The parking lot is dark and the air is cold and biting. The black top is wet with melted snow, glistening in the broken moonlight. He crouches low, one hand on his knee and the other on the trunk of his car and lets it all go, throws up everything he's consumed in the last twelve hours.
He stares at the mess in front of him, thirty bucks easy, of booze on the ground.
He went to the bar intending to look for himself; shoot a few games of pool, maybe play darts, hustle somebody out of what they have that he needs. The pub is old, weathered, worn in. The car park just outside is a stark contrast, new, even black top poured less than a year ago. Inside the crowd is seedy, just the way he expected them to be. His people, the underbelly of society, scraping together what they have hoping to turn it into something more even if it means playing a little dirty.
He's always been comfortable in dives like this, but it was smoky inside, a little too hot. He tried to keep it in check, toss back a drink and calm his nerves. But the longer he stayed the harder it was. The air didn't move, it was stagnant, like the pit. The music was angry, some dick with a microphone screaming like he was in pain, like they screamed in the fire. The two meat heads at the door wearing black reminded him of others he'd rather forget.
So he stayed to the far right side of the bar, sucking down bourbon and trying to prove to himself that he could still hang. But when the blind war vet in a tattered camouflage jacket came in with a fucking huge seeing -eye dog he decided it wasn't worth the trauma. He ordered two shots of Crown to top things off before he hit the door.
He felt it when he stood, the room moving faster than his body, then really got the idea when the cold night air brushed his cheek. He'd just made it to the tail of the chevy when his stomach lurched and his mouth started to water.
What Dean knows is that real liquor, hard liquor, burns worse coming back up than it does going down.
So he's leaning against the trunk, cold metal seeping through his jeans, trying to catch labored breaths. He knows the only thing left to do is head back to the motel even if it seems like a mountain he can't climb. But he's a fucking Winchester, seen hell and walked away, so driving two miles and facing his sibling can't be that hard.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Sam wakes up to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom and a thin line of light luminating from the bottom of the door.
He doesn't want to be here and he doesn't want to be dealing with this because this isn't the answer, this is just more trouble.
But he pulls back the covers and throws a glance to the clock as he gets out of bed anyway. 2:43am blinks at him in red. The closer he gets to the bathroom the heavier he feels until finally he's beating on the door and praying this is going to be easy.
"Dean", he bangs on the door with his fist and gives his brother a moment to respond. Nothing.
"Dean, open the door man". He can hear his brothers heavy breathing and the squeal of rubber boot soles on the tile floor.
"If you don't open the fucking door you know I'm gonna knock it down, so save me the trouble and open it". He's not yelling, but he's certain the kids that are on the other side of the wall can hear him.
"Fucking what?" The door swings open and Dean is on his knees leaning heavily on the toilet bowl.
The bathroom stinks. Vomit, liquor, sweat. Dean's still got his coat on and there's a visible sheen of sweat covering his neck and dripping from his hair.
"Shit", Sam mumbles just loud enough to make his point. He gets down on the ground with Dean and starts to pull the coat off, ignoring the bitching Deans doing. He tosses it across the small bathroom and grabs a washcloth from the pile of towels on the back of the toilet, running cold water over it in a smooth motion. Before he can get the towel to Dean's face, the older man is gripping the bowl again, coughing and retching, bringing nothing up but suffering all the same.
When it's done, the jerking and heaving and moaning, Sam pulls Dean away from the porcelain and with him against the wall. He's got one arm loosely around his brother, who is fighting it, as he swipes at his face with the washcloth.
"You can't keep doing this Dean". The words are soft and meant to be kind, but Dean's not in that head space right now. He shoves his brother away and leans against the tub instead.
"Fuck off Sam", its sudden and harsh. "If I sleep a little less and drink a little more to keep going, than that's fine", his eyes are cold. "I do what I have to do, alright? And right now this is what I have to do to keep on living". He's pushing against the tub in an effort to stand and appear like a bigger man than he currently feels he is. "And by the way, my life makes your life possible. So drop the mother hen routine and keep your opinions to yourself".
He throws the wet towel into the bathtub and stares at Sam for just a second. "The less time you spend barking up my tree, the easier life's gonna be for both of us Sam".
