"Six months."
The two quiet words entered the air just as Dean opened the door to his and Sam's motel room. The older Winchester instantly recognized that the voice belonged to his little brother, but it sounded… off. Wrong. Not only was it barely audible, but even though his sentence was short and incomplete, Dean could tell that his speaking was slurred. It was also drastically slow, as it had taken Sam more than a few seconds to move from 'six' to months'.
Dean's eyes quickly shifted around the room. The place was littered with empty beer cans, which was accompanied by the distinct reeking smell of late night booze. It didn't take the hunter long to connect the dots.
While the older of the two had been out getting groceries, Sam had decided to raid their beer cooler. Between his brother's tainted voice and the room's trashy appearance, Dean seriously doubted that there was a single can left.
Dean's eyes continued searching, not stopping until he finally reached Sam's slouched form. His body was sunk into the motel's ratty couch, the fingers of his right hand wrapped tightly around yet another can. He looked terrible; there were prominent dark circles under his eyes, his usually shaggy, but neat hair was going in nearly every direction, and his skin was uncharacteristically pale.
The hunter racked through his brain, trying to understand why Sam would be so damn disheveled. They had just finished up a case, but it hadn't been anything out of the ordinary. Dean did have a close call with the bitch they had been hunting, but he and Sam dealt with those nearly every week. It was nothing new.
After a successful hunt, the two usually cracked open a couple of beers. It was their way of celebrating, but Sam had taken it to a whole new level. There was a tremendous difference between having a couple drinks and downing the entire supply; a huge contrast between obtaining a buzz and getting hammered.
Sam wasn't ignorant. He knew what would happen if he drank and drank and drank, which could only mean one thing.
Sam had wanted to get drunk.
While both Winchesters enjoyed letting loose once in a while, they always ventured out to the nearest bar if they wanted to get a bit wasted. It was a more enjoyable environment than their motel of the week, and there were far more selections of alcohol to choose from. They also always went together. Even if one drank and the other didn't, they still were seated next to each other.
This time, Sam had decided to chase the feeling inside one of the shittiest motels they had ever visited while sitting in solitude.
There was only one reason why the younger Winchester would do such a thing; something was bothering him. It wasn't something little, either. This was Sam's way of trying to forget whatever was on his mind. This was his little brother hurting so badly that he needed to blur out his memories.
Dean didn't like it. Not one bit. He preferred to be physically stabbed than to see Sam struggling.
He slowly set the bags of groceries on the small kitchen table, keeping his green gaze glued to Sam. Since those first two words, he hadn't said anything else, and the silence was more than deafening.
"Six months…?" Dean made himself break the quietness, urging Sam to continue with his thoughts. He cautiously shortened the distance between him and his younger sibling, moving until he was face-to-face with him.
To Dean's relief, Sam instantly glanced up, meeting his gaze. His brother's eyes were red and glassy, no doubt from the alcohol he'd been downing, and quite honestly, he looked like absolute shit. God, when was the last time Sam had slept? Dean usually knew those sort of things, but he was drawing a blank. He didn't know when Sam's last meal was either. What kind of big brother was he?
Sam opened his mouth, stammering on air for a moment. Without a sound, Dean brought a soft hand to his shoulder, gently squeezing. It took him a moment to get the right words out. "Yeah, six months. That's how long you were gone." The younger Winchester decided then to break his gaze, choosing to stare at the can in his palm instead. Dean fought to keep his mouth shut. He could hear the substance sloshing around; it wasn't empty yet.
For the time being, Dean focused on Sam's words. Confusion fell over his features as he tried to figure out what the hell his little brother meant. What six months was he talking about? Sam hadn't lost Dean once. At least, not yet anyway. His one-way trip to Hell was coming up faster than they wanted it to, but they still had time.
"What are you talking about, Sammy? You never lost me. I've been right here the entire time, bud." Dean was using the tone he reserved for moments like this; times where his little brother was obviously suffering and needed some comforting. It took Dean a little extra effort to keep himself so soft-spoken, but if it helped Sam in the slightest, it was worth it. He was willing to do anything if it helped his brother. "Come on, dude. You're wasted. I think it's time you caught some Z's."
Cautiously, Dean moved his other hand down to Sam's right wrist. The younger Winchester instantly knew what his brother was attempting and made a small noise of disapproval. Sam seemed to be ready to fall further and further under the influence, and Dean wasn't going to have it. Not on his watch. If any more alcohol got into his brother's system, he was going to have to start worrying about alcohol poisoning. Sometimes they forgot, but Sam and Dean weren't the things they hunted; they were humans. Humans that were susceptible to stupid illnesses and problems, such as getting sick from too many downed beers.
