Set sometime early-on in ep 6.7, so spoilers leading up to that.
Special Note: All of this is getting the juices flowing again, so I'm really looking forward to getting down to business on the multi-chap I've been pretending to work on for two years. Hoping to get something on that posted by the end of the year.
"The Perfect Hunter"
Sam thinks he drinks too much, that's obvious, but the days in which Dean doesn't give a rat's ass what Sam thinks are beginning to alarmingly outweigh the number of days he does, so he orders up another round.
There's no one left to set an example for. No one to make proud. He's ruined whatever life outside of hunting he'd made with Lisa and Ben. Dad is long gone and it's not like he's Sam's big brother anymore, not in any way Sam acknowledges, not in any way that MEANS anything to anyone except himself, and it's been that way for…since Hell, maybe. The first go-round, that is.
They're hardly brothers at all now, that dynamic chewed into tiny, manageable bites by the hunters they've had to become. All of the qualities Dean has tried to model from Dad, all of the things he's strived to be for Sammy's sake have been completely eclipsed by the horrific things in their life.
Sam has seen just as much wrong, crazy crap in his life as Dean has, and Dean has seen a lot. He gets by with the always-present fifth of Jack in the inside pocket of his coat and he's pretty sure Sam has a journal somewhere. Not a journal like Dad had a journal or like Dean has a journal, but a journal with a glittery unicorn on the cover and pink pages. Forgotten and collecting dust now, no more feelings to record. No more feelings to be had.
Just two days ago Dean was convinced Sam was possessed or hijacked or some kind of monster, ready to kill him in his sleep. If he'd been man enough to go through with that plan he would have noticed earlier that Sammy was no longer sleeping.
There are marks on his right hand from pummeling Sam's face like a gym room punching bag, hearing the truth and hearing it said like it's the best news in the world, hearing it and feeling like a jackass for not realizing sooner.
And for all of that, yeah; most nights Dean needs a drink. Especially this night.
"You drink too much."
Matter-of-factly, without feeling. Sam says it's easier this way, without feeling. A year ago he would have launched a full-scale campaign about the negatives of alcohol consumption, with pie charts and everything. Now, he might as well be stating the time.
The soul is what makes a person, and everything else is just nerve endings, just reflex and brains. Sam would pull his hand away from a hot stovetop same as anyone, but wouldn't care if you burned yourself.
Dean doesn't spare his brother a look, just jerks his head and knocks back the shot the barkeep sets in front of him. This bar is dimly lit and seedy, just the kind of loud, smoky hole in the wall to encourage the kind of drinking he's looking to do. He stares at the weepy scabs on his knuckles, a reminder he wouldn't let Castiel erase. A fight might be something he's looking for later, and there are plenty of those types in this dive, too.
Sam, or what's left of him, sips mechanically from a light beer, out of obligation and need for refreshment and the sight of him turns Dean's stomach. He has that look again, like the one in the alley, the one Dean can't get out of his mind. Sam's studying him. Watching to see what happens, to see what Dean does next without actually caring about the outcome.
Where are you, Sammy?
Sam's eye twitches, almost like he knows, but he doesn't, he CAN'T; he has no intuition, no empathy, and no way to know how Dean is feeling or what he's thinking. When Dean thought Sam was just trying to fill the shoes he's grown tired of wearing, acting the way the job requires, that was an awful yet somehow easier pill to swallow.
Dean motions to the bartender for another shot, something even easier to swallow. He goes to work on his beer while he waits. "You don't have to sit there."
"It's cool."
No, it's really not. "Okay." Dean swirls the liquid in his glass, doesn't look up into those cold, hollow eyes. "Then how 'bout this? I'd prefer it if you weren't sitting there."
Sam pulls almost the right facial expression, but his quirks aren't there underneath. He goes through the motions without the weight of that pesky carry-on bag that makes him who he is. "This is hard for you, isn't it?"