He leaves his brother standing stunned in the bathroom and finds his way to the bed next to the door where he crawls in fully clothed and passes out.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Some twisted version of the same reality plays out at least three more times.
Sam finds Dean sleeping it off in the car, carries him inside and dumps him on the bed.
Sam watches Dean drink his dinner while he eats real food. He lets it go on for a while before he has to escort his toasted brother out of the restaurant at the request of the manager.
Sam catches Dean early in the morning pouring Jack in his coffee, he has three beers with his burger for lunch, and he's pretty sure he's emptied that bottle of vodka in his jacket. Dean left at eight to hit another bar and Sam finds him leaning against their door sitting in the snow around five the next morning.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
It's all Sam can do to hold on and not fall apart. He's had more than one enlightening conversation with Ruby and a few with Castiel. And the truth of the matter is that once again, Sam is at fault. He can see it as clearly as the flames that took Mom and Jess. If Sam wasn't this demon-blood freak than Dean wouldn't have had to save him. If Sam had found a way to save Dean he would have never gone to hell. If Sam was a better hunter, a better person, a better brother…Dean wouldn't have stayed down there and he'd have no memories to fight.
And that's how the tables finally turn.
It's a cold afternoon that oddly enough finds Dean relatively sober. Sober enough to sit in their crappy coffee themed motel in Seattle and research the latest big ugly, till he realizes Sam's been gone for hours. In his car.
Dean puts on his coat and starts walking. He makes the block, passing coffee houses and bookstores, sure he'd find Sammy and his baby there, but has no luck.
So he keeps walking, headed for the bar he saw on his way in, so he can have a much needed drink, when he spies the impala in the parking lot.
Inside he finds Sam at the bar nursing a whiskey. He sits down next to him and turns the kid's stool so he can get a look at him. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are blood shot. Clearly he's been crying or is currently trying not to.
"You are a sad fucking drunk, Sammy". He says it matter of fact-ly as he pries the glass from his little brothers grip. He sets it to his left and stares, "You wanna tell me what's going on?"
"You don't want to talk", he mumbles, studying the grain of the wood that makes the bar.
"I don't want to talk about me, but you we could talk about for days". He waits a moment. "Sam, you gotta tell me man. Is it so hard for you to understand that I can't talk about what happened? So bad you wanna leave me alone so you can come here and drink alone?"
Dean hears the words coming out of his mouth and feels a hypocrite, watching the tables turn.
"It's my fault", Sam mumbles, and yes, that's a tear that just hit the polished mahogany in front of him. "Hell and the memories and not being able to talk about it. The drinking and not sleeping", he turns with that face and the tears and looks at Dean, "If it weren't for me you'd be Dean, you'd be fine".
Dean clears his throat and puts his hand on Sam's arm. "I'd be dead if it weren't for you. All the times you covered my back and saved my ass. You forget all that and I remember every time in detail Sammy".
Sam keeps crying as Dean stands up and pulls his wallet out. He throws a twenty on the bar and reaches into Sam's coat pocket for the keys to the car. They still have Sam's keys on them, the key to his old apartment and the flat penny he drilled a hole through.
He helps his oversized kid brother back to the car and takes him back to the motel.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Sam's sitting at the table waiting for Dean with the water and the aspirin, tears still drying on his face.
He gives it one last shot when his brother puts the bottle of pills and the water down in front of him.
"It would easier if you talked to me Dean".
Dean sits down heavily and uncaps the pint of bourbon sitting on the table. He takes a swig and looks at Sam with wet eyes.
"None of this is your fault Sam. But I'll tell you this and I don't want to talk about it again", he waves a finger in the air. "Getting ripped up by that hound and going to hell and being in that pit wasn't so bad. It was a hell of a lot easier than the alternative". He gives Sam a meaningful look and takes another hit from the bottle.
"The alternative? What? Letting Ruby show me how I could save you?" He looks at Dean incredulous.
"No, no. Cause if I had any say your psychic mind shit would never be an option". Another hit off the bottle. "I'd rather have gone to hell and have to live with those memories than to try and live with you gone".
And that's it. Neither can say a thing in response and the room is silent, both searching for a way to say what they both know and almost never say. 'Thank you. Love you, bro'.