
It didn't take long before he was pulling up in the motel's lot. He quickly paid and made his way to his room.
He set the bag down on the small table and shrugged off his coat.
Sitting down at the table, he reached into the bag. He needed to forget. It took almost a bottle to do it, but he managed. His mind clouded and he passed out, blissfully unaware of the world around him.
What started out as one day of drinking quickly became two. Soon he shut his phone off and surrounded himself with bottles, some empty, some full, some he was drinking just then. What started out as a need to forget became a different need all together.
Six months in, he began to lose weight. He wasn't eating or at least not enough. His hair lost its shine and his beard grew scruffy as he couldn't be bothered to shave it every day.
Another six months, and Sam was falling apart. He'd stopped caring all together, and then the impossible happened, Dean came back.
There was a knock at the door, and Sam groaned, pushing himself up off the bed.
"I already paid this week, Fred," Sam hollered as he shuffled toward the door.
Unlocking the door, he let it swing open. His brow furrowed at what, or should he say who, he saw.
"Dean?"
"In the flesh," Dean's smile fell as he took in Sam. He was wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a dirty white tee. His beard was at least a few days old and his eyes were bloodshot.
Sam drew a breath and shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Great, now I'm hallucinating."
"Sam, it's really me." Dean was concerned. Sam looked like shit. He didn't know what had happened to him, but Dean knew it wasn't good. "Can I come inside?"
Sam sighed and waved him inside. "Sure why not."
Dean shook his head, but stepped inside. What he saw shocked even him. The room was filthy and smelled heavily of whiskey and sick.
"Sam, what's going on with you?"
"You should know, you're in my head."
Sam walked over to the table and grabbed the bottle there. He took off the cap and took a long pull from the bottle.
Dean watched him in shock. Sam was never against drinking, but he wasn't a heavy drinker by any means. This was out of character for him.
"Jesus, Sammy. Is this what you've been doing for the last year?"
Sam looked up at him and shrugged. "You were gone."
"So you decided to drink yourself to death?" Dean was getting pissed. "When was the last time you ate? Hell, slept for that matter?"
Sam's brow furrowed and he shrugged.
"I'm serious, Sam. What's going on with you?"
Sam lifted the bottle back to his lips and took another drink. Maybe if he drank enough the imaginary Dean would go away and leave him in peace.
"Christ, Sam. Put that shit down and talk to me."
Sam raised his brow and leveled his gaze on Dean. Moving purposely, he took another drink. "Fuck off."
"Son of a bitch." Dean charged over to him without hesitation and drew back his fist, landing a blow to Sam's jaw. It might have been over doing it, but Dean was tired of playing along with Sam's games.
Sam reeled back and dropped the bottle. It snapped him out of it. He reached up and rubbed his jaw. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Now what the hell is going on with you?"
"You're alive?"
"Like I said, in the flesh."
Without thinking, Sam reached out and pulled Dean into a hug. Releasing him, he stepped back and looked him over. "You look good," Sam said.
"Can't say the same about you," Dean looked him over. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing. I'm good."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, really. I was just having a bad day."
"You wanna," Dean waved a hand in the hair, "you know, talk about it?"
Sam shook his head. "Not really."
"Okay, so we're good?"
"Yeah, we're good."
But they weren't good, and they both knew it. It was clear Sam was well on the way to being wasted.
"Where were you, Dean?"
"Long story short, I was sucked in Purgatory," Dean said, reaching up and checking Sam's lip where the punch had split it.
Sam wavered on his feet. "When did you get back?"
"About a week ago."
"Oh," Sam said. He went to reach for the fallen bottle but Dean stopped him.
"I think you've had enough, don't you?"
Well, no. Sam really didn't think so. He rather liked the idea of another drink. But Dean was looking at him expectantly, and he so he sighed and said, "Yeah, I guess."
"Good. Now, where is your shit? You need some clean clothes and shower. 'Cause honestly, man, you stink."
