Prologue
Sam doesn't talk about things. He wants to be strong for his older brother. He tries to disguise it. But you can read everything in his green-brown eyes. Dean doesn't like to talk. At all. Talking about feelings is impossible. You can't read anything in those green eyes. He hides behind military precision. He drowns the pain down in alcohol and sarcasm. That's just who he is. And nobody can tell that anything is wrong. At least that's what he thinks.
Bobby pretends not to notice when Dean drinks his way through half a bottle of scotch before dinner. Knows if he asks the hunter what's wrong, he'll get an answer along the lines of "Nothing," in that gruff tone of Dean's that signals that he wants to be left alone. He also knows that if he were to ask Sam, Sam wouldn't know. But Sam is more observant than Bobby gives him credit for. It's his brother for chrissakes. He notices when Dean starts the bottle. And he sure as hell notices when Dean finishes it off. But by then, Dean can only be described as what seems to be happy. In other words, drunk. His cheeks are flushed, his movements animated. He's retelling the embellished story of the last demon they ganked. Sam can't help but snort at the exaggerations coming out of his brother's mouth. He can't remember the last time he's seen Dean this bad. Though, Dean was always good at hiding things like that.
There was a time when Sam thought his brother was invincible. That was before he went to Stanford. That was before he realized that everyone around him was flawed. Including Bobby, his father. And most of all, Dean. He knows his brother's got problems. Hell, he's got a lot of them himself. But Dean? Dean NEVER talks. NEVER. And that's got to weigh heavily on someone. Especially someone like Dean. Because Dean likes to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Sam should've known from the moment Dean showed up at Stanford to bring him back into hunting that his older brother was a train wreck. It's just like Dean to be a masochist, take all that pain and lock it up deep inside. Even while they were searching for John, there was never any pain. There was an urgency, but Dean never seemed upset, angry, anything of the sort. And sure, maybe that's his way of coping. But it's not healthy, and neither is the amount of alcohol that Dean's consumed in the last four hours. Not that Sam NOTICED or anything.
Dean knows that his gestures are getting grander. He's having a hard time co-ordinating his movements. And maybe, just maybe it was a bad idea to finish off that bottle of Scotch. He feels the heady buzz of alcohol, his skin is flushed and hot. He hears the slight slur to his words, and he knows that he is severely exaggerating on the story he's telling Bobby. He vaguely remembers mentioning something about explosions. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the fact that he's drunk is nagging at him. But he doesn't let it bother him. Whatever, everything feels numb, and numb is better. Better than worrying about Sammy, and everything, and Cas and…just numb is better than FEELING. Dean doesn't like to feel. Feeling is a girly, pussy thing. Dean can't stand it. That's why he doesn't talk, even though he could be called a hypocrite because he ALWAYS tries to get Sam to tell him what's wrong. He knows he should call it quits now, go to bed, try to get a decent sleep. But he's just so HAPPY, and so glad to be at Bobby's, what he considers home…
"Want another beer?" Bobby asks, when Dean's finished his elaborate story. His head jerks up, and his green eyes narrow, attempting to focus his blurry vision on the older hunter.
"Me?" He asks, gesturing at himself, wildly waving his hand around. Bobby rolls his eyes.
"No, ya idjit. I was talking to your brother," Bobby says, and both their heads turn to look expectantly at Sam. The youngest hunter shakes his head.
"No, Thanks though Bobby. We really should be getting to bed. It was a long trip here, and I'm sure Dean and I could both use the sleep."
"Alright then. Have a good night boys," Bobby says, pretending not to notice the way Sam helps Dean up, pretending not to notice the way Dean staggers and almost stumbles as they start to walk up the stairs. Pretending not to notice as Sam's grip tightens to keep his older brother upright. It's when they've gotten up the stairs that Dean finally realizes what Sammy's doing. He tries to shove his brother away, and only succeeds in losing his balance and falling against the wall, taking the brunt of the impact to his shoulder.
"Sammy, I'm fine," he says, blaming the heavy slur in his words on the wave of exhaustion and pain he suddenly feels. He doesn't let Sam know that the hit to his shoulder hurt more than it should have.
"Dean," Sam says, though the name is more of a breath. Dean can hear the exasperation written in that one word though.
"Bitch," He says, a lazy grin spreading across his features.
"Jerk," Sam retorts with a roll of his eyes. But even drunk and tired as he is, Dean can see that he's won as Sam's lips tilt up at the corners.