I own nothing and I'm sorry for all the grammar/spelling mistakes you are so very much gonna find. And apparently this is my 100th story here... and my 1st one was utter crap, so.. why not my 100th be utter crap too! What? It's a way to celebrate! LOL :)
Enjoy.
At dark o' clock and nearly twenty-seven minutes Dean poured himself out of the Impala, with a dozen empty beer cans and a bottle of hunter's helper hot on his heels.
The cans scattered around the ground, the bottle rolling under his baby to its dark grave.
But all that liquor he had for dinner just wasn't enough; he was still able to feel the world on his shoulders and when Sam started to snore in the backseat… all he wanted was to not be parked in the middle of nowhere with no liquor stores around.
Goddamn it.
-:-
His knees hit the ground that had managed to somehow turn into pure, running, mushy, squelching mud, somewhere between 'm-gonna-pass-out o'clock to dark o'clock and nearly twenty-seven minutes, going on twenty-eight.
He groaned, dug his fingers into the mud and had a brief flash of 'how the hell am I gonna get the car out of this mess' before he was hit with the reason of why he was rolling around in mud and not on his baby's leather seat.
He fell on his forearms, the tip of his nose dipping into the mud and groaned so long and so loud that he woke up an animal somewhere in the nearby woods. It gave him a piece of its mind with some odd sounding noises, he thought were curses in bird language. Or something in that neighborhood.
"Sssshut uuuuuup…" he slurred to the wet soil and cursed when pain hit him at precisely the moment when his brain decided that the animal was probably a bird. Possibly an owl. Or maybe it was a cricket.
Who the hell knows when his brain was swimming in the awesome affects of alcohol and his stomach was twisting and turning and… clenching.
He squeezed his eyes shut - as if that would stop the knives that were trying to cut his stomach into tiny pieces - and felt a lonely tear form in his right eye.
"Oh fuck…" he whimpered and winced when his mouth filled with warm bile; beer, whiskey, coffee and that greasy burger he ate for lunch two days ago all mixing together and making his throat itch.
Shit…
-:-
He rose up, his arms shaking under his weight, dug his palms into the sludge beneath them, squishing it between his fingers and threw up everything he had in his stomach and when he was done with that, he threw up some more.
Threw up all the things that were making him feel better in life… that were making him not think, not remember, not feel anything. At least for a little while. Sometimes that was all he wanted. Just a little while, an hour, a minute, a second of pure nothingness. Just alcohol numbing his brain, drowning his thoughts, lifting some weight from his shoulders.
But his body was getting too used to the booze, giving him warning signals, big flashes of red light that told him to stop or you'll screw yourself up more than you already are. But he didn't listen. Couldn't. Didn't want to.
He just wanted to be numb. To it all.
Freakin' hell...
-:-
When he was gasping for air between spitting out chunks of the burger and trying to blow coffee out of his nose; he heard it.
Footsteps, breaking twigs, uneven pattern of steps, heavy boots, somewhere on his right.
Getting closer and closer.
He unclenched the mud that slid through his grasp and fumbled for his gun, lifting up his jacket with slippery hands, but finding nothing behind the waistband of his jeans. Nothing but cold skin and goose bumps.
"Son of a bitch…" he cursed, the words rolling off his tongue as easily as spit.
He swallowed down the acid taste in his mouth and gagged, closing his eyes when he felt the next beer 'n' coffee mix coming up his throat.
He'd never drink again. Ever. Never.
No, that was a lie. He'd drink the first opportunity he'd get. Soon. In a few hours if things are gonna go his way and no amount of times he'd be forced to toss his cookies would stop him.
The footsteps were getting closer and closer until a booted foot stepped right into the muddy bile. And then the other boot joined the first one.
He rotated his head, looked up the long stretch of someone's jean clad legs and whispered: "Sammy." before one of those long legs kicked him right in the face.
Fuck...
-:-
His mouth filled with blood and that made him retch even harder, ignoring his brother, ignoring that stupid animal making those stupid noises, ignoring how fuckin' bad his stomach was clenching and how freakin' bad his throat and nose already ached.
He coughed and spit out the vomit that was now red with blood.
-:-
He looked up at his brother that was smiling like the Devil himself was stretching his lips. It was a smile that brought dimples to Sam's cheeks. A really real smile. One that he hadn't seen in a very long time.
He flinched when Sam's big hand fell on his shoulder and started to push him down to the ground, deeper into the mud and vomit.
Sam's eyes were soft in the moonlight, gentle, cheeks slightly pink from the cold and that… that made him close his eyes and surrender to the pressure.
There's no gentleness in the Devil.
-:-:-
Sam's breath was morning sour when it hit Dean's face: "Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, DEAN!"
"Dean!"
He opened his eyes to the blackness of the Impala's roof lining and the pressure of his brother's hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake.
He moved his head to look at Sam who was leaning over the car's front seat, pale moonlight on his face, a smile on his lips, worry in his eyes and in his sleepy voice: "Dude, what the hell?"
He wanted to smile - but it probably came off more of a grimace - because those eyes… those were his brother's eyes. Not eyes of whatever or whoever was in his dream. Nightmare. Semantics.
That was his brother still being stinky drunk. With a breath that could melt diamonds.
"What?" He rasped out, not really wanting anything else but a shot of whiskey that would calm down the headache raging in his head. And then something, anything that would make him forget whatever it was that he'd just dreamed of.
"You're drunk." Sam breathed out, already lying down on the seat, eyes closed ready to fall back to sleep.
He snorted and whispered: "Yeah, well, right back at ya, buddy."
-:-
The leather of the seat was worn from years and years or use and soft underneath his palm and he pulled his fingers into a fist, trying to grasp it.
This was real. And that was his brother's real smile and real worry and real words and in this place, this out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere place, that was his real brother in the back seat, snoring away his drunkenness like Sam always does. Did. Would do.
The End.