The bar, it turns out, is not cheap – it's expensive, and loud, and filled to the brim with rowdy twenty-somethings, because apparently this week is spring break, and apparently there's a bajillion universities in Fort Worth.
"17," says Krissy, adjusting her red-spangled tube top. "There're 17 schools in this city."
"What's your school?" Dean asks, doing his very best not to slur his words, because powerful analgesics + alcohol = jus' a 'lil bitta trouble talkin', which probably ain't gonna impress Krissy. He's been very careful, has had – he counts on his fingers underneath the table – two beers in the apartment, two here, plus most of Sam's while Sam was in the bathroom, 'cause he got a little confused, what with all the bottles on the table, and he's got a beer in his hand, which makes just… three. Three? Damn, is he tired.
"Texas Wesleyan University," Krissy says, flips her blond hair over her shoulder. "What about you guys?"
"Stanford," Dean says, smacking Sam on the back so hard that Sam almost drops the drink he's holding. "He went to Stanford."
"Oh, cool," Krissy says, and damn, if Dean doesn't love a Southern accent on a pretty girl. Keep talkin', pretty accent girl. "That's a great school. What'd you study?"
"Political science and public policy," Sam says, and Dean envies the ease with which he speaks, even though he's had about twice as much to drink as Dean. Dean's practically drowsing in his chair, but Sam's still bright-eyed and alert. Since when did his little brother's tolerance get better than his?
"Since you started taking fistfuls of Vicodin, dumbass," Sam says, and Dean realizes he'd spoken the question out loud. He winces, really didn't mean to provoke a discussion of his pain management regimen in front of this girl, but Krissy doesn't seem to mind.
"I'm poli sci, too," she says to Sam, takes a long sip of her blue drink. And that's when Dean decides it's time to excuse himself, because she's giving Sam that head-tilt he knows only too well, and far be it from him to cockblock in any way shape or form – because Sam needs to get laid.
"I'm gonna take a piss," Dean announces, which was supposed to come out as Excuse me for one moment gentlepeople, if you'd be so kind, but oh the fuck well.
Sam watches as his brother puts a palm on the table like he's going to push himself up, watches as he switches the palm for an elbow, and then props his head up in his hand as if he's forgotten he was ever planning on getting up. Watches as Dean's eyes slip shut.
He gives it a second, then says, "Hey."
Dean doesn't stir, but then his mouth parts a little, hangs slack, and Sam realizes he's sleeping.
He blinks for a moment, then turns to Krissy, who's watching with a mixture of concern and drunken fascination.
"Should we draw somethin' on his face?" she drawls. "That's what you get when you pass out with your shoes on."
"Nah," Sam says, wincing, remembers the horror of looking in the mirror one Saturday morning and seeing a gigantic permanent marker penis curving down his cheek and towards his mouth. "I think I'd better take him home, though."
"Might be a good idea."
Sam reaches over, gives Dean a gentle shake, and when that doesn't work, smacks him across the back of the head.
Dean's chin bounces off of his hand and he nearly does a faceplant onto the table, but he saves himself just in time.
"Dude," he protests, drags the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Come on," Sam says, shoves Dean's cane at him. "Time to go."
Dean slides a sleepy, drunken glance at Krissy and then back to Sam. "You c'n stay, you should—"
"Let's go."
Dean gives up, plants his hands on the table and pushes himself painstakingly to his feet.
"Bye," Sam says to Krissy, who's already turned back to her girlfriends. She spares them a brief wave and a rueful smile, and Dean lets out a gusty sigh at Sam's elbow.
Sam stays a step behind Dean, watching as he maneuvers himself through the crowds of students and out into the warm night.
Only when they're free of the people and Dean begins to make his way down the sidewalk does Sam realize that he's stumbling all over the place, eyes at half-mast, bad leg slurring behind him like he can't remember how to move it.
Sam finds Dean's sleeve with his hand, gives a tug. "Hang onto me," he directs, wishes he himself felt a little steadier, but at least he can form sentences. "Dude, you gotta look less like a crazy drunk, okay? Really don't wanna get arrested our first night."
"Got it," Dean says solemnly, leans onto Sam's good arm without protest. "'Sides, 'm not drunk. I am just tired." He's over enunciating everything carefully.
"Right."
"You coulda, with that girl," Dean says, after they've taken a few halting steps. "If I hadn't… Sorry, dude. I shoulda counted better."
"I wouldn't have, anyway," Sam says. "I wanted to leave. Not really our crowd, huh?"
"Students," Dean says, and stops abruptly, starts patting himself down as a few passerbys give them a curious glance. "Students are too your crowd."
"Dean, come on, what are you doing?"
"Cigarette."
"Later," Sam says, "let's just get back, okay?"
"Okay," Dean says, grabs Sam's arm and starts moving again. "This is ri-di-cu-lous," he addresses the cement. "I thought I'd be carryin' him home."
"Joke's on you," Sam says wearily, trying to remember if there's any Jack left back in the apartment.
"She was cute, though, huh Sam?"