Well, Sammy, you let a vamp use me as a chew toy because it seemed like the strategic thing to do. You're a soulless, hollow shell of the little boy I've spent my entire life looking out for, and I'm pretty sure there's a way to look at this where it's all my fault. Dean doesn't answer, not out loud. Just takes another healthy pull from the foamy mug in his hand.
Sam thinks he drinks too much. That's all Sam does: think. He thinks, plots, schemes. He would sacrifice Dean's life without a moment's pause if it would benefit the cause. Sam would watch him drop and keep on. And all Dean can think about, all he can feel is the pain of watching as that sonuvabitch drove a knife hilt-deep into his brother while his back was turned. The pain from losing him, and the joy from bringing him back, no matter the cost.
Playing the hunter has made Dean's body strong but his spirit weak, and he's always bringing Sam back. Back from school, back from the dead…he'll find a way to bring him back from this, too, but it's on him. Everything Sammy's been through is on him.
That guilt is a loyal, however sullen drinking companion. This time Sam was the one dragging HIM back into the fray, because he thinks he's figured it out. Thinks he's figured out to make it through the day in one piece. Figured out how to be the perfect hunter.
"You're uncomfortable." Another statement of fact. Sam wraps his hands around his beer bottle, hunches on his barstool, and it's almost there, almost. But not quite.
"Yeah, that's one way to put it."
"What's another way?"
"You're scaring the shit out of me, Sam. I'm not sure how to fix this." Liquor always loosens Dean's lips.
But Sam doesn't want to be fixed. He doesn't care about sleeping or feeling things. He said he needs help because it kept Dean from killing him. He didn't mean it. He likes it this way. He says he's more in tune with his surroundings. More focused on what's happening around him and less concerned with what's going on inside. He's a stronger, more efficient hunter. Not better, which is all relative. More efficient. Without those bothersome feelings getting in the way and slowing him down. Without his Jiminy Cricket helping him make the hard decisions. Without everything that made him SAM.
And in this twisted, Twilight Zone version of his brother Dean sees all the things he's been terrified of being, himself.
"I thought he was a monster. But now I think…"
"Now you think what?"
"He's just acting like me."
"Maybe you don't have to fix it. This is the kind of hunter you and Dad always wanted me to be."
And that's just taking it too damned far. Dean makes a fist, opening sores and focusing on that pain, thinking back to when he was young, naïve and so, so stupid. All the times he'd said to his father, "I'm going to be the perfect hunter."
"No such thing," Dad would always reply.
Sam is a dog with a bone, his voice crashing into Dean's consciousness. "Cas can do it, Dean, I'm sure of it. You'll feel better, I know I do."
Dean shakes his head like he's got water in his ears, trying to shake out what Sam is saying because there's no possible way what he's hearing is right. "Shut up, Sam."
"Dean, you'll feel better – "
Dean slams his mug on the bar top, amber liquid sloshing over the rim and leaving a thin layer of foam on his hands. "You need to leave."
Sam's eyebrows pull together and it's the closest to the real Sam he's been in weeks and Dean can't take it because it's not right. It's just another mind game, just Sam being smart enough to anticipate what's going to get to him and being one hundred percent right.
Dean swallows and stares at the line of empty shot glasses in front of him, attempting to care only about how long it will take the pudgy bartender to fetch him a fresh one and failing miserably. "You need to leave now."
"Okay," Sam says numbly, giving up on games. He pushes up from the counter and makes his way out of the bar. No further exchange is necessary. They'll meet up at the motel or they won't. Sam couldn't give a shit either way.
Dean gets it now. To be that perfect hunter, to get to the place Sam has accidentally found himself, well, you might as well be one of them.
He'd always thought of his father as the perfect hunter, but if John had been the perfect hunter then he'd still be alive and Dean would be long dead. And if Dean was the perfect hunter, Sam wouldn't have been alive to find himself in this goddamned mess.
Sam might think he's finally cracked it, but Dean's not going to let him find out.