"Dean!" Sam yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. Clearly he'd forgotten about the glass clutched in his fingers, the liquor inside swishing from side to side, spilling some over onto the ground.

Sam didn't notice. Dean sighed, shaking his head as he made his way over to his less-than-sober brother.

Although most people might just think this kid was out having a good time, the liquor making him a little more happy than he already was, Dean knew better.

In their line of work – hell, in their life – they didn't get that happy.

Sure, the brothers joked around some. They even played pranks on each other now and then, finding laughs where they could, but there were too many faces, too many shadows, always following them around. Clinging to the back of their minds like tar, each one adding another layer of weight and darkness.

It was why Dean always had music on. The car radio, his headphones when he was laying in bed, even the clumsy bar noise. It all served the same purpose: Drowning the memories.

His nerdy brother was the opposite. For the longest time Dean hadn't been able to understand how Sam could stand the silence of those dusty libraries he always holed up in. The kid preferred quiet to the loud guitar riffs of their father's favorite songs.

Eventually he figured out that the facts and mysteries Sam spent hours on served the same purpose as Dean's music. He'd managed to walk into a room enough times when Sam was sitting, lost in his research, and stand there, watching his little brother's eyes dart back and forth across his computer screen or the page of a book for several minutes without Sam realizing he was there.

It was one of those times when he was standing there, watching Sam with an amused smirk that he came to the realization that even though the room around Sam was painfully quiet, his little brother's mind was loud.

Sam drowned his demons in the things that he could control and the mysteries he could solve. It made sense if you knew just how much of Sam's life had been beyond his control. Even more so than Dean's.

Sam's fate had been written for him when he was 6 months old. And he'd been trying to fight it ever since.

Some people say that facing death makes you appreciate life more. Well, maybe that's true when you face your own death, for most people, but for the Winchester brothers it wasn't.

Watching all the people you love die - and not peacefully either, but horribly and violently die – it just made you want to stop feeling anything.

And, on top of that, for the Winchester boys, their own deaths hadn't even meant the end. Just more pain and loss.

Knowing this, Dean slipped through the crowded bar, nudging people out of his way. He could see Sam turn to the bartender, a pretty girl with long black hair and bright blue eyes who looked to be about 25. Sam pointed to his glass and motioned to Dean. Dean rolled his eyes, knowing that Sam was ordering a drink for him. His happily inebriated brother no doubt wanted to keep the party going.

Dean put a hand on Sam's shoulder, catching the bartender's eye and shaking his head lightly at the drink she was about to pour. She smiled knowingly at him and nodded.

"Dean!" Sam repeated, throwing his arms around his big brother in a giant bear hug.

Dean let out a puff of air. God, his little brother needed to lay off the workout routine, "I'm drinking!" Sam stated victoriously. "I got you one too…" His gaze wandered a little, searching for the missing drink, then looked up at the bartender, "Th's 's my br'ther, Ava."

Ava nodded at Dean, smiling widely, "Hi, I've heard a lot about you."

Dean laughed nervously. Generally he didn't want anyone to hear a lot about him, and he hoped Sam had managed to keep the topic of conversation away from the family business.

"Okay, Sammy, I think its time to go…" he tried gently moving Sam off the bar stool with one arm wrapped around him.

"Wha?" Sam didn't budge, "nooooo… " His words came out slowly with his effort to use proper pronunciation.

"Let's stay! Look! I got you a drink!" He turned, once again searching for the missing drink.

"No thanks, Sammy. Let's just head back to the room. I think you're wasted enough for the both of us." Sam looked offended.

"Nooo I'm not! I have barely anything!"

"Uh huh," said Dean, unconvinced by his brother's clear lack of brain power. He pulled more forcefully on Sam's shoulder and Sam stumbled off his stool.

"But what about Ava?" Sam blurted, pointing to the bartender who was watching them with amusement. He was clearly concerned about leaving the pretty girl behind.

"I'll be fine sweetie," said Ava. "You should go with your brother."

"Ok, but you's stay there, ok?" Sam leaned drunkenly over the bar, his voice morphing to what Dean was sure his brother thought was a whisper, "I have to make him fall aslee'pa," he gestured towards Dean who rolled his eyes, "then I'll be back!" He grinned at Ava, who couldn't help smiling back at the gigantic drunken boy in front of her.

"Ok Casanova, c'mon..." Dean grabbed a fist full of Sam's tee-shirt and dragged his brother towards the door, apologizing as Sam's gigantic body managed to hit almost everyone on the way out.

The cold night air hit them as they stepped out onto the black asphalt in the quiet parking lot. Sam leaned back and breathed it in, smiling up at the stars.