"Guess so. Not really my type."
"She was blonde."
"I'm not looking for a replacement, Dean," Sam snaps, and Dean bites his lip.
"Sorry."
"I'm not ready, okay?" Sam says a moment later. "So don't try to set me up."
"It'd be good for you. Grown man. Gotta… grown men need…"
"I really don't wanna hear what grown men need, thanks."
Dean goes for a leer, but it dissolves into a grimace as he steps wrong on his bad leg and has to clutch at Sam's arm. "What the fuck," he says, a little breathless, looks completely confused. "I am… I'm wasted."
"You got the memo, too?"
"No," Dean says, shakes his head. "Not wasted. Just. Fucked up."
"You gotta watch it with the painkillers and the alcohol, dude."
"No shit. 'S this new stuff. Knocks me on my ass."
"I shoulda been watching you closer."
"No," Dean says, comes to a halt. "You don't… 's me who should… you need to drink so much. Less." He pauses, and adds, "Dude," as an afterthought.
"We're almost home, man, get moving." Sam gives him a gentle nudge, grips his elbow as he starts to stumble forward. "You think you can put on a good show of sobriety for the doorman?"
"Ha!" Dean says, stops again, leverages a finger at the air around Sam. "You're drunk, too, you little asshole."
"I never said I wasn't," Sam says. "Move."
"'S hard," Dean complains.
"Suck it up."
Dean grins, gets himself going again. He's quiet as they make their way up the block, clearly concentrating on putting his feet in the right places, and Sam's grateful. He offers tight smiles to the people who give him strange looks as they pass, wishes he had never pushed Dean into a vacation in the city, because damn, there are a lot of people around. And cars. And it's late. One a.m., and there's still people milling about, girls tripping by in high heels and giggling at Dean, who doesn't fail to give them a wink and his cocky grin, like he's not draped over his brother 'cause he can't hold himself up.
But finally, they're in front of their building, and Sam lets out a sigh of relief – until he sees the yellow tape stretched across their door, the doorman planted like a guardian, legs splayed, arms crossed.
"Uh, we're staying here," Sam says, grateful that Dean has pushed himself off of Sam and is standing with just one hand on his arm for balance.
"I.D.," the doorman says importantly as they approach, crosses his hands in front of his ample belly and eyes them up and down. Sam gently pushes Dean to the wall, where he leans like it's his duty to keep the building up, and fumbles in his wallet for the I.D. the Finklesteins had left on the kitchen table for them.
"Here," Sam says, produces it, and the doorman gives it a long, scrutinizing glare.
"Uh," Sam says, gestures to the tape, and the CRIME SCENEsigns. "What happened?"
"Suicide," doorman says shortly, hands back the I.D. "Least, that's what the cops say. Pretty weird, if you ask me."
"Weird how?" Sam asks, though no, he doesn't want to know, he doesn't want to know.
"That's the third one this month," the doorman confides. "Enough to make a man wanna quit, you know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah," Sam says, stomach plummeting horribly, darting a look at Dean, who's got his eyes closed, doesn't appear to have heard. He offers an "I'm sorry" to the doorman because he isn't sure what else to say.
The doorman huffs a sigh, steps aside to let Sam fumble the key in the lock.
"You mind holding the door open while I get my brother inside?" Sam asks, moving towards Dean, who wakes up a little at his approach. "He, his leg, it's—"
"I'm handicapped, you intolerant asshole," Dean barks, and Sam winces at his misplaced accusation.
"Just get in here, dude," he says, tugs him off the wall and ushers him inside, casts a weak smile back at the doorman, who looks mortified. Nothin' like the allegation of prejudice to make someone really fuckin' uncomfortable, and Dean pulls it out from time to time when he needs information or access on a hunt. But this? Really not the moment or occasion.
Sam manhandles his brother into the elevator, punches the button for the fifth floor, tries really, really, really hard not to think about what the doorman had said.
Third one this month.
There's gotta be a perfectly logical explanation. People get depressed. It happens.
Not three times in one month.
"'S wrong?" Dean asks, nudging Sam's foot with his cane.
"Nothin'," Sam says, because, even if he's gonna tell Dean, now's not the time.
The Finklesteins' apartment smells a little less like baby powder and a little more like gun oil and pizza, which Sam is glad for.
"Let's get you to bed," Sam says, guiding Dean towards the bedroom.
"Y'see?" Dean mutters sleepily. "Thas all you woulda had to say to Krissy."
"Yeah, well," Sam says. "Looks like you were easier than she was."
"'M easy," Dean agrees. "'S a well-known fact."
Sam tries to get him down onto the bed, but Dean struggles wildly. "Need a cigarette," he says. "Gonna die."
"And you call me a drama queen," Sam grumbles, but lets Dean limp over to the balcony and collapse into the plastic chaise lounge, which creaks under his weight.
The second his brother's down and fumbling for his cigarettes, Sam knows it's gonna be a bitch to get him back up.
Dean lights his smoke with surprisingly good aim, takes a long drag and leans back, closes his eyes.