Sam looked down at himself and frowned. He supposed he could use a shower and a shave. It'd been a few days. "I can get them. I'll go get cleaned up, and I'll be back. Don't go anywhere, okay?"
Dean chuckled. "No worries, Sam. I'm not going anywhere."
Sam grabbed his things and made his way to the shower. The bathroom was trashed and smelled like vomit. Not surprising given Sam's recent worship of the porcelain god.
Sam looked under the cabinet and round some cleaner and quickly spritzed the room, trying to cover up the smell. It didn't really work, but it helped some. Grabbing the trashcan, Sam quickly went through the small room, tossing out the trash and bottles that had accumulated there.
With the room cleaner, Sam put the trashcan back and got undressed. Turning on the water, he hopped in and proceeded to scrape off the layer of filth that coated his body. He even shaved his beard.
Dean listened as the water to the shower was turned off. While Sam was in there, Dean had done some poking around. He'd found the room was littered with empty beer and whiskey bottles. The trash cans were full and dirty clothes covered the floor. The shades were all drawn, blocking out all the light. Saw was practically living in a hole.
The bathroom door swung open and Sam stepped out. He looked better, but he still looked awful. His clothes hung off him and his eyes still had dark circles under them.
"When was the last time housekeeping was here?" Dean asked.
Sam looked down guiltily. "I haven't let them in."
"Ever?"
Sam shrugged. "Never seemed like a good time."
Dean nodded. "Okay then. How about I clean up while you sleep off the rest of the alcohol in your system?"
"I'm all right, Dean," Sam said. "I can help."
Sam didn't want to tell Dean that he could drink a hell of a lot more and still function just fine. That would be giving away how like an alcoholic he'd become.
"Really, Sam, you don't look like you've slept in days. Get some rest, and I'll clean up."
Sam sighed. "I'm not a child."
Dean scoffed. "Have you seen this place?"
Sam knew he was right. He hadn't exactly taken good care of the room. In fact, it never really occurred to him to clean it. At the time he was just living moment to moment.
"I know I kind of let things go this year—"
"Let things go, Sam? You look like you've been living off of booze and crackers. How much have you been drinking?"
Sam looked over at the bottle and then back at Dean. He didn't really want to answer that question truthfully. It would only lead to another argument.
"Not much, Like I said, it's just been a rough few days."
Dean studied him for a moment. There was no way a few days had led to this. Just the weight loss alone had to have taken at least a month. Dean decided it was best to play along with Sam. Whatever had happened to him in the last year now wasn't the time to push the subject.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll grab a trash bag and we can get started."
Sam nodded tightly. "Sounds good."
Dean started in the kitchenette, tossing out everything that covered the counter. Sam watched him with wide eyes as he came to a half empty bottle of liquor and proceeded to pour it down the sink. It was like watching someone kill a puppy.
Sam could already feel the shakes hitting him just at the thought of going without. How was he supposed to function without the cloudy haze that drinking gave him? He'd come to depend on it. It wasn't just emotional it was physiological. His body needed it just as much as his mind.
Sam pulled his gaze from Dean and went to gather the laundry from the floor. When he saw the sack from his recent purchase on the floor he kicked it and the bottle inside under the bed. He was going to need something for later. At the rate Dean was pouring out his bottles, he was going to be in trouble soon.
"Have you even tried to drink something other than beer and whiskey?" Dean asked as he dragged the trash bag over to the sleeping area.
Sam shrugged. What was he supposed to say? No? So he lied. "A lot of those are from a while back."
Dean raised his brow and then nodded. "Whatever you say, Sammy."
Dean didn't believe Sam one bit, and if he was right, which he usually was, Sam was going to be withdrawing hard in the next few days. Winchesters drank. It's what they did when things went wrong, but what Sam was doing was worse. It was more than drinking. It was serious. Sam was an alcoholic.