12 Steps
It generally takes Sam twenty minutes to fall asleep. First he stops talking. Then he turns over two or three times. Finally he starts to softly snore. Once he reaches this point Dean knows he's home free. Free to do what he must to survive the night. Alcoholics have a 12 step recovery process. Well he has a 12 step process, to what he isn't always sure, aided by a bottle of whiskey of course, to accompany every step.
The first three steps sort of mush together, three shots, knocked back in quick succession, one, two, three. He barely even feels them; they're more like a warm up, for what's to come. The fourth step, that's where it gets interesting. With that fourth shot, he begins to feel it. To feel something. A warm heat seems to settle over his body and if he closes his eyes he can almost pretend it's a person slowly enveloping him, keeping him close, keeping him safe. But as soon as he opens his eyes it's gone. After all, who'd stick around long enough for that to happen? His philosophy has always been fuck 'em and leave. Less messy that way.
The fifth step happens when the warm feeling dissipates, leaving instead an odd tingling sensation, starting in his fingertips then seeming to spread throughout his body. This is not a pleasant sensation and ultimately hastens the arrival of the sixth step. Here he takes out his knife, the one he always keeps somewhere on him, and carefully places it on the table. Then he just looks at it. Every night, time after time, he just stares. Attempting to memorize every knick and blemish on the blade, every scratch on the handle. Just focuses on it, as hard as humanly possible, trying to block out all other thoughts from his mind. And it works, for a time at least, but soon staring's not enough. So he picks it up and gently runs his fingers over the blade, just to test its sharpness of course. And if he cuts himself, ah well, easy mistake to make. That's the seventh step.
The eighth step is when he fucking gives up on "testing the sharpness" and finally puts the knife to his wrist, pressing down gently at first, then harder, then harder still. Going far enough that the physical pain cuts through everything else, but not far enough that he won't be able to sew himself back together again. Always keeps in mind the time he almost went too far, cut into an artery or something, and almost passed out from blood loss. If he hadn't had a suture kit within arm's length Sammy would've woken up to see what a fucking coward his big brother really was. So he's careful, and exerts what little self-control he has on forcing himself to stop, no matter how much his mind's screaming at him to keep going.
This thought process always leads to step number nine, when everything seems blackest, and even the sting of the knife can't make him feel like life is worth living. This is when he lets himself break down, if only for a minute, let's himself slowly fall apart, and even more slowly put away the knife and replace it with a pistol…step ten.
Step eleven is very similar to step six and seven, except he never lets himself touch the pistol. Doesn't think if it was actually in his hands he'd be able to exert enough self-control to not pull that fucking trigger. But oh does he think about it. He could spend hours just thinking about it, and some nights he does.
The final step, number twelve, is the hardest to achieve. Here he pours his final shot of whiskey, invariably spilling more than not, and stumbles away. Collapsing on his bed, he lets his mind spin one final time before the whiskey finally takes hold. Acknowledges the fact that his nightly ritual only prolongs the inevitable. Let's himself contemplate the fact that at some point he probably won't make it through all the steps. He'll cut too deep, touch the gun, pull the trigger, something, and it'll all be over. And in some small selfish corner of his mind, where he doesn't think about his responsibilities, or leaving Sam alone, he hopes and prays for that day.