"Wow," he breathed, stumbling backwards a little before Dean caught him.

"Easy Sam," Dean cautioned, knowing that if Sam went down they were both gonna taste dirt. He was far from confident that he could keep his little giant up if he decided to become dead weight.

"Do the stars look kinda like ghosts to you, Dean?" Sam asked, glancing at his brother and smiling that big, goofy grin.

"Sure Sam…" Dean answered, raising an eyebrow. Sam laughed.

If only this could actually be funny. If only this could actually be a happy-go lucky kid letting alcohol make him even more so... But Dean knew better. He knew that the kid had been through more than anyone should ever have to. He had lost too many people he loved, practically everyone he loved, almost systematically, including Dean a couple times.

Dean felt a pang of guilt thinking about that. He had caused his fair share of pain. He'd said some things to Sam that irreparably shifted their relationship.

They had a fight about a week ago, and Dean had said he might be better off doing this job alone. It was a stupid thing to say, he wasn't thinking. After everything Sam had been through all he needed was to have his big brother threaten to leave him… again. If he was honest with himself he didn't trust Sam. Not the way he used to. Implicitly, without even a shadow of a doubt to make him second guess.

Now everything was unsteady. He couldn't help feeling like Sam brought an element of risk to every job. He watched every move his brother made, waiting for him to misstep. It wasn't fair. Or maybe it was. Either way it was wearing on Sam, and Dean could see it. As hard as he might try to act like things were business as usual, they weren't. And he knew Sam could sense his distrust.

So he knew that Sam wasn't just really happy, even though he had always been a happy drunk.

Sam was covering up, numbing up. The more alcohol, the less memory. Dean knew this tactic because he used it on a weekly basis. Of course now that meant that he was never really able to get wasted enough to get happy.

But he could gage how drunk Sam was by how happy he was... Right now – plastered.

Sam wrapped a long arm around Dean, and Dean watched with eyebrows raised as Sam stared at him.

Way too close.

"Dean." Sam rocked closer to Dean's face, then back again.

"Dude–" Dean started, but was cut off by Sam putting a finger to his lips, shhhh-ing him and spraying spit everywhere. Dean made a face.

"You…" Sam wavered, "you…" Dean was getting more uncomfortable by the second. "You're short." Dean rolled his eyes. Sam burst out laughing, and ran his hand through Dean's hair, messing it up.

"Sam!" Dean shoved his brother's arm off him, "what the hell!" he quickly patted his hair back into place.

Sam snorted, "Sam!" he mocked Dean's voice. "Dude, yer like a girl… 'bout yer hair!" Sam ran his hand back over Dean's head.

"Dude!" Dean yelled, grabbing Sam's arm. "You're one to talk. Keep it up and I might just get the scissors out while you're asleep. C'mon, we're getting you to bed!"

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't fight Dean's grip, "Yer sucha bus.. buzz.. buzzkill!"

Dean shook his head, continuing the march to the motel room across the street.

They reached the door to their room and Dean quickly slid the key into the lock, opening the door. He went to shove Sam through the doorway, but his brother wouldn't move. He looked up at Sam who was once again gazing up at the sky.

"Hey Dean... Do you think they are ghosts?"

Sam's voice was more steady now, the cold air probably helping him sober up a little.

"Sure, Sammy." Dean tried once again to pull Sam through the doorway. Sam merely leaned back a little, still focused on the stars.

"No, I mean it!" he slurred. "I mean… maybe… maybe they're all… there..." He smiled wistfully at the sky.

Dean swallowed, there it was. Without the crowded bar, reality was beginning to seep back into his little brother's mind.

"Ya think?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

Dean sighed, looking away from those hopeful hazel eyes, "I don't know Sam. Let's just go in man, ok? Please?" He gestured towards the room. Sam glanced up at the sky again, then nodded.

Dean turned, still holding Sam's arm. But once again, he felt himself stopped, Sam wasn't following him. He looked back. Sam wasn't looking at the stars, but instead at the motel room door, a puzzled expression on his face.

"Sam!" Dean tried to force his brother's attention, but Sam continued to stare at the door. Dean followed his gaze, "What?" he said looking from Sam to the door and back.

"Hmm…" Sam was obviously trying to concentrate, but it just made him look like he was about to pass out, "There's somethin'… somethin' here…"

"What?" Dean said, not sure if he should be worried or just irritated at his brother's lack of compliance, "Sam, what do you mean 'there's something here?'" His expression went from slightly concerned back to annoyed as Sam let out another snort of laughter and began to chuckle.

