Whiskey River
—ж—
Sam didn't know who his brother was. Maybe he had died when they where children, maybe he had run away with John and they were successful demon hunters somewhere that wasn't here. But the man in the other room, waist-deep in whiskey bottles, wasn't the man he had looked up to as a child, the one who always drove the Impala and always had a quick, if corny, comment for every situation. The man in the living room was sitting hunched over on the worn leather couch, good old No. 7 Tennessee whiskey clutched in white knuckles. Dirty tears stained flush cheeks. He had shouted himself hoarse to the picture resting on the table before him, begging, pleading for the angel to come back, that he was sorry, that he had been wrong and that they could fix everything, they had to fix everything. Sam would swear to outsiders that his brother had officially gone insane. Only, falling in love with an ethereal being in a mortal vessel wasn't necessarily insane. Surely there were stranger things, right?
Sam shook his head, and stepped into the living room. Dean had finally passed out strewn across the couch, the whiskey bottle loosely clutched in one hand, ready to crash against the hardwood floors, the other tightly clutched the frame he had spent the past week screaming at to his chest. Carefully, Sam pried the bottle from Dean's hands, and threw a worn blanket over his older brother. He dared not attempt to reclaim the picture frame. Gathering the discarded whiskey bottles, he wandered back into the kitchen, and prepared to pull Dean from the whiskey river he had nearly drowned in when Dean awoke the following morning.