"You know what's so great about January 27th?" The heavy stench of bourbon slips out of Dean's mouth and shoot straight up Sam's nose like a heavy gust of rubbing alcohol.
"I dunno, Dean, you tell me. Wha's so great about January 27tH?" If his grip on the bar ledge lessens any more, he'll be stumbling into his brother's chest. Late night binge drinking is a stupid idea.
"The 27th," Dean slurs, "is only 3 days after the most important day of the year. One more round over here, sweetheart," he adds to the women with the ready-at-hand bottle.
To come up with the right digits Sam calculates the numbers on his fingers. Twice. Yeah, being this far gone in a drunken haze had its disadvantages.
When the light bulb moment finally clicks, Sam's eyes go wide. "Wait. You're old."
"Yes, sir, you missed it again."
"I'm an ass."
"Duly noted."
"Can't believe I missed it."
"It's become a tradition."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"31."
"Aint nothin' but a number."
"You're like, really old."
"Young at heart and still frisky in the sack."
Sam takes another sip, lets the burn strip away another layer of his esophagus. "But I bought donuts on your birthday." He smiles smugly. "So I actually really didn't forget at all."
"Is this drunken-you talking or are you really that cold-hearted?"
"Well here," he turns and the motion is too fast; some of the liquid slops out of the cup and all over his shoes. "I'ma gonna make it up to you."
"You're breath smells like ass - "
"Here's to almost 27 years!" Sam shouts at the top of his lungs with a raised glass high above both their heads. "May we be together for another hundred and a hundred after that!"
"Ten bucks says we die within the year."
"TO MY BROTHA!" He slurs, and his giant mug taps unceremoniously against the tiny shot cup Dean holds.
"That was lovely," Dean deadpans. "Are we done?"
Sam burps into his beer, causing the liquid to spray back up into his face. "I love you, man," he giggles, licks his lips.
"Okay, moron."