With a few beers in him, Sam always got chatty. His brother had to look out for him if he got a little drunk, look out to make sure he didn't say anything to strangers about hunting or demons or anything else that might cause a problem. However, when they were alone, Dean found that drinking was an ideal solution when he felt that Sam wasn't telling him the whole story. He couldn't try this trick often or Sam would catch on, but used in moderation, Sam would spill his guys and then be so hung-over in the morning that he would be none the wiser. Dean felt bad about manipulating his brother but he justified it by remembering that it would help to protect them both if Dean knew what was going on. He passed Sam another bottle and took one himself.
"So, uh, Sammy. I heard you moving around last night. Were you ok?"
"Yeah, I was just… I couldn't sleep."
"Really?" Dean asked skeptically.
"No." Sam replied.
"Did you have another one of your nightmares?"
"I… uh… I dreamed that…" Sam's words were slurred. "There was a shadow on the side of the room. And a… uh… light on the other side. And… I was in the middle and… it was like they were pulling me. Back and forth. Like some tug of war strings. Or… a marionette. You know? But the strings were being held by more than one person. So I wasn't moving like a marionette should. And…"
Dean felt guilty. Sam was obviously in pain from voicing his vision. He put his arm around his brother. "It's ok, Sammy."
"Nuh-uh," Sam said. He hiccupped.
"I think you've had enough beer," Dean replied. "Let's get you to bed." Sam followed him willingly, like a small child. Dean remembered the first time Sam had alcohol. He was 12, maybe 13. He wanted so much to be like his father and older brother, no matter how little he wanted to admit it. Dean was underage at the time as well, of course, but he could hold his liquor. Sam could not. After about 45 minutes, John had to pick up the boy and carry him to his bed.
Dean was brought back to present day by Sam's voice. "C'mon, Dean," he said. Sounding more and more like the child Dean had been thinking about. Dean looked at the floor. He counted two empty bottles by his chair, compared to Sam's eight. He led his brother to bed, where Sam lay down and quickly fell asleep. Dean headed back to his chair, where he had a few more drinks and then dozed off.
He woke the next morning to the sound of Sam throwing up. "What the hell, Dean?" Sam yelled from the bathroom.
"Don't blame me," Dean yelled back. "I didn't make you drink."
Sam came out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. "Don't be a bitch, Dean," he said. "I know you try to get me drunk when you want me to tell you something."
"If you know, why do you let me?" Dean shot back, annoyed that Sam had figured out what he was doing. Then Sam shocked Dean by hitting him. Hard. Dean did the only think he could think to do, under the circumstances.
About twenty minutes later, both brothers were nursing their wounds. Sam with rubbing alcohol and Dean with ice.
"You really need to cut your nails," Sam said. "I felt like I was fighting a teenage girl."
"At least I'm not fat," Dean retorted. "I think you crushed my ribs."
"No I didn't."
"You're a walrus."
"Goo Goo, G'joob," Sam replied, smiling.
Dean socked him again, but this time it was a friendly punch. "So, this vision of yours…"
"Dream," Sam corrected him."
"Vision."
"Nightmare."
"Flaming message from the fiery pits of hell. So… what do you think it means?"
"I don't know. Balance. The struggle between good and evil."
"Well, look here," Dean said in a pompous announcer's voice. "Listen to our college ed-u-cated scholar."
"Dean."
"Sorry. I worry about you, kid."
"I know."
"But, I mean, if the yellow-eyed-bastard is going to pull you over to the dark side, I want to at least give it a hell of a fight."
"I know. I'm sure you will. That's what you do."
Dean watched Sam as he cleared up the hotel room. His brother was calm and silent, and Dean thought that maybe Sam didn't seem so very young after all.