ALL NIGHT LONG

By: Karen B.

Summary: Season Ten spoiler warning. Tag to Soul Survivor - 10X3 Drunk Sam. Big brother Dean. Goofy, Dorky, and Geeky with a touch of wuv.

Disclaimer: Not the owner

Rated: Goofy. Dorky. Geeky Just need something light and silly with a touch of wuv.

You know what, Cass? I'm beat, man. One battle at a time, you know? So I'm just gonna grab my brother some cholesterol. And then I'm gonna get drunk. ~ Sam Winchester Soul Survivor 10X3
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I'd been sitting here for hours drinking and getting drunk like crazy. Because…because…because I didn't need to think.

Sure, I could have gone to some dark, smoke-filled tavern full of babbling people and clacking pool balls, but I wanted to be close to Dean. So, here I sat, in the dark, hunched over a beer bottle, staring at the refrigerator, listening to the constant hum and periodic clunk of the icemaker kicking in. It was strangely comforting.

I was hungry, but the appliance looked like it was on hundred miles away, so I just kept sitting and staring until it got to be one million miles away.

Man, my vision was impaired. "Goop." I shook my head. "I mean good," I snickered and my stomach growled.

I reached for my beer and missed. My dominant arm in a sling Shirley hindered my ability to obtain booze. "Don't call me Shirley," I chuckled, trying again, and this time Lefty found the cool sweaty glass. Lifting the bottle I took another sloppy drink completely pleased with my impeached...I mean impaired vision, coupled with my lack of coordination, followed up by one giant case of the munchies. Man, I really was on my way to being mostly drunker...I mean drunk.

I wrinkled my nose in thought and raised a brow. A desperate need to go in-search-of Dean's porn sealed the deal."Ha, ha, ha, ha," I laughed, banging the bottle triumphantly to the table.

No doubt about it. I was one instituted…I mean inebriated mess.

I'd downed enough alcohol to take away all of the swirling emotions and intense thoughts and screwed up images of the last forty-eight hours. Only took a complex mixture of beer, wine, vodka, Red Bull, Almond Milk, and I think Jack to get to this point. I barely even remembered my name and couldn't feel any more pain on the inside, or the outside. Most certainly don't remember how bad my crap shoulder hurt, and absolutely never remembered being so dunk–drunk.

I also never remembered my brother wishing me dead, or trying to kill me with, of all things, a hammer. There was, however, that one time when I was eight and Dean Towel-whipped me to within an inch of my life. I winced at the memory. Wet towels hurt like a bitch.

"Oops," I muttered, rubbing at my eyes. The electrical impotent...um…impulses in my brain were starting to work again. "Can't have that," I sulked grabbing the next fresh beer I had lined up and twisting off the cap. "Don't listen to me, me," I burst out in another bout of laughter and winged the cap across the room. It hit the refrigerator, bounced off the bounce, and landed back on the table. "I'm so drunk when I'm drunk." I smirked.

I swallowed another huge swig. It went down easily,and my stomach growled louder inspiring me to make a move. I set my beer down. A million miles away or not, I was furnished–famished. I stood up, but something really weird happened.

"Ow." I winced,staring at the floor my ass had connected with. "Huh?" I titled my head in confusion. "Okay." I got my stubborn on. "Let's try again, whinny bitch."

I took a deep breath. I could do this. I rocked to my knees and reached up to grip the edge of the table and pulled until my scrambling feet found the floor. I stood there a second to make sure I really was standing this time

Yep standing. Letting out the breath I'd been holding, I staggered around the room, bumping into things and trip-dancing toward the source of my demise–desire. Finally, I opened the fridge door. The interior light damn near blinded me. I blinked a half dozen times until my eyesight adjusted.

Holding onto the door for support, I stuck my head inside. "Daaamn, boy," I said, doing a mighty fine impersonation of Bobby. I'd bought enough food to feed an infant - infantry. I slid one of the drawers out and smiled. "Hey, dude," I chirped, picking up a large Idaho potato that seemed to smile back at me. "Congratulations on that role you landed in Toy Story." Laughing out loud, I dumped Mr. Potato Head back in the drawer and shut him in. "Now then, what else. Starving drunkard here," I grouched rummaging and picking my way through the contents.

Real mayonnaise –not fake, a bottle of squeeze kash-up –ketchup, a half-eaten triple deluxe cheeseburger, a piece of apple pie, leftover chicken, a carton of General Chows, and way, way, way at the back behind a giant jar of banana peppers was a bag of baby kale. Smelly hamster food, that's what Dean would call it. This drunk-night I had to agree with my brother on that statement.

My brother. My eyes pricked with tears. A brother I'd almost lost. What if I'd lost him? For good this time. My legs started to shake and shiver, the cold air flowing around me damn near artic. My vision suddenly went from bad to worse, and my head spun. I backed out of the icebox and suddenly my feet vanished. With my good hand, I latched onto the refrigerator door for support.

"Crap," I muttered, pressing my cheek against the cool metal and just hanging out there, staring off into the abyss.