Dean wanted to be angry, but how could he be? Anyone else who saw Sam would think he was some alcoholic who had yet to recover, but the older Winchester knew better. It wasn't an obsession of drinking; it was a fixation of erasing the bad.
It took a bit of coaxing, but after a few moments of wrestling with Sam's weak, but stubborn fingers, Dean had the can in his hand. There was barely anything left in it, and yet Sam had been clinging to it as if the small amount was enough to make a difference.
It made Dean's blood boil.
After yet another squeeze to Sam's shoulder, Dean drifted over to their sorry excuse for a kitchenette. Without a hint of hesitation, he drained the rest of the shit substance into the sink. Typically, Dean favored the stuff, but after seeing Sam the way he was, he wished it had never been created.
"I killed Bobby."
His brother spoke so softly that Dean almost missed it entirely. When he realized what Sam had said, the eldest Winchester froze, now hovering over the trash with his fingers still woven around the can. What the hell was Sam talking about? Much like Dean, Bobby was perfectly fine. Neither of them had their hearts stop on them. The only thing that came to mind was that maybe his brother was confusing reality with his nightmares or something, but that didn't explain why he started drinking in the first place. It was clear that there was a reason, and Dean was positive that whatever Sam was babbling about was it.
Eventually, Dean managed to throw the vacant can away. His own fingers were trembling now. He had no clue what Sam was battling with in his head, but Dean did know one thing for sure; he was going to fix it, no matter how much it hurt.
"What are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean murmured, just as he moved back in front of his troubled little brother. He kneeled a bit, trying to read Sam's face as he slowly brought a hand to the side of his neck. With the alcohol burning through his veins, it was nearly impossible. However, Dean managed to pick up two distinct feelings from his features; fear and anxiety.
Sam decided to stay silent, leaving Dean with no option but to speak himself. "We just talked to Bobby today, man. He's as smart-mouthed and alive as always." The Winchester just shook his head, as if that wasn't the case. Dean wondered if maybe Sam was just mixing things up, considering that they were at least eight beers lying on the floor. His tolerance had always sucked. When they were teens, it had only taken Sam a couple of cans to start feeling tipsy. Even after he surpassed Dean in height, the older Winchester was still the one who could drink more before ending up intoxicated. Neither of them understood why, but that was just how it was. With the same amount of drinks, Sam would be piss drunk, while Dean would hardly be dazed.
Sam's head tilted slightly to the side, his messy hair lightly falling against Dean's hand. The motion stopped Dean from being able to see Sam's face, and that was just another thing he was frustrated about. Sometimes, his little brother was so damn difficult.
Though, that didn't make Dean love Sam any less. They were family; brothers. Nothing was going to break the bond or change the feeling.
"I know he's alive now, Dean. I'm not stupid." Dean's eyebrows scrunched together a bit, and a small and heartless chuckle left Sam's lips. It physically hurt Dean to hear it. Drunk Sam was disturbing on a good day, and today definitely wasn't one he'd put near the top of his list. Before the older hunter could add anything in, Sam cleared his throat, keeping his head in place. "The Trickster erased it."
The Trickster… Even the mere mention of him made Dean's heart rate pick up. The guy was the textbook definition of a bastard. He was the one who supposedly made Sam go through some weird-ass time-loop. It had only been a few weeks since that particular Tuesday, but Dean barely remembered a thing about it. It was like his memories had been… erased. Fuck, he didn't like where this was going.
Before Dean could become any more confused or upset, Sam continued. "After all those Tuesdays, after watching you die over a hundred times… I found him. He was behind it. I told him to stop, and… He did. It was Wednesday." With every word, Sam's body was getting tenser. A frown planted itself across Dean's lips, and he gave his brother's neck a comforting squeeze to try and encourage him to keep going. Sam took a small breath, then nodded his head, seeming to be suddenly coherent.
"After I realized it was Wednesday, I wanted to get the hell out of that city. I was packing up our things, and you had taken a couple bags out to the Impala. I was zipping the last one shut when I heard a gunshot, and…" Sam's voice broke at the end, his mouth immediately shutting. Dean kept his eyes on him with the same frightened and worried look on his features, attempting to process everything coming from his intoxicated, but sober little brother. "You were dead, Dean. That Wednesday… It didn't repeat like all the Tuesdays."
Without a word, Dean moved from the floor, choosing the spot on the couch next to Sam. He was still trying to comprehend what Sam was saying, and his sibling seemed to realize that. "It was six months before Bobby called, telling me he had found The Trickster. We met up, and… I just assumed Bobby was him and killed him. I turned out to be right, but… I just guessed, Dean."
