I don't own the boys, the Impala, the show, or even the main plot lines! Don't sue me, I'm just a fan :D

Grave Mistakes

Oh, this was priceless.

Six feet under. And he didn't even have the decency to be dead.

Dean groaned loudly, knowing no-one would hear anyway. His head was killing him, he had dirt in his ears, and his hand throbbed.

Well done. Jerk. Stupid jerk. Arrogant bastard. Stupid, arrogant son-of-a-bitch. Hope you're happy.

And Sammy didn't even know where he was.

Greeeaaaat.

12 hours earlier:

"Sammy, you—you're my brother and all…but you're a real tight bastard."

"Look, you're already smashed, and we don't have the money to spare for any more bets. Let's just go back to the motel, you can watch one of your questionable late-night shows."

"S-a-mm-y. I'm all…really sober. I always know when I'm drink, and I'm not. So cut the whining…" Dean waved a hand floppily in front of his face, "and get me a drunk."

"Yeah, you're operating with all your faculties alright. Come on." Sam was beginning to lose his patience; Dean had spent most of what he'd made that week in credit card scams on booze and his latest stupid game; it started out that every time the door of the bar opened, he'd bet that he could get the phone number of each chick that walked in. And the bets just got bigger and bigger. He was doing well, but every time he couldn't get a number, not only did he have to pay his new drinking buddies, he had to have a double shot of straight vodka; extracurricular to the drinking he was continuing to do. So he got drunker and less able to string together sentences and pick-up lines, and he had to pay more, and drink more, and he was starting to lose more often than not, but he was oblivious. Because he was completely smashed. Dean had called Sam away from research, because he needed "help with something important". Turned out it was a cash-flow issue.

"Fun, Sammy! Have some, it's freeeeeee!" Dean giggled, burped, gave a look of panic as he wondered if he was going to vomit. His expression smoothed. "Now, lessay we get you a little drinky, and here—" he began rifling slowly through his pockets, bringing out a handful of phone numbers, half of which fell on the floor, or soaked up some of the beer spilled on the counter.

"Have a number, of one of those fine ladies…and maybe…heh….you'll loosen up?"

Dean grabbed Sam's hand, and pressed some slips of paper into it.

"M'kay?"

Sam blinked once, slowly. "Dean, you're going to pass out, or throw up, or both if you keep this up. And I really can't be bothered cleaning up your mess."

Dean hiccupped. "Won't." He spoke stubbornly, a child protesting against no dessert until you finish your dinner.

The back door of the bar opened, and a skinny, plain girl walked in.

"Hey buddy, time to try your luck." A hulking bearded guy elbowed Dean in the ribs. Dean almost fell off his bar stool.

"Hah! We got a live one, bro!" Dean nodded at the girl, grinning.

"Wow." Sammy raised an eyebrow. "Dean, I'm going back now, can you just come with me? I don't want to have to worry about you."

"Pshhh, don't worry, just chill. I'm gonna go make friends."

With that he careened, lurching, into the crowd, going in vaguely the right direction.

"Hey, beautiful," he slurred at the girl, who regarded him curiously, "I like your top, it's…wow."

She was wearing a tie-dye crop top with flecks of white.
"I like the colours."

"Um, yeah," she said, peering around, most likely here meeting friends.

This guy was gorgeous, but he was smashed out of his skull, and that was never a turn on.

"So I should call your lovely self. Can I have one? A number? Because you and me are…floating on the cosmic highway, and we should just…share a moment." Courtesy the tie-dye, Dean figured a flower-child approach might work.

"Um…that's a really abstract concept."

Dean frowned, his expression otherwise blank. "Mmhmm."

"I'm going…over here now." The girl began to retreat, her wide-set eyes amused.

"Oh, don't leave! I was trying to tell you…I'm a pofressional tennis player."

The girl nodded, still walking away.

Dean frowned, turned away, staggered back to where Sam stood.

"Hm. Losing my touch, Samuel."

'Samuel' pulled a face.

Dean sat back down.

"Buddy, time for a drink. And the cash?" The skinny guy who sat next to the big guy leered at Dean.

"Oh, my asso-associ—Sam has it."

The bulky guy slid a clear liquid in a short glass over to Dean.
"Bottoms up."

Dean grimaced, and downed the drink, wincing at the sharp taste.

Sam paid the man an exorbitant rate, and tapped his brother, whose head had begun to bob, on the shoulder.

"C'mon, time to go."

"Hey, wait a minute, you still owe us." The bigger guy stood up, and seemed to be doing an impression of André the Giant.

Sam looked up to meet his eyes. It wasn't often someone out-heighted him.

"Look, I'll pay it tomorrow. My brother doesn't know what he's doing."

Sam suddenly realised that if these guys, including the silent, short one sitting beside Dean, decided to turn violent, he wouldn't be able to take all three of them on.

"Maybe that don't matter," André said.

Dean swivelled his head round slowly. "I'll be back." He giggled, hiccupped.

"Dean, shut up," Sam hissed, his heart beating a little faster than usual.

"Oh Sammy, lighten down—up. You're such a down buzz. A wet blanket. Haha, why's the blanket wet? Did you wet the bed?"

Sam rolled his eyes, pulling Dean from the barstool.

"Hey, this guy," André poked Dean roughly in the chest, "owes us some serious cash."

Dean sluggishly followed the path of the guy's finger, then poked him back, somewhere around his solar plexus. "And you…owe me a serious explanation for that hairpiece."

The man stood silently fuming. He wasn't wearing a hairpiece.

"I don't think you know who you're messing with, bitch."

Dean's eyes snapped up, then continued tracing up blearily until they found the André's own grey eyes.

"I don't think you know who you're messing with. Bitch."

"Dean! Would you please SHUT UP."

"Oh, I think your friend here has said enough." Skinny guy got up, his short friend trailing him.

"Well I don't think I've said—ow." Dean rubbed his side where Sam had elbowed him.

"How about we all take a walk, huh?"

Sam blanched. This was not going well.

"Or, my brother and I could go to our room and get some more cash, some compensation, maybe?"

"Oh yeah," Skinny scoffed, "not like you're gonna run out on us or anything. How's about you leave your brother here, and he and Tony can have a little chat while you hurry off to make good on our arrangement?"

"Uh…"

"Yeah, Sam, go do something." A vague recognition of their position had seemed to hit Dean, sober him a little. "I'll just wait…here…and you can…do something."

Sam swallowed hard. "If you guys try anything…"

"You don't trust us?" Shorty asked. His voice was thin and whiny. No wonder he kept silent.

Dean had managed to pick three total scumbags to be his drinking buddies. The guy had skills.

"Uh…Dean?" Sam appealed to his brother to be the final decision maker.

Dean was staring at his shoes, dizzy. "Uh-huh."

"So…I'll be back in ten minutes?"

"Oh, you going?"

Sam winced, ground his teeth. Dean would have no chance at beating Shorty alone, he was so blasted.

"I told you. I'll be back."

"Okay." Dean sat back down at the counter. "Barkeep, another ale!"

Shorty, André and Skinny crowded back around his as Sam left, a sick feeling in his gut.