The kitchen light suddenly flicked on, and bright light flooded the room.

I groaned,my feet shuffling and swaying with the door as I tried to blink away the white spots that exploded across my vision.

"You've got to be kidding me!" A voice shrieked. "You and the appliance having yourselves a little moment there, Maynard?"

I slowly glanced up, squinting hard. "Who?"

A really, really short guy in a ratty robe stood in the doorway staring oddly at me.

"Hate to see what you do with the washer when I'm not looking, Sam," he teased.

My vision cleared. Dean. Dean was here. The real Dean. "S'up?" I happily wiggled the fingers of my injured hand at him, unwilling to let go of the fridgerator door. I was pretty dang sure that everyone - including the kitchen sink - would agree that it was the only thing separating my ass from the floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean asked suspiciously, running a hand through his fucked-up hair.

"Maek meh easier to hold." I puckered my lips, looking shorty up and down. He looked like hell. Dark circles under his eyes, rumpled clothes, shoulders hunched, pale faced, eyes blood shout – shoot – shot.

"I can see that." My big brother gave a weak smile.

An image of a needle full of blood, black eyes, and a sharp knife entered my mind. I started sweating and my left foot slipped, but I caught myself.

"Dean?" I tottered side to side.

"Ain't Fred Astaire," Dean said.

Images forgotten, I laughed out loud. My brother was hysterical. Man, I wuved him…loved him.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asked, seriously, worry wrinkling his forehead.

"You look like I need some pancakes," I answered him, taking a step, the refrigerator door coming with and we swayed back and forth together.

"Pfftt." Dean rolled his eyes and walked over to the kitchen table. "What's all this shit?" He gawked at the assortment of bottomless bottles I'd lined up.

"I'm all growed up, Dean," I chuckled, letting go the fridge door and shutting it. "Can drinks mix you know." I balanced carefully on the balls of my feet quit proud of myself.

"Hell of a formula, pal." Dean sauntered over to the sink counter opposite me, and leaned against it.

"Why are you a million miles away?" I pouted.

Dean didn't laugh. He had that 'I need to talk seriously to you' look on his face.

I didn't like that look. I was drunk and I wanted to stay drunk – all night long. A serious brother talk would kill that buzz in an instant. "No." I stretched my arm toward him, palm facing out. "Talk to da hand," I hissed.

Dean gave me a nod. "You're messed up, Sam."

"Talk to it." I flashed him an angry look, twisting my wrist and waggling my hand around.

"Just hear me out, okay?" Dean insisted. "I have one thing to say to you, little brother, and one thing only," he said in a confident reassuring tone.

Shit. He was going to say sorry. I didn't want to hear sorry. There was no sorry. All that mattered was I got my brother back. That's all I cared about.

"Nope. Nope. Nope. No chitty, chatty, bang, bang," I yelped dropping my hand to my side. "Don't want to talk to your face, Dean." I winced as the room spun and my ears started to buzz.

Before I knew what was happening, Dean crossed the room with tears streaming down his face. He grabbed a hold of me, tugged me firmly into his arms, and held on for dear life.

This was no wimpy man hug. Dean damn near picked me up off the floor and squeezed me breathless. It was the kind of hug that said all the things he could never say. No lies. No promises. No excuses or reasons. It was the kind of hug that made me feel important to him. The kind of hug that said we were brothers again. That no matter what happened from here on out…we would continue to fight the good fight –together.

I hugged Dean back and we stood that way for a moment.

"Sorry I called you Maynard," Dean apologized and gave my back a hearty pat, then went to step away.

"Comfortable," I muttered, fighting and clinging to him wanting to stay in his arms.

"Sam, I'm going to start talking if you don't let go now. You hear me?" Dean threatened.

"Fine," I took a staggering step back. "Will stop hugging for food," I said, licking my lips as my stomach rumbled.

Dean suddenly started laughing, eyeing me up and down as if he were seeing me for the first time. "You really are drunk, man, and I'm really messed up." He pointed an accusing finger at me. "Awkward."

I glanced down at myself. I was wearing nothing but my boxer-briefs and my socks. "Guessing I'm pretty drunk," I laughed like it was the funniest thing ever. And wasn't it?

"So, you're hungry, little brother?" Dean asked, taking off his dead-guy robe and slipping my good arm through a sleeve, draping the rest around my injured shoulder.

"Vammooshed." I shivered.

Dean frowned. "You mean famished?"

I nodded. "That too."

Dean tied the belt around my waist. "How about those pancakes, Dude?"

"Yay! Let's watch the game," I whooped in excitement, head bobbling side to side as it suddenly got too heavy to hold upright.

"Uh-huh." Dean narrowed his eyes at me. "I think its bedtime for, Sammy." Dean wrapped an arm around me and led me out of the kitchen.

"What happened to how about those pancakes?" I leaned heavily against him, not arguing in the least.

"I'll make them for you in the morning, Sammy, if you promise not to puke in or on my robe."

"Promise. Thanks, Brother," I sighed, snuggling closer and resting my head on his shoulder as we walked.

" You're welcome, brother."

The end