Dean was just staring, even though he knew that at that moment, Sam needed him. It was so much all at once, and the Winchester seriously didn't know how to process it. His little brother was telling him that after watching him die over a hundred times, The Trickster killed him once more, and let Sam believe it was permanent for six months. Months.
It instantly reminded Dean of Cold Oak. He could clearly remember the heavy agony he felt when he was watching the life drain from Sam's eyes, and he could recall every ounce of misery throughout the following days. It had become so unbearable that Dean had traded his soul to save him.
"Sammy…" Dean trailed off, wondering how the hell he was supposed to fix this. In a few short months, his brother would yet again fall into the same situation, except… there wouldn't be a reset. It was then that Dean realized how fucking selfish he had been. It didn't get rid of the pain; it just transferred it to Sam.
"He fixed everything, obviously, but… I was a mess, Dean. It was like I couldn't feel anymore. I was a threat to anyone who came near me, and… What am I supposed to do when I actually lose you?"
Sam's words echoed through the room. His eyes had become even redder, and Dean knew that his emotions were getting the best of him. They always did when he was drunk. While the older Winchester tended to get reckless and energetic, Sam usually fell into his feelings. Somehow, the mix worked.
His brother's lip began to tremble, and Dean knew what that signaled. Before Sam could even try to move away, Dean turned and scooched closer to him, pulling him straight into his arms. As soon as the younger hunter's head collided with the older's shoulder, the silence in the room was broken by a soft cry. Sam brought his hands straight to Dean's shirt, gripping onto the material as if his hold was secure enough to keep him out of Hell's hands.
Dean knew that if he tried to reason with Sam now, nothing would get through. He was overwhelmed, and as much as he wanted to fix it right then and there, he had to pull Sam through his breakdown first. He gently brought one of his hands to his brother's hair, letting his fingers tangle up in his disheveled hair.
How could he let this go for so long? After the time-loop had happened, Sam's pain had been so distinct. Dean had tried to get through, he had tried to pry his way in and figure out what happened, but Sam had just kept deflecting. After a thousand attempts, Dean had given up, and now he hated himself for it. Sam had probably been suffering since it happened, and yeah, it was mostly The Trickster's fault, but it was Dean's too. It was his job to take care of his brother, make sure he was healthy and happy, and he had miserably failed.
Dean didn't know how long Sam's crying went on. Every minute felt like an eternity. Even though his brother was the taller one, Sam felt so small in his arms. The feeling was familiar, reminding him of when they were younger. Whenever Sammy was incredibly upset, Dean would just hold him and wait it out. He never rushed the kid, and he wasn't like John, who would've told him to bottle it up. Whatever worked for Sam was what Dean went with, whether their father agreed with it or not.
Eventually, Sam began to quiet down. His grip didn't falter, but the room yet again fell silent, other than a shaky breath emitting from the younger man's lungs every now and again. Dean groomed his hair back, not quite ready to let go. He was painfully aware that in a few months, he wouldn't be able to comfort Sam when he was hurting. Dean was sure that Sam realized that too.
"Listen to me, bud." Dean's voice remained soft, despite the ocean of emotions raging through him. He wanted Sam's eye contact, but he wasn't going to force it just yet. "I'm so sorry for what The Trickster did to you. If I ever see that son of a bitch's face, I'm going to fucking-" Dean's anger was beginning to shine through, so he forced himself to stop and take a breath. Now was not the time to get pissed. He felt Sam's grip tighten around his shirt, and Dean pulled him even closer into his chest. "I can't imagine how you felt, Sammy."
Six months. God, Dean couldn't even handle a week.
"How did you feel when you thought you had shot Bobby?" Dean hesitantly muttered the question. It got Sam to shift and look up, his hurt hazel eyes staring up at him in disbelief.
"What?" Sam whispered, waiting for Dean to correct himself. The older Winchester kept his ground, only waiting for a response. He knew it was a rough thing to ask, but he had to prove a point. He had to. "I felt… scared. Sad. Like a monster."
The last reply had Dean inwardly cringing, but unfortunately, it was what he was looking for. "You said you felt nothing, Sam, but you did. Even if it was bad things, you still did." Dean didn't know if Sam thought he'd turned into a killing machine or what, but he knew that would never be the case. Dean knew Sam better than he knew himself. When he was a kid, he got upset over hurting meaningless fruit flies.
"When… my time runs up, it's going to hurt, Sammy." Dean squeezed his little brother, almost regretting that he made the deal in the first place. It was going to push so much pain onto Sam, and from what he knew now, Dean wasn't sure how it would go. All he knew was that Sam was stronger in every which way, and Dean was just hoping that was enough.
It was clear that Sam didn't want to keep talking about it, as he let out a soft whine. Dean had to fight to keep going. "But you're so strong, Sam. You're going to get through it. It'll take time, but you're going to be okay. I know it."
Sam's lip began to tremble again, and no, that was not what Dean wanted. "Shh," He murmured, moving his hand down to Sam's arm and rubbing it gently. Sam sniffled once, but for now, there weren't any more tears. Dean wasn't sure if he'd be able to stay together if they appeared again. "It's not going to be like what happened with The Trickster. I won't let it be."
"How?" Sam croaked, not daring to look up from his curled position in Dean's chest. The older Winchester just continued to rub his arm.
"How about we make you a plan?" Dean answered, looking back down at his broken baby brother. He'd do everything in his power to make his own death easier on Sam. Everything. "We can put safe places for you to go; phone numbers that you can call when you need help. I can even write some dumb stories or somethin' for you to read when you miss me."
Dean tried to crack a smile, but it was closer to being sad than comforting. Still, Sam seemed to be intrigued by the idea, and that was all that mattered. Maybe if he had some sort of path once Dean was gone, he wouldn't drown like he had before.
"Can you make it?" Sam asked so innocently that for a second, Dean swore he was speaking to the seven-year-old that used to beg him to draw pictures for his journals. It was probably because of how much alcohol was in his system, but Dean pretended the cans on the floor were still full.
Dean lightly patted Sam's arm, then guided it back to his hair. "Who else would? My handwriting is way better than yours." It was his subtle way of trying to gear them away from all the tears. He managed to get a small laugh out of Sam, which took him happily by surprise.
"Yeah, it does." And there went Sam's soberness. He lifted his head a bit, his watery eyes finally looking back in Dean's direction. It was obvious that his pain was still present, but it had calmed down. "I'm tired, Dean."
"Probably because of all those beers you took down, buddy," Sam grumbled at Dean's response, which made a small smirk move to the older hunter's lips. "Hey; it's the truth, dude. Let's get you to bed."
Slowly, Sam got himself to sit up. Dean followed him, then lifted Sam's arm around his shoulders. "On three," He added, giving his brother a moment to collect himself. "One, two…" After a second, Dean guided Sam to his feet. It was a good thing Dean decided to support him, considering his legs wobbled as soon as his feet hit the ground. He was tempted to make a remark on how Sam shouldn't have drunk as much as he did, but Dean couldn't get himself to say it out loud. Not when he knew the reasoning behind it.
Luckily, because the motel room was about the size of a shoebox, it didn't take the Winchesters long to reach Sam's bed. As soon as they were within a reasonable distance, Dean helped lower him onto the mattress. Sam mumbled incoherently, and the older hunter just smiled and moved the covers over him.
"Goodnight, dude. We'll talk in the morning." If Sam didn't remember their conversation, Dean would go through it all over again. He didn't care how chick-flicky it got, and he didn't care if one (or even both of them) ended up tearing up. With Dean's deal coming up, that stuff just didn't matter anymore. Hell, he wasn't sure if it ever really had.
Within a few seconds of laying down, Sam's breathing regulated, signaling that he'd fallen asleep. Dean tucked the blankets around him, letting his hand hover over his brother's form afterward. All the distress had fallen off his features, and Dean hated that it had ever been there in the first place. When Sam was asleep, he looked so peaceful. He deserved to feel that way when he was awake too.
"I know you're going to miss me, Sammy." He whispered, even though he knew Sam wasn't listening. It was probably a good thing. With all the hesitancy in the world, Dean then leaned down, gently moving the hair off his brother's forehead. "But you're meant for big things, little brother. You're going to make it." He could feel his eyes beginning to water, but now that Sam was asleep, it didn't matter. He pressed a soft kiss to the kid's forehead, then slowly stood back up. Showing affection had never been the Winchester's strongest suit, but it had always been easier when Sam was asleep. It didn't quite help his brother out, but Dean hoped that somehow, it got through to him.
Dean shifted to his own bed, sitting on the edge facing Sam's. As his brother continued to rest, he grabbed hold of the small pad and pen laying on the table between them. In his usual handwriting, Dean began to write.
Tip #1: Unless you're with someone you trust, don't drink. You're a fuckin' sap when you're plastered.
Tip #2: Hurting, nor crying, makes you weak, Sammy. It makes you human.
Dean let the tip of his pen halt against the paper, peering back up at Sam. He had pulled the blankets up even further around himself, his head nestled neatly into the pillow. A broken smile moved to his lips, and Dean didn't have to think twice about what to write next.
Tip #3: Trust me; I miss you as much as you miss me.