A/N Right, so I was actually writing this as a regular fiction story to add to my writing repertoire, and I realized that it would work amazing as an Army AU. Anyway, it's still a WIP, and I'm still keeping it as a regular fiction when I'm writing it, I'm just modifying some stuff (names, places, dialogues, etc.) before I post it here. It's severely sad, like, really, and I only write new stuff out for it when I'm feeling down, which explains all the angst. Anyway, I was feeling terrible, so I just finished writing out the first part, and I decided to convert it into fanfiction and post it today. THERE WILL BE DESTIEL.

College is still crap, but at least my tests are over now. I had some seriously bad shit go down yesterday, and I'm feeling very violated after something that happened today, and I'd like to give a special shoutout to What You See In The Shadows and TheResurrectionist, for making me smile through the worst things. Thanks guys, you're awesome, and so I'm dedicating this chapter to you guys. :) ~Sammy

The ghosts in my whiskey scream curses

There are days, when giving up feels as easy as falling. When running and pulling himself back up that wall seems like too much to handle. When the chips of paint and plaster break away and flutter to the ground, and he's left with nothing but a handful of dust.

There are days, where the façade is nothing more than cobwebs and veils, brushed aside without a second glance.

There are days when he wonders if, in the end, it was worth it

Most days, he wakes up screaming.

The space beside him is empty, has been for months, ever since she decided that she'd had enough of the shouting and yelling and the constant paranoia.

She'd tried to help, at the start. She had comforted him after his nightmares, had assured him that the soft thumps of raindrops on the roof weren't bullets and shell casings. She had held him close and spoken soft words of reassurance when all he could see were the fires raging around him. She had helped him to breathe when it felt like ash was filling his lungs. She was his rock.

And she was gone.

"Please Lisa. Don't leave."

He wishes he could have found better words to say, maybe then she wouldn't have left.

It wasn't any sort of grand revelation, and there wasn't a rolling crash of thunder accompanying the door that slammed shut behind her. It had been just another bout of tears and nightmares and yelling and an absurd need to lock every door and window three times over. It was normal, or rather, as normal as he could get those days. It wasn't anything new or particularly frightening, but it had been enough.

One moment he had been shouting at the shadows and she'd been trying to calm him down, and the next, she had a packed bag in her hands, a bruise on her face, and a door that shut behind her with too loud a click.

He was left alone, with no more company than the shadows that had caused the whole mess.

The nightmares attacked him, with all the fury of a vengeful God, that first night after she left. Blood dripped and gushed like rivers over the banks of his mind. Screams ripped through his throat, and he was alone.

The bed was cold and too big and it was all he could do to keep breathing, because every whoosh of air felt like a bullet brushing past him, felt like a dying out flare, felt like lost hope.

His father's silver flask (that he'd sworn to never use, he didn't want to be his father) became his best friend. The amber sloshing around inside was suddenly so much more tempting. And it wasn't like before, when he'd drink just because he was happy, because he wanted to celebrate. This was more. This was him wanting, needing, to forget.

So he drank until he couldn't remember. He drank until the shadows felt less sinister. He drank until his vision was no longer clouded with smoke and rubble. He drank until he was no longer on danger of falling over the edge. He drank until the shadows stopped whispering curses and words of remorse.

The whiskey burned a path down his throat, and the vodka drilled holes into his brain, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough, because nothing ever was. There was never enough pain to make the shadows stop with their litany.

"So... Sammy. Whatchya lookin' at?"

Sam jumped, startled, and he shoved the picture in his hand under his duffle bag. "N- nothing. It's nothing."

Dean laughed, and reached out to tousle Sam's hair. It was still short, shorter than it had been before, can't have long hair in the Marines, but it was long enough to mess up. Sam ducked away from his hand and scowled at him in a way that reminded him of the petulant five year old Sammy had been, demanding that Dean sing him a song before he went to sleep.

"Your hair's getting long again, little brother. Better cut it before Schofield takes a pair of clippers to it himself."

Sam shuddered and Dean found himself laughing again.

Sam looked like he'd been force fed raw frogs again. "Dude, I am so not letting Schofield near my hair again."

"Oh come on, it wasn't that bad. Hell, you almost looked like a proper marine then."

If there was ever any research done in the matter of weaponising death-glares, Dean would have to send Sam for testing. The kid was getting ridiculously good at that look.

"I looked like someone took a pair of garden shears to my head, Dean. Schofield isn't even touching my hair again."

He laughed hollowly, alone, his mind too soaked with alcohol to even know why he was laughing. It was there, the reason, scratching away at the broken corner of his mind, squeaking and whispering and he drank some more in the hopes that liquor would shut it up. It never did, of course, but that didn't stop him from trying anyway.

There were ghosts everywhere.

They were there in the way his own eyes would crinkle in the corners when he laughed, so he just stopped laughing.

They were there in the tiny garden of herbs that flourished outside in the tiny plot he'd dug out so many years ago, so he uprooted each and every plant, screaming out his frustration as he did it.

They were there in the last dregs of the whiskey bottles, so he threw the bottles at the walls, watching them shatter to bits and wishing the spirits would shatter the same way.

They were there in his too-long hair, he hadn't ventured to a barber shop in ages, so he took a hunting knife from under his pillow, and he sliced away at the locks, cutting and hacking away until it was as short and as messy as he could make it.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

"You need to cut your hair, you're starting to look like a girl."

"Schofield-"

"Not Schofield. I'll cut it myself, okay?"

"You mess it up, I swear to God..."

"Calm down you sissy. I could cut your hair with a damn hunting knife if I had to."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

There were ghosts everywhere.

There was no escaping them, so he did all he could do.

He cried.

He drank.

He apologized.

I'm so sorry Sam.

A/N Uh... Sorry? I know it's confusing and weird and disorienting, but I swear it'll start making sense as it moves forward. Promise. Anyway, leave a review and let me know what you thought. It might inspire a quicker update. :) ~Sammy