Dean rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that night, and shoved the swaying giant through the doorway. This time Sam went easily.

Sam immediately fell onto the bed, smiling warmly as he rubbed his face into the filthy pillows that came with their cut-rate motel rooms. Dean walked over to their mini fridge in the corner, cracking it open and pulling out a bottle of water. The small "pop" signaled the cap opening, and Sam's eyes opened, immediately focusing on the bottle.

He sat up, and fell back against the headboard with a loud clunk. Dean couldn't help but smile a little as he handed the bottle to the awaiting hand of the oversized child. Sam was always so serious. Now he was acting like a the goofy teenager Dean remembered sneaking shots of whiskey to.

Sam took several gulps, stopping momentarily to let out a long sigh. Dean settled onto the other bed, watching his brother carefully, wondering when the inevitable reappearance of all that liquor was going to occur.

"What the hell were you doin' there man?" He asked, watching Sam chug the rest of the bottle.

"What?" Sam quirked an eyebrow. His voice had an edge of defensiveness to it.

"You're wasted."

"Yea. Kinda th' point, D'n."

Dean frowned, "Since when do you go get plastered at some hick bar by yourself? I can barely get you out of the library to come get a drink with me on a good day."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Wha's the problem, dude. You're 'lways trying to get me to the bar, so I went to a bar. An' you drink all the time."

Dean felt a pinch of annoyance. "I don't drink all the time. And not to the point where I can barely stand."

Sam shrugged and lobbed the empty water bottle at a small trash can in the corner. The bottle missed and bounced off the wall.

"Dean," Sam said, staring at the door again.

"Yeah Sammy?" Dean said with a heavy sigh.

"There's somethin' wer-rong…" He stumbled over the words, eyes still focused on the door.

Dean sat up. What was going on with this fucking door?

"Sam? What are you talking about?"

"There's… something… Dean…" Sam's head lulled, coming to rest on his chest.

"Sammy!" Dean jumped up from his bed. Wrapping his hands around the back of Sam's neck, he used his thumbs to push Sam's face up. And the annoyance returned.

Sam's body began to shake with low chuckles. Dean let go of Sam's face and sat, jaw clenched, back on his own bed. The chuckles turned into a full-blown laugh, and tears began running down the younger Winchester's cheeks. Dean waited, watching his brother have a solo laughing fit.

"What the hell is so funny?" Dean growled.

Sam gasped, trying to speak, then fell back into hysterics.

Dean watched his brother with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. He was tired and sober, and didn't get the joke.

Sam was struggling to breathe, tears running down his cheeks. In some way, Dean was happy to see Sam smiling so much, but he knew something was off.

His irritation quickly went away as he watched his brother's laughter slow, while the tears kept going. Sam's breathing became more normal, but every few breaths were accented by a small jump in his chest.

"Sammy…?" Dean leaned over towards his brother's bed. Sam continued to stare at the door, a slight smile returning to his lips. This wasn't the same smile as before though. This smile was harsh, bitter. Broken.

"Something here," Sam scoffed.

"What?" Dean's confusion and concern was etched all over his face.

"I thought something evil was here," Sam's voice was steady now, low and croaky. He shook his head, "I was worried there might be something evil in the room. Couldn't wrap my brain 'round it. But there is."

"Sam, what the hell are you talking about?" Dean wondered if maybe he had been the one drinking, because he couldn't make heads or tails of what Sammy was saying. The tears continued to flow, dripping onto Sam's shirt.

"Evil, Dean. I mean, what we call evil, anyways. Someone who kills people. Someone who is angry, hateful. A demon." Sam wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were empty. Exhaustion finally setting in.

"There's no demon here Sam," Dean reassured his little brother.

Sam let out a harsh, humorless laugh, "Yes. There is."

Dean sat back on his bed, eyes searching Sam cautiously.

"Sam..."

"I guess it depends on your definition, huh."

"No. It doesn't. Demons are demons. Don't let the whiskey twist your head. C'mon, just get some rest-"

"A monster by any other name."

"Wha-" Dean's heart stopped. He'd helped plant that little idea, hadn't he. "You're not a monster, Sam."

Sam's mouth twitched. "I shouldn't be here…" Sam's voice had gotten dangerously quiet. "We're not the same anymore. Maybe we never were, ya know?"

Dean jumped as his brother suddenly stood up, swaying as he did, "Whoa, whoa! You're not going anywhere right now dude." Dean rushed over to Sam's side, grabbing his shoulders. Sam's sudden shove caught him off guard and he stumbled backwards into a wall.

