Dean Winchester is 4 years old when his mother dies. The house is on fire, and he doesn't realize that his momma is still inside until he's sitting on the hood of the car with a crying bundle in his arms, looking up at his dad and expecting answers.
He doesn't get any.
And as months pass, Dean realizes that his little brother is all he has, because 'Daddy' isn't 'Daddy' anymore. Now, he's 'Sir', and Dean can't think of any other kids who call their dad that. But he can still call Sammy 'Sammy' and to Dean, that has to mean something.
Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night and takes Sammy from his crib. Even at 4--nearly 5!--he's been trained to be quiet, and the only problem with getting Sammy lies in the possibility of him crying. But Sammy never cries when Dean holds him, so they always make a clean getaway.
He remembers when his mom used to make cookies--warm and soft and sweet--and she would sit him on the kitchen counter and ruffle his hair. She would always pour a big glass of milk for them. Mom would take a sip, and give the rest to Dean. They could never finish more than half of it.
Dean carries Sammy into the kitchen and one-handedly pours a glass of milk for the both of them. He never takes more than a few sips because Sammy gets this desire in his eyes, his body language reaching out for the milk without him saying a word. Dean always gives in--pours half of the glass into Sammy's bottle and watches him drink. And since Dean gave Sammy half of the milk, then his glass has to be half-empty, right?
--
Dean tries his best to remain strong when his brother leaves for Stanford. Sam doesn't say goodbye, just storms out because 'Sir' won't give him what he wants, won't accept it. Dean puts on a good facade, pretends that he's solely focused on the hunt, because missing his Sammy would be a sign of weakness, and the weak are always easy targets.
He takes a sip of his coffee, stares ahead. 326 miles of driving to their next hunt and Dean and 'Sir' don't say a word to each other. Sam would have talked to him.
326 miles of gas stations and cheap, greasy food, and 'Sir' doesn't even offer to go stock up for them. He just sits there in the passenger seat―Sam's seat―and fiddles with a map. Sam would have gone in to stock up without Dean even asking.
Dean goes in to the gas station, pays and grabs another cup of coffee for himself. Looking out the window at his father's hunched form, Dean drains half the cup.
John is still searching desperately for the thing that killed Mary and he's hungry for revenge. He breathes it, drinks it in like the sweetest kind of poison. And Dean's been caught in the crossfire.
Sometimes, like right now, Dean thinks about calling Sam and seeing how he's doing, but John is looking at him through the car window and he's irritated, impatient.
So Dean takes his hand off of his cell phone and stares down into his coffee on the way back to the car.
He still thinks his cup is half-empty.
--
Two years can seem like a lifetime.
After waiting for so long, busying himself with hunts, Dean finally goes to see Sam. He drags him away from his pretty little girlfriend and makes him come with him because their father is gone. John only ever hunted to get revenge on the thing that killed Mary, but he was never gone this long.
Sam isn't the same. He's shed his hunter's instincts, let himself live the (almost) normal life that he wanted. Dean is sort of jealous. Sam doesn't have to follow blind orders. Sam doesn't have to wake up in the middle of the night and go kill something that shouldn't even exist in the first place.
But his jealousy turns to guilt when he pulls Sam out of his apartment because it's on fire and Dean can remember the greedy flames like it was yesterday.
After his girlfriend dies--"Jess," Sam introduced her as--Sam is much quieter, but more persistent and stubborn. He wants to kill this thing just as much as their father did and for a while, Dean doesn't see his Sammy anymore.
He sees his father--hell-bent on revenge, pushed into a shell of grief and guilt--and it hurts, because Dean doesn't want that for him.
But really, when has it ever been about what Dean wanted?
He takes a swig of his beer one night, watching Sam research their next hunt. It was weird seeing him get all riled up over hunting, but that was what this demon would do to you. That's what grief would do to you.
Dean cracks jokes, trying to get Sam to smile, to feel a little lighter, because he doesn't want him to turn into their father. But Sam is hurting in a way that only John can understand, and although he wants to help his little brother, to make him giggle and laugh like the little baby he took as his own, he can't.
When Dean goes to sleep that night, his half-empty bottle of beer is still sitting on the nightstand.
--
John dies a short time afterwards, and Dean doesn't know how to handle it. Maybe things would have been easier if it was a different demon they could chase after, a different face to put with their hatred. But Dean was a guilty man now, living on borrowed time. It wasn't his to take, wasn't his to give.
His father gave his life for Dean.
The first few weeks after John dies are hard on him. He goes out drinking, leaves Sam in the motels by himself because all Sam wants to do is get him to talk and share his feelings and Dean just can't do it. He won't.
He knows Sam is grieving, too, but his brother doesn't have that weight on his shoulders. Not like this.
The 6-pack of beer he's been nursing for the past few hours makes him numb. It's easy for him to drink because there is no guilt in doing so. He can get drunk, lay around, suffer a hangover and puke his brains out without regret. It gets rid of the rock that is guilt, heavy in his stomach, and Dean falls asleep with the half-empty beer bottle spilling steadily onto his shirt, staining him, branding him.
--
When Sam dies, it's a whole new kind of pain. He sits and mopes, drinks more than anyone he's ever met--and hunters tend to drink alot, but really, who wouldn't with their lifestyle?--and cries. Maybe he was being too sappy for his own good, but Sam was all he ever had and now he was gone, and nothing could fix that.
Or so he thought.
The night air is cool and calming when Dean makes the deal at the crossroads. Her voice is velvety smooth, but somewhat eerie. It makes him uncomfortable and he realizes he could use a drink.
She gives him one year, but Dean would take one hour if it meant that Sam was back. Truthfully, he would have liked more time, but a desperate man doesn't have many options. So he kisses her hard on the mouth, tastes lipstick and spit and smoke. And where there's smoke, there's fire.
--
When Sam comes back, he seems fine, so Dean doesn't question it. He doesn't question it because he already knows that Sam isn't fine, he's far from it. Now Sam is the one who's carrying around the guilt, researching for hours and hours, and getting his hopes up more times than he should, because he always gets let down.
Dean likes to drive. He likes to have sex and he likes to eat, and he thinks he's entitled to have some fun considering he doesn't have much time left.
Sam still rides shotgun and Dean still picks the music, and neither of them talk about the eldest brother's impending doom.
Not much to say, really. Sam researches. Dean lives.
He doesn't worry much anymore. He has chick-flick moments when Sam needs them, admits that he's afraid because he honestly is. But somehow this feels right. It was borrowed time, anyway.
So they wait. They wait for hellhounds and fire, demons and war. And Dean doesn't analyze it anymore. Doesn't really have the energy to figure out why things suck and why he's dying in less than a year.
--
Burdened men see the world tilted, with glasses half-empty and pain in their hearts. But Dean hasn't had a drink in 364 days, and somehow, it just feels right.