It's three in the goddamn morning and they're fighting at Bobby's place like they're five again. Except, there's a lot more venom, sting and bite behind their words these days. The old man is letting 'em duke it out, though, so they keep tearing into each other like it's the only thing they've ever known how to do.
Sam is trying to weave his way through the labrynth of halls and rooms to the front door, and Dean is hot on his heels the entire way, but the problem with men is that when they get angry, everything else within them short circuits, including their sense of direction. The house the boys practically grew up in is now an unfamiliar place to them. Dean is only following Sam to continue to have a target to yell at.
This leads Sam to abandon his maze wandering and to open the nearest fucking window to escape because all he really needs is some fresh air and some space and his brother's voice not to be right in his goddamn ear. Except, Dean never really did know when to quit, ya' know? So seconds after Sam paces away from the house and into the salvage yard, he hears the thud of boots and to tell you the truth, he was completely expecting the hard shove from behind, but it sent him sprawling anyway. Beause expecting is almost never synonymous with prepared for, and because his brother was a real jackass when he wanted to be.
Sam gets back up to his knees, ready for a physical fight this time, but Dean's not up in his face anymore, and really, his brother's gone quiet for now. Bobby is standing on the front porch with a fifth of Jack balancing in his palm and a tired look on his face. He makes no move to stop the brothers though. They need to get this out of their system, anyway.
Before Sam can start to form a sentence to spit at Dean, the elder Winchester begins to laugh. It's harsh and biting, definitely a bit condescending, also, and it makes Sam's blood run just a little bit hotter. He mentally fumbles with his words before losing them completely. He, too, sort of feels like laughing, because he can't really remember why in the hell they're fighting anymore. Then, "I can't remember the last time I had to look down to see your face. About time somebody knocked you off your damn high horse."
Suddenly, Sam springs up, as if he had forgotten he was down on the gravel in the first place. The urge to laugh is gone now. "Go to hell," he growls out, and even as he's stalking away through the mounds of destroyed cars, he hears Dean call back to him.
"Already fuckin' been there, Sammy! And lemme tell you, it was one fantastic vacation! next time I'm there I'll make sure to send you a goddamn postcard." Defeaning silence rang out around Dean now, and he kinda just stood there for a few seconds, trying to stop breathing so hard and trying to get the ringing in his ears to go away. It didn't happen. The hunter almost got pissed all over again and went tearing after Sam, but before he could even move a muscle forward, there was a heavy hand on the back of his neck.
"Dean, Enough."
He could feel the anger leaking out of him in waves only to be replaced with exhaustion and irritation towards his current sobriety. He was so not drunk enough to deal with this. The hand exerted only a small amount more of pressure, but Dean dropped to his knees in the dirt anyways. The hand stayed firm on his heated skin.
"You need to calm down." And, well, yeah. It would only make sense that the freakin' angel could passify him with a single touch when he was in a mood like this. Dean vaguely thought he heard Bobby chuckling as he shifted into a cross legged position, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, muttering out a breathless, "Yeah. Alright," back up in Castiel's direction.