"Gettoff Dean!" Sam fumbled for the doorknob.

"What the hell, Sam!" Dean grabbed his brother again, this time using some force to throw Sam back towards the bed, "Listen to me, man." He kneeled in front of of the bed, grasping Sam's face, probably a little too roughly, between his palms. "I know shit's fucked right now. I get it. And a lot of that's my fault." Sam rolled his eyes. "Hey!" Dean shook him, "This isn't on you, get it? I've said shit I shouldn't have." He bit his lip, "You aren't a monster, Sam. You aren't one of them. You never were. But you are wasted. Just calm down and try to get some sleep. Things'll be better in the morning."

He stood, clapping Sam on the shoulder. "Just go to sleep, alright?"

Sam's head was hanging loosely, hands resting on his knees. He gave a lazy nod, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. His brother wasn't the only one that needed some sleep.

His relief was short lived. Sam slowly raised his head, getting up from the bed, making his way toward Dean.

"Sam…" Dean cautioned.

Too late. Sam was drunk, wasted, plastered – all of the above, but he still managed to throw a solid punch into Dean's stomach and shove him into the wall. Dean doubled over and fell to his hands and knees on the worn carpet, gasping for air. His vision spun.

"I'm sorry…" Sam whispered, and before Dean could catch his breath to stop him, Sam closed the door.

Sam's feet felt like lead with each step he took. He stepped in a small puddle and the sudden sound made him wobble and fall into the wall next to him. Deciding he could use the support, he continued to lean as he walked, scraping his arm on the the rough bricks.

Obviously he'd had way too much to drink. He knew that. Everything was a haze, a blur. Every sound was far away, and he had to keep rethinking the last few moments to make sure they'd really happened. He wasn't sure they had.

He sighed. In spite of his better judgment - which, lets face it, wasn't really operating at full power right now - he liked being this drunk. He liked being this numb.

For the past… well, he couldn't really even remember how long. But for a long time, he had been feeling all if it, all the time. He was sick of it. Everything hurt. Every time he looked at Dean it hurt. He could hardly stand to meet his brother's eyes. Every second spent in a hotel room or a sheriff's office or a witness' house with Dean felt suffocating. He'd had a panic attack more than once, excusing himself to go to the bathroom when he felt the room start to spin. He couldn't control his breathing and his stomach would twist itself in uncomfortable knots. Resting against the cold walls helped, usually after losing his breakfast.

He had managed to damage their relationship beyond repair. He put his brother, the one person who had always looked out for him, through so much shit. Stupid, reckless shit. He knew Dean didn't trust him anymore. That's why Dean had suggested that he do this last hunt on his own, rather than with Sam. Dean had put so much into keeping Sam safe, keeping him alive… And Sam just kept screwing it up. To put it mildly.

Starting the apocalypse was a little worse than an oops, my bad. And he'd been so goddamned arrogant about it. He'd been so sure he knew better.

He didn't notice the end of the wall had arrived until he slipped and fell over into the alleyway, landing in another puddle. The smell of garbage filled the air, and he realized there was a dumpster right next to his head.

Perfect he thought. He couldn't muster the energy to lift himself. He didn't know where he was going to go if he did.

So he stayed.

He wasn't sure he could get up now even if he wanted to. He vision swam when he shifted. He let his head rest back against the cold bricks, drawing short breaths, trying to keep the panic at a dull roar.

He couldn't help thinking about the way Dean, and Bobby, looked at him these days. They tried to hide it, but he saw it. Every now and then he saw that flash of fear. Like they were afraid he was going to turn and attack them or something. Of course he wouldn't. He would never hurt them. He would do anything for them; die for them in an instant.

Another humorless laugh escaped his throat. But he had hurt them. He hurt everyone he came in contact with… like a disease…

The thought made his chest constrict, and a lump wedged itself in his throat. He was a disease. A demonic virus that destroyed everything it touched. He was quite literally carrying that around in his veins.

Tears stung his eyes, fuck. How am I supposed to fix this? It was too much. But he had to fix it. He was the one who broke it.

Slowly, he worked his way to his wobbly feet, clinging to the wall behind him for support. Half asleep, half drunk, he began a swerving path down the alleyway.

With every footstep, voice, and sound muffled, it's no wonder he didn't hear them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that there was some noise coming from somewhere, but his brain was too sluggish to register that there were footsteps on the asphalt behind him, splashing, quickly and lightly, through the puddles.

His skin was numb, from the booze and from the cold, so he really didn't feel the pinch of the needle as it entered his neck. He sort of felt the heavy arms that wrapped around him, and the hard ground as it came up to meet him.