A/N: This is my first fic (Yay!), and it was written a while ago. My friend and I came up with the idea during school one day, so partial credit to her. Enjoy! Constructive criticism is highly appreciated :D
I walked down the steps into the bunker, ready to share my new findings with Sam. Turns out that the lady-ghost had been murdered by her boyfriend, rather than mother, as we thought.
"Sam?" I called in, listening to my voice echo around the open floor plan. When no reply came, I called again. "Sammy?"
"In here," came a slightly slurred reply. I shook my head. Sam must have fallen asleep while I was gone. Probably stayed up too late researching last night. I followed the sound of my brother's voice into the library. I saw him slumped down in a chair in a corner across the room. He was surrounded by beer bottles, with a bottle of whiskey open in his hand. I silently hoped he hadn't opened it new, it was more than half gone.
"What the hell man? We're working a case here!" I yelled at him. He took another swig from the bottle and sat it down on the floor. "What's the matter with you? I need you ready to go, Sam. What if you had to come because something was about to ice me, huh? You'd be too drunk to stand up, much less drive a car!" As I spoke, Sam dragged his eyes up to meet mine. He looked forlorn and regretful, but I finished my speech anyway. By the end, I had made my way to him and was now standing over him.
"Dea ," his voice trailed off as he wiped an eye.
"What?"
"Don't you know what day it is?"
"I don't know, is it Tuesday?"
"November second, Dean, it's November second." He took a deep, shaky breath before sighing heavily. A wave of pain flooded over me as I came to understand his actions. How could I be so stupid? So blind? How could I forget?
I pulled over a chair and sat in front of Sam. I reached down and picked up the whiskey, taking a long chug from it. I savored the burn of the alcohol in my throat and chest. I breathed out heavily and put the bottle in Sam's waiting hand.
"Look, Sammy, I know you're sorry about what happened. But mom's gone, and she's never coming back," I said, trying in some way to comfort him. He just wouldn't understand that this wasn't his fault, that he couldn't 'fix' this.
"Don't talk about her like that," he drawled out sadly. My mind rushed back to the night on the bridge, one of the first days Sam and I were together after Jessica's death. Sam was angry and sad, and I'd snapped at him. Though I'd long since stopped regretting it, it was still in the depths of my mind, filed under the section 'You messed up, Dean.' Needless to say, a lot of things stayed there.
I beckoned for Sam to give me back the bottle. When he did, I downed the remaining liquid inside. I walked over and grabbed another bottle from our stash. Kevin came in just as I opened it.
"I translated another part of the tablet, guys," he began, "Get this-" He was cut off by a bottle being thrown at his head. He dodged it easily, but it smashed on the far wall.I turned to Sam. His arm fell back down by his side. His head was hung and he looked pouty. I turned back to Kevin, who looked terrified of Sam.
"Now's not a good time. Just take the rest of the night off. We'll figure it out tomorrow," I reassured him. He nodded and left the room. I drank from the new bottle of whiskey. Eventually I'd be too drunk to remember. And tomorrow I'd be too hung over to care.