Sam sat at the bar staring blankly at the wooden surface under his glass. It was his third night in a row at his neighbourhood roadhouse, lost in the comforting fugue of a good buzz.
A full glass slid in front of his unfocused gaze, and he looked up to see Carl the bartender smiling down at him.
"Thought you could use a fresh one." He inclined his head toward the glass in Sam's grasp. "That one must have gone flat from you staring at it for so long."
Sam said nothing but released his grasp on the pint glass and took the replacement. He then raised it in a toast to Carl and downed half of it. He knew he should go back to the motel, back to figuring out what the fuck he was gonna do with his life now that Dean was gone. He'd taken a long break, but could he really leave hunting behind for good? Live a normal life like he'd promised Dean?
Sam's eyes swam suddenly, the room blurring and swirling before his eyes, and he realized he'd definitely drunk more than he thought he had. He'd better get back to the motel and relieve Mrs. Winters from dog sitting duties. He stood up and the room tilted, forcing him to sit back down in a hurry.
Carl looked at him in concern. "You okay there, big guy?"
"I sink you shud call meacab," Sam slurred, surprised at the sound of his own voice and even more surprised at how difficult it was to form words. Wow. He hadn't been this shit-faced in a long time. He tried to stand up again and stumbled, knocking over a cascade of bar stools. He looked around him, ready to apologize to the other patrons but the bar was empty. How long had he been there?
"Whoa there, big fella," Carl cautioned as Sam continued to careen into furniture. "Let me give you a hand. Here, I've got a cot in the back. Maybe you should lie down for a bit before you go. You were hitting it pretty hard tonight."
"But my dog...Mrs. Winters..."
"I'll give her a call. I'm sure he's okay there overnight."
Carl guided a stumbling Sam down the hallway to the storage room where a small cot was made up with sheets amongst the shelves of bar supplies. He helped Sam sit then stretch out his massive frame on the tiny bed.
"Thanks, man," Sam smiled a sloppy, grateful grin at his new friend. "You're a great guy, Carl. I mean it," he reinforced over Carl's protestations that he was just doing his job. "You're a great guy..." The sentence trailed off into snores.
Carl's eyes flashed black as he regarded the sleeping form. "Yeah, Sam. I'm a fucking saint."
The demon reached into his back pocket and pulled out a syringe. They'd said the Rohypnol he'd been dosing Winchester with all night should be enough to take out a moose, but Carl wasn't risking this particular moose waking up angry during transport. He pushed the needle into the thick muscle at Sam's shoulder and depressed the plunger.