AN: Wowowow I know what you guys are thinking right now... wait, I thought you were dead? No, just in college. Anyways, it's about winter break and I was feeling some creative juices coming on once again, so I thought I'd give this little story writing thing a try. It's been a while since I've written a longer fic... *cough* that I've actually finished *cough*... but I promise I'm going to give this one the old college try (ahaha, get it, cuz I'm in college?) I'm sorry, bad joke. Anyways, this story is set a little ways into season 8, after Sam completes the first trial. It's a bit of a throwback, but I was feeling nostalgic. Enjoy! And comment with any suggestions/ideas.

-GNS-

"You know what?" Dean asked, sloshing from one foot to the next as Sam dragged him stumbling to his bed. Sam had to walk the half mile to the bar to pick him up after he had gotten so trashed even the bartender at the shady shack of a dive Dean had wandered into decided he wasn't road worthy. Needless to say, Sam wasn't in the best of moods after having been woken up just as he had finally, finally drifted off by his cell phone ringing. He hadn't been getting a good night's rest as of late anyways, and Dean's antics weren't helping. The motel of the week was some gawdy checker-board theme, and the walls were made up of dizzying black and white wallpaper that could cause even the sober head to spin—all things considered it probably wasn't the best place to spend the night. But it was cheap, and it was mostly clean and it's what they got.

"What, Dean?" Sam sighed, pushing his brother off of his shoulder and letting him fall flat against the wrinkled motel sheets. Dean shut his eyes with a groan, rolling onto his side and away from the edge of the bed.

"I've always—always been the better brother, ya know?" he slurred, head lolling.

"You're wasted, Dean," Sam said simply, brushing away the off handed comment, back turned. He pushed one of his big hands through his tousled hair in a futile attempt to sit it back in place, before plopping down on the corner of his own bed. He had gotten far too used to these drunken rambles as of late, and while they still struck a chord somewhere deep inside of Sam, he was finding the comments easier and easier to brush off.

"But I, I meeaaan it—" Dean started, "I've always done more, ya know? I've given my life for you and you—what? G-give me up for some dumb dog—some, some girl? How's that s'posed to make me feeeeel, Sam?" Deans glassy eyes squinted up toward the dim lit ceiling. "Ya know?"

Sam ignored the drunken rambles, jaw clenched as he undid the laces of his boots. Whatever sense of redemption Dean thought he'd gain from the trials had been stripped away after Sam killed the hell hound and completed the first one. Dean wouldn't admit it, but he was feeling lost. It was his job to do the dangerous stuff, and Sam's job to watch. He had been using all of it as a piss poor excuse as of late to get plastered.

"Get some sleep, Dean," Sam said flatly, stripping from his sweat stained flannel.

"But I mean it—" Dean began, rolling onto his back after a few failed attempts to kick off his own shoes.

"I know," Sam clipped. He turned out the lights.