"Dean," Sam says, and Dean cracks a lid, takes another drag. "I'm gonna get you some water."
"Thanks, Sammy," Dean says, and shuts his eye again.
Sam trudges into the kitchen, pours a glass of water and spends a half-hearted moment rifling through the fridge to see if there's an errant beer left over. No luck. He pauses in the living room to dip into Dean's jacket to see if the flask is there, but there's nothing but the Impala's keys and an empty pack of cigarettes, which Sam tosses into the garbage.
Dean is still on the balcony when Sam heads back into the room, half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, ash piled on his chest, in the vee of his throat. Asleep.
Sam gives him a shake and Dean wakes with a start.
"Drink," Sam says, and Dean takes the glass in both hands and chugs it like a beer, then flops back onto the chair, brushing ineffectually at the ash on his shirt.
"Bed," Sam says, and Dean groans a little, waves his brother away.
"'S nice out here, Sam," he says. "Lemme stay."
"No, dude. You stay here, it's gonna hurt like a bitch in the morning. Think about it."
Dean does appear to think, or at least does a good impression, nose screwing up, forehead scrunched. "Fine," he says at last, and reaches out a hand for Sam to pull him up.
Dean flops onto the bed with a groan and is asleep almost immediately. Sam props his cane up by the bed, gets a pillow under his bad knee, works to get his left boot off before he goes for the right foot, is very careful of Dean's leg. His brother is breathing quietly, steadily, and Sam stops and listens for a moment, just in case.
This will be the first time they've slept in separate rooms since they left Stanford. Well, there were those few nights with Claire – but at least Sam knew Dean wasn't alone. It just makes him a little nervous, being in this big apartment, just the two of them. Anything could happen. Look what happened with Jess.
Sam does the rounds of the doors and windows with the salt, offers a silent apology to Gene and Marilynn for salting their nice wood floors. He checks on Dean. Still breathing.
He wanders into the kitchen, helps himself to a slice of cold pizza and starts rummaging through the cabinets, wondering if maybe the Finkelsteins have something he could drink. He'll replace it tomorrow.
He finds, luckily, a dusty, half-finished bottle of Makers Mark, and he pours himself a generous glass and heads into the living room. He means to read, maybe get through a few chapters of The Amazing Adventures of Kavelier and Clay, which he's been trying to finish for weeks now, but he's a little too drunk to focus on the type, and instead finds himself sitting on the couch and staring at the blank television. There's a huge lace doily on top, and a vase of silk roses, and he feels like they're staring right back at him.
He resists the urge to get up and check on his brother again, because, as he counsels himself, Dean's fine, just had a little too much to drink. But shit, he really should have been watching. Should go online and see what happens when you mix such strong painkillers and alcohol. Sam doesn't even know how much Dean had to drink, and that? Is kind of inexcusable.
Sam's trying, he really is. But it's hard, really fucking hard. He honestly doesn't know how Dean did it all those years. It's not just the constant worry, though that, yeah, that's fucking hard, too. It's just… he feels like every corner he turns, he's met with failure, like someone's mocking him; You can't keep him safe. I mean, jesus, he tries to take Dean on a vacation, and what does he do? Lets Dean drink himself into alcohol poisoning on the first night. Plants them directly in the middle of a hunt.
It might not be anything, Sam tells himself, pouring another glass of whiskey. It might just be coincidence.
But he knows. He knows there are no coincidences, not like this, not with the back of his neck prickling every time he thinks of it. Three suicides in one month.
Sam runs a hand down his face, thinks maybe he just won't tell Dean. Will proceed with the vacation as planned, pray to god that no one else is hurt.
Yeah. Right.
Sam folds his legs up on the couch, wraps his arms around his knees, all of a sudden misses Jess so much that he can almost smell her, the floral, human scent of her skin, like she's sitting right beside him. He wishes – god, he wishes – he wishes he could, just for a moment, put his head in her lap, feel her bitten fingernails snag on his hair. Listen to her soft voice tell him it'll be okay. Baby, it'll be okay.
He wipes a hand across his cheek, takes a gulp of whiskey, wants to smack himself, because there's no room for self-pity here. He has to keep it together, for Dean, has to keep it together so he can take care of his brother the way Dean's always taken care of him.
Maybe, Sam reflects a little drunkenly, maybe that's why he's so shitty at keeping his brother safe. Because he, Sam, has always been the one who's been taken care of. By Dad, and Dean, and by Jess. He's fucking up left and right because he's too goddamn soft, too goddamn weak, too used to the blanket of someone else's attention and concern; doesn't know how to spread that blanket over someone else.
He gets up, can't help himself, pads into Dean's bedroom and listens to his brother inhale, exhale, until he's assured that the pattern of breath is regular. One of Dean's hands is curled into a loose fist and his forehead is furrowed ever-so-slightly, like the pain chases him even into sleep.
I've got you, Sam tells him silently. I'm here.
But, because he's weak, because he's soft, he can't help long, just for a second, that Dean were awake to repeat the